Page 2 of The Dolce Vita Divas
He returned a few minutes later, holding two more pints and two packets of crisps clamped between his teeth.
‘Let’s sit down,’ he mumbled and jerked his head towards an empty table at the far end of the bar.
So we did, me pulling up two rickety cane-back chairs and him dropping the crisps neatly onto the table.
‘Eccoci qui– that’s better,’ he said sitting down. ‘So Joanna Parkinson from Worcester, tell me all about yourself.’
I was eighteen, and probably didn’t have a lot that was interesting to tell him, but we chatted away quite easily. Me telling him about my rural childhood in a small village, my all-girls school, my wish to become a teacher, and maybe one day if I found out enough, a writer. He trounced all that with the fact that his family owned a hotel on Capri and he wanted to live in America, where he would build huge roads and bridges. Girls passing him almost did double takes when they saw him. It was like being out with a film star.
He drew me a little sketch on the back of a beer mat, showing me where Capri was and where the hotel was located. A place called Anacapri, which sounded even more exotic.
‘Sí,it’s beautiful. The sky and the sea go on forever, the sun shines and then people smile,’ he said.
‘So why on earth would you want to leave?’
He shrugged as though the answer was obvious. ‘It is so small there and the world is big. I want to see it, all of it. I want to drive along roads that stretch towards the Rockies. Cross the Atlantic on a cruise liner. See the huge road trains in Australia. The temples in Thailand. The prayer wheels in Tibet. I want to see everything. Are you hungry?’
‘Oh, I’m always hungry,’ I said, spellbound by his passion and ideas. Perhaps I too wanted to see the world, all those things, those people and places that were out there. Back then I hadn’t been anywhere much. Just Devon and Cornwall, where we had relatives. Once a school trip to the Normandy beaches as part of a History project.
He finished his pint and slapped his hands down on the table.
‘Eccelente, me too. All this talk of travel and adventure. Let’s get something to eat. My treat.’
Half in a dream to think that on my first evening out I had struck so lucky, I followed him.
We went out into the city, through the damp streets, where hordes of new students were rushing around, making a lot of noise. We eventually ended up at a small restaurant which was garlanded with Italian flags and skeins of plastic vegetables. There were empty wine bottles on each table with red candles stuck in them. The air was fragrant with herbs and garlic. These days there are places like that to eat in just about any small town, but that evening it was the first time I had been anywhere like it.
Paulo spoke to the owner in Italian, which sounded so sexy that my legs went a bit wobbly. Immediately, the boss came out from behind the bar to shake hands and hug us. We were his best, his favourite customers. Nothing would be too much trouble for us.
We had an excellent meal, hot and steaming in white china bowls. Pasta with some sort of spicy tomato sauce and a snow drift of parmesan cheese. There was garlic bread, red wine in a wicker basket. All of these things were new to me, exotic and exciting, and Paulo made everything seem better; the lights in the restaurant were more flattering, the rustic checked tablecloth was charming and even the piped music was perfect. If this was what being an adult was like, then I was all for it.
We walked back towards the student union through darkening streets, our hands occasionally brushing. We passed more groups of young people darting in and out of pubs and fast-food places. They were just like us. But they couldn’t have been as happy as us, could they? It wasn’t possible.
‘I must catch my bus,’ I said with a regretful shrug. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening.’
‘My pleasure.’ He smiled, and he pulled out a scrap of paper from his coat pocket – an old receipt, I think – and wrote down his address and phone number. ‘This has been fun, perhaps we could… Call me. I’d like… but no pressure.’
We smiled at each other and he bent towards me, took hold of the lapels of my duffle coat and pulled me in towards him. And then he kissed me.
I think we both reeked of garlic but it didn’t matter. He made my heart soar in a way none of my other boyfriends ever had. I didn’t even care that I was wearing a duffle coat, which might have been my father’s idea of a warm coat but back then was incredibly uncool.
He waited until I was safely on my bus, and we waved at each other, smiling through the windows, which were cloudy with condensation. I looked around at the other passengers, almost sorry for them because they weren’t me. I wondered if they knew how happy I was, how thoroughly surprised and thrilled with life.
Back in my student hall of residence, I flopped down on my narrow bed, still in a bit of a daze. There was a knock on the door.
‘Come in!’
The girl swung on the door, half in half out of the room as though unsure of her welcome.
‘Hi, I’m your neighbour, Susie. Remember me from earlier when your dad helped me with my stuff?’
I sat up. ‘Of course.’
‘Have you got a lighter? Mine’s run out.’
I didn’t but she left the door open, trotted off further down the corridor to find one, and then came back.
‘What’s your name? Had a good night?’ she said, opening the window a little and lighting her cigarette.
