Chapter Two
Daphne
M y suitcase is open, half-packed and sitting precariously on my bed as I toss in the last few items like a disorganised whirlwind.
I can already tell that no matter how much I cram into this thing, I’m going to forget something important.
So far, I’ve added an extra pair of heels ( in the unlikely event I’m invited to a black-tie gala) , another stack of notebooks and pens ( because how else will I look professionally unprepared? ), my charger ( though I fully expect it to disappear halfway through my trip ), and, naturally, my favourite bottle of dry shampoo.
You know, for those days when I inevitably don’t prioritise washing my hair and need to fake looking presentable.
A deep sigh escapes me as I zip up the hard-shell case, watching it bulge ominously under the pressure of all the clothes, mismatched shoes and half-hearted optimism I’m cramming into it.
It’s like playing Tetris with my sanity. One wrong move and this thing’s going to explode all over the floor, and I’ll be left standing in my underwear in the middle of my bedroom, wondering how I’ve managed to reach adult life without learning how to properly pack a case .
I take a step back and eye the suitcase like it’s a stubborn toddler.
“Don’t you dare,” I mutter under my breath, poking at the top with my finger to try and flatten it out. "I swear, if I have to sit on you, you’ll regret it."
I’ve been packing for hours - or at least it feels that way.
Between organising the correct number of socks (who doesn’t need 14 pairs for a three-month trip?), double-checking my toiletries bag for the hundredth time and mentally rehearsing how I’m going to pretend to be professional around a bunch of football players in Rome, I’m about ready to just throw it all out and call it a day.
But then I think about Italy.
Rome. The food. The wine.
The sunshine.
A faint smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I mentally picture myself strolling through the cobbled streets with an espresso in hand, the backdrop of centuries-old ruins in the distance.
I can already taste the soft pasta, the crisp wine - and of course, sense the beautiful men lurking just around the corner, ready to distract me from my unending imposter syndrome.
“Okay, Daphne,” I say to myself, turning to look at my reflection and taking a deep breath. “You’ve got this. You’re going to Rome, not a press conference for toxic influencers. You’re a professional . Just... don’t get overwhelmed by the whole football thing. You’ll learn. Probably.”
Before I can continue with my highly motivated pep talk, my phone buzzes .
I glance at the screen. It's Priya.
Perfect . I need a distraction.
"Hey!" I answer, dropping the phone onto the bed and holding it at an awkward angle. "Just finishing up here, trying to decide if I can fit my entire life into one suitcase."
Priya’s face fills the screen.
“Are you seriously still packing? It’s the night before you leave!”” she laughs. “Have you considered leaving half of your wardrobe behind and just going full minimalist?”
“Yeah, I don’t think so. Although if I could figure out how to pack my entire life in one bag without suffocating under the weight of it, I would.” I sigh. "But that's not happening. So here I am - stuffing everything I can into this thing ."
She laughs. “I can’t get over the fact that you’re not just jumping for joy at the thought of being in Italy for three months.”
“I mean... it's a beautiful city, with lovely food, culture and history. Of course I’m excited,” I say, my voice lifting as I let myself get swept up in the fantasy of it all. “I’m going to be in Rome, Priya. Rome . The whole thing feels like a ridiculous dream, to be honest. But then...”
I trail off, my eyes narrowing at the screen.
“Then I remember it’s for football ."
She snorts, almost spilling her tea.
" Please don’t tell me that’s the thing you’re getting stuck on. You’re going to be in Italy - who cares if it’s for football? Just think of all the food, the sunshine - and maybe even some cute, rich footballers…”
"I’ll just have to make sure I don’t accidentally trip over my own feet while pretending to care about goals and tactics,” I laugh, rolling my eyes. "You know, like a professional ."
Priya shakes her head, looking more amused than sympathetic.
"Besides, you know I’d rather be writing about literally anything else to do with Rome. Fashion, food, tourist tips... anything ."
“Right. Because you’re so passionate about the world of reality TV stars,” Priya says, the sarcastic undertone clear in her voice. “Look, you’re going to love it. You’ll get amazing material, and who knows - maybe you’ll even get inspired enough to finish your book.”
“I hope so. I feel like it's been collecting dust for years,” I sigh. “But you’re right. It’ll be good to get out of London for a while. Maybe Italy will breathe some life into me in general.”
Priya raises her cup in a mock salute.
“There it is. And if you really hate the football thing, I’m sure you can make it work somehow. It’s a job. You’re getting paid. And Rome’s too beautiful for you to be mopey and miserable.”
“I’ll try my best. I mean, there’s far worse places to be stuck for three months, right?”
“Oh, absolutely. And at least your parents will be distracted on their cruise, so you know they won’t be calling you every five minutes to ask about your career progression.”
I laugh at that.
She has a very valid point: my parents are currently on a Caribbean cruise and subsequently blissfully out of reach for the next couple of weeks, at least.
They’d sent me a text this morning wishing me luck, but it was the usual detached enthusiasm that comes from people who don’t really understand what I do.
“They're probably just happy to know I’ll be taking a break from writing about D-list celebrities.”
“Well, at least they’re not going to be badgering you. This is your moment, Daphne! Oh, and I’m telling you right now - I want regular updates. Detailed regular updates. You better keep sending me photos of all the food, the wine and the men.”
“Fine. You’re only getting updates on food and wine, though. The rest... we'll see.”
“Deal,” she beams. “I guess I should probably let you go and get some sleep before the big day. Just remember that you’ve so got this. Rome is yours.”
“I’ll try not to mess it up,” I sigh. “Talk to you soon?”
“Duh. Don’t even think about not calling me. I’ll hunt you down.”
We hang up, and I take one last look around my tiny London apartment, letting out a deep breath.
This could be it.
The escape from the endless gossip columns. From the dead-end assignments. From those ridiculous reality TV scandals that have been sucking the life out of me.
And who knows? Maybe I’ll even finish my novel.