Page 37 of The Dolce Vita Divas
I half wished it was me, rushing off for a date with a dashing man, but then, thinking about it, the whole thing, even the prospect of it, was so exhausting.
I thought about what it would take to get to know a new man – exploring their character, waiting to see if they had any unpleasant habits. Did they understand about laundry baskets or was the floor an equally suitable alternative? Did they pay their bills on time or, like Greg, hide them unopened in the vegetable rack? What side of the bed did they sleep on? What was that song?How do you like your eggs in the morning?I really didn’t think I had the energy. And did I really need that anyway?
‘I am sure she is more than capable of looking after herself,’ I muttered under my breath.
But then, was she? Susie had waited hand, foot and finger on Simon. She even used to organise his car servicing and top up his washer fluid, and if that wasn’t a reasonable thing to expect a man to do for himself, I didn’t know what was.
‘Madam?’
It was the waiter back again, his young face anguished, probably at the thought of me sitting there without any food.
What did I want? Well, actually I was getting hungry so I ordered a caprese salad, with bright basil leaves, succulent tomatoes and slices of wonderfully fresh mozzarella. The whole thing was garnished with a balsamic drizzle and chunks of focaccia bread in a little basket.
So now I wasn’t just a woman sitting alone in public, I was also eating alone. This wasn’t something I had done for a very long time. But should that matter? Who had even noticed me; an older, grey-haired woman was someone that was easy to miss. And suddenly I didn’t want to feel like that.
Who cared what other people thought? I had taught thousands of children to read and write and add up. I’d paid my taxes and not broken any laws. I didn’t even have any points on my driving licence. I had as much right as anyone else to be there, enjoying the sunshine, the experience, just living. I didn’t need anyone to validate me.
I took a deep, brave breath, sat up a bit straighter and concentrated on the view, the warmth of the October sunshine and the clear, sea-scented air. This day was mine. And so was tomorrow.
And I made myself eat my salad slowly, appreciating the flavours, and not rushing to get through it so I could escape somewhere else.
Feeling rather pleased with myself, I waved the waiter over and ordered another small glass of wine and asked for the dessert menu. If Ceci thought tiramisu was the secret to happiness, then who was I to argue?
* * *
In the end I stayed there for ages, allowing myself to relax, happy to be sitting in the dappled shade of an Italian sun.
I already felt different in this place, where the warmth and the sunshine and the break to my routine had made me see that there was indeed life outside my small existence. My ordinary house in the everyday town where I had settled seemed a long way away. Not just in miles, but in the experience of life. While I was plodding on with my steady routine, other people out in the wider world were experiencing life properly. Perhaps they were going out to dinner, travelling, meeting new people, making friends who had nothing to do with their children’s activities. I wanted to do that.
After about half an hour, a couple of very chic young women at the table next to mine, who had been talking in French about someone called Hector, who had obviously upset one of them, wandered off, leaving behind a copy of some French fashion magazine.
I went and grabbed it and, leafing through the glossy pages, I began to wonder if I lived on the same planet as they did. The thing that struck me was how miserable the models looked. If I was that young, slender and attractive, I would probably spend my life whooping for joy and grinning at myself in the nearest mirror. But how did they actually get themselves into those complicated swimming costumes with all the straps and buckles that lay smoothly against their skin? If I tried that I would probably look like a string bag of potatoes, with my sixty-five-year-old body bursting out of it.
I was squinting – because I had left my reading glasses in my room – at a picture of a thin, depressed-looking girl in a gingham playsuit (€1057) wearing the ugliest shoes I had seen in a while (€758) and wondering why the prices in those magazines were always so peculiar, as though someone had just picked them out of thin air, which possibly they had, when I heard a familiar voice.
‘There you are, I was wondering how you were getting on.’
It was Paulo. I looked up, screwing up my eyes even more because the late afternoon sun was behind him, dipping towards the sea.
‘Hello,’ I said, trying to sound casual, although my heart did do a little flutter.
He put a hand on the chair next to me.
‘Permesso?May I?’
‘Of course.’
I closed the magazine rather clumsily, so it fell on the floor, and he bent down to pick it up.
‘How are you?’ he said.
‘Fine, absolutely great,’ I said, wishing that there weren’t quite so many wine glasses on the table. Two of mine and one of Susie’s, which I had finished off. He would think I was a complete lush.
‘That’s good. And where has Susie got to?’
‘She has gone off for a trip with Raimondo to have lunch somewhere. He is safe, isn’t he? I mean trustworthy.’
Paulo laughed. ‘Safe? Of course, and I am glad if they are enjoying each other’s company. He has been on his own for many years.’
