Page 31 of The Dolce Vita Divas
And then I thought about Paulo.
After a few minutes, I stopped myself. Raking over the past was not a good idea. Paulo had invited us here for Ellen and Ceci and that was all. I would not allow myself to travel back in my memory and, even worse, to wonder what might have been.
A ping from my phone woke me just as I was drifting into sleep. It was from Juliette.
That’s him??? Good grief, what a looker!!!!! I bet you still fancy him something rotten!! Send me more tomorrow. X
8
The next morning, I woke at seven o’clock feeling rested and much calmer than I had expected.
Since Greg and I divorced I had found it hard to find any sort of peace of mind to allow me to sleep properly. I suppose in the middle of those wakeful hours I had rehashed all his lies, the deceit and the disappointment so many times without ever finding satisfaction.
The same questions over and over again – why did he do it? And had he actually found happiness? And worst of all, was it somehow, as he had suggested, all my fault?
I honestly thought over the years I had done my best to support him and take on all the domestic tasks he refused to do, but whatever it was he wanted, it wasn’t me. I could still remember that bitter insult he had thrown at me the last time I had seen him:You’re fifty eight, face up to it, no one else is going to want you.Was that true?
And yet that night I had slept better than I had for years. I would not waste any more time thinking about my failures. There was a whole day ahead of me, a new day filled with new experiences. I would not just deal with mundane domestic chores, perhaps go to the supermarket to buy dull things. We were going to see the Contessa at eleven, and I had the feeling that if she said eleven o’clock, she meant it.
Meanwhile there was breakfast to think about, and what was I going to wear? I had bought a few new things in honour of the occasion, and I had deliberately left behind all the things I usually packed.
The safe, navy blue trousers, several washed out shirts and sweaters, all rivals in dreary predictability, and some dreadful shoes with (utter shame) Velcro fastenings, had all been dumped in the clothing recycling bin at the supermarket and instead I had splashed out on some maxi dresses and pastel trainers, which I saw were all the rage in the fashion magazines at my hairdressers. I might be past middle age, but that didn’t mean I had to dress like an old woman.
In the end after several false starts, I chose a smart pair of dark trousers and teamed it with a blue and white striped shirt and a bright blue sweater, which I tied around my neck. These choices were so unlike me, and I spent several minutes preening in front of the mirror, wondering why I didn’t dress like this at home. Why was I still keeping new underwear and clothes ‘for best’? What was the point of that?
Perhaps it was the weather here that made me feel so light hearted and optimistic, the sunshine and the clear air, plus of course the wonderful feeling of being on holiday and having few responsibilities.
Downstairs I discovered breakfast set out in the dining room and it was a splendid-looking buffet, with helpful handwritten labels, jugs of chilled fruit juice and artistically arranged ham and cheese platters. Outside, the sea sparkled and shone in the morning sunshine. The sky was forget-me-not blue and cloudless. It was perfection.
Susie was already there, sitting at a table by the window drinking coffee.
‘Oooh, hello. Sleep okay?’ she said. ‘I was out like a light the moment I got into bed and didn’t stir until seven thirty. Perhaps it was because Simon wasn’t driving the pigs to market next to me. Thank heavens I don’t have to put up with that any longer.’
I laughed. ‘Separate bedrooms, that’s all the rage these days.’
Susie wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t think I would like that. But I’ll give that some thought. Although as I said, I have absolutely no intention of ever speaking to a man ever again.’
‘Apart from Raimondo?’
‘That doesn’t count. And I’m sure I didn’t say that. I was just being polite to a fellow guest.’
‘And do you intend being polite to him again?’
Susie blushed. ‘Stop making something out of nothing. Have you seen the buffet? I thought I would wait until you came down before I attacked it.’
‘Come on, I’m hungry,’ I said, ‘and how did your evening with Raimondo pan out? You definitely said you weren’t going to talk to a man again, except in an emergency.’
‘Don’t be silly, and it’s none of your business,’ Susie said firmly, ‘but I can see some fabulous pastries over there.’
There was fresh fruit, teas, and coffee. Bread and rolls of all sorts, including sweet Italian bread labelledmaritozzi.Golden, glazed croissants, or as we were in Italy they were more properly calledcornetti,some plain and others filled with custard or chocolate. Thin pastries filled with ricotta calledsfogliatelle.Baskets of almond biscotti to dunk in our coffee, slices of a majestic panettonestudded with candied fruits, a tray ofbomboloni,doughnuts filled with whipped cream. Little tarts, orpasticciotto,filled with lemon custard. The choice was impossible.
‘There’s about nine million calories on this table,’ Susie said as we stood clutching plates in front of the display, dithering. ‘How do we decide?’
‘Let’s just go for the naughtiest-looking ones. We are on holiday, so the calories don’t count, and I bet the coffee is fantastic.’
Choices made, we returned to our table.
‘This is such a treat,’ I said, slicing into abomboloni.‘I must say, this beats a full English every time, or toast and Marmite which is what I usually have. I wonder what Alex is doing?’
