The Vine
Page 17
I finally head back to my hotel to change for tonight. On the walk back, I notice people—both men and women—turning their heads to look at me, probably checking out the new hairstyle. Stefano had done an amazing job fixing my hair in just one hour… what a shame my insides couldn’t be fixed as quickly and easily.
These strangers may be staring now because on the outside I look like your average young, carefree girl wandering the beautiful streets of Verona, but they would stare with nothing but horror and disgust toward me if they knew what I had done.
Hate is a very strong word, but I hate myself for not being strong, and I despise myself for leaving my beautiful, caring man after what he had been through. I’m a coward who doesn’t deserve kindness, I think as I walk back, my head now bowed low in shame. I’ve talked myself in and out of going to this opera, but have finally decided in memory of all the loved ones I have lost, I would indeed go.
It’s a humid evening, so I decide to wear a long, strappy, pale yellow, cotton summer dress, and some diamanté flat sandals. I make an effort by applying some lip-gloss, and I grab a small bag and then head out onto the gorgeous streets of Verona.
I have looked out on to the arena for most of the day from my seat at the café in the piazza, but approaching it now, I am apprehensive; the butterflies in my stomach feel more like fighting birds and it’s making me feel nauseous. People are queuing to enter; they are all giddy with excitement. Some have picnics, and most have drinks, but for me, it’s just not that sort of visit. Even if Luke was here with me, this night of our trip was always going to be a difficult and emotional one. The opera is an emotional experience anyway; add in the sensitive aspect of my mum and I kind of think it’s going to be unbearable. Luke being here with me would have made it bearable. I know it will be nice for me to feel close to her again, but at the same time, I just wish she was here; she would have loved it so much. But here alone without Luke—this is going to be one of the toughest evenings of my life.
I am still standing outside the arena, and it’s with great trepidation I finally decide that if I am going to do this, I need to go in now or I am most definitely going to change my mind. Yes, it is going to be difficult, but it’s also very important I am here. I start to walk forward on shaky legs, mentally telling myself to put one foot in front of the other—an easy task at any other moment, but on legs of jelly, near on impossible. I hand my ticket to the attendant, who has to physically hold my hand still to take it, as they are trembling so badly. I nod my thanks to him, and continue on my path through the great stone walls.
As I enter and look around, my first thought is how truly amazing it is. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand to attention as I think of the Romans that built it and the gladiators that once fought here. A place seeped in history. There is no seating plan, just large stone step upon large stone step. Bewildered, I finally choose my seat quite high up, and I sit down in the middle of what I suppose would be a row, and there I stay and wait—a complete emotional and nervous wreck—while people pile in around me.
I’m nervous and I can’t sit still; I twiddle my fingers, I tap my feet and my shattered heart feels like it is going to beat right out of my chest. The wait is excruciating, my mind is working overtime and my breathings become erratic. I feel like I’m hyperventilating and about to have an anxiety or panic attack, and it isn’t helped by the fact that the arena is crammed full. Sitting in the middle of a row was a terrible idea; I should have sat on an end so I could get out if I needed to. I’m feeling completely claustrophobic here and my arms and legs feel like dead weights, so I couldn’t fight my way through this crowd anyway—I wouldn’t have the energy.
Suddenly, as darkness falls throughout Verona, the stage lighting in the arena is set ablaze and it looks stunning. I start to look around at this magnificent architecture in all its evening glory, and slowly, I can feel my arms and legs again, my breathing is returning to its regular rhythm and although my heart is still pounding, it’s not through fear anymore. I keep my mind occupied with all this breath-taking scenery until I see movement on the main stage, and then I sit up straight in complete awe as the music starts and La Traviata, my loving, caring, vivacious mother’s all-time favourite opera, begins. It’s hard, but I try not to think about the fact that my beautiful man should be here with me, sitting beside me, holding my hand and giving me comfort and support at this emotional time.
It wasn’t the first time over the last few days that I noticed I’m not just feeling grief for Luke—I’m also feeling anger. I’m angry at him for leaving me here in this world alone. I’m not sure what I prefer—the nothingness I feel through grief, or the fact I’d found out I’m capable of emotion, even if it’s anger, which I know will turn to guilt. Because how could I be angry at Luke? He didn’t want to leave me. It wasn’t his fault; if he’d had any control, I know he would never have let all this happen. No, the fact is, I didn’t want to be angry with Luke; I just wanted him.
The music becomes so powerful, it tears me away from my thoughts, and the next few hours are nothing short of amazing. All around me, people are openly crying; the emotion these artists put into their performance is truly incredible. I cry from start to finish; when I’m not crying over the opera, I’m sobbing at my own injustice, and for how much I have been through and what I’ve lost. It is a wonderful but truly painful experience. I can totally see why Mum fell in love with this opera and it brings her back to me for a short while.
I imagine us hugging and crying together, while Dad sits there rolling his eyes at us for being so soppy. God, I miss them so much. If they were here, they would have played an integral part in my grieving process over Luke. Mum would have been there with her words of comfort and wisdom, and Dad would have been there with his endless affection and cuddles. Now they are all tragically gone, and I just feel empty, hollow and alone.
The arena empties out, but still I sit there until there’s barely a soul left. Eventually, I stand, and I feel weak, drained and absolutely exhausted. Everything hurts—my body, my heart, my brain and even my face aches from all the crying I’ve done. I slowly make my way down the steps and out of the arena. I dejectedly tread through the throngs of people as I make my way back to my hotel. My mind is awash with thoughts of what I had just witnessed—a true love story, although shrouded in sacrifice and misunderstanding.
At last, I am at my hotel. I have no energy for a shower, so I just slip my shorts and t-shirt on, brush my teeth and climb into bed, but unlike the last few nights, it’s not mine and Luke’s tragic story that fills my head before sleep takes me, but Alfredo and Violetta’s from the opera. Their love ended before it could even get started; at least I had six gloriously happy months. It’s like the saying goes—it’s better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all, which I know in my case is true, but why does it have to hurt so much? I drift off to sleep wondering, Seriously, how much more of this excruciating pain can my heart take? And will it last forever?
Chapter Nineteen – Lizzy
Two weeks later, I wake up from yet another terrible night’s sleep, and the pain in my chest is still there—just as it always is—and my heart is as heavy as ever. I still don’t know what I’m going to do with my life; I certainly don’t have the energy to get involved in a career. I just want to have an easy, quiet life from here on, where I can plod along being invisible and ignored, which is pretty much what I’ve been doing over the last couple of weeks. As I walk through reception, I see a man in a suit. I only glimpse him from the side, and he looks familiar, but before I can think any more about him, he quickly turns away from me. I’m in Italy, I think to myself. Whom would I know here anyway?
I walk away to the quieter back streets of Verona; I only pop into the piazza now and again, preferring the quietness and anonymity of the lesser-known streets. I have also found a little café that I like to sit in, and over the last couple of weeks, I’ve gotten quite friendly with the owner, Isabella.
Financially, she doesn’t have to work, but the café is her life, and it had gotten her through the last couple of years. Isabella thinks it’s due to the routine of always having to be here, the busyness of the café and her wonderful, loyal customers, all of whom have helped her get through the toughest time of her life. Isabella tells me all about her two daughters, who she is clearly extremely proud of. Her eldest is called Sienna; she’s twenty-two and is away a lot because she is a model. Her other daughter, Nella, is nineteen, and she is at a university in London studying fashion, as she wants to be a fashion designer. Isabella explains she has lots of other family here, but nothing compares to when the girls come home when they can.
As I enter today though, poor Isabella is up to her eyeballs; the café is packed solid, and as she catches my eye, I know she’s sinking. I instantly walk over to her, asking what I can do to help. Isabella throws some instructions at me and I get to work. When the rush eventually dies down, we both flop into a chair with a coffee.
“Seems like the summer season has started early.” Isabella laughs.
“Isabella,” I cry, “if that’s what you have to put up with all summer on your own, you’ll put yourself in an early grave.”
She laughs, saying, “I have help in the summer; in fact, I better get advertising, unless…” She stops, looking at me, her eyebrows practically rising to the ceiling.
“What, you want me to work here?” I ask, amazed.
“Yes, Ella, why not?” But before I can answer Isabella continues, “You would be perfect! We get along well, and you’re always here anyway. Now, I know there’s a lot more to your story than you’re telling me—I can tell by the look that haunts your eyes—but if you’re here and staying for a bit, you may as well earn yourself some money.”
I think for a moment; I could stay for the summer, and I’d like to help Isabella out—after all, she has been so kind to me.
“Okay, I’ll do it!” I agree, smiling at her.
“Excellent,” Isabella says, clapping her hands together excitedly.
So for the next few weeks, I work at Bella’s, and it is the best thing for me I’ve found since leaving London. I still like my alone time, locked in with my thoughts, but at least it’s a healthy amount of time now, and not all day like it had been. Meeting Isabella and starting my little job at the cafè was a positive step for me. The other day I even walked over to Romeo and Juliet’s balcony, and although it made me think of Luke a lot, for once I didn’t feel sad; in fact, it made me smile. I finally realise it’s important I find happiness in mine and Luke’s love and memories, and not just sadness and tears. The love we shared is worth more than that.
I often think of Luke’s funeral, which would have been done and gone by now. I hope Jett had contacted Katy, and any arrangements that had been made would have done my beautiful man justice. I also wonder, as I get stronger, if I will ever be able to go back someday. I always dismiss the idea; I think my decision was made when I left, even though it was a decision made while I was in a desperate, grief-stricken mess. I would love to one day go and visit Luke’s grave, but Luke’s family, Katy and George would never forgive me for running away. They must really hate me. For now, I will work the summer here, as it helps me not to think about the future for a little while. All I know is whatever future I end up with, it will not be a future I ever wanted or intended to have.
After work today, I have an appointment with Stefano to have my hair cut again. I’ve realised my new shorter hairstyle needs a lot more maintenance than my longer ever did.
As I enter his hair boutique, I am again ushered through to his special room at the back. As soon as the door closes behind me, he flies out from behind his red velvet curtains and grabs me in a bear hug, and then releases me to kiss me on both cheeks. “Come on, pickle, sit down and relax,” he says. I smile then, and I mean I really smile, not plaster on a faux one as I do so often. Stefano’s cockney accent amazes me after hearing his camp, over-the-top Italian one.
After my hair has been washed, my scalp has been massaged and my locks have been cut and dried, I not only look glamorous, but Italian glamorous. For the first time in a long time, I really look at myself.
I have lost a lot of weight—weight that I couldn’t really afford to lose, but I am dumbfounded by the magic Stefano has worked on my hair again. Instead of my cheeks looking hollow, my eyes looking empty and my face looking pale and gaunt, he has, in fact, framed my cheekbones so they look high, and they also have a rosy glow to them from the heat in the boutique. As I am staring at my reflection, Stefano instructs me to put my gloss on, so I do. I pop it back into my bag, and as I look up, Stefano is staring at me.
“Girl, you look amazing! You are a stunning, fabulous specimen of a female; that’s for sure. And if I wasn’t into geezers, there would be hope for you and me.” I laugh, and as I catch my reflection in the mirror, my eyes sparkle, and for a short moment, I see the face I had before all the tragedy, sadness and heartache. I quickly look away as the guilt kicks in that I am laughing. This isn’t a life I am meant to be enjoying; I certainly don’t deserve to after what I have done.
I stand, hug Stefano and say, “It’s the miracles you create with those fingers that make me look like I should be on the cover of Vogue—nothing to do with me.”
“Unfortunately, baby girl, you’ll never know the magic and miracles that can occur with these fingers,” Stefano smirks.
I burst into a fit of laughter, squealing, “What are you like? You naughty boy”
“Hey! I know, treasure! Why don’t you come out with me tonight? We’re going to a great bar; it has delicious food, and you could certainly do with some of that,” he smiles at my fake-angry face, and then carries on, “along with great music and dancing. Come on. It’ll be fab-u-lous.”
“No, I can’t,” I say, wrinkling my nose while shaking my head.
“Why, are you busy?” he enquires.
I laugh, “No, I’m just going home, as usual.”
“No way, not looking like that you’re not. You can go home, but only to change into something sexy, and then you’re coming out with me.” Stefano’s hands are on his hips and he’s staring me down, so I take him seriously; by his demeanour, he’s just daring me to turn him down.
“Okay, okay, I give in. I’ll come out with you, but only for a couple of hours.”
“Why, does your transport turn into a pumpkin at midnight, Cinderella?” he jokes. “Oohh! You might meet Prince Charming,” Stefano continues.
I just laugh, but inside I want to cry, No! I already found my Prince Charming, but now he’s gone and there won’t be another; I don’t want another.
Stefano interrupts my thoughts. “I’ll pick you up from your hotel at 8pm.”
I nod and make my way out of the boutique, wondering what on earth I’ve just gotten myself into. I buy myself a couple new outfits on my way back. Luckily, it’s not hard in Italy, as everything is gorgeous, which is great since I’m not in the shopping and trying-on mood, but I also don’t want to wear anything I’d brought with me for evenings out. I’d meant to wear them out with Luke, so it doesn’t seem right. When I finally get back to my room, I try to relax in preparation for my night out, but I’m nervous as hell.
At seven o’clock, I have a bath; I apply a small amount of makeup, and end up choosing a black, shorts playsuit to wear with some black heels. At 7:45pm, reception calls to inform me Stefano is here and wants to come up. I smile and tell them to send him up. As I hear the knock on my door, I swiftly open it
and Stefano bounces in. I instantly smile at him, as that’s what this bubbly, adorable, gay man does to me.
“Don’t worry, treasure; I’m here and I’m armed with dry wax,” he states as he strides toward me. Stefano starts spraying, tweaking and perfecting my hair. Eventually, he stands back to admire his work, and then his eyes travel down, taking in my overall look. I look at him nervously, awaiting his approval. “Ella, sweetie, you look absolutely fabulous, darling,” he enthuses.
“Thanks,” I reply, not believing a word of it. I grab my clutch, link my arm through Stefano’s and we leave. Outwardly, as Ella, I look confident; inwardly, as Lizzy, I am nervous, freaking out and feeling terribly guilty for even smiling, let alone for going out.
Stefano looks at me. “Come on, Ella, I don’t know what shit you’ve been through, but what I do know is there’s a lot more to you than you’re letting on, and I can see sadness in your eyes. But for one night, no matter how hard it is, I want you to try and put it to the back of your mind and attempt to enjoy yourself.”
I nod and Stefano smirks and saying, “I was going to tell you to let your hair down.” We both look at each other and crack up, and once again, this amazing bundle of fun and joy, all wrapped up in a good-hearted, flamboyant man puts me at ease.
We arrive at our destination—a very posh looking bar called “The Pink Lounge”. The bar is as amazing as Stefano promised me it would be, and as one would expect, it is very pink. The waiters and waitresses are all young and absolutely gorgeous, with the most impeccable manners. Stefano seems to know everyone, and as I watch him schmoozing, I know if he has his way, he’ll make sure I have the most wonderful evening…that way I’ll never turn him down for a night out.
I wake up the next morning with a headache from hell. I think back to the evening before—I ate the most amazing food, drank gorgeous cocktails, knocked back shots and danced like I had never danced before. I was on the table at one point, dancing with one of Stefano’s transsexual friends, who had the most amazing legs and ten times more makeup on than me.