Chapter 22
NICK
I really shouldn’t have said that. Those words carry weight – it wasn’t just a throwaway remark. But I have no idea what the future holds for me and Delaney. Maybe my film will get made – maybe not. Maybe our paths will cross again in some other way. Maybe not.
What I do know is that I need be back in London when Pippa arrives the day after tomorrow. I can’t put this off any longer.
‘So,’ I say with a bright smile, ‘favourite John Hughes film?’
She watches me closely, not replying straight away. Will she let me off the hook, or press me on the other thing? She purses her lips and I get ready to explain myself.
‘Some Kind of Wonderful,’ she says, her eyes boring into mine. ‘Up there with the best screen kisses of all times.’
Oof. And here’s me thinking it was an innocuous question. She’s right about that kiss too – Keith and Watts in the garage… Super sexy. Only…
‘But wait – does that count?’ I ask. ‘Hughes wrote it, but it was directed by someone else.’
‘It counts,’ she says, not breaking eye contact. She’s let me off the hook for saying I’ll miss her, only to spear me with an entirely different hook.
‘Okay,’ I reply feebly.
‘And yours?’
‘I suppose I’d have to go with Ferris Bueller.’
‘Lame,’ she says with a laugh. It’s at my expense, but I don’t mind – it’s sliced through the friction between us.
‘Why is that lame?’ I ask, chuckling along.
‘It’s such a cliché. It’s not even close to his best screenplay and—’
‘Okay, so what’s his best screenplay then?’
‘Well, Some Kind of Wonderful is up there for sure, Planes, Trains and Automobiles – hilarious and poignant – but The Breakfast Club is probably his best. The way he explores, then explodes high school archetypes… I mean, come on, it’s masterful.’
‘You’ve given this a lot of thought,’ I say, warmth blooming in my chest at the delight in her eyes.
‘I wrote my senior thesis on it.’
‘I see – making you an expert on the subject.’
She shrugs, her face a picture of modesty, which is even more endearing.
‘I wouldn’t say expert – more of an enthusiast. But The Breakfast Club was formative for me – as a movie lover…
professionally… From then on, I was drawn to movies where the plot was simple and the character development was core: you stick a bunch of people together in a situation and they spend most of the time talking.
The Big Chill is another favourite – like a pressure cooker where the past and present converge…
’ she says, demonstrating with hand gestures.
‘And it throws the audience right in the thick of it, you know.’
‘That’s a powerful perspective,’ I say, genuinely impressed.
‘Thanks. That’s one of the reasons your movie resonated so strongly.’ She pauses, regarding me thoughtfully. ‘I never asked what inspired it – where you got the idea from.’
‘Oh,’ I say, appreciating the lifeline. ‘Well, I was up in Scotland on a shoot and they had to halt filming for a couple of days – inclement weather – so I popped down to Edinburgh on my own. And I was on the Royal Mile and I saw this couple chatting outside one of those tourist shops. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they were…
I guess you’d say they were captivated by each other – that’s probably the best way to describe it.
And I stood and watched them for a while – not, well, in a creepy way or anything… ’
‘Oh, no, of course not,’ she teases.
‘Anyway, I headed off to this little tucked-away pub I know of – mostly frequented by locals, that sort of place – and I was chatting with the bartender and that couple came in.’
‘Oh, wow.’
‘Right? And I’m not a huge believer in fate or anything but—’
‘Wait,’ she interrupts, ‘you’re not?’
‘No, not really. Why?’
Her expression clouds, answering my question. Delaney is a believer – which explains why she’s worked so hard to sustain her relationship with Nicholas. She must believe it was fate that brought them together.
‘All good,’ she says with a terse smile. ‘Keep going. The couple came in…’
‘Right. So, I started chatting with them and they’d only met that day, but they already seemed—’
‘Like a couple.’
‘Exactly,’ I say, pointing at her. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t get them out of my head and in the coming weeks, the idea for the screenplay started to evolve. And then I knew – I had to write it.’
‘That’s very cool,’ she says, leaning back and regarding me with blatant admiration.
‘Thanks.’ I shift my gaze towards the view, shying away from her potent stare.
‘Should we get another drink?’ She sits up straight and finishes her spritz with a loud gurgle from her straw.
My guess is that a yes will put us back on shaky ground, where the lines between friendship, collegiality, and romance don’t exist.
I’ve also been struck with a bone-deep weariness – and it’s not from walking the length and breadth of the island or sleeping outside on a sun lounger.
It’s from the dizzying whirlwind of emotions I’ve had to navigate since arriving on Capri.
Which is bound to happen when you’ve been bottling things up for as long as I have – and when you meet someone you can actually be authentic with.
‘Do you mind if we call it a day?’ I ask.
Disappointment flickers across Delaney’s face, but she smiles regardless.
‘Sure.’
We settle the bill and take our time walking to the hotel, pointing out interesting things along the way: two kids sharing a gelato cone, snatching it back and forth; a tiny shrine to the Virgin Mary tucked into an alcove in the wall; a cat lounging on a front step, basking in the late-afternoon sun; washing strung between buildings, sheets billowing in the breeze; street signs hand-painted onto tiles…
The island is alive with charm and character and one day, we’ll return to showcase it on film.
Possibly.
When we arrive at the hotel, Vittorio catches sight of us and beelines across the lobby.
‘Signor James, Signorina Cole, did you see the news?’
‘That the ash cloud’s dispersed?’ I ask. ‘Yes – we saw that a little while ago. I’ve booked a flight out of Naples for tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Oh, you’re leaving us early,’ he says with a sad smile.
‘Only by a day – I need to return to London. My fiancée—’ I sense Delaney stiffen beside me and mentally kick myself. ‘I should get back.’ He nods sagely. ‘But it’s been lovely – and you’ve been great,’ I add hastily.
He seems to take this at face value and I’m about to head off to the room when he raises his hand to stop me.
‘Wait, are you sure you don’t need the other room? True North said they would cover the cost.’
Delaney groans and I turn my head sharply in her direction, then back at Vittorio. ‘Sorry, what other room?’ I ask.
‘I told Signorina Cole this morning. A room opened up, here in the hotel.’
‘Nick, I—’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I ask her.
‘I… I thought we had it figured out.’
‘I slept on a bloody sun lounger last night. I still have a crick in my neck,’ I say through gritted teeth.
‘Mi scusi,’ says Vittorio and I tear my eyes from Delaney. ‘The bed – the one with wheels – it was not satisfactory?’
‘It was fine,’ I reply. ‘Just a little short for me, so I… Never mind. We’re grateful – thank you.’
‘So, the other room?’ he asks, glancing between us.
‘We’ll take it,’ I say. ‘Or rather I’ll take it.’
‘Perfetto.’
He’s clearly pleased to be of help – especially after accidentally dobbing in Delaney. What was she thinking passing up a second room without discussing it with me? I would never have done that.
I follow Vittorio to the reception desk for the key and he gives me directions to the room, which is at the opposite end of the hotel. Even if I weren’t upset – which I am – it’ll be good to have some distance between us, especially with how muddied things have become.
Delaney’s waiting near the stairs and I walk over.
‘I’ll come up and pack my things.’
‘Nick, I’m sorry. I—’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, interrupting.
Her eyes dart away, and we go upstairs without saying anything more.
When we get to the room, she waits on the balcony while I pack, which doesn’t take long, as I never really unpacked.
I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder, then go out to the balcony.
It’s probably best to say goodbye now while things are reasonably amicable between us.
I really do want us to make Where the Road Ends together – or whatever we end up calling it.
When I step outside, Delaney’s sitting in the egg chair, facing the view.
‘Hey,’ I say, getting her attention.
‘Oh, hey,’ she replies.
And then she does something typically Delaney – she tries to get out of the chair. But her feet don’t quite touch the ground and it swings violently, just like it did last time. I drop my duffel onto the floor and reach out to steady the chair.
‘Try now,’ I say and she hoists herself out, stumbling, and I catch her by the arm. ‘You okay?’
‘Yep.’ She forces a smile. ‘I guess I should steer clear of it if you’re not going to be around to help me. Can you imagine? “Did you hear what happened to Delaney Cole?”’ she says dramatically. ‘“She got stuck in a hanging chair on Capri and they didn’t find her till it was too late.”’
‘That’s rather macabre,’ I say, narrowing my eyes at her. My mouth twitches of its own accord, ignoring that I’m cross with her.
‘I really am sorry about the room,’ she says, suddenly earnest. Her eyes search mine, asking for forgiveness.
‘It’s okay,’ I say with a sigh, my frustration evaporating, ‘I’m just as much to blame.’
‘I don’t follow,’ she says with a cock of her head. ‘Did Vittorio offer it to you too? I thought he said—’