The Great Italian Holiday Mix-up

Chapter 1

NICK

Last week, I jumped out of a helicopter onto a mountain top, skied a triple-black-diamond run while being shot at, then landed a ski jump onto a moving truck.

And, thanks to months of meticulous planning, I did it in one take and came out of it largely unscathed – only a minor strain in my right shoulder.

But put me on a ferry from Naples to Capri and I’m so seasick, I’m ready to crawl onto the floor, curl up, and die.

So much for Mr Tough Guy. Turns out my nemesis is going on holiday to the Bay of Naples.

With only ten minutes to go, I remember I’m supposed to be watching the horizon, so I sit up straight and train my eyes out the front window of the ferry, gulping in a lungful of air.

The deep breathing helps and I get into a sort-of meditative state, only my mantra is don’t vomit, don’t vomit, don’t vomit all over these nice people. Good thing I’ve never been asked to do stunts at sea – I’d be useless with my head stuck in a toilet the entire time.

Soon enough, Capri’s marina appears and the ferry begins to slow, its rise and fall smoothing out. I expel a loud sigh and the woman across the aisle turns and gives me a smile.

‘A little bumpy, huh?’ She sounds Californian – LA if I had to pinpoint it – and after fifteen years of working on filmsets, I’m pretty good at identifying accents.

‘Slight understatement,’ I reply, and her smile stretches wider.

She glances at the empty seat beside me, then at the duffel bag by my feet. ‘You travelling alone?’

She doesn’t seem to have a motive beyond genuine curiosity. I’m not big-noting myself, but women tend to hit on me more than I’d like. Actually, I don’t like it at all.

‘Only this part,’ I reply. ‘My girlfriend’s meeting me here – she’s flying in from London later.’

‘Oh, no kidding – same with my boyfriend.’ That’s a coincidence but I don’t mention it. ‘We’re doing long distance,’ she says a moment later, her mouth twisting into a wry smile.

I nod, unsure how else to respond. Luckily, I don’t have to come up with anything, because an announcement starts blaring – something in Italian, then, ‘Welcome to Capri.’

I stand and swing my duffel over my shoulder, signalling for the Californian woman to go ahead of me. She shuffles into the aisle, her tiny frame dragging a massive bright-blue case – way more luggage than I’ve brought – but as she steps off the ferry, its wheels snag on the lip of the gangplank.

I’m about to help when she gives it a violent yank.

The case springs free, but the force throws her off balance.

She yelps, her free arm windmilling as she teeters on the edge of the gangplank.

Instinct kicks in – I grab her arm with one hand and her case with the other, stopping both from tumbling into the water.

‘Oh my god,’ she says breathlessly as I steady her on her feet. ‘You totally saved me.’ She looks up at me with wide green eyes, catching her breath.

‘Didn’t occur to me not to.’

She laughs, seeming oblivious to the people manoeuvring around us. ‘Well, thanks. “Drowned rat” wasn’t exactly the look I was going for today – romantic rendezvous and all that.’

‘Course – any time.’

‘Or – and hear me out – how ’bout never again?’

‘Right,’ I reply with an amused snort.

A loud tut sounds behind me and I turn to find an older woman scowling at us, her hands on her hips.

‘Scusi,’ I say. She tuts again, shaking her head as she shoves past me.

‘Oops, we’re totally in the way,’ says the Californian woman.

She heads off, wheels clattering over each ridge of the gangplank, and I follow. When she reaches the pier, she steps aside and waits for me to join her.

‘Well, thanks again. I hope you and your girlfriend have a great vacation.’

‘Thanks – you too. With your boyfriend, I mean.’

‘We will! Bye!’ She flashes another grin, waves over her shoulder, and strides off down the pier.

I let her get ahead of me so we’re not doing that awkward thing where you say goodbye, then keep walking in the same direction.

Also, my stomach’s still queasy, so I scan the waterfront for somewhere to stop. Plenty of choices, and once she’s out of sight, I stroll to the nearest restaurant and sit at a table facing the marina.

Seconds later, a waiter appears and I haven’t even glanced at a menu.

‘Erm, il piatto del giorno and, ahh…’ His expression doesn’t change as I debate whether to order wine. Is it supposed to be good for nausea or not? Maybe beer’s better.

‘E da bere?’ he asks when I hesitate too long.

‘Peroni, per favore – e naturale,’ I add quickly, thinking I should hydrate.

He nods and leaves, returning with bread in a basket and a bottle of still water. I thank him, then crack it open and take a drink, not bothering with the glass. I feel better already – but that could be because the rocking has stopped.

‘Not bad, James,’ I tell myself, impressed at how easily my Italian has come back. It’s been several years since I’ve been in Italy – and that was on a filmset with mostly Brits, so I didn’t get much practice in.

I sip the water, observing the next boatload of tourists to decant onto the pier.

I’ve been an avid people-watcher for as long as I can remember. It fascinates me, immersing myself in the lives of others, imagining what’s on their mind, what they want out of life and what’s keeping them from getting it.

Terrific fodder for writing screenplays, which is what I really want to do. Just another frustrated screenwriter in a sea of them. Half the people making films have a screenplay tucked away in a drawer somewhere. I have three.

A young couple disembarking from a ferry draws my attention.

She’s pouting and shouting and tossing her hair and he’s grovelling as he struggles with their luggage.

She stops, gesticulating wildly, and even though I can’t hear a single word she’s saying, it’s obvious she’s spoilt – and that he’d do anything for her.

At the end of the pier, they head off – presumably to their hotel – and I smile to myself, glad I never got caught up with a woman like her. Instead, I’ve been with Pippa for nearly twelve years now.

We met in our late teens – our parents became best friends the year her family moved to Weybridge – then we didn’t see each other for years. I was at the London Film School and Pip was getting her qualifications in early childhood studies up in Edinburgh.

Then, at a barbecue at Mum and Dad’s the summer after we finished uni, we…

uh… reconnected – twice. Once in the greenhouse amongst Mum’s orchids, and the second time in my room.

It’s a good thing I have three older brothers – all married and two with toddlers by then – meaning our absence went unnoticed.

Well, mostly. Mum definitely knew what we were up to, but she was not-so-secretly pleased.

Pip’s a good egg – down-to-earth, clever, kind…

I take out my phone and fire off a quick text to say I’ve arrived, even though she probably hasn’t landed yet, then check my emails.

I sit bolt upright when I read the name at the top of my inbox.

Saira Qureshi – the most coveted screenwriting agent in the UK.

She’s had one of my screenplays for a few months now – my passion project.

We chatted at a wrap party a while back and when I mentioned it, she told me to send it over.

I emailed her the next day, and this is the first I’ve heard from her.

The waiter sets down a bottle of Peroni and a tall glass but I barely register it, instead focused on the email. I open it.

Dear Nick,

Thanks for sharing Where the Road Ends. It’s a really thoughtful screenplay, with well-developed characters and dialogue that should play well onscreen. And I did not see that ending coming.

Oh my god – she loved it. I swallow and read on.

Unfortunately, it’s a pass from me.

‘Well, fuck,’ I mutter aloud, my stomach plummeting. I read on even though I’d rather eat glass.

There’s been a swing away from thoughtful two-handers and I don’t think I can sell this right now. Maybe a couple of years ago but the market has shifted. I’m sorry. But do reach out with the next project – I’d be more than happy to take a look.

Best,

Saira

This isn’t the first rejection I’ve had, and I doubt it’ll be the last. But it still stings.

And it always seems to be about timing, rather than the screenplay itself.

It’s either too edgy and no one wants to take a chance on it, or it’s too similar to something that’s already in production.

Now it’s passé. Have I missed the window entirely?

Maybe it needs another revision. It’s been long enough since I’ve touched it that I can look at it with fresh eyes. But then again, most creatives I know say variations of the same thing: if you tinker too much, you risk losing what’s special about it.

‘Linguine al limone,’ says the waiter, setting my pasta on the table.

He disappears before I can thank him, and I forget the screenplay for a moment, tucking in. It’s delicious – the pasta is perfectly al dente, and the sauce is both creamy and tart. I pour the beer and take a long pull, then sit back to properly take in my surroundings.

It’s my first time on Capri and it’s exactly like I imagined – the sky is cloudless and the water is so blue, it blends into the horizon.

Craggy cliffs, blanketed in green, rise from the sea, and the mainland in the distance – particularly the looming silhouette of Mount Vesuvius – highlights how isolated Capri is. Its own little world.

There’s a mix of boat traffic in the marina, but it’s the sailboats that catch my eye.

I’ve always thought I’d get into sailing one day – it seems freeing out there on the water, sailing off in whichever direction you want.

Only, given how seasick I was on the ferry…

maybe I’d better steer clear. Or stock up on motion-sickness tablets.

I finish my lunch and down the rest of my beer, then signal for the bill. While I wait, I look along the waterfront. It’s bustling with energy, yet most people seem content to wander, in no rush at all.

I have to admit, I was sceptical when Pippa first told me about True North, the travel company we’ve booked with. It sounded too good to be true – you both fill in surveys and they find you the perfect couple’s holiday. Only you don’t find out where you’re going until you get to the airport.

Completely mad – I generally like to know where I’m going – and a lot pricier than the trips we normally take. Also, half the questions seemed irrelevant. Who cares what my favourite colour is or whether I enjoy reading? How was that supposed to help them decide where to send us?

But when I got to Oslo airport this morning and was handed an envelope marked Capri, Italy, they’d got it bang on.

It’s warm and sunny – perfect after three months of intense filming above the Arctic Circle – and then there’s the food, the wine, the scenery – the promise of romance.

If the Italians didn’t invent romance, they’ve certainly perfected it.

And I reckon that’s what Pippa and I need, which is why I agreed to this trip in the first place. Things haven’t been great between us – we’ve hardly seen each other this year – and I’m hoping our time on Capri will be a turning point.

After settling the bill, I look up our accommodation on the map. I’ll need to take the funicular, so I head towards the ticket booth. Capri may be idyllic, but the journey’s been more like Planes, Trains and Automobiles, only the Italian edition – Planes, Boats and Funiculars.

Can’t wait to get to the room, dump my gear, and chill for a bit till Pip gets here.