Chapter One
Four Weeks Later
Florence was even more beautiful than I’d imagined, I realised, as our taxi navigated the narrow streets, its wheels bumping expertly over the cobbles.
Compared to London, everything looked perfectly polished and squeaky clean, and people weren’t rushing around barging into anyone who dared to get in their way like they tended to at home.
There weren’t even any crowds scrabbling for a look at one of the famous sights like there were in Rome (which I’d visited for all of a day on a work trip once – I hadn’t been able to get close to the Trevi Fountain, for example, which had been surrounded by a twenty-deep crescent of camera-wielding tourists).
The pace was slow and the sun was out, which was a bonus in April.
And, oh, there was just the small matter of every single building looking like it would have been a palace in a former life.
The driver braked gently and pulled in next to the kerb.
‘Here we go,’ said Nick. ‘This must be us.’
I wound down the window even further, poking my head out and looking up at the Palazzo Continentale which was quite possibly the grandest hotel I’d ever seen in my life.
Well, perhaps not ever seen. I mean, I’d walked past Claridge’s loads and had once had afternoon tea at The Savoy (reluctantly, to celebrate my dad and stepmum’s twentieth wedding anniversary.
As if the fact my dad had left my mum and married somebody else was cause for celebration), but it was definitely, hands down, going to be the poshest place I’d ever actually stayed in.
It had flagpoles hanging over the door and everything!
And a doorman in a smart uniform with shiny gold buttons, and a designer boutique on the ground floor, in case you suddenly thought: oh, I know, I need a Versace dress for that party tonight, let me pop down to the hotel shop.
Nick flung open his door, got out and then marched around to open my door for me.
Ever the gentleman, which was impressive given that he must feel as knackered from the journey as I was.
I was desperately resisting the urge to say I told you so.
Nobody but him had ever thought that catching the train from London to Florence was a good idea.
It had taken us over twenty-four hours, with a change in Paris and then an overnight stay in Turin.
Twenty-four hours! We’d got the 10 a.m. train out to Florence this morning and it was a relief to finally be here.
I refused to let myself think about the fact that I had to make the same horrendous journey home.
I wondered if I could persuade Nick that I simply had to get back to London as a matter of extreme urgency and would therefore need to book myself a flight.
Nick, who seemed uncharacteristically distracted, was flicking through his phone while the poor taxi driver, who wasn’t exactly young and spritely, struggled to drag our suitcases out of his boot. I gave Nick a look, and when that had no effect, I stepped in to help the man myself.
‘Here, let me,’ I said, taking my suitcase from him and dropping it hard onto the pavement.
Damn, that wasn’t the best idea. I was pretty sure that as I’d got it for half-price in the Argos sale, it was unlikely to survive such maltreatment.
And it looked tiny next to Nick’s, which I suspected meant that he knew something I didn’t.
Why hadn’t he said anything about the calibre of hotel we’d be staying in?
My wardrobe choices were clearly going to be all kinds of wrong.
‘You could have warned me it was this swanky,’ I said to Nick, who was still scrolling manically, seemingly unaware that the taxi driver was waiting to be paid.
‘My mother booked it,’ he said, not even looking up. ‘She was hardly going to book us into a Premier Inn, was she?’
I got my purse out of my bag, genuinely confused. ‘What’s so wrong with a Premier Inn?’
Nick didn’t answer – too busy tapping a message into his phone.
‘Everything all right?’ I asked.
Nick sighed. ‘It’s my mother. Wondering where we are.’
‘Oh, right,’ I said.
It wasn’t like him to stress over anything, except maybe work. Anyway we’d be seeing her in less than half an hour, once we’d dumped our stuff in our room and freshened up.
‘How much is that, please?’ I asked the driver.
‘Twenty euro.’
Twenty euros for a journey that had taken all of ten minutes?! I handed him a note, and then another five as a tip. I supposed the extortionate prices weren’t his fault. I had been warned that Florence wasn’t the cheapest.
‘Right, then,’ I said to Nick. ‘Looks like reception’s this way.’
He made a show of putting his phone away and then sprang to attention, ushering me in the direction of the revolving doors.
‘After you, m’lady,’ joked Nick.
The doorman helped us through the door and I thanked him as I dragged my suitcase through to the lobby as elegantly as I could manage given the half-shredded wheels, which didn’t glide as easily over the plush carpet as Nick’s luxury case seemed to.
My jaw literally dropped as I looked around at my surroundings.
I couldn’t believe this was going to be my home for the next five days!
I mean, I loved hotels and, thanks to my job on a TV travel channel, I’d stayed in quite a few of them, but they were never, ever anything like this.
It was like I imagined the interior of The Ritz to be, except smaller and cosier and more Italian (in other words, absolutely nothing like The Ritz).
I closed my mouth, thinking I should probably make some attempt to play it cool.
To act like this wasn’t so far out of my comfort zone that it would be funny if it wasn’t also slightly terrifying.
What did this say about Nick’s family? I mean, I’d picked up that they had money, but this was another level plush.
As we headed over to the front desk, I noticed a pianist playing in the corner.
His dinner-jacket-clad back was hunched dramatically over the keys as he played what I thought might have been Vivaldi, although I was definitely not a classical music buff, so it was just a guess.
Vivaldi was Italian, though, wasn’t he, so that would make sense?
When I looked up at the ceiling, I spotted a huge crystal chandelier that was about the same size as the studio flat I’d lived in before I’d moved in with Nick.
‘Imagine if that dropped on your head,’ I said, wincing at the thought.
‘Trust you to come up with the worst-case scenario,’ laughed Nick, directing me over to reception, where two women wearing chic racing green uniforms were doing an excellent job of pretending that they were excited to see us.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said one in a thick, Italian accent. ‘And to you, madam! I trust you had a very good journey?’
Not really was on the tip of my tongue.
Close up, their make-up was immaculate (I always felt the same way about air stewardesses) and I immediately wished I’d reapplied mine at the train station before we got in the taxi.
Anyway, it didn’t matter because soon I’d be able to get up to our room and make myself look vaguely presentable to meet Nick’s parents for the first time.
After all, they were going to be my in-laws – I wanted them to love me as much as I hoped I would grow to love them.
I was excited about the prospect of having a whole new family to get to know, one which was, presumably, much more stable than my own.
Nick’s parents had been married for forty-five years for a start, which was why we were all here in the first place.
Nick checked us in and when the receptionist slipped the invoice across the desk, I noticed it came to a total of just over three thousand euros, which she explained we wouldn’t need to pay for now, but that she’d need to take Nick’s credit card details for security reasons.
I tapped Nick on the shoulder, wide-eyed. ‘How much?’ I mouthed.
He looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’
My mouth open and shut as though I was gasping for air. ‘That’s, like, half our wedding fund!’
‘My parents are covering the bill,’ he said, giving me a weird look, as though this was obvious.
He definitely had not mentioned anything about his parents forking out for our room.
‘What, the whole thing?’ I clarified.
‘Yes. Can we talk about this later?’
He turned back to the receptionist, all smiles.
I often wondered, with hotels like this, what constituted a room costing five hundred pounds a night as opposed to a much more reasonable two hundred?
Two fifty at a push, for a city-centre place?
Perhaps all would be revealed. Also, I was starting to realise that Nick was from a more privileged background than I’d thought.
Still, I didn’t suppose it would make any difference – if Nick’s family were anything like him, I was going to love them.
I watched as the receptionist directed Nick to the lifts; our room was on the fourth floor, apparently, with a view of the city’s rooftops and the Duomo, she told us with enthusiasm.
This was exciting. I’d already decided that, in the morning, I was going to wake up and throw open the windows and breathe in the Florentine air, channelling Helena Bonham Carter in A Room With A View.
‘Thanks, but we’re heading into the restaurant first,’ I heard Nick say. ‘Can you have our suitcases taken up to our room?’
‘No problem, sir,’ trilled the receptionist, calling over a porter with a flick of her wrist and barking orders at him in (I thought unnecessarily) aggressive-sounding Italian.
‘Um, what are you doing?’ I said to Nick brightly.
‘We’re going straight in to meet Mum and Dad. They’re waiting for us.’
I took a moment to gather my thoughts, hoping that I could air my dissatisfaction with this plan in a calm and reasonable manner.
‘But I look a complete mess!’ I screeched, failing dismally.