Page 92 of The Dolce Vita Divas
‘And what did she say, this wise mother of mine?’
‘Just girl talk,’ I said.
‘Girl talk,’ he said, laughing.
‘I’m still a girl in my head, Paulo. And I am sure your mother is too. I want to see some pictures of her when she was a young woman. I bet she was stunning.’
‘I am sure she will show you,’ he said. ‘She has been looking forward to seeing you. She has been nagging me. I think she had guessed more than I have told her. She seems to think we are well suited.’
I looked across at his profile and grinned.
‘I told you she was wise.’
* * *
It was strange to be back in the hotel that once had been bustling and busy and was now so quiet. There were signs that a lot of packing up had been going on, and the doors to the ballroom were open, showing that it was empty. The glittering chandeliers were switched off, the tables stacked in one corner. It was the end of something, but also the beginning.
Just for a moment I could remember it as it had been. All those people, me in my borrowed dress and Susie laughing and happy with Raimondo as he brought her Prosecco and looked at her with the sort of expression of which I didn’t think Simon had ever been capable.
She was currently at home, finishing off the decoration of her spare bedroom and waiting for Raimondo to arrive to spend Christmas with her. I didn’t think I had ever seen her so happy.
The doors into the garden were all closed, and outside, gusts of rain slanted between the lemon trees. On the terrace where I had sat drinking wine in the shade of the parasols, everything had been taken down, the tables and chairs put away for the winter.
Somehow it looked sad, and I remembered how it had been the last day I was there. So beautiful, the air so bright and clear. The sunlight and that wonderful blue sky.
However, in Paulo’s apartment, everything was almost as I remembered it – comfortable, warm and welcoming. Except this time there was a Christmas tree in one corner decorated with red and green coloured lights – the Italian colours, he reminded me, which were traditional – and a golden star at the top. There was a log fire burning in the grate, a crowd of scarlet poinsettias on the windowsills and nativity figurines on a coffee table.
‘It’s all a bit conventional,’ Paulo said. ‘My mother insisted. Maybe a little over the top?’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I sighed. ‘Exactly as I would have hoped.’
‘Are there enough fairy lights, even for you?’
‘Well, not really; after all, you can never have too many,’ I said, and he chuckled.
‘I will search to find if I have any more, and if not I will scour the shops for some! Those endless arguments about that all those years ago, do you remember?’
‘I was a nightmare, I’ll admit it,’ I said.
‘My mother and Freddy are looking forward to sharing a proper Italian Christmas with you, I mean with us. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, when all Italians have fish, then she will want us to play cards and tell her all our news. On Christmas Day a few friends will be joining us for an afternoon feast, and you had better be hungry because it will go on for a long time. We don’t like to hurry such a celebration in Italy.’
‘I like the sound of that,’ I said. ‘At home I spend all morning cooking and then my family tend to race through Christmas dinner.’
‘Not here, we have all day. Now then, are you comfortable staying here with me?’ he asked. ‘There is a second bedroom if you prefer.’
I caught hold of his arm as he turned.
‘Don’t be daft,’ I said gently, suddenly realising that perhaps he was nervous too. Wondering if the feeling between us could be just as real as it had seemed. I looked for a moment into his wonderful brown eyes and then I smiled.
And I put my arms around him and pulled him towards me.
And I kissed him.
I felt him relax and his arms went around me, and he held me tight against him. All the years we had lost, all the last few weeks of text messages and emails, were forgotten. At long last, we were back together. There were no doubts or ghosts of the past between us.
His room was lovely, but a bit spartan. Just a big wooden bed, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers. But there was a comfortable chair in the corner and a small writing desk covered in papers. I supposed that was just his masculine taste. There seemed no trace of Ellen in that room. There were no traces of her ever being in there. No photographs, nothing to show her love of colour or the last faint traces of her perfume. It felt like he had brought me into his sanctuary.
He carried my cases in and left them in the corner and then he turned to me.
