Chapter 14
NICK
Delaney’s reading my screenplay. Delaney’s reading my screenplay. Delaney’s reading my screenplay.
The words run through my mind on repeat as I ride the funicular to the marina, teetering on the verge of emotional freefall.
What if she hates it?
What if she loves it?
That’s what she said to me earlier – Delaney and her unwavering optimism. ‘You could learn a lot from her,’ I tell myself, and the woman beside me gives me a strange look – hmm, probably shouldn’t talk to myself in public.
Delaney also asked if I have a fear of success, but I don’t believe I do.
It’s more that my parents still don’t understand why I chose film over medicine – even after fifteen years.
Nor do Hugh and Colin, so I never hear the end of it when the whole family gets together.
Dan and Becks are my only allies but they must be exhausted after all these years of standing up for me.
Now I take it on the chin, smiling politely when my family make jibes at my expense.
Imagine if I told them I’d written a love story. Hugh and Colin would compete for the longest, loudest laugh.
Maybe Delaney’s right. The only way they’d find out is if it gets made into a film – I’m hardly going to blurt it out at a family dinner – so, in a way, I could be afraid of success. When it comes to this anyway.
I arrive at the marina and instead of trying somewhere new, I return to the restaurant from the first day. The same waiter greets me with a nod of recognition, and I choose a table closest to the waterfront. He’s by my side seconds later.
‘Buongiorno! Caffè?’
It’s a reasonable assumption given it’s breakfast time. I don’t need another coffee – but why the hell not? I’ve got hours to kill while Delaney reads Where the Road Ends.
‘Ah, sì, e un cornetto al cioccolato, per favore.’
He disappears and I look around, making mental notes, which take the form of a screenplay – as they often do.
EXT. WATERFRONT RESTAURANT – GRAND MARINA, CAPRI – MORNING
A handful of boats bob in the nearly empty marina. Waiters at the waterfront restaurants thread through tables filled with tourists, carrying trays of coffee and pastries.
Seagulls shriek as they fight over an abandoned cornetto. Cutlery clinks. People chatter. A couple bickers in Italian.
The sea reflects the bright-blue sky, while in the distance hangs a grey cloud of dust, smoke, and debris.
At a waterfront table, NICK (mid-30s) observes with a keen eye while waiting nervously to learn his fate.
If only I’d brought my laptop – that wasn’t half-bad, if a little OTT. It’s not as if I’m waiting on life-or-death news.
The waiter returns with my order and this time I get in, ‘Grazie,’ before he leaves. He flashes the briefest, tiniest of smiles. Look at that – I’m practically a local. If the winds don’t pick up and this ash cloud hovers over Europe indefinitely, I may actually become a local.
Would that be so bad?
The short answer is no – it’s beautiful here – the scenery, the food, the briny air… And it would mean more time with Delaney, which shouldn’t be in the plus column, but is. She’s just so… vibrant? Is that the right word? Vivacious?
Come on, James – you’re a writer, for fuck’s sake – pick a word, any word.
Vibracious – not a word, but it should be – because it describes Delaney perfectly.
But it doesn’t matter, because in the negative column of this imaginary pro/con list is that I can’t hide from my life forever. And by life, I mean Pippa. God, have our visions of the future diverged so dramatically that this is it? I try that on for size, squirming with apprehension.
I did propose.
But why?
Nope – not going there. I proposed because I love Pippa. And she wanted to get married – wants to get married, as evidenced by the fact that today was supposed to be my wedding day.
I drop my head into my hands – I cannot spend the next few hours torturing myself with what ifs? and circular thinking. I’ll drive myself mad.
I down the espresso and finish the pastry in four bites, slip a ten-euro note from my wallet, and leave it on the table. When I get in my head like this, I need to walk – and I’ve barely begun exploring Capri. Time to see what there is to see.
* * *
I return to the hotel in the early afternoon, feeling like I’ve walked around the entire island. In reality, I’ve barely made a dent, but it’s so hilly, my hamstrings and glutes are screaming for a rest. I’ll be feeling them for the next few days.
I hesitate at the door to our room – once I go through, I’ll know one way or another. My screenplay is either a heaping pile of shit or it’s good. It could be somewhere in between, I guess – but would mediocre be better than shit?
Only one way to find out.
I unlock the door to an empty room. Housekeeping has been – last night’s pizza remnants have been cleared away, the bed’s made, and our ridiculous army of pillows has been lined up, covering most of the bed – but no Delaney.
Then she comes in from the balcony, her face tear-stained.
‘Perfect timing,’ she says, grinning through the tears. ‘I just finished it.’
‘Oh.’ My gut twists itself into a knot. ‘Are those good tears?’ I venture.
‘Yes! Oh my god, yes. It’s incredible, Nick.
’ She starts pacing, one hand twirling a lock of her hair, which I’ve come to learn is her way of sorting through her thoughts.
‘It’s like… real and raw, you know? Here’s these two people – total strangers and this happenstance meeting brings them together…
And the connection between them – it’s reminiscent of Before Sunrise. ’
‘Reminiscent or derivative?’ I ask, a sliver of panic embedding in my knotted gut.
‘Definitely not derivative,’ she replies and I sigh out a frayed breath. ‘No, nothing like that – but this could be Before Sunrise for Gen Z.’
‘Wow,’ I murmur, mostly to myself.
‘And you write great dialogue, Nick,’ she says, shooting a glance over her shoulder.
‘I mean it – that scene at the airport…’ She turns and looks me in the eye.
‘I could picture it so clearly. Everything else falls away – and you’d go for a tight two-shot – right?
– play with depth of field, so that only they are in focus. ’
‘That’s exactly how I envision it.’
‘It’s really fucking good, Nick.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Ye-ah,’ she says, splitting the word into two syllables. ‘But it does need something – in my opinion,’ she rushes to add.
Please don’t say ‘danger’ or a complicated subplot.
‘What?’ I ask, my voice getting caught in my throat.
‘An epilogue.’
‘Oh!’
‘You seem surprised.’
‘Well, yeah – the last rejection I got implied it was too… simple. I thought you were going to suggest a crazy subplot – they get caught up in a heist or something.’
‘Hah! No – that would ruin it. But it needs a better ending. Romance fans want to find out what happens after the HEA. The happily ever after,’ she clarifies when I don’t respond.
But I know what an HEA is – that’s not what I’m stuck on.
‘You’ve never considered an epilogue?’ she asks when I still don’t say anything.
‘Er, no.’
‘It could be one or two years later and they’re in this gorgeous location and maybe she’s wearing an engagement ring, or she’s visibly pregnant and they’re on their babymoon or something…’
I lean against the arm of the sofa, pressing my lips together as I contemplate her idea.
‘You don’t like that?’ she asks. ‘Doesn’t have to be them on vacation – could be a slice of their real life – but a happy slice. Maybe they adopt a cat.’
These are all great ideas and I get how adding an epilogue could strengthen the ending. Right now, it’s a passionate declaration of love at the airport, but what happens to Finn and Lexi next is ambiguous. I’ve left it to the audience to decide.
But have I really written a romance?
‘Nick?’
I look up.
‘You’re already writing it in your head, aren’t you?’ she asks, her eyes lit up. ‘Oh! You could set the final scene on Capri! Nick, this is a research trip!’
She bounces on her toes and if Delaney’s usual level of enthusiasm is a nine out of ten, this is an eleven, maybe a twelve, and it’s unfair of me not to match it. Especially when she’s been so generous – reading it in the first place and with her praise.
‘First,’ I say, getting up, ‘thank you again for reading it.’
She waves me off.
‘No, I mean it. I know I’m not a random driver, but we did only meet a couple of days ago, and it was a big favour to ask.’
‘You didn’t ask – I offered.’
‘Even so,’ I reply, and she appears to accept my gratitude. ‘And I love the idea of an epilogue – even setting it here on Capri – inspired.’
She beams at me for a moment, then her eyes narrow.
‘Hold on, I’m sensing a but.’
‘I thought I’d written a love story, not a romance.’
‘Ah, I get it.’ She points a finger at me. ‘You’re a romance snob.’
‘I— No, I’m not.’
She drops onto the armchair and looks up at me, her eyes extra wide like she doesn’t believe me.
‘But like you said, it’s real and raw and heartfelt, so—’
‘You dork. There are a lot of romances that are real and raw and heartfelt – About Time, The Lake House. Even romcoms that are – Something’s Gotta Give, When Harry Met Sally, The Big Sick. I can list more if you like.’
‘No,’ I say, sniggering softly at myself. ‘No, you’re right. If they end up together at the end, it’s a romance.’
‘You gonna be okay with that? You could change the ending – make it a love story instead. Maybe he tells her he loves her but she’s like, “No, dude, this was a fling, nothing more. Thanks for all the sex.” Then she gets on the plane.’
‘Lexi’s not like that.’
‘You could kill her off – they agree to do long-distance, she gets on the plane, annnd it crashes.’
‘It crashes? Now who’s being a dork?’ I counter.
She grins up at me, clearly pleased with herself.
‘Okay, fine, it’s a romance and it needs an epilogue.’
‘And a new title.’
‘A new title? Why? What’s wrong with Where the Road Ends? Oh,’ I say, getting it. ‘That implies they don’t end up together.’