Chapter 29 Twists and Turns
Twists and Turns
You’ve got to hand it to the younger generation.
They think they know everything. Which is both incredibly annoying and, of course, absolute nonsense.
They haven’t done anything to know anything.
With age comes wisdom and all that. Except sometimes, thought Maggie with irritation, it turns out the most annoying thing is they’re actually right.
‘I can’t believe this was on my bucket list! Romantic? It’s a bloody nightmare!’
After being stuck for the last twenty minutes behind four coaches, not being able to move an inch forward or backwards, Maggie was flopped in the driver’s seat, fanning herself with her sunhat and fast regretting their decision to drive the Amalfi Coast.
OK, so the scenery was stunning, with dramatic cliffs and colourful coastal towns, but hello? Who can look at the scenery when you’re too busy white-knuckling the steering wheel as the road itself is frankly terrifying?
Filled with blind turns, giant buses and hundreds of motorcycles weaving in and out of traffic, she’d spent the last couple of hours narrowly missing hitting several vehicles that had veered over the centre line.
Meanwhile with all the twists and turns it had been a nauseating ride for poor Flick, who had chosen that moment in her life to discover she suffered from motion sickness and had spent most of the journey chucking up in a plastic bag.
Ah, the romance.
‘You were right. Bucket lists are ridiculous things. I’m throwing mine away!’
‘You mean, you actually have one written down?’
Hanging outside the window, trying to get some air, Flick sounded incredulous.
Choosing to ignore her, Maggie swigged the last of the water from her bottle.
The sun was beating down and she pulled back the sun visor and tried to angle it to shade her.
It was hopeless. They’d had to turn off the engine as the petrol gauge was running dangerously low, and with it the air conditioning, which they’d managed to get working again.
Even with the windows open it was about a hundred degrees. A hot blast of air blew in.
‘And now I need to pee.’
That’s the thing about road trips, you get very close, very quickly.
‘Again?’
‘I can’t help it; my doctor says it’s the perimenopause.’
From outside the car, Flick pulled a face. ‘Is it contagious?’
‘Ha ha, very funny.’
‘Oh look, we’re moving.’
Ahead the stuck coaches suddenly belched fumes of exhaust and forced themselves through the tiny gap, like corks popping from a bottle.
Immediately there was an impatient honking from behind.
Literally, not a second had passed and there was Mr Middle-aged Sportscar, blasting his horn.
Turning the ignition, Maggie felt a sudden rage.
‘Oh, go fuck yourself,’ she cursed, giving him the finger in the rear-view whilst Flick stared at her in utter astonishment.
The horn promptly went silent.
‘Woah, Maggie, I’ve never seen you get angry! You should do it more often, it suits you.’
‘It’s not me, it’s the perimenopause,’ she protested, embarrassed by her outburst. That was so unlike her.
‘Well, in that case I hope it is contagious,’ said Flick and they both turned to each other and started laughing.
They finally arrived in Positano much later than they’d intended, having totally underestimated the amount of traffic and lack of anywhere to park. And with only a couple of hours until the cruise ship was due to set sail.
‘Hang on. Where’s the ship?’
As they both climbed out of the sweltering Fiat, which they’d managed to wedge into a tiny spot at the side of the road, Maggie pointed to the small harbour where only a couple of small white sailboats were bobbing on the turquoise waters.
‘I don’t see it! Have we missed it?’
‘No, it’s too big to dock here. It says Amalfi/Positano on the itinerary, but I think they anchor off Amalfi and use tenders and local boats to bring the passengers to Positano—’ Flick broke off, looking a little doubtful.
‘You think?’
‘Well, according to the internet forums.’
Maggie felt a beat of frustration. ‘You mean, we’ve driven all this way and you’re not even sure where the cruise ship is stopping?’
‘I’m a reporter, not a cruise ship expert!’ snapped Flick.
The two women bristled. The heat and tiredness were getting to them both.
‘And, anyway, after this the next stop is Sicily and that was too far to drive in one day, so we had no choice but to break the journey.’
There was a beat as they stood side by side in the shade, looking out across the view of the glittering Mediterranean.
Spotless blue skies stretched out before them.
Positano was a chic resort town perched on a cliff; ice-cream-coloured houses clung to the hillsides together with splashes of bright pink and purple bougainvillea.
The scent of jasmine wafted towards them on the warm breeze, along with the soft sounds of lilting music.
It felt totally different to Rome, with its urban chaos, grand piazzas and colossal ancient buildings around every narrow, cobblestoned corner. Here everything felt as if it had slowed right down. As if Italy had just taken a long exhale, ordered itself an aperitif and was taking in the sea view.
‘I suppose there are worse places to spend a night,’ shrugged Maggie, giving a mock grimace.
‘Oh, I don’t know, it’s pretty awful.’ Flick wrinkled her nose, playing along. ‘But I guess it’ll have to do.’
See, that was the thing. On paper they really shouldn’t get along. They were too different. And yet that’s the problem with having the same sense of humour. It’s impossible not to.
Which was lucky when it came to checking into their hotel.
Being peak season, everything had already been booked, apart from one slightly cheesy-looking hotel Flick had found online, and all it had left was a suite.
Thankfully they had their winnings to pay for it – suites on the Amalfi Coast in summer are not cheap – but it was only when they were shown to their room and discovered towels shaped like swans and a bed strewn with rose petals that they realized they were in the honeymoon suite.
‘What was that you were saying about making our own romance?’ grinned Flick, brushing the petals off the eiderdown.
‘Be careful what you wish for,’ laughed Maggie, flopping down on the double bed.
‘Hey, that’s my side.’
‘Is it? Sorry.’
‘Don’t be daft, I’m only joking.’
As they lay side by side, relieved to be horizontal, in an air-conditioned room, they both dug out their phones.
Maggie’s was turned off. She didn’t want the council ringing her about being in breach of planning and the enforcement notice – she had enough on her plate right now – but she lived in hope of receiving a message about George the missing cat.
Turning it back on, there were several voicemails from a number which she was pretty sure was from the local council, plus three WhatsApps from George the human.
Ping.
Hey babe, how was Monte Carlo?
Ping.
You haven’t replied. Where are you? Did you find The Wanker?
Ping.
Babe! The ticks aren’t going blue. WHAT’S GOING ON??!!!
Maggie wasn’t sure how to reply.
Meanwhile Flick was reading aloud the activities from the cruise ship, along with its itinerary.
It was all a bit of a long shot. They’d missed him in Rome, despite hitting all the major tourist spots and Flick showing everyone a photo of him on her phone, as if they were looking for a missing person, which technically she supposed they were.
The chances of finding him here were slim.
Even with Flick’s forensic approach to his social media.
‘OK, so he hasn’t posted any photos, but someone’s tagged him in their stories.’
‘Great!’
Maggie had no idea if this was great or not.
In fact, to be honest, she found it all a bit bewildering.
OK, so she’d stalked a few ex-boyfriends on Facebook, who hadn’t?
But this was on a whole other level and involved hours spent scrutinizing stories and reels, cross-referencing posts, following the breadcrumbs of hashtags to various other accounts and apps until you ended up in a world of TikTok videos with strangers challenging you to do all kinds of weird and crazy things with loud music that drove you bananas.
(Confession: she still didn’t know exactly what a reel was and had never done a TikTok challenge, but was too embarrassed to admit this to Flick for fear of looking like an old person.)
Watching Flick now poring over her phone, fingers flying as she scrolled through different screens, Maggie was reminded of an article she’d once read about MI5 wanting to recruit more women to be intelligence officers as they were more intuitive. Forget journalism, Flick should have been a spy.
‘The photo’s taken from the deck of the ship. It’s a group shot.’ Flick pinched the screen with her fingers. ‘Problem is, I can’t see him in the photo, so that doesn’t make sense.’
‘Maybe he took it?’ suggested Maggie, randomly.
‘Oh, well done!’ Flick looked at her, like she’d just cracked a code. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’
‘And the view in the background definitely looks like the Amalfi Coast,’ Maggie continued, peering over Flick’s shoulder. ‘I recognize that lighthouse, we drove past it.’ She felt quite pleased with herself. So what if she’d never done a TikTok challenge? She wasn’t completely useless.
‘I don’t remember seeing any lighthouse.’
‘That’s because you were too busy throwing up in a sick bag.’
‘Oh God, don’t remind me.’ Flick grimaced. She felt nauseous just thinking about it. ‘Only problem is it was posted four hours ago.’
‘By who?’
‘Technically, it’s by whom.’
‘Are you going to give me a grammar lesson or are we going to try to find him?’
‘It’s an old couple. Judging by the wedding photos they posted last week I’d say they were on honeymoon.’ Flick’s face crumpled into a smile. ‘Aw, sweet. Later-life love.’
Maggie looked at the photos. They looked like they were in their early fifties. Is this what later-life love looked like? Fifty used to seem so far away and now it was just around the corner. Literally, days away. How did that happen?
Flick’s voice pulled her back from the edge of that particular rabbit-hole. ‘At least he can’t be trying to romance scam a couple of honeymooners.’
‘But where is he?’
‘I don’t know. The rest of their stories are a lot of kissing selfies.’ Flick pulled a face at the horror of old people fancying each other and quickly swiped past their page. ‘But we’re on the right track, we’re going to bump into him at some point.’
‘Are we, though?’
‘It’s bound to happen if we keep going to the same places. It’s the law of averages. I mean, I’m forever bumping into my weird neighbour at my local supermarket. In fact, it can be a bit annoying.’
‘The Amalfi Coast is a bit different to your local Tesco.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Maggie still wasn’t convinced, but she’d committed to the road trip.
For reasons that were less about confronting her past and more about wanting to avoid her future.
What did she have to go back to? A missing cat, torrential rain and an eviction?
Her home was a mouldy caravan and, judging by the number of voicemails from the council, which she was putting off listening to, she wasn’t even going to have that for much longer.
Unless by some miracle she managed to turn things around and get back her life savings, she was going to be homeless. And then what?
Maggie couldn’t even face thinking about it and being here meant she didn’t have to.
Being here felt like running away. She turned to look out of the open window, to gaze at the glittering Mediterranean on the horizon, to breathe in the warm lemon-scented breeze and lie on clean sheets in dappled sunlight.
To feel a million miles away from a wet muddy field and the mess of her life.
Frankly, running away felt pretty good right now and, feeling sleepy after the long drive, she let her eyes close, feeling herself drift, until Flick’s voice suddenly jolted her awake.
‘Oh my God! He’s here!’