Summer on the Italian Lakes

by Lucy Coleman

  His finger taps against his bottom lip.

  ‘I’m thinking of something a little different. Imagine this headline. What happens when Brie Middleton and Arran Jamieson get their heads together on a project – sparks fly!’

  I draw in a sharp breath.

  ‘You wouldn’t!’

  ‘I would. For you.’

  ‘But. But… we don’t know what this is, exactly. I mean, what if it’s a passing thing?’

  His hand falls away from his chin and his back straightens.

  ‘That’s how you feel?’ He sounds disappointed.

  ‘No. No. This feels different, special. I wasn’t sure how you felt.’

  We stare at each other cagily.

  ‘Damn it, I can’t think past wanting you right now. But this is about more than that. I’m experiencing something new and I’m not even sure how to handle it, or what to say. I’m not messing with you, Brie. I just can’t help myself.’

  A hot flush is coursing through my body and I take a couple of deep breaths to stop myself from leaping across the bed.

  ‘We need to keep our voices down a little,’ I shush him, as I definitely heard a creak on the landing outside the door.

  ‘I hate the thought of someone hurting you, so think about it. What harm can it do? It would certainly confuse the gossips out there.’

  Walking around to him and lowering myself down onto the bed, our faces are merely inches away.

  ‘I don’t want to jinx this, whatever it is that’s going on between us.’

  He looks at me, one eyebrow raised. ‘Well, you’re the romance writer so I was rather hoping you’d explain it to me.’

  There are no suitable words in my head, so instead I cover his mouth with mine. It lends a whole new meaning to writer’s block. Maybe when it’s all happening up close and personal it’s not quite so easy to qualify.

  As Arran lies back on the bed, pulling me on top of him, it could be a scene from one of my novels. This isn’t what I’m looking for… is it? I want the romance and the whole feeling protected and adored thing, but the toe curling sex is such a temptation. I can’t help myself either, so that makes two of us. But this isn’t what I see when I dream of meeting the one I want to be with forever.

  Okay Brie, so you simply step off the bed.

  There’s one problem with that simple solution. My mind doesn’t seem to be connected to my body right now and the wires of communication must be a little mixed up. Instead I pull off my slip and pull Arran into me.

  ‘Argh,’ he groans deliciously. ‘Do you know what you do to me? I could get used to having you around. You are making me crazy, lady! Ahh, can you do that again?’

  I do it again. And again. And again. It seems when it comes to Arran I have no resolve whatsoever. He is my new guilty pleasure and I’ve turned into one of my lusty heroines.

  20

  The Charm of Verona

  I wake just after 5 a.m., quietly sliding open the door to the balcony so as not to disturb Arran. If I work solidly through until noon, that will leave me an hour to get ready for the trip to Verona.

  It’s pleasant out here with a slight breeze distributing a waft of heady perfume that teases the nose. What I want is to saunter out and walk around the garden before anyone else is up but I’m a woman on a mission. If I can finish my work on this manuscript today, then maybe I can talk Arran into letting me take over tomorrow’s workshop. He needs to focus on making those changes and getting it off to Carrie quickly, if there’s going to be even a glimmer of hope of getting an advance in time to help him. Even if it’s a staged payment, with a contract for more than one book, the trigger is upon receipt of a signed contract. But first Carrie will need something concrete in her hands to get that offer and prove Arran can satisfy a new audience of readers. It might help, if it isn’t already too late by then.

  The first hour or so is spent mainly reading, as Arthur manages to survive a particularly harrowing night. One of his fellow soldiers died in his arms and he cried, not just for the friend he had lost, but for them all, living or dead. I find myself having to wipe away my tears before the story moves on and becomes all about the lack of rations. Was there no end to the test life was throwing at them in their battle for survival? After a convoy of lorries are bombed, supplies run out and morale plummets in the inhospitable conditions.

  ‘Hey, how long have you been out here?’

  The tousled head that suddenly appears around the edge of the sliding door makes me laugh. Arran is naked, seemingly unconcerned that he’s standing in front of a glass panel. I shake my head and try to keep my eyes firmly focused on his face.

  ‘A little while and I don’t want any interruptions.’

  My eyes return to the screen.

  ‘Oh. Okay. I understand. Room service will arrive shortly.’

  Arran makes himself scarce and I’m too wrapped up in what I’m doing to take much notice. I don’t know how much later it is when he reappears with a breakfast tray, placing it without fuss on the bistro table behind my laptop.

  I’m typing and don’t stop, so he leans in to kiss my cheek and then disappears.

  A couple of hours pass and I’m conscious of noises coming from downstairs, but nothing really disturbs me. I stop for a quick shower and to throw on some shorts and a top, figuring that Elisabetta will be doing her rounds sometime this morning.

  Grabbing a bottle of water from the bedside table, I return to my seat to tackle the final twenty per cent of the story. This isn’t going to be easy reading.

  *

  ‘Right, Verona, here we come.’ Arran slides the minibus door shut and turns to slip into the seat next to me.

  The driver pulls away and Arran turns his head, leaning in and talking in a low voice, although with the level of general banter going on around us I doubt anyone could pick out his words, anyway.

  ‘I could see you wanted to be left alone to concentrate this morning. It felt wrong, but I do appreciate you being so focused on my behalf.’

  I can see his gratitude reflected in the look in his eyes. He’s nervous and I realise it matters to him what I think, aside from the help I’m giving him.

  ‘It’s done. I sat and cried as Arthur arrived at the twelfth Casualty Clearing Station in Annezin, northern France. Was it really that bad?’

  Arran nods his head. ‘Yes. It was one of many front line medical units that were highly mobile. Each CCS would take in anything up to 250 casualties at peak battle times. On the day that Arthur was injured there were over a thousand men injured in just that one skirmish. A partial amputation had to be performed immediately he was brought in. Hard to believe these units were in tents and it wasn’t until he was transferred to a Base Hospital, a few days later, that it became clear a further operation was required.’

  Arran ended the story with Arthur boarding a ship at Dunkirk for the journey home.

  ‘That was in late March of 1940, a month before Operation Dynamo began on the twenty-sixth of May. As we know, the Dunkirk evacuation of more than three hundred thousand Allied soldiers and the carnage that ensued will never be forgotten. In a way Arthur was lucky he was shot when he was – how ironic is that?’

  ‘You do know that any publisher will expect a sequel, as you can’t leave the story half told.’

  Arran raises his eyebrows. ‘I have the interviews and the photos. I’m just not sure I’m the right person to tell the rest of the story.’

  I lean into him, maintaining eye contact. ‘You are exactly the right person to tell the story. After all, you knew them both. Who better?’

  He looks away, shrugging his shoulders. I reach out and touch his hand, figuring no one is really watching us.

  ‘You did an amazing job. Really. It needed telling because it’s the story of a brave man whose whole life changed because of his experiences, but it’s also a wonderfully uplifting love story. I’ve simply tweaked it, that’s all. And there’s one chapter that I’ve roughed out that I really think needs
to be inserted. I’ve given you the framework, but you understood Rose and I know you’ll make it hers.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Brie, because “thanks” just doesn’t seem to be enough.’

  ‘If you let me take over the session tomorrow morning then you could spend the entire day on it. I can look after the group. Carrie can’t do anything until she has the final version. It’s in your hands now.’

  Arran turns his head and rises out of his seat to address the group.

  ‘I’ve just had my orders and I have manuscript duties tomorrow, guys. Brie will be taking the session on book blurb, synopsis and pitching to agents and publishers. I know you’ll be in good hands.’

  There’s a cheer. ‘See, they’re fed up of me already,’ he muses.

  As he sits back down, Arran grins at me conspiratorially.

  ‘So,’ he says as he stretches his legs out as far as he can, given the confined space. ‘You can get back to your own projects now.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, I’m torn and trying to write two totally different stories at the same time.’

  He looks at me, rather straight faced. ‘You won’t turn me into one of your characters, will you?’

  I burst out laughing, settling back in the seat ready to enjoy the ride. Too late, the decision has already been made!

  *

  The journey takes about an hour and twenty minutes. The traffic flows smoothly and it’s more or less a straight route on a very good road. It’s rather relaxing to sit and watch the scenery whizzing past but I can’t stop my thoughts from whirling. Arran is right and now it’s time to turn my attention to my own work in progress. Friday afternoon I’m doing that all important telephone interview with Jordan Lewis. If I’m going to make the character of Jed Jackman leap off the page, then it means I need to understand the mindset of a real cage fighter. Research takes you to some strange places, that’s for sure.

  Several times on the journey Arran gives me a quizzical look. He’s wondering why I’m so quiet, but I don’t feel like joining in with the general back and forth banter going on. When my characters aren’t battling for space in my head, the thoughts I can’t seem to stifle all relate to Arran’s situation. Not only is it none of my business, but there’s nothing I can do to help him fix the problem. I simply can’t believe he might end up losing the villa though. It’s not right and it’s not fair given the circumstances.

  Arran’s head is inches from mine as he leans in once more to whisper in my ear.

  ‘We’re nearly there. You’ve been deep in thought the whole time. I haven’t said anything wrong, have I?’

  ‘No, of course not. I needed some quiet time to brainstorm a few ideas. It won’t be long before Carrie is asking me for an update on my word count, so I have to get my head around where the plot is going next.’

  He shoots me a guilty look, but I give him a reassuring smile.

  ‘What’s the plan for this afternoon and evening?’

  ‘A quiet saunter around the town and then we all meet up for a meal in the Piazza delle Erbe at seven thirty. I’ve had a word with the chef and he’s going to make something special for you.’ He grins at me. ‘People usually split up and head off in different directions, depending on what they want to see. Verona’s a history lover’s dream but it’s also a very beautiful city full of shops, markets and plenty of little places to stop for a coffee or a gelato.’

  ‘Sounds perfect and thank you.’ I’m not used to a man going out of his way to do something for me. It sends a satisfying little tingle running up my spine to know Arran cares.

  As the driver negotiates his way into a narrow street he has no other option but to double park to allow us all to disembark. In doing so the street is suddenly filled with the sound of impatient car horns honking. I grimace as the noise seems to echo around us as we pile out onto the pavement.

  ‘Ignore it. Italians like to express themselves. A few seconds and the road will be clear again.’

  The minibus pulls away and after letting three cars pass we all follow Arran across the narrow road. It’s only minutes until the world renowned Roman amphitheatre looms up, towering above the buildings on our left. As we turn a corner, suddenly the pavement widens out into a vast open area, mostly covered with intricate cobblestones laid in a shell like formation. I’m grateful to be wearing flat shoes as it would be a nightmare to walk on in heels.

  Arran draws to a halt, and we cluster around him.

  ‘If you can all grab one of these, the first sheet is a walking map around the town with the main tourist attractions highlighted. It’s just coming up to two thirty, so you have five hours to wander around. Also highlighted is the main shopping area and marked with a big, red cross is the restaurant where I have booked a table for seven thirty at Bottega del Vino. It’s literally two minutes from here and will mean it’s only a short walk back afterwards to pick up the minibus. Alfredo will be waiting to take us back at a quarter to ten.’

  Arran distributes the handout and surveys the group, who are already pairing off quite nicely. He seems content everyone is happy.

  ‘Right, well, I’m going to show Brie around the area and impress her with my vast knowledge. But if you turn to the second page you’ll find a potted version of that which I hope makes for interesting reading. See you all later. Any problems call me on the mobile.’

  Arran looks at me, nodding his head in the direction of the towering building behind us. ‘Step this way for the guided tour,’ he says with a smile.

  ‘Oh dear, is this going to be a history lesson?’ I’m teasing, because I’m intrigued to see inside. From the outside, the two storey façade made up of enormous arches looks solid enough but there’s no way to glimpse what lies beyond.

  ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Arran’s gaze flicks over my face, watching for my reaction.

  ‘You can say that again. I know it looks solid but it’s not complete and it sort of looks half finished.’ Now I feel mean teasing him because I can’t wait to see what’s inside. I only hope I won’t be disappointed.

  ‘Ah, that’s because what you are looking at is only the internal structure that holds everything up. The outer wall was made up of pink and white limestone; if you walk this way, a large portion of it remains standing.’

  He leads me away from the incredible arched structure, which looks like some sort of crazy wedding cake waiting to be iced. But it’s only the core of this monumental building. The scale is mind blowing and when we stare up at the only part of the original outer wall that remains standing, you get a real feel for the importance attached to this building.

  It dominates the Piazza at this end and there must be well over a hundred people in small groups scattered around in front of it, all either gazing up in awe, or busy taking photos.

  ‘There were three tiers of arches originally, but as you can see, only four of the arches on the third level have survived. But it’s incredible, isn’t it?’

  I nod in agreement. ‘Why has the interior remained in such a complete state, and yet the exterior has been decimated?’

  ‘Several earthquakes, one of which destroyed most of the façade.’

  We are inches apart, our heads tilted as we gaze up in awe.

  ‘Come on, let’s make our way inside.’

  He takes my hand and then winces, slackening his grip a little.

  ‘How is it today?’ I ask, tentatively. ‘You were lucky you didn’t break anything, you do know that?’

  ‘Yep, I know. It’s just bruised. I want you to know that I’m not in the habit of lashing out.’

  ‘I figured that out for myself, don’t worry. It’s hard not to vent when you are being pushed to the limit.’

  We lapse into silence as we join the queue at the entrance. It moves forward slowly until, at last, we find ourselves entering a large passageway that skirts the entire building. Then we turn into one of the walkways leading us up to the core of the building. The pitted marble floor underfoot is flanked by cobbled st
rips and the vast walls seem to be made up mostly of a composite material.

  ‘It’s creepy in here. It feels claustrophobic, as if we’re trapped. Like the air is closing in around us.’ I’m conscious that sounds ridiculous as it’s a tall corridor, one of many, like spokes in a wheel leading us into the actual arena area.

  ‘The tunnels are wide enough to drive a gladiator’s chariot through. For almost four hundred years they fought here, and this was home to the bloodthirsty carnage of the games. It’s hard to believe it was entertainment, isn’t it?’

  As we climb a flight of stone steps and cross a platform which takes us up to yet another level, I try to imagine it packed with people: everyone pressing forward in earnest, eager to take their seats.

  Even though up ahead I can clearly see an end to the gloom as we approach the exit, my arms are covered in goosebumps. Just thinking about the number of men who lost their lives here in such horrific and cruel conditions is making me feel slightly nauseous.

  And then we re-emerge into a massive, sunlit, stone arena and the stifling, slightly oppressive atmosphere lightens. I wasn’t expecting it to be so vast and it certainly exceeds my expectations. It’s so complete and not merely in a state of ruin.

  The beautiful blue sky above changes everything and that creepy, doom laden feeling leaves me.

  ‘It’s set up for opera season,’ Arran confirms as we gaze down upon the large swathe of red seating that covers an extensive area of the arena in front of a lavish stage.

  Scanning around the stone tiers circling the entire stadium, large banks of seating have been erected. It’s broken only by the tunnel access points, which stand out as gaping, dark openings against the pale stone backdrop. We walk forward to step down between one of the original rows and it’s quite a span.

  ‘The four remaining arches of the fourth floor look remarkable from this angle, don’t they? Originally this would have accommodated a capacity of around thirty thousand spectators.’

  ‘Did they always fight to the death?’