Chapter 3
3
The dining room was absolutely magnificent, as one would expect in what was basically a revamped stately home. High ceilings, beautiful, moulded plasterwork swags around the doors, and yet more very grand portraits of fierce-looking people hanging on the walls. The tables were mostly set for two, with dark-red tablecloths and sparkling cutlery.
Feeling very jolly, probably because of our two cocktails, we were escorted by one of the very young waiters to our table in the middle of the room. Around the edges stood several other waiting staff, all dressed in their rather unimaginative uniform of grey polo shirts and black trousers. None of them looked more than eighteen, so perhaps these were after-school jobs. Anyway, they were very keen and willing to help the people who didn’t know what to do with their walking frames and sticks, and very patient when they came to explain the menu to people who had mislaid the right spectacles or forgotten to turn on their hearing aids.
‘The chap on the table next to us just said he is exceedingly disappointed about the dessert menu. He’s come all the way from Croydon,’ Susie hissed.
‘Perhaps he is a member of the bread and butter pudding appreciation society?’ I whispered back.
When it came, the food was good but under seasoned, and I caused a bit of a stir with the waiters when I asked for a pepper mill.
‘Perhaps my taste buds are old and battered,’ I said, ‘but that lasagne didn’t taste of anything in particular.’
‘Was everything okay with your meals?’
It was our waiter, Kyle, who hovered uncertainly beside us, his polo shirt coming untucked from his trousers. I felt rather sorry for him. He looked like he needed a good meal and a decent night’s sleep, and I wanted to be kind.
‘Lovely, thanks, Kyle,’ I said with a meaningful look at Susie.
‘Compliments to the chef,’ she said cheerfully.
‘Have you been told about the problem with the desserts?’ he murmured, looking anxiously at the couple at the next table who had just caused a lot of fuss. ‘The bread and?—’
‘It’s fine. We wouldn’t want it anyway,’ Susie said loudly.
His worried little face cleared, and he started stacking out empty plates.
‘That’s a relief. After all, it’s not my fault the Walsall Waltzers got to it first. You’d think there was a world shortage. Have you finished your wine? Would you like another bottle?’
‘Better not, Kyle,’ Susie said kindly, ‘we’re going to the show afterwards.’
‘Nice, you’ll enjoy that, and my advice is don’t sit next to the dancefloor or you’ll get trodden on. Once these couples get going they don’t stop for anything. Go at least three rows back. And then St Vincent won’t pull you up on the stage and sing ‘What’s New, Pussycat ’ to you. I’m just saying. I’ve seen it happen more than once.’
By the time we had finished it was only seven o’clock. Evidently the clientele didn’t like waiting for their meals and the clearing away was incredibly efficient. Or perhaps Kyle needed to get home to do some school coursework, so we went back to our rooms to ‘get a bit of sparkle on’, as Susie described it.
Sitting on my bed, I eased my shoes off and wondered what I would be doing if I was back home. Probably putting on my dressing gown and hoping no one would ring the doorbell and make me lie that I’d been about to have a bath. Or wondering where Alex had got to. Certainly, I would not be thinking about changing into a sequinned blouse and evening trousers. Good. It made a nice change. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like.
I rummaged through my makeup bag to find a lipstick which would suit my pink top, and as I went into the brightly lit bathroom to apply it, I paused for a moment to look at myself.
Did I look sixty-five? What did that look like anyway?
I could remember my own grandmother in her sixties, probably the same age as I was now. She had been a small, white-haired woman in hand-knitted cardigans who looked ancient and seemed elderly. She had always been old to me. And yet had she felt that way?
Perhaps in her head she had still been a laughing girl, with tumbling curls and a ready smile as she had been in the formal portrait of her that my mother had kept in a special frame on the sideboard.
And my own mother at the same age had seemed much the same to my careless gaze, but she had been young in the fifties and sixties, the decades when teenagers had been invented, of miniskirts, the sexual revolution and The Beatles. At my christening she had worn a Mary Quant mini dress, with navy blue polka dots and sheer sleeves that my grandmother hadn’t approved of in a church. My father had kept up a running joke for years that the headmaster of my school was in love with her, but perhaps he had been?
Was that why I hardly recognised myself when I caught a sudden glimpse reflected in a shop window or in a family photograph? Who was that nondescript, grey-haired woman who stood beside her little granddaughters? What age was I inside my head? Thirty or perhaps thirty-five on a bad day. So what had happened to the thirty years in between when I had been ageing and changing? A wife, then a mother, then a grandmother. Where had that time gone? Why had such a large part of my life blurred into insignificance?
* * *
By the time we reached the Lady Mary ballroom, the seats surrounding the dancefloor were all taken, and the place was full of pensioners doing the foxtrot. We found a table, the recommended three rows back, and watched, fascinated. Couples who it seemed could hardly walk unaided sprang into new vigour on the dancefloor. Heads lifted, arms raised, feet positively twinkling. The magic of dance, we supposed. It was rather inspiring. No wonder groups of them went around the countryside on coach tours, if this was the effect it had on them.
Susie, looking rather splendid in a patterned wrap dress with her hair bundled away into a thick plait, nudged me, raised her voice above ‘You Make Me Feel So Young’. ‘That’s the man who made all the fuss at dinner about his roast potatoes being soggy. He looked like he wanted some cocoa and an early night. Now look at him.’
The man in question was out there in the thick of it, dressed in beige slacks and a shiny blue blazer, with his partner, a rigid-looking lady decked out in green sequins. Like the others in their group, they knew exactly what they were doing. It was terrifically inspiring, and I wished I could join in. Perhaps I would learn.
There was a young woman with a cackling laugh and a name badge – Poppy – who we guessed was the entertainments manager. She moved around the tables and seemed to know all the names of the elderly dancers, calling out to them with encouragement.
‘That’s it, Sidney, it’s going to be a tango next, and you know you like those. Just a warning to those of you who’ve had hip replacements, no need to stamp too hard. You want to be careful with that titanium. We don’t want anything falling off, do we? Hahahah! Lovely to see you again, Denise.’
‘How do they know all these different dances?’ Susie wondered.
‘Years of practice, I suppose,’ I said. ‘They are certainly enjoying themselves.’
The pre-recorded music stopped, and Poppy sprang up to the microphone.
‘The moment you’ve all been waiting for. We love them, don’t we, ladies? Take a breather, all you dancers, and sit back and enjoy the fabulous, the foxy – St Vincent and the Grenadines!’
The velvet curtains behind her swished open to reveal a chap with carefully coiffed hair and a nod to Elvis in his sparkling stage outfit and glittery sunglasses. He raised his hands to acknowledge the polite applause, and behind him three more soberly dressed musicians took up their instruments. Two guitars and a drummer.
‘I know what’s coming,’ I said, ‘I can feel it.’
‘What?’ Susie said.
‘“Hound Dog” . I bet you a fiver.’
‘Thank you very much, thank you very much for that great welcome,’ St Vincent said with an unexpected Memphis twang. He flashed his bridgework at the audience. ‘We’re thrilled to be back here again; I think I can see some familiar faces too. Now then, more about us later, let’s get the party started with that great old favourite. “Hound Dog”!’
‘Told you,’ I said.
Actually, they were really good. St Vincent did some passable hip swivels for which he was rewarded with some shrieking from a party of six at one of the front tables, and the Grenadines kept up a good beat.
‘Latvia. What a beautiful country,’ St Vincent said when they got to the end and he had got his breath back. ‘We were headlining on three river cruise boats. Such a great way to travel, and what lovely people. A Latvian invented blue jeans, they love beer, and they have the fastest broadband speed in the world. And what’s your name, sweetheart? Connie Jones? That’s a great name. I’ll remember that. It’ll come in handy later. Anyway, let’s get on with another great favourite of mine, “Build Me Up Buttercup”.’
Poppy, up on the stage beside him, encouraged the audience to clap in time, which they did with great enthusiasm. At the table next to us I saw a sprightly gentleman turn off his hearing aids and smile.
After about half an hour, and a spirited rendition of ‘Hunka Hunka Burning Love’, which caused some of the ladies at the front to have hysterics, St Vincent had a brief discussion with the Grenadines and then called Connie up onto the stage and sang ‘Me and Mrs Jones’ at her, while she giggled and fluttered and her husband banged his palm down on the table and roared with laughter.
Across the table I saw Susie fiddling with her mobile and frowning. And then she looked up at me and mouthed ‘Wow.’
‘What?’ I mouthed back.
She passed her mobile over the table and pointed with some energy at the screen.
Excuse me for contacting you so informally. I hope this reaches you. As one of Ellen’s valued friends of so many years, I would like to invite you and Joanna to join me as my guests with the wider family at the Massimo Hotel for a celebration on Capri in October. I’m sorry I no longer have a phone number for Jo that works. I sent a letter to her old address, but it came back marked as not known. And I could not find her email address. Please could you let her know about this? Ellen’s funeral five years ago was very private, as you know, but we wanted to have an event which celebrated her life. And this year it will also be my mother’s eighty-fifth birthday. An event which deserves celebrating. The family and I would love you to be there as my guests. Kind regards Paulo di Massimo. RSVP. I will send you more details.
I felt a jolt of something, that made me feel cold all over for a moment.
Paulo .
I hadn’t let myself think about him for a very long time. Perhaps I had brainwashed myself into it. Not thinking about him, not caring, not wondering if my life would have turned out better or worse if we had been a bit older, a bit more grown-up when we met. What had happened to me in the intervening years? And him, how had he changed? How many years was it anyway?
I tried to work it out, counting on my fingers under the table.
My mood had plummeted in a few seconds with that message. One minute I had been happily tipsy, filled with the enjoyment of being with my oldest friend, laughing and relatively carefree. The next it was as though I had been hit on the head with something. A rock or a baseball bat, and I was suddenly sober.
As a teenager, relationships had been almost stress free, so disposable because there was always another keen young chap knocking at the metaphorical door of my life. It had been easy to forget and move on from them. But with Paulo it had been something very different.
Susie and I quickly knocked back our drinks, collected our things and left.
We headed down the corridor and away from St Vincent’s spirited rendition of ‘ the best Eurovision song contest winner of all time – who can forget little Lulu in that gorgeous frock? “Boom Bang a Bang”’ .
I hurried after Susie, my unfamiliar heels catching on the carpet. I thought for a moment I might be sick.
Paulo had been trying to contact me. Ellen had known my email address – why didn’t he? Perhaps it was obvious.
‘A celebration,’ she said, blissfully unaware, ‘and a birthday party. I don’t suppose that would be very exciting, but isn’t it nice to be asked. I remember Paulo’s mother from their wedding, don’t you? She was very imposing. Like Maggie Smith with a bit of Sophia Loren mixed in.’
I nodded, remembering that Paulo’s mother had hardly spoken to me at that wedding apart from the usual small talk, but she had watched me from across the room, with eyes that seemed to know everything.
Back in my room I drew my curtains against the dark evening, but we could still hear the rain battering against the windows outside. Susie kicked off her shoes and perched on my bed, and I put the kettle on for some tea. How many times had I done that over the years?
After our first year at university, Susie and I had moved out of the halls of residence and into a shared student house as she had suggested. Such independence. That winter, the snow had piled up against the windows, and we had a log fire burning while we drank tequila sunrises and listened to slightly dated music on her portable record player. Billy Joel, Gordon Lightfoot, Steely Dan, The Doobie Brothers, Jackson Brown.
For a long time afterwards, I’d been unable to hear any of those songs without remembering. The emotional power of music when you least expect it can be terrible sometimes. I’d heard ‘What a Fool Believes’ once in the car when I was driving Jess and Kat to school and had to pretend I was sneezing to cover up the fact that I was crying.
After that first magical evening in September, when everything had seemed so exciting, so incredibly promising, I hadn’t seen Paulo again until almost a year to the day afterwards, when he had arrived unexpectedly to take possession of the attic bedroom of our shared house with his girlfriend, Ellen.
I could almost remember the feeling as we stood looking at each other. I think I felt the blood draining from my face.
‘You,’ I’d said rather foolishly.
‘You,’ he replied, sounding equally shaken.
He had given me a lopsided smile as Ellen looped her arm through his and looked around our untidy sitting room with a small smile on her face, probably thinking Paulo had brought her to a slum, no matter how cheap it was.
Ellen had been an art student, always seeking colour in her life. Her clothes were bright and eclectic, the posters in their room a random mix of Michaelangelo, Dali, Giotto and Lautrec. I remembered her as always smiling, her cloud of dark hair framing a beautiful face. Definitely the most attractive of the Three Amigos, as we came to call ourselves.
After the shock of meeting her and realising she was someone important to him, I could see she made Paulo so happy. No one could ever have taken her place. We had made friends with her for his sake. It still seemed impossible to imagine that she had died.
The truth was, I had developed a huge crush on Paulo the first time I saw him. Dark curls, sparkling brown eyes and a wonderful smile. And we had been out together just once, a perfect evening when all sorts of possibilities stretched ahead. And he had kissed me. And then I had lost his address.
Any hope I may have had of any sort of relationship with him were dashed when we met Ellen. She had seemed so lovely, so sweet, so beautiful, that they made a perfect couple, and unlike many of us who had started and finished relationships during our university years, they had gone the distance. I’d bet she had been a much better wife to him than I could ever have been; I had to remember that. But the dull ache of remembering him, being so close to him and yet so far away, never being more than a friend to him, was still, if I dared to think about it, there. Just beneath the surface.
* * *
We sat rather subdued, drinking our tea, and I found some paracetamol for the headache which was looming because of all the unaccustomed alcohol.
‘Can I have one? Just in case?’ Susie asked, holding out her hand.
I laughed then at such a ridiculous situation.
‘So in the past, some of the guests here might have been procuring illegal drugs from some shady character who shouldn’t have been on the premises, and here we are sharing out paracetamol. Talk about living close to the edge. Do you think it costs a lot to go to Capri?’ I asked after a moment. ‘I’ve heard it’s very expensive.’
I knew myself well enough to know I was starting to think of reasons for not going.
‘I heard all the celebrities go there. But would we even know who they were?’ Susie said. ‘I would back in the day if it was Burton and Taylor. Or Audrey Hepburn. Johnny Depp at a push?—’
‘He’s very charismatic,’ I said. ‘Wonderful cheekbones, but he always looks like he needs a good wash.’
‘—but I don’t think I’d know any of the new ones. Most celebs on holiday like to hide way from people during the day or stay out on their yachts, and then only appear at night when they think everyone has gone.’
‘Like woodlice?’ I said.
Susie laughed and carried on talking about Capri, the things she remembered from her visit there. How lovely the hotel was, the food she had eaten, what a shame we had never been there together, and after a while I realised I had been lost in my own memories. I didn’t want to share my feelings with her, not then. So I forced myself back into the conversation before Susie noticed that I was sitting there, silent and thoughtful.
‘If we go it would be in the low season, so perhaps there won’t be any celebrities at all, which hopefully means the flights will be cheaper.’
‘I would like to go but it might be too expensive,’ I said. ‘I’ve just had the bathroom done.’
‘But it is a special occasion. You can’t not go.’
Susie was looking at me with a stern expression, and I felt myself relent.
‘Perhaps I could soften Alex up with a beef Wellington so he will look after the house while I am away, and not have any of his friends round for a rowdy party? That’s always assuming he hasn’t moved out by then. Surely he would have? It’s nearly six months away.’
‘We need to do some research and find out what we would be letting ourselves in for. And then I can formulate a plan. Leave it to me, I still have contacts at the travel agency where I used to work. But for now, I think I should go to bed,’ Susie said. She pulled the band off her plait and tugged at it angrily. ‘God, I’m sick of all this hair. I’ve got a good mind to cut it all off. But Simon likes it so… Look, it’s been a long day, and I’ve drunk far too much. And it’s someone’s birthday tomorrow.’
I sighed. ‘It’s only ten o’clock. Remember when we were students? We would be up until three in the morning at some ghastly discos and still get into lectures at nine the following morning. I used to sit at the back and snooze, and was probably still wearing last night’s makeup.’
‘Gosh, me too,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t do that now. My skin has been awful since I turned sixty. Every morning, I peer in the mirror wondering what I’m going to find. I thought we were supposed to be past all that.’
‘Go on then, push off and I’ll see you in the morning,’ I said, yawning.
‘Birthday girl,’ Susie said with a grin.
She paused in the doorway and turned to look at me before she left.
‘I’ve just remembered. How could I have forgotten? Won’t it be marvellous to see Paulo again after all these years? You went out with him, didn’t you?’
How did I feel? Slightly sick, if I was honest.
‘Oh, you know, fine, and it was only once,’ I said, fetching my dressing gown from the bathroom. From the heat of my face, I was sure I was blushing.
Only when she had gone could I change into my nightie, lie down in bed and close my eyes to remember.
Remember him.
It was awful; all of a sudden; it hurt. It had been so much easier to forget. And yet those memories were still there, impossible to really block out.
His wide easy smile. The way he used to sing while he cooked. His passion for all things Italian. Football. Pasta. Wine. The way his hair curled into the nape of his neck. How I hadn’t realised how much I’d loved him until I lost him forever. And I didn’t think he had ever suspected a thing.
* * *
The following morning, I woke at my usual time of six thirty, wondering yet again why I couldn’t sleep in as I used to when I was younger. During my first year at university when we had been in a hall of residence, I remembered those weekends, waking up at midday, stumbling downstairs to the bar, where I would meet up with Susie and we would eat disgusting burgers, allegedly lamb, but who knows what they were, other than the perfect antidote to a hangover.
Thinking about it, I hadn’t slept properly since the day Greg and I had brought our eldest child Jessie back from the hospital. Perhaps that was it. Some primitive parental urge to be constantly on guard. It hadn’t seemed to affect Greg, who had been able to sleep through our children’s teething, colic, nightmares and tantrums.
I made a cup of tea, pulled the curtains open and went back to bed.
Out there it was still raining, probably harder than ever, the rain slanting across my view over the grounds. The avenue of trees that lined the drive were bending in the wind. Not the day for a lovely stroll no matter how glorious the gardens were.
Never mind; it was my birthday. I had things to look forward to. Not least of which was ‘Mixology with Tim’ later that afternoon. I wasn’t going to allow myself to think about Capri, special celebrations or Paulo.
Susie came to bang on my door about thirty minutes later, carolling ‘happy birthday’ in a way that made me hope the other residents nearby had hearing problems.
‘I have presents. And on top of that, I have news,’ Susie added rather mysteriously.
‘Please don’t tell me Simon has moved back in?’ I said.
Although she had never married, Susie had been in an on-off relationship with Simon for four years, a man who, whilst handsome and charming, in the olden days would have been described as a cad and a bounder.
‘I don’t want to talk about him. Much more interesting. Presents first,’ Susie said, grinning.
She had given me the reliable gifts for someone my age: a silk scarf in my favourite shades of blue and white, and a delightful vintage brooch from an antiques shop with my name enamelled on it.
‘Thank you so much,’ I said, ‘I love them. You’re marvellous.’
‘Did the kids remember?’ Susie asked.
‘They did, but I will have my things from them when we get back, when they come over for cake,’ I said, ‘which I expect I will have to make. Now, what is this news, Suz?’
Susie grinned, looking almost exactly as she had the first day I met her when she had charmed my father into helping her with her bags up the four flights of stairs to her student room.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘this morning when I logged on to the internet, which by the way is pathetically slow – perhaps we should move to Latvia if what St Vincent says is true – I had a very exciting email.’
‘And?’ I said as Susie paused for dramatic effect.
‘My friend at the travel agency seems to have been up all night and has found us flights direct to Naples at a great price.’ Susie held up a commanding hand as I drew breath. ‘We are doing this. Stop trying to think of reasons not to go. We have been friends for so long, and Ellen was a part of that. And I think it’s only right that we should have a really fantastic experience, spending lots of time together. Together , to celebrate over forty years of friendship. Paulo still runs that gorgeous hotel in Anacapri, you must remember it, and he says we can stay there as his guests so it’s going to save us loads of money. It will be the low season by then, and I expect they will have plenty of rooms. And that’s the end of the news, so just accept it.’
‘God, you are bossy all of a sudden.’
‘I was thinking about it last night. We’ve all had difficult things to cope with in the last few years. You with Greg behaving like a silly old fool, then you had knee surgery, and the builders making a mess for weeks, then Alex and his divorce dramas. And I deserve it too, because I realise I’m wasting my time with Simon and I’m not doing it for much longer. Come October we are both going to Capri, and that’s an order!’
We started laughing and talking then and had a big hug to celebrate, and feeling very tearful, I realised how suddenly out of the blue rotten things could happen, but also so could great things and I needed to learn to embrace both, not just focus on the bad.
And then I thought how marvellous women could be and how lucky I was to have such a good friend, and I began to feel very excited.
A proper trip away, even if it was for a sad reason. Capri. Sunshine.
And Paulo.
But I’d forgotten all about him for years, hadn’t I? Well, if I hadn’t actually forgotten, I supposed I had filed his memory away in a safe, very secret place. After all, I’d married Greg, and Paulo and Ellen had married and had a son and been so incredibly happy. Ellen had told us they had been. And that was a good thing.
My life now since Greg and I had divorced was restricted to my house, my garden, my routine. The years before that had been filled with work, looking after the children and him. There had never been any time for me. It didn’t have to be like that now, did it? It wasn’t too late to spread my wings, was it? I could also have an adventure. I could do some of the things I had always wanted to do.
And Paulo? We were both adults now. We hadn’t seen each other for decades, and we were different people. We were both in our sixties, proper grown-ups.
Perhaps he had forgotten about the foot spa and the bubble wrap incident? Perhaps he had forgotten that evening when everything changed between us.