Chapter 2
DELANEY
‘Okay, this doesn’t suck,’ I mutter under my breath, plopping my tote onto an armchair.
The porter shoots me a smile over his shoulder – oops, he must have heard me. He rolls my suitcase into the bedroom, lifting it onto a luggage stand, then crosses to a set of double glass doors, swinging them open. He stands aside, beckoning me outside with a sweep of his arm.
Well, I don’t need to be asked twice.
Stepping out onto an opulent balcony, I take in the gorgeous blue-and-white mosaic beneath my feet and the vaulted ceiling overhead.
To my right, a pair of sun loungers sit side by side, ready for snoozing in the sunshine, and to my left, a hanging wicker chair swings gently in the fragrant breeze – the perfect spot for sipping limoncello and chilling out.
I wander over to the ornate balustrade, my sneakers squeaking on the tiles, and take in the vista.
‘Holy shit,’ I sigh breathlessly.
The resort sits high up on the hillside, looking out over the town of Capri, with Marina Grande off to the right.
Among clusters of whitewashed villas, terracotta roofs, and pastel facades, the slopes are blanketed with lush greenery – mostly cypresses and olive trees, from what I can tell.
In the marina, sailboats bob gently on their moorings while luxury yachts and sleek hydrofoils, like the one that brought me here, come and go.
And the colour of the water is otherworldly – a shifting palette of deep turquoise and cobalt.
If this were the opening of a movie, it would start with a slow high-angle pan across the view, then cut to a closeup of my delighted face.
Nicholas is going to love it here, I think, a little pleased with myself.
It was an inspired decision, booking this vacation through True North.
Well, inspiration plus colossal blind faith.
They’ve only been operating for six months, and while their testimonials are glowing, those can be faked.
But I went with my gut, forked out an entire month’s salary, and filled in a questionnaire thicker than the IKEA catalogue.
And through some kind of secret-sauce alchemy, they matched my answers with Nicholas’ and turned it into this: the perfect romantic escape.
And all I had to do was show up at the airport with my passport, packed for someplace warm. That’s when I found out I was coming to Capri and, yes, I squealed like a little kid on their way to Disneyland. I mean, who wouldn’t? Southern Italy, baby!
And Nicholas will be here soon.
Not gonna lie, I always get nervous right before I see him – excited too, of course – but there’s also the worry that it won’t be the same.
Long-distance relationships can be a bitch.
It’s been four months since the last time we were together – the longest we’ve ever been apart. But with my latest production shooting in Chile – and me tied to the set refereeing a beef between the leads – it’s been ages since I could ‘cross the pond’, as Nicholas likes to say.
I’ve joked that it’s just as far to fly in the opposite direction, but his job is incredibly demanding – even more so than mine.
This is the first real vacation he’s taken since we started dating a little over two years ago.
And I’m not counting that four-day long weekend in Bath.
Sure, it’s a pretty town, but it was pouring the entire time.
In July – as in summertime. I couldn’t wait to get back to LA.
The porter clears his throat – a good thing too. I’ve been so lost in thought, I totally forgot about him. ‘Is there anything else you need, Signorina Cole?’
‘Uh, nope. But hold on…’ I go back inside and fish my wallet out of my tote, glad I grabbed some euros at the airport. I hand him a twenty, hoping it’s enough. He gives me a polite smile, then leaves.
I’m itching to explore the rest of the suite but first I check my phone, hoping I’ve heard from Nicholas. I grin when I see the notification, then tap the thumbnail of his handsome face.
Hiya. Just landed. Should be there soon.
Not the most romantic message in the history of dating. He can be romantic sometimes – in his own way – but what’s got me baffled is the soon part. It took me nearly three hours to get here from Naples.
But I suppose it’s all relative. Three hours is nothing compared to four months.
I reply with a heart emoji, then fire off a message to Megan, my best friend since freshman year at USC.
It’s insanely gorgeous here. You’re gonna be super jealous when I start posting pics. *winking face*
I giggle to myself. It takes a lot to make Megan jealous; she’s enamoured with her life.
She married right out of college to a guy eight years older than us – one of the good ones, trust me.
Gabe had the ‘Delaney Cole Seal of Approval’ long before he proposed to Megan on their fifth date.
They live in a renovated mid-century modern in Studio City and have six-year-old twins – Gabriel Jr and Irina – who call me ‘Aunt Delaney’.
Megan is one of those mega moms who’s always on the go and loves every second of it.
The kids were barely three weeks into kindergarten when she became the youngest PTA president in the history of their school.
I even had a bumper sticker made in her honour – now proudly stuck to the rear of her Lexus.
She’ll be up by now – it’s 5 a.m. in LA – but I don’t expect a reply until after she drops the kids at school.
Last, I message the group chat with my parents, telling them I’ve arrived safely. Mom, who works downtown and is always up at the crack of dawn, replies right away:
Thanks honey. We love you! xx
Messages out of the way – and I am very proud of myself for not checking work emails – it’s time to become intimately acquainted with my home away from home for the next six days.
I always do this when I travel – explore every tiny detail of my accommodation. Then I nest. Nesting is what makes travelling for work (almost) fun. As a movie producer, I live out of a suitcase more than I live in my own apartment. Not a complaint, just reality, so why not enjoy it, right?
And there’s something to be said for the creature comforts that come with a luxury hotel room.
The fluffy robes, the bespoke scented candles, hand-crafted chocolates on the pillow…
And I’m obsessed with bath products. I always leave space in my suitcase to bring goodies home (the ones I’m allowed to take – it’s not like I’m stealing lightbulbs or anything).
The living room is compact but luxe, with a mini sofa and two armchairs, and its walls covered with framed black-and-white photos of famous people on Capri – Jackie O, Bridgette Bardot, Charlie Chaplin, Audrey Hepburn… A who’s who for a movie geek like me.
In the corner, near the doors to the balcony, is an old-school, fully stocked bar cart and next to it sits a record player. I wander over and flick through the records – Dean Martin, Etta James, Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald… This whole place has a cool retro vibe and I’m into it.
I put on Etta James and as her throaty voice fills the suite, I head into the bathroom, which – hilariously – is even bigger than the living room. And it must have been updated recently because everything looks brand new, including the giant soaker tub. I eye it longingly. Nest or take a bath?
It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I left LA and although I slept on the plane – thank you, business class! – I’m feeling a little travel weary. I lift one arm and sniff – make that travel weary and stinky. And with Nicholas a few hours away…
Bathtime it is!
I run the water, adding a generous glug of limoncello-scented bubble bath, then go into the bedroom. I could unpack while I wait on the tub, but my typical post-arrival routine seems to have lost its lustre.
Maybe this is me switching into vacation mode – Nicholas isn’t the only one who rarely takes a break.
Or it could be Capri. I’ve heard this island has magical properties. Although that was from a gal I work with and she’s into that kinda thing – mystical stuff. She sees her psychic every week.
Whatever the reason, I’m content to leave my suitcase zipped up and I drift over to the gift basket by the window, helping myself to a bunch of plump green grapes.
I’m pulling one off the stalk with my teeth when I spy the card.
Someone has scrawled Welcome, Delaney and Nick in loopy handwriting.
Ordinarily, I’d get a kick out of such a thoughtful gesture, but I should probably toss it.
Nicholas hates it when people shorten his name.
I drop it into the trash, then go check on the bath.
It’s only half full, but it’s a deep tub and I’m only little, so I undress, tie my hair up in a messy bun, and sink into the fragrant water.
‘Oh, that’s amazing,’ I say, my eyes drifting shut. I exhale slowly, letting the bubbles tickle my chin, and ease into a dreamy Zen-like state.
I couldn’t say how long it’s been – a few seconds or a few minutes – but something snaps me out of my reverie – something that sounds exactly like a key in a lock and a door opening.
I sit up abruptly and strain my ears to listen over the music. Nothing. Hmm, maybe I imagined it.
‘Hello?’ I call out.
The door closes loudly and something heavy hits the floor, both sounds reverberating through the suite. Nope – didn’t imagine it. Nicholas is here. Not exactly how I imagined our reunion, but it’s not like he’ll complain if he finds me naked and covered in bubbles.
‘In the tub!’ I shout, shooting an alluring smile at the empty doorway.
‘That you, Pip?’
Pip?
A second later it hits me – that wasn’t Nicholas’ voice. My mouth pops open, but no sound comes out.
‘Wait!’ I cry as the doorway fills with the blondish man-mountain from the ferry – the guy who saved me (and my luggage) from a watery disaster.
‘Oh, fuck!’ he says, clapping an enormous hand over his eyes. ‘Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t— Fuck!’
Make that a man-mountain with a potty mouth.
He turns away as if his retinas have been seared. Okay, I may not be Pip, but it’s not like he could see anything – right? I look down, confirming that all important body parts are hidden by foam.
‘Okay… Hold on.’
‘Holding!’ he shouts, drowning out his heavy footfalls. ‘I’ll wait out in the lounge,’ he adds.
‘No kidding, dude – it’s not like I’m selling tickets,’ I say to myself.
I climb out of the tub, quickly dry off, then wrap myself in a fluffy robe. Time to find why he’s in my suite.
‘Hi again,’ I say, standing in the archway between the bedroom and the living room. He glances over through slitted eyes as if he’s expecting a still-naked woman. He seems relieved that I’m not.
‘I’m so sorry – truly,’ he says, his eyes darting to the floor. ‘There must have been some sort of mix-up with the room.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say with a laugh. ‘Just…’ I go to the record player and lift the needle, plunging us into silence, then turn to him.
‘I didn’t see anything, I promise,’ he assures me, which is sweet.
‘I know.’
He nods a few times, staring at the floor.
‘But this is weird, right?’ I ask, and he looks up, his expression questioning. ‘I mean, first the ferry, now here.’
‘Right – coincidence, I s’pose.’
We lock eyes for a beat.
He’s handsome in a rough and rugged way – broad face with a square, stubbled jaw, strong brow ridge, a jagged white scar above his left brow, shoulders of a WWE wrestler, arms like knotted rope, and tree-trunk legs…
Not my type at all, but I could understand the appeal if I were into huge, muscly guys.
I’ve never been one to yuk someone else’s yum.
‘Anyway…’ he says, holding up the key. I can read from here that the tag says La Dolce Vita – so, the right key given to the wrong person. ‘I’ll pop back to reception and get this sorted.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘Oh, no – no need. Won’t take long. I’m probably in the room next door or something. Wouldn’t that be funny?’
‘Yeah, hilarious,’ I agree – though it feels more ironic than funny.
‘Right, well… if today’s anything to go by, I’ll likely see you ’round.’
‘You’re probably right,’ I say with a laugh.
He gives me a quick smile, then picks up his bag and leaves.
For a moment, I stare at the closed door. Damn, that was weird.
I return to the bathroom and let the water out of the tub – not feeling super Zen any more, so I might as well unpack and get ready for Nicholas’ arrival. Maybe mix a cocktail from that fancy-schmancy bar cart and read in the hanging wicker chair while I wait.
I breeze through the unpacking – not my first time – not even my hundredth – and I’ve just stepped out of the robe to get dressed when there’s a knock at the door.
‘For the love of—’ I cut myself off with a resigned sigh. Maybe the ferry guy left something behind. I put the robe back on and go to the door, paste on an accommodating smile, and open it.
The smile falls away the second I open the door. It is the ferry guy – looking both apologetic and bewildered – but he’s with an older man wearing a nametag that says Concierge.
The older man breaks into a toothy grin. ‘Signorina Cole, I’m the concierge, Vittorio, and I’m sorry but we seem to have a small problem.’