Chapter 4
DELANEY
‘This isn’t half bad,’ says Nick. He appraises his Negroni, then takes another sip and smacks his lips.
‘Is that your idea of a compliment?’ I reply with a laugh.
‘Absolutely – British equivalent of high praise. I thought you’d recognise it – isn’t your boyfriend a Brit?’
‘That’s quite the assumption,’ I tease lightly.
‘He did fly out of Heathrow.’
‘I’m pretty sure thousands of non-British people fly out of Heathrow every day.’
‘Ah, there is that. So, he’s not British?’
‘Oh, no, he is.’
Nick starts laughing, and ordinarily I’d laugh along, but I’m still feeling icky about that call with Nicholas. He obviously blames me for this mess, but it’s not like I strong-armed him or anything. He agreed to this vacation.
‘Sorry, have I…?’
I look up and Nick’s watching me.
‘Have you what?’ I ask.
‘Said the wrong thing.’
‘No, it’s not you.’ I huff out a sigh, weighing up whether to get into it with a stranger.
This isn’t the first time Nicholas has gotten pissy with me over travel plans falling apart – even ones he made.
He’s not really a go-with-the-flow kinda guy, which can be annoying at times, but when you love someone, you love all of them – the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Which, in his case, translates to ‘sometimes I act like an asshole’.
Mostly, I ignore it, but this feels different – maybe because he’s not here.
Which brings me to the real kicker – our dream vacations are complete opposites. Frigging Iceland!
I snap out of it and Nick’s still watching me like he’s waiting for me to spill. I’m not going to. It would be disloyal to complain about Nicholas to Nick.
‘So, how long have you and Pippa been together?’ I take another sip of my vodka martini while he stares at me, his mouth twitching. We both know I’ve changed the subject to avoid talking about Nicholas.
He lets me off the hook. ‘Twelve years.’
‘Twelve?’ I exclaim. ‘That’s a super long time to date someone.’
‘I suppose,’ he says, his lips flattening into a line. Oops – now I’ve hit a nerve.
‘Sorry – that was a little judgey. But most people either end up getting married within a couple of years or—’
He winces – man, I am totally screwing this up.
‘Hey, look at Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell,’ I continue. ‘They’ve been together forever and they’re not married. Just because you’re not married doesn’t mean you’re not, like… committed. I mean—’
‘Shall I stop you before you dig yourself into a deeper hole?’
‘Please.’
‘Pip and I are engaged, actually.’
‘Oh, cool. Congratulations. When’s the big day?’
He sucks in loudly through his teeth, then his lips disappear altogether.
‘Seriously?’ I ask, half afraid of the answer.
He nods sharply and downs the rest of his drink in one go, grimacing and clearing his throat.
‘That was from the drink, right?’ I ask, giving him an out.
‘Not even close,’ he replies with a frown.
Okay – so, we are going there.
‘A long engagement, I take it?’
He draws in a deep breath but instead of answering, he unfurls from the sofa and crosses to the bar cart. ‘How do you make one of these again?’ he tosses over his shoulder.
‘Here, let me.’ I go over, but he’s in the way. ‘Okay, dude, step aside.’
‘Dude?’ he asks with a smirk, looking right at me.
It’s the closest we’ve been since the ferry incident, and I need to crane my neck to meet his eye.
‘How tall are you?’ I ask.
‘Six-foot-five. Why?’
‘No reason.’
I bump him out of the way with my hip, ignoring the voice in the back of my head. I’ve always liked tall guys – until Nicholas, every guy I’ve dated was six-two or taller. Don’t get me wrong, Nicholas is handsome – very – but he’s only five-eight.
Nick lingers nearby, his presence distracting me in ways it shouldn’t.
‘Go sit,’ I tell him, pointing at the sofa. He slinks over, falling onto it like a sack of potatoes, and I reach for the gin. ‘I’m guessing you want the same?’
‘Sure.’
I add ice to the glass, then pour in the gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth. I stir carefully so the drink doesn’t get cloudy.
‘Where did you learn how to do that? You look like a professional,’ he says.
‘Well, I wanted to go pro, but I did my rotator cuff playing pickle ball, so…’ I shrug.
‘Ah,’ he says a beat later, ‘you’re joking.’
‘Little bit,’ I say. I glance over and we share a smile. ‘I was a bartender my final year of college,’ I explain, returning to the cocktail. ‘DTLA, rooftop bar, big corporate crowd – mostly assholes, but great tips. Oh, DTLA is—’
‘Downtown Los Angeles.’
‘What?’ I ask with a laugh, spinning around to face him.
‘I’ve worked in LA,’ he replies.
‘Is that right? Doing what exactly?’
‘I’m a stunt coordinator.’
I gasp. ‘No. Way.’
He gives me an amused side-eye. ‘Yes. Way.’
‘Hold on, I need to hear this.’
I finish making his drink, mix another for me, and take them both to the sofa. I hand Nick his and drop onto the floor in front of the armchair, sitting cross-legged.
‘Okay, tell me everything.’
He laughs. ‘Not much to tell, I’m afraid.’
‘See, Nick, that’s where you’re wrong, because guess what I do.’
He looks at me closely, scanning the features of my face like they hold the secrets of the universe or something. I suck in a sharp breath – no one’s ever looked at me like that. It’s a little unnerving, but I’m also not mad at it.
‘Go on then, what do you do?’ he asks eventually, and I pretend not to notice how the tip of his tongue touched his bottom lip right before he spoke.
‘I’m a movie producer,’ I reply, navigating to familiar ground.
‘No. Way.’
‘I know you’re teasing, but it’s true.’
‘Wow,’ he says, with an appreciative nod. ‘I don’t typically meet people from the film industry out in the wild.’
‘Yeah, right? Me neither. Well… I mean, I live in LA and every other server’s an aspiring actor.’
‘Or screenwriter,’ he says.
‘God, yes. I can’t tell you how many times a rideshare driver has tried to palm a script off on me.’
‘Hazard of the job, I suppose,’ he says, raising his eyebrows.
‘Kinda. My problem is that I’m a Chatty Cathy, and as soon as I mention anything to do with movie making, they whip it out.’
He splutters, choking on his drink.
‘I meant their script! Not their…’ I start laughing – full-on ha-ha-ha laughing.
‘I think the word you’re looking for is penis,’ he says, his voice scratchy. He coughs a few times and I laugh even harder.
‘Oh my god,’ I say, trying to catch my breath through the laughter. A few moments later, I sigh. ‘I really can’t believe we both make movies for a living. How weird is that?’
His lips curl into a gentle smile. ‘No weirder than anything else that’s happened today. We can add it to our list of coincidences,’ he says with a wink.
I nod, a flush creeping up my neck into my cheeks. Must be the martini, I tell myself, taking another sip.
We fall silent for a while and I wonder if, like me, Nick’s contemplating our situation.
He seems to be handling it okay – I guess we’re doing all we can, which is to wait.
Vittorio has a far better chance of finding Nick a place to stay than the two of us calling around in broken Italian.
If I were on location and there’d been a snafu with the accommodation, I’d take the exact same approach.
The relying on local expertise part – not the day drinking. But when in Rome, right?
That doesn’t even make sense, Delaney – this isn’t Rome.
I’m getting tipsy – drinking on a near-empty stomach may not have been the best idea. Especially since I’m a total lightweight when it comes to hard liquor. I put my half-drunk martini on the coffee table and go into the bedroom, coming back with the gift basket.
‘Hungry?’ I ask, holding it up with both hands. It’s enormous.
‘Ish,’ he says, checking his watch. ‘It’s only been a couple of hours since lunch.’
‘I didn’t even have lunch.’ I set the basket down and pick through it. ‘Wanna put on another record while I check out what we’ve got?’
‘Why not.’
I take out a packet of taralli napoletani – some kind of cracker – and tear it open, the aroma of pepper and toasted almonds shouting, I am delicious. I take a bite and it is delicious.
‘Oh my god,’ I say with my mouth full. I swallow and hold out the packet to Nick. ‘Here – try one.’
He fishes one out of the packet. ‘Thanks. So, how about Dean Martin?’ he asks, showing me an album.
‘Sure,’ I reply. I grab my martini – might as well finish it – and sit back on the floor with the taralli. Dean Martin starts crooning ‘Volare’ and I sway to the music, munching happily.
Nick returns to the sofa and leans forward to help himself to some grapes. He makes a face. ‘Not a good pairing with a Negroni,’ he says.
‘Hah!’ I laugh and we share a smile. The moment lingers, then out of nowhere, a sobering thought cuts through my buzz.
I wouldn’t want Nicholas and Pippa spending the afternoon getting tipsy and swapping stories. It’d be unlikely – Nicholas hates small talk – but maybe I should be doing more to fix this. More than sitting around listening to old records and having moments with Nick.
A sharp knock startles us both and I leap up, taking the out.
‘That’s gotta be Vittorio,’ I say, stating the obvious. But sometimes, when everything gets cloudy, the obvious becomes a tether to reality.
Nick turns down the music and I go open the door. It is Vittorio, but my smile vanishes the second I clock the look on his face.
‘Signorina, may I?’
I step aside and he enters, stopping right inside the door.
‘Have you got something for us?’ Nick asks, standing. He runs his palms along his thighs, seeming anxious. Who can blame him?
‘Yes,’ says Vittorio with a grimace, ‘but it’s not good news, I’m afraid.’
‘You didn’t find someplace for Nick to stay?’ I ask.
‘Sorry, no – not for tonight.’
‘Oh,’ Nick and I say together. Our eyes meet, but I can’t tell what’s going through his head.
‘But my nephew, he owns a small hotel on the other side of the island,’ Vittorio continues. ‘He’s fully booked tonight, but he can give you a room.’
‘From tomorrow?’ Nick asks.
‘Sì.’
‘Well, that’s not terrible news,’ Nick says with a shrug. ‘I suppose I could make do with a sun lounger or something – just for the night.’ He looks at me. ‘If that’s all right with you?’
‘Sure – of course. I mean, technically, this is your suite too. We’ll figure something out.’
‘We have, uh…’ Vittorio mimes closing a book. ‘The bed… on wheels.’
‘A roll-away bed?’ I ask.
‘Sì, a roll-away bed.’
I look at Nick. ‘That could work.’ He nods, and Vittorio seems relieved that we’re being so understanding.
‘And one more thing,’ says Vittorio. ‘It’s, uh… boutique – the other place.’ He gestures to show that the room is compact – or the hotel is. Maybe both.
‘That’s okay,’ says Nick. ‘I might not even need a room tomorrow night.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
He gives me a funny look. ‘Well, Pip’s in Iceland, so…’
‘Yes, but as soon as we get hold of True North, they can bring her here. That’s what I figure will happen with Nicholas.’
Nick pauses, regarding me intently and making me self-conscious.
‘What?’ I ask when he doesn’t say anything.
He drops his gaze, shaking his head, his lips straightening into a line. I’m becoming familiar with that expression, only I have no idea what it means.
‘Are you going to tell me?’ I prod.
He meets my eye with a huff. ‘Look, if that’s what you and your boyfriend decide – that he’s coming here – then great. But Pippa clearly has her heart set on Iceland, and if that’s where she is, then that’s where I’m going.’
‘Oh,’ I say softly, two thoughts charging into my mind:
Nick didn’t even hesitate. If Pippa wants him there, he’s going.
There’s no way Nicholas would do that for me. One hundred per cent he expects me to go to Iceland, even though it’s not my thing.
A final, more troubling thought brings up the rear:
I wish Nicholas was more like Nick.
‘So,’ says Nick, addressing Vittorio, ‘you’ll organise the bed for us?’
‘Sì, of course. Housekeeping will bring everything you need.’
‘Thanks,’ says Nick.
‘Yes, thank you, Vittorio,’ I say hurriedly. ‘We truly appreciate everything you’re doing.’
He smiles warmly and is about to leave when his phone rings. He takes it out of his inside blazer pocket, holds up a finger to excuse himself, and answers. ‘Pronto?’ He listens, his smile disappearing as if a switch has flicked. ‘Quando?’ He checks his watch, his frown lines deepening.
I glance at Nick, and his eyes are fixed on Vittorio – their expressions mirror images. Then Nick’s phone chimes, immediately followed by mine. I’m about to check it when Vittorio wraps up his call.
‘Va bene. Ciao.’
Vittorio draws in a deep breath, exhaling sharply, and dread snakes its way through my body. Something is very, very wrong.
‘Vittorio?’ I ask quietly.
His gaze clicks into focus and he looks at me, then Nick. ‘Uh…’
‘What’s happened?’ asks Nick.
‘Mount Etna – she erupted. Is very bad – a big plume of ash, lava…’
‘Oh my god,’ I say. ‘Was anybody hurt?’
‘Not sure.’
Nick takes out his phone and stabs at the screen, his eyes scanning. ‘That was the message just now – an alert.’ He continues reading. ‘No known casualties at the moment, but they’re evacuating Zafferana Etnea. They’re worried about lava flows reaching the town.’
‘Holy shit!’ I look over at Vittorio and he’s gone very pale. ‘Do you have family on Sicily?’ I ask. ‘Or friends?’
‘Sì. My sister and her husband.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.
‘Me too,’ says Nick. ‘Not sure there’s anything we can do, but if there is…’
Vittorio’s head snaps up. ‘Grazie. They should be all right – they are far away in Trapani. But there is bigger problem,’ he says, holding up his phone. ‘That was the harbour master. Everything is stopped.’
Nick and I share a look. ‘What do you mean by that?’ Nick asks before I get the chance.
‘The ash cloud. The ferries, flights in and out of Naples… everything will stop, because of visibility.’
I rush past them, out the doors and onto the balcony. I expected a giant looming cloud of ash, but although it doesn’t look much different out here, it feels different – the air is hanging heavily, almost viscous.
And we’ve been oblivious, sipping cocktails and listening to records.
I go back inside, finding them watching me, and close the doors behind me.
‘So, we’re stuck here?’ I ask.
‘For now, sì,’ Vittorio replies, right as Nick blows out a loud breath and says, ‘Well, fuck.’