CHAPTER 42
Nicholas
Rome
After the call from Rachel, Nicholas had changed his booking and gone on to take a direct flight from Lisbon to Rome.
He picked up a taxi at the airport. He preferred the city at this time of year – there were fewer tourists and no oppressive heat to deal with.
He sat back in the passenger seat as the cab wove in and out of traffic, switching lanes apparently at random, amidst blaring horns and wild gesticulating – how the Italians got their kicks, Nicholas thought.
He had fallen in love with Rome on his second visit to Giuseppe and Isobel’s.
It had been a gorgeous spring afternoon and the four of them went for a picnic cruise up the River Tiber.
That evening, Nicholas had gazed out of their apartment window into the night, over the orange rooftops of Rome, over the statues and the church spires illuminated by the lamp light and the moon, the silvery white domes and the satellite discs, the glorious, heady mix of history and modern technology.
And he realised that he loved the city. Rome had crept up on him and taken hold of his heart.
Nicholas glanced at his watch. At this rate he would only have half an hour for a quick freshen-up at the hotel, before heading to the Hotel Bella Roma where the clan were meeting for Rachel’s family ‘powwow’.
He sighed. And what was the point of that powwow?
To prove that, despite divorce, they were still one happy family after all? Bollocks.
‘Your first visit, yes?’ The cab driver veered suddenly into the outside lane, almost taking out a motorcyclist.
Nicholas flinched. ‘No. I’ve been here many times.’ So, don’t think you can swindle me . . .
‘It is a beautiful city at any time of year.’ The driver braked sharply.
Nicholas closed his eyes – it was often the best way.
He knew what would happen tonight. They would have drinks – sundowners, Rachel called them, as if she’d been brought up in Sydney, not Surrey.
And then dinner the Italian way: four or five courses punctuated by sorbets and subtle changes of wine, starting with antipasti and an artful rosé, ending with some scrummy waist-expanding dessert with sweet white, and espresso and dark chocolate to finish.
By which time they would all be suitably re-bonded and Nicholas could return to his hotel, duty done and three pounds heavier.
He opened his eyes again. They were approaching the outskirts of the city.
‘You stay here long?’
‘Not long.’ Just a few days. He’d do the family thing, spend a day with Celie, if she’d have him, maybe dinner with Giuseppe and Isobel, a couple of business meetings.
Then he’d go. By that time, Rome would be lying heavy on his shoulders and much as he adored her, he’d be glad to shrug her off – Nicholas knew this from experience.
He thought of Celie being launched into motherhood when she was hardly more than a girl herself. And with what sort of commitment from the father? Nicholas sighed. Bugger all, as far as he could tell.
The cab driver was an expert. He knew all the shortcuts and the one-ways and he wasn’t afraid to tackle narrow streets that were more like back alleyways.
Nicholas watched the landmarks whizz past: stone fountains, crumbling arches, innocent cherubs .
. . The city still impressed him anew every time he came here – it probably always would.
Nicholas let his head fall back against the headrest, thankful for the comfort of the cool leather interior. He heard the ping of an email notification and checked his phone. Joanna Shepherd. Well now. What had she made of his experience in Lisbon? He opened it.
Dear Nicholas, she had written.
And I’m now in Prague . . . Someone should publish our emails as tales from European cities!
Yeah. He laughed out loud and the driver glanced at him in the rear-view mirror.
Thanks for your kind words about my bridge walk in Lisbon. I’m glad you enjoyed it. What took you there? (I don’t imagine it was just my bridge walk!) It’s a vibrant and interesting city, don’t you think?
Nicholas nodded. He’d certainly found it extremely interesting.
In answer to your question, I saw that man too and I think I know who he is – an ancestor of mine.
Nicholas blew out through his teeth. What?
I know. It’s too weird for words. It’s peculiar enough for me to see a vision of one of my ancestors – but why would you see him too?
Why, indeed? Nicholas shook his head.
I’d rather conclude that it’s a coincidence, that your man isn’t the same as mine. Otherwise I’d have to consider the possibility that my visions are being passed on to all my readers, which is more than weird, I think you’ll agree.
Or maybe not to all her readers, Nicholas thought. Maybe only to him? The idea made him chuckle and he saw the driver glance at him once more.
Prague is, of course, another city I’m writing about and the bridge on this occasion is the Charles Bridge. Please don’t tell me you’re going there too! (Though part of me would be very interested in what you see).
Sadly, Nicholas could think of no good reason why he might go to Prague. He sighed.
Your father sounds like a lovely man. Mine was a farmer, so that’s another link between us: one bound to the sea, one to the land. As for me, I’m not sure any longer where I belong.
He caught the restlessness in her words here, and once again an unexpected seriousness. Again, he was touched – that she should open up like this to him, a virtual stranger.
This is my final bridge walk, by the way; I was only commissioned to do three – at least for now. They’ve been fascinating in some very unexpected ways, but unless they commission more, I’ve come to the end of the trail.
That was a shame.
Nicholas tucked his phone back in his pocket as the taxi finally pulled up outside Hotel Vittorio.
He swung open the door. Already, the chilly November air had begun to smell of end of afternoon – beer and sweet, fizzy prosecco; early dinner preparations with tomatoes, peppers and onions sizzling in a pan, their rich aroma wafting out of an open restaurant window.
He could hear the buzz of conversation and an Italian aria being played from a nearby open doorway.
‘Grazie.’ He pulled some euros out of his wallet and paid the guy. He’d earned it.
The driver opened the boot and Nicholas took his small case and loped easily up the white steps leading to the hotel.
He checked in, was given his room key and went upstairs to shower.
He’d stayed here before – it was only a three star but had great views over the city.
He could have stayed with Giuseppe and Isobel, of course – Celie and Tom would be at Rachel’s apartment.
But he preferred the anonymity of a hotel.
It gave him a place to retreat to – should he require it.
And – he grinned to himself – he probably would.
Briefly, he checked out the view – yes, he could see the giardino and the lake, as he’d hoped. He threw his jacket on the back of a chair. He was tempted to write back to Joanna Shepherd straightaway but there was no time.
Mentally, he checked his itinerary as he stripped off.
Thought about Prague. It felt as if he was on a mission; that he shouldn’t give up when the journey wasn’t yet over.
If it really was a journey at all. What he’d seen in Lisbon had been odd, but perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks on him.
And as for the fact that Joanna had identified the figure as being one of her ancestors .
. . what was going on there? But what reasonable excuse was there to follow the woman to city after city like a man with no purpose, no life of his own?
Giuseppe wouldn’t be up for another new location so soon after Lisbon.
The hot water rained down on his body. Ah. It could, though, be for pleasure . . .
No. ‘Too much, Nico, my boy,’ he told himself. Much too much.
Swiftly, he lathered his body. He held his face up to the water and closed his eyes for a moment, felt the cleansing warmth on his skin. He rinsed off, stepped out of the shower, and towelled himself dry.
What would happen after Prague? She had said it was the end of the trail, but that felt too quick, much too quick. Should he suggest they meet up somewhere back in England? Was that crazy too? But what possible reason would there be for meeting up? And what if it was a complete disaster?
He pulled a fresh shirt from his bag. What if, face to face, they had nothing to say to each other?
He wasn’t expecting much, mind – though friendship would be nice.
But he didn’t think he could stomach another disappointment right now.
Perhaps it was better to let it go, to enjoy the dream for what it was – some sort of sad fantasy.
Quickly, he dried off his hair and slapped on some aftershave. They were no longer married, but Rachel was still a beautiful woman. He wanted her to have just the smallest of regrets . . .
Nicholas picked up his wallet and was off, out of the door, down the stairs, to join the crisp and wintery early evening with its ache of anticipation, its delicious fragrances, its bittersweet memories of Rome.
*
In the pale green loggia of Hotel Bella Roma they were already assembled.
He saw Celie first – she looked fresh and young in wide white linen trousers and a turquoise shirt, the coral earrings he’d given her for Christmas dangling against her slender neck.
Her pregnancy was beginning to show – just. She was talking to her mother and, from the expression on her face, she was a bit fed up.
Oh, joy. Rachel was doing the shrug that she’d perfected until it had become an art form.
She was elegant as always in a black silky number he’d never seen before, her dark hair pinned up high, milky pearls at her throat.
‘Nico . . .’ Someone held him by the shoulders and pulled him into a bear hug. Giuseppe. ‘You are OK, huh?’