Chapter 15
15
I went for a stroll in the grounds of the hotel, going down the shallow terraces which were cut into the cliff and admiring the glorious views and taking deep breaths of the clear air. I had just a few days left of this trip. And I was determined to be independent and not wait for Paulo to have a few minutes free, like a forlorn fan at the stage door, hoping for a glimpse of a pop star. My new life was going to start today. I was going to do something impetuous and fun.
As I passed the reception desk, I picked up a bus timetable. There were buses into the town of Capri fairly regularly and it took just thirty minutes to get there. Result. I just had to find Anacapri station. That must be a bus stop. It couldn’t be difficult. From the map it looked like a short walk, and that would do me good. I’d done an awful lot of sitting about and eating since I had arrived.
Twenty minutes later, I set out along the road towards the town, wishing after a few hundred yards that I had a water bottle. And I had an awful feeling that they might be chic, but one of my new trainers was going to rub my heel. Perhaps I should have put some socks on. At least I had remembered my sunhat, and it was pulled low over my brow.
I’d only been going for ten minutes and a bus to Capri had just passed me, which meant I would have at least a thirty-minute wait.
I heard a vehicle pull up slowly behind me.
‘Want a lift?’
This was it. The moment when I would get into a stranger’s car and never be seen again. Or perhaps my body would be discovered at the foot of the infamous Salto di Tiberio, my handbag clutched to my chest, empty apart from a packet of breath mints and my reading glasses.
When had I become so suspicious of everyone? So cautious of life?
I turned round, trying to look tough and remember what no thank you was in Italian.
It was Paulo, smiling that wonderful smile behind the wheel of a little truck-type vehicle.
Despite my expectations of a solo trip, relying on my own wits, I felt a wash of relief. Or was it excitement at seeing him again?
I stood, dithering. ‘I was going to get the bus into Capri.’
He leaned over and opened the passenger door.
‘No need,’ he said, ‘I was going anyway. I was going to invite you to come with me. I have a small bit of business to attend to but it shouldn’t take long. I was looking for you. I always seem to be looking for you, and I was told you had gone out. Hop in.’
Driving in a small open-top van meant it was noisy and dusty as we went down the road to the town. Which meant we didn’t do much talking other than a couple of shouted comments about the stupendous views.
Really, I thought, I couldn’t remember ever seeing anywhere so beautiful.
It was like a film set from some impossibly glamorous movie, where a troubled but attractive woman in chic clothes was whisked around in an Aston Martin by a handsome but slightly dangerous man in an Armani suit who might have been but possibly wasn’t a secret agent.
The craggy cliffs and rocks provided an astounding contrast to the softness of the clear sapphire skies and the bright blue sea beneath it. There were other vehicles on the road, of course: buses negotiating the hairpin corners, delivery vans chugging up the hill with sacks of vegetables in the back, a builder’s van with stepladders strapped to the roof.
It made me realise that although this was a holiday destination, it was also home to a lot of people. Thirteen thousand, Ceci had told me, and about half a million visitors every year. I tried to imagine the road in front of us filled with people, grabbing their children out of the way of the traffic. They would have to move round by numbers if those figures were correct.
We pulled into a parking space and Paulo stilled the engine. We walked through a few narrow streets until he stopped.
‘Over there is the Piazza Umberto, better known as the Piazzetta. Shops restaurants and cafés. Now then, I will see you for lunch later, about one o’clock? But now as I said, I have to go to see someone’ – he looked at his watch and frowned – ‘and I am late.’
‘Sorry, that was probably my fault.’
‘If it is anyone’s fault it is mine. You always did try and blame yourself for everything. There’s no need to do it now,’ he said, exasperated. ‘I must hurry, she doesn’t like to be kept waiting. And she’s not usually there today; she’s made an exception for me.’
Ah yes, there was a she involved in all this. Of course there was. Why had I not thought of that?
A single man as good looking as Paulo, I expect the word had gone out all over southern Italy.
He pointed to a delightful-looking café with a blue awning and tables set out underneath it in the shade.
‘I would recommend that place.’
‘Please don’t feel you need to organise me, I’ll just wander around for a bit first,’ I said, ‘and then I might have coffee.’
‘Later on you will find everywhere busy, but the owner is a friend of mine, and Genero will look after you.’
‘I don’t need looking after,’ I said with a short laugh.
‘Don’t be so defensive; I know you don’t. I mean he will find you a decent table,’ Paulo said.
Suddenly he put an arm around me and kissed my cheek. I could feel the warmth, the strength of his body against mine, and it was intoxicating.
‘Try the crema al caffee. The Zeppole di San Giuseppe is the best anywhere. Genero is pretending to be wiping down the tables, but he is watching, and now he has seen you are a friend of mine, you will be fine.’
I turned and a large man with an elaborate waxed moustache gave a wide grin and waved his cleaning cloth at Paulo.
‘Genero! Come stai? Now I really must go,’ Paulo said. ‘I will see you later.’
I jolly well hoped so, or I would have to catch a bus. And how would I know which one or where it went from? And how much would it be? Did they need the right amount? I had some euro notes, but no coins.
Perhaps I would worry about that later. After all, this was a sort of adventure. I had to remember my new determination to do things differently.
As I walked towards the café, Genero came forward and ushered me towards a lovely table in the shade, set with a white cloth.
‘Café crema and—’ What was the word? ‘A zeppelin.’
‘ Ah sì, certo, signora,’ he said, and moments later a large cup of coffee topped with what looked like whipped cream appeared in front of me, swiftly followed by what possibly was a zeppelin, filled with cream patisserie and cherries.
Both were utterly delicious, and I quelled my first instinct which was to hoover it up as fast as possible and instead made a point of savouring every sip and every bite. That way from my shady corner, I could prolong my visit and people watch and wonder about them.
There were couples hand in hand, a few older people with backpacks and walking poles, families with pushchairs, young girls in giggling groups. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. And actually, so was I. Apart from the niggling thought at the back of my mind which refused to be silenced. Who was ‘she’?
Perhaps Paulo had a lady friend in the town. Someone sophisticated and supportive. A woman who provided a shoulder for him to cry on, and who knew what other body parts?
No, I wouldn’t allow myself to think like that; it was none of my business.
Genero returned with his trusty cloth and pretended to clear up the table next to mine.
‘ In vacanza? On holiday?’ he said.
I nodded and tried to dredge up some Italian words.
‘A special occasion. Un’occasion speciale .’
That didn’t sound terribly convincing, and I thought I had made it up, but Genero nodded and smiled and flicked some cake crumbs off the table onto the ground, where a couple of sparrows swooped in to pick them up.
‘ Non così occupato. Not so busy today,’ he said.
‘It’s a beautiful place,’ I said.
Genero looked pleased.
‘And you are un’amica , a new friend to Paulo?’
‘ Oui . ’ No, that was French. ‘Sì, yes,’ I agreed, not sure if that was true or not; after all, I’d known him for decades, but my Italian wouldn’t cope with that. So I might as well use what little language skills I had.
‘Nice. Nice,’ Genero said, smiling broadly. ‘ è un brav’uomo. Mi amico . Good man.’
‘Yes,’ I said, stirring some sugar into the remains of my coffee.
‘He will be… Sarà con Stephanie , always. Many times.’
So, was he with someone called Sara or Stephanie?
I had visions of an actress I remembered from my childhood, Stephanie Powers, tossing auburn curls and a pocket rocket figure, and felt mildly discomforted.
‘ Allora , enjoy!’ Genero said and went off to escort a new couple to a table inside.
I took another taste of my zeppelin cake, enjoying the tang of the sour cherries on my tongue. Paulo had been right; it was sublime.
Then I wondered again where he was and what he was doing.
The Piazzetta was filling up by the time I had finished. I’d had a text from Alex asking if he could use my washing machine as his wasn’t working again. In a spirit of rare assertiveness, I sent him the phone number of the local odd job man and went inside to use the loo, because I never passed up the opportunity, and then I paid my bill.
I strolled over to the end of the square where there was a clock tower covered in scaffolding, a building housing the funicular railway, and a row of columns framing another fabulous view.
I sat down on a bench and a middle-aged couple sat at the other end, taking pictures, arguing about where to go for lunch and complaining about something. He was wearing shorts from which he had forgotten to remove the price tag, and it dangled just beneath the edge of his shirt. He looked like a weather-beaten dog. She had a face which was all angles, her mouth a steel trap of disapproval.
What a shame, to be wasting time grumbling when they could be simply enjoying the lovely day together. Would they rather be home, in the rain? She complaining about something else and him escaping to work with a sigh of relief? At least they had each other for company. Perhaps they should appreciate that and make the most of it.
They moved on, physically together and yet emotionally far apart. I supposed it made me a bit sad because in a way it reminded me of how Greg and I must have appeared to a casual observer. Would it have been better to just be alone rather than hang on to a relationship where neither one seemed to like the other?
And yet what did I know? When push came to shove, he might be the sort of man who would fight off a bear, throw himself in front of a bullet or a car in order to save her, although I couldn’t for a moment imagine Greg doing any of those things. The most I would have expected from him would have been an eye roll.
She might have been putting the loo seat down and picking his socks off the floor for the last thirty years and at the end of her tether. But on the other hand, she might be the only woman in the world who understood his moods and fears. Appearances could be deceptive. Had I understood Greg? No, not really. But I had tried. He was just one of those men who compartmentalise their lives. Wife and family in one box. Work and everyone else in another.
I had been like that woman not so long ago. Irritated and dissatisfied. Perhaps now I was learning how to enjoy life, to accept it and to make of it what I wanted. I was single again; no one else was going to do it for me.
I sat there for a while and all around me was the chatter of people, admiring the view in various languages, complaining about the heat and the prices in the cafés.
I wished yet again I had a water bottle. Everyone else seemed to have them. Young people in particular seemed incapable of going anywhere without one. Some of them had massive water flasks which must have held a litre and been incredibly heavy. One of those and I would be searching for a loo all day. It didn’t bear thinking about.
I went for a walk, strolling down little streets and alleyways as the fancy took me. I passed a bus station, the orange buses lined up in a row, which made me feel very optimistic and capable. At least I would know how to get home later on if I needed to. There was always a solution to any problem if one looked hard enough.
There were pastel-painted hotels with brightly coloured shutters, ice cream parlours and pharmacies. Further on, some fashion shops, some of them open, others closed until later in the afternoon. There were high-end names displaying unusual handbags and dresses, presumably catering for all the wealthy, woodlice, celebrities when they ventured forth into the evening.
I wondered what Paulo was doing. Where was he? How long would his appointment take? What was he doing?
I saw a young woman dart into a café and return almost immediately with a carrier bag laden down with paper-wrapped sandwiches. Perhaps Paulo and Stephanie were having a business lunch?
Or maybe they were in bed together, lying languorously on rumpled sheets, smiling at each other as the sun shone through the slats of the closed shutters.
He had been on his own for years. What had Ceci said? No one should be alone.
I had no right to be jealous or suspicious.
Maybe Stephanie was a management consultant who was stepping in now that Ellen’s capable hand had gone. She would be grey haired and sensible, sitting in a dingy office with piles of cardboard folders blocking her view out of the window to the sea below. She would be smoking a cheroot and talking very fast about hand dryers or chill cabinets and Paulo would be reading documents and signing paperwork and looking perplexed.
What had he said? I can’t do this any more.