Page 16 of The Dolce Vita Divas
Do you recall when…? What a long time ago that was. I can hardly remember, can you?
Then the view was obscured by trees and houses, which gradually thinned out again to reveal the crags of the mountain in front of us, and we went round hairpin bends and negotiated narrow streets, scooters and mopeds and distinctive orange buses. Occasionally there were tall gates at the side of the road, closed against our curious stares. I distracted myself by wondering who lived there, what sort of house was hidden from view. I didn’t remember much of it from my trip all those years ago, but I knew it would be only a few minutes more.
The road grew steeper and even more twisting, one side bordered by a leaning stone cliff face covered in wire mesh, the other giving us yet again that dazzling view over the sea, the horizon shrouded in haze, the houses far beneath us like tiny white boxes. The edge of the road was protected by a low wall and some railings, and below was a dizzying drop to who knew where.
The two of us leaned to the left, drawing away from the possibility that our little taxi might suddenly plunge over the edge.
We passed a sumptuous-looking hotel, half hidden behind trees and fences, and then on past a petrol station, a small supermarket, people walking at the side of the road, a few shops and wine bars.
At last, with a satisfied nod, our driver turned right, through some high iron gates and into a courtyard.
‘Eccoci qui,’ he said. Here we are.
We had arrived. Of course, I remembered it now. How could I have forgotten?
I took a deep breath and opened the car door. I wasn’t sure if I was still excited, or whether the fluttering in my stomach would mean I would be sick on the marble steps.
What would it be like to see him again? Was I going to be able to be sensible about this or would I make a complete fool of myself? In the past I had done both.
* * *
Hotel Massimo was a large impressive building, built into the side of a rocky promontory so that most of the rooms were on a lower level than the entrance. We walked through the reception area, which was lofty and cool after the heat of the afternoon. I gave a little shiver, which I was sure was nothing to do with the temperature.
I could vaguely remember it from my visit all those years ago, and yet it was not familiar; things had changed. It looked much brighter than I remembered, the decoration light, sophisticated and classy where once it had been dark and dated with heavy wooden chairs and tapestry curtains.
There were a few people about – two women talking to the receptionist at the desk, a waiter hurrying past with a tray filled with empty glasses.
Susie, whose command of Italian was rusty but still effective, had been sitting behind our driver on the journey and had discovered he was called Umberto. He put our cases onto a trolley and had trundled them after us.
‘Grazie mille, Umberto,’ she said with a sweet smile, and Umberto looked pleased. Susie had always had this ability to win people over in an instant. It was always very interesting to watch.
‘Piacere mio,’ he said, flushing a little. My pleasure.
One of the women in front of us was willowy in cream linen and did not look as though she had been travelling for the last day as I know we did. She sounded American and having finished asking about towels for the pool, she wandered off, talking loudly about finding her husband and a drink. The other slightly older woman trailed after her, clutching at a carrier bag.
As Susie – who by then had been appointed spokesperson – reached the desk, a man came into the hotel from the open doors which I think led to the gardens, and walked towards us, both hands held out in welcome.
And there he was.
It had been so many years since I had seen Paulo; Ellen had always come to visit us without him. She said he found it hard to leave the family hotel for other people to manage, and in a way I had been relieved. But that day, completely demolishing my earlier doubts, he looked almost the same as he ever had to me. Tall, handsome and tanned, he was the very picture of a casually elegant Italian man. For a moment the old attraction I had always felt for him rose up again, and annoyingly I felt my cheeks burning. That was a great start, blushing like a teenager.
‘Welcome,’ he said with a wide smile, which also showed he hadn’t lost any teeth.
Did his gaze rest on me for a fraction longer than it might have? I couldn’t resist sneaking little looks at him to reassure myself that he was still the same attractive and charming man I remembered. Could I recall how I had felt about him? Of course I could. Had he realised? Did he remember?
We did the usual round of hand shaking, polite cheek kissing, and small talk about the superb weather.
‘I can’t believe it’s you. At last,’ he said.
He was still holding my hand in both of his, and for a moment I didn’t want him to let go.
‘It’s been years, hasn’t it,’ I said. ‘Decades, actually.’
‘And how are you?’
How was I? A bit lightheaded if I was honest. I seemed to have lost control of my senses. Did my feet still work? Was I able to talk sensibly any more? Or would I just stand there with my mouth unattractively open, dribbling and prattling a lot of nonsense?
‘Oh, you know, fine,’ I said at last.
