You Again
After Flick disappeared back to the hotel room, clutching her phone with a look of dread that Maggie was pretty sure shouldn’t be the expression worn by a young woman about to speak to her boyfriend, Maggie remained alone at the cafe drinking her glass of wine.
In a sea of couples, she felt a bit like Shirley Valentine.
God, she loved that film. It had been on TV one rainy afternoon a few weeks ago and for a couple of glorious hours she’d been transported from a damp, soggy caravan in northern England to a sun-filled Greek island.
The first time she’d watched it, she’d been a teenager, and she remembered thinking Shirley was this frumpy, old, middle-aged woman, so it had come as quite a shock to discover Shirley was only forty-two.
Forty-two!
Talk about feeling ancient. She was older than Shirley Valentine!
As the sun began to sink into the sea, streaking a tangerine sky with purplish clouds, Maggie felt her mood dip.
For years she’d had this dream of being on the Amalfi Coast, drinking wine and watching the sunset, and now here she was, sitting by herself, her life in tatters, staring down the barrel of fifty.
The years had gone by so fast. What happened to that young, free-spirited Maggie, with all her hopes and possibilities and big dreams? Where did she go? Where did they go?
And now she was really feeling sorry for herself.
Finishing her wine, she decided against another glass. They had another early start and she’d regret it in the morning. Plus, while a couple of glasses of wine might feel empowering, in a strong, independent woman kind of way, spending the evening drinking on your own felt a bit sad and pathetic.
A flashback: her kitchen. The two of them sharing a bottle of wine. His proposal.
She stood up, forcing herself back to the present, and left a fifty-euro note.
It was expensive here and they were burning through their winnings.
Pretty, but a tourist trap. You paid for the view, but there was nothing to see here.
The boats were all gone. The harbour had emptied out.
Yet, instead of feeling disappointed, Maggie felt only relief.
She could relax now. Being in a constant state of anticipation was exhausting.
She wanted to pretend she was here on holiday.
Explore the backstreets and lose herself in souvenir shops. Be a tourist, like everyone else.
Slipping her bag on her shoulder, Maggie set off walking.
She was wearing her trainers, which were not the kind of cute fashion trainers Flick wore, but the ones she used for dog-walking.
With scuffed fabric and faded laces, they’d seen better days.
Which, thinking about it, was a good metaphor for herself.
But, oh boy, were they comfy. She could walk for miles in these.
Plus, one of the joys of getting older was caring more about comfort and less about how things looked.
Which was just as well, as no one was looking at her anyway.
Something which the media seemed to want her to be upset about.
She was constantly reading interviews with female celebrities her own age, dolled up to the nines, filtered beyond recognition, sticking up a proverbial finger to a society that wanted them to be invisible.
Fuck that! Look at me! Better than ever!
Which was wonderful and good for them and You go, girl.
And yet, while Maggie felt she should be outraged too, she was secretly finding she rather enjoyed this new invisibility.
(And rather guiltily, as she was worried this didn’t make her a good feminist.) After all, wasn’t being invisible supposed to be a superpower?
Didn’t Harry Potter get a cloak? Finally freed from the male gaze, in fact, any gaze – including her own, as she had spent years peering in the mirror, wracked with insecurities – now she could look any which way she wanted and no one batted an eyelid.
Which was rather lucky, as the ugly trainer-and-sundress combo was quite something.
Positano was heaving with tourists and she soon found herself amongst them, strolling along the main street, admiring the shops filled with silks, handmade sandals and ceramics.
She thought about how on past holidays abroad she’d loved shopping for souvenirs and gifts.
Now she couldn’t afford to buy anything. Not even a kitschy fridge magnet.
Though, to be honest, that was less about the price tag and more about the fact that she no longer had her large, freestanding stainless-steel fridge. It was sold along with her flat, and magnets wouldn’t stick to the little plastic fridge she had in the caravan.
Still, she was lucky. Some people didn’t even have that.
But then neither would she, soon enough.
She thought about the enforcement notice stuffed into her suitcase, the missed calls on her phone.
She’d listened to the voice messages. One was from someone at the council, the other was from Ainsley, the farmer whose field she’d been renting.
Someone from the local planning committee had been over, said he needed planning permission for the caravan, and threatened him with a fine and prosecution if he didn’t move it by next weekend. He sounded both furious and apologetic.
‘Fucking bureaucracy, telling me what I can do on my own land. Sorry, Mags. If it was up to me, you could stay as long as you wanted.’
He was an old friend of her brother’s, doing her a favour. She didn’t want to get him into trouble. Drag him into the mess she’d got herself into. She needed to sort it out, but not here. Not tonight.
Firmly shoving it to the back of her mind, she weaved her way through the legions of couples enjoying a romantic evening stroll, their arms entwined around waists and slung around tanned shoulders.
Past the families with their small children out late, the sleeping babies in strollers, the men in freshly ironed shirts, the women in their new holiday wardrobe.
The streets smelling of aftershave and perfume and fresh lemon soap, buzzing with the good mood that being on holiday brings.
Thrust amongst them, Maggie didn’t feel lonely; on the contrary, she relished the feeling of being anonymous.
Back in England she’d felt as if everyone was talking about her when she went to the local shops, gossiping about the foolish, middle-aged woman who’d fallen for a fraudster and lost everything, including her own mind.
Like Flick had said, ‘It’s a small town, people talk. ’
But here, no one knew her, no one was paying her any attention.
She could be anyone. She was just a tourist. One of many wandering around, eating gelato, window-shopping, taking arty photos of Italian doorways to add to the dozens they’d already taken and which they’d probably never look at again once they get home.
Me included, thought Maggie, pausing to take a photo of a particularly lovely door with peeling paint and ancient patina and smiling to herself.
Because here, in this tiny corner of paradise on the Amalfi Coast, she felt as if she’d shaken off the heavy clothes of being the woman that had lost everything.
For the first time, in a very long time, she felt the weight of shame and grief and self-loathing lift from her shoulders – and she was free of it all.
Free of herself. That was one of the gifts of travelling.
Being able to leave behind your ordinary life, with its well-worn pages, and venture into a whole new fresh one.
One made up of blank pages ready to be filled, where you could be anyone you wanted to be.
After a while Maggie left behind the shops and galleries, curious to explore.
The village was built on a cliff and, having read about the best view being much higher up, she set about climbing the endless stone steps.
The ascent was steep and soon she found herself high above the sea, where she paused to catch her breath, and not just because she was puffed and out of shape.
Dusk had fallen and all the lights had come on.
It was so pretty, it almost felt magical.
From here, the houses appeared to cascade down the cliff, their amber lights glowing in the evening dusk.
She gazed at the view. All the tourists that had come to watch the sunset had already left and, finding herself alone, she leaned against the railing, taking it all in.
At least she thought she was alone.
‘It’s beautiful, huh?’
Hearing a voice, she turned to see a man standing a few feet away in the shadows, leaning against the same railing. There was something faintly familiar about him.
‘Yes, very,’ she nodded, trying to place him.
Tall, with blond hair, he was dressed in a pale blue shirt and shorts, a small backpack slung over his shoulder.
Was he famous? An actor, maybe? She’d once smiled and said hello to someone in Waitrose, thinking it was someone she knew, only to realize she recognized them because they were an actor in a famous long-running soap.
Talk about Mortified in the Cereal Aisle.
‘Hello again.’
And now he was smiling and saying hello to her like he knew her. And she definitely wasn’t an actor in soap. Though recently life had felt as if it had taken on one of their outrageous plot lines.
‘Sorry, have we met?’
‘Sort of, not really,’ he shrugged, still smiling.
Well, that cleared things up.
‘The pizzeria in Rome . . .’
Of course. Suddenly it clicked. This was the man reading the book.
The stranger she turned around and stared at.
Who caught her eye when she left the restaurant and looked back.
So he was looking at her. He did notice her.
All these thoughts whooshed through her mind, but all she said was, ‘Basilico’s, Piazza Navona,’ and smiled, like it was no big deal.
Because it wasn’t, right?
‘Yes, that was it.’ He nodded. ‘You have a good memory.’