The Boardwalk by the Sea

by Georgina Troy

  “Where in England do you live?” Alessandro asked, relaxing once more.

  “On the island of Jersey,” Sacha said, taking a breath to explain exactly where the island she’d spent most of her life could be found, but he smiled knowingly. “You know it?” she asked, curious if maybe that’s where she might have seen him before.

  “No,” he said, his voice quiet as he peered out of the door. “I’ve never visited, but my father worked there in the sixties and I will be visiting for a couple of months this summer. Next month in fact.”

  Sacha couldn’t believe it. “Seriously? You’ve booked to go there?”

  Their coffees were delivered and he thanked the waitress, who, Sacha noticed, reddened when Alessandro spoke to her.

  “Yes, the third week in July. My father still has friends there. He arranged for me to spend time there.”

  She was intrigued. “Why Jersey?”

  He laughed. “You have your famous Jersey milk, no?”

  She wasn’t sure what that could have to do with his visit, but assumed he must be staying with one of the farming families on the island. “We do, and Jersey Royal new potatoes. They’re creamy and taste like they have butter on them, but without butter being added, if you see what I mean?”

  “I will have to sample those,” he said, widening his eyes.

  Sacha giggled. “They’re delicious and so is the milk. If you haven’t tasted it already then you’re in for a treat.”

  They fell silent and stared at each other for a few seconds before Sacha focused her attention on her coffee. She wasn’t sure if she should offer to meet up with him and show him around when he got to the island. After all, the poor guy had been forced into showing her around Rome. It wasn’t as if they were friends though, or if he’d even been the one to instigate their afternoon together. She didn’t want him to feel obliged to spend time with her back home as well as here, so kept her thoughts to herself.

  Both drank their coffees and Sacha checked the photos on her phone for something to do. “These are great, thanks,” she said, relieved to be able to fill the awkward silence between them. “I hate having my photo taken, so it’s not often that I have pictures of myself and when I do, I usually don’t like them.”

  He leant over and looked at the screen on her phone as she scrolled through several images. “You look very pretty. Bellisima. Very natural, it is good.”

  “Thank you,” she said, feeling a little awkward under his scrutiny. She hoped she wasn’t blushing, but suspected he could probably tell her reddening cheeks were down to embarrassment rather than the heat. “My friend Bella is very clever with adding filters and things to her photos, but I can’t be bothered. To be honest, it’s not often I take photos of myself, I’d rather take them of my surroundings.”

  “Surroundings?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Like the little beach that my flat overlooks. Essentially the view is the same; sand, sea and rocks on each side. But the sky changes colour depending on the weather and the tide comes almost up to the sea wall twice every twenty-four hours. Even the plants growing on the cliff top and headland change all the time, sometimes they’re pink with the heather, at other times white with clusters of daisies, or yellow when the daffodils are in bloom. There are never two days when the view is truly the same.”

  “I like that idea. My, er,” he hesitated, “friend, she is always taking pictures of herself. Selfies.” He glanced outside at a group of tourists smiling up at their mobiles as they held up selfie sticks.

  Sacha laughed. “Yes, some people like to take them,” she said. “Though it isn’t my idea of fun. I rarely remember to look at photos once I’ve taken them, how about you?”

  Without answering, he stood up and so Sacha did the same. She was a little taken aback when he went to the counter and, producing a few Euro notes, paid for their coffees. She went to join him.

  “No, please. I should be getting these,” she insisted. “After all, you’re here to show me around the city, not pay for things.”

  “I am happy to buy you a coffee,” he said, his shoulders less hunched than when they’d arrived at the café.

  Sacha frowned. “I’ll pay for the next drinks then,” she said, immediately wondering whether that sounded like an invitation.

  “Now, to the Scalina Spagna.”

  Sacha didn’t like to disagree, but was desperately hoping to visit the Spanish Steps before heading back to check up on Aunt Rosie. “Um, I was rather hoping to see the Spanish Steps next.”

  “Si,” he nodded, amused. “La Scalina Spagna, the Spanish Steps.”

  Sacha followed him out of the door. She couldn’t help being amused, despite feeling a little foolish, having used the English version of the Italian landmark. She followed him down a passageway and after about ten minutes they arrived at the wide steps, again with many tourists milling about taking photos, or sitting on the steps, staring at the view of the skyline below.

  “Wow,” she murmured. “This is stunning.”

  “There are one hundred and thirty-eight steps connecting the lower Piazza di Spagna with the upper piazza, Trinita dei Monti.”

  “And when were they built?” she asked, unable to help teasing him.

  He laughed. “Ah, I know this also, I have looked it up on the way here. They were built in 1723 to 1725 to link the Trinità dei Monti with the Spanish square below.” He held his hands up and bowed his head.

  Sacha clapped. “Very clever,” she said.

  She tried to memorise everything he was saying then, spotting him checking his mobile discreetly, realised she could simply look it all up later, like he was doing, when she was back at the hotel.

  “That is the Fontana della Barcaccia,” he said, indicating a stone fountain surrounded by a circular pond. “And there, where you begin climbing the steps, is where your English poet John Keats lived and died in 1821.”

  “That house?” she asked, excited at the unexpected discovery.

  “Yes. It is a museum and filled with, um, mementos.”

  “I’d love to go and see it, if you think we have time?”

  “We can make the time,” he said.

  Delighted for the opportunity to investigate such an exciting place, Sacha ran over, stopping to gaze up at the marble sign above the door. “Keats Shelley Memorial House,” she said, in awe. “How didn’t I know this was here?” Sacha couldn’t believe she’d travelled to Rome and stumbled upon this museum honouring the Romantic poets. She pictured Keats, seeing this house for the first time when he came to stay, ill with Tuberculosis.

  She walked through the rooms, relishing the scent of old books neatly displayed in the library, gazing at the flower motifs on the high ceiling, and marvelled that she was in the same building where Keats had once lived.

  She’d forgotten about Alessandro waiting for her outside. Hurrying out, she spotted him sitting on one of the steps. He was leaning back, his elbows resting on a higher step, his long legs stretching out in front of him. His face was tilted up to the sun, his eyes closed and his long black lashes rested on his tanned cheeks. She watched him for a moment, studying his roman nose and perfectly shaped mouth, enjoying the chance to study his beautiful features. She wondered what he would be doing if he hadn’t been persuaded to traipse around with her this afternoon. Poor man, he was being very decent about having his time highjacked. She realised he’d opened his eyes and quickly looked away.

  Sacha suspected he’d spotted her staring at him. Mortified, she went to join him further up the steps, tripping on one of the edges, only just managing to right herself before landing on him. She could see him struggling not to smile.

  “You enjoyed the museum?” he asked, kindly changing the subject. “I have seen it many times, but it is a place I like to visit.” They began walking. “You like poetry?”

  Recovering from her humiliation, she thought she’d better be polite and answer his question. “I love the English Romantics, which is why I was so excited to go i
nside. I don’t write poetry though, I’ve tried to and I’m dreadful at it.”

  “You might not be as bad as you think,” he said, stepping aside to let her walk between two groups of people.

  Her steps faltered. “You write poetry?”

  His face reddened slightly under the tan. “A little.”

  She didn’t want to embarrass him further, so didn’t ask him to quote some for her. It dawned on her that her feet were getting sore in the heat.

  “I should have worn more sensible sandals,” she said stopping to take one foot out of her espadrilles and wriggling her toes to get some feeling back into them. “Or worn these in before coming away.”

  He looked baffled. She wondered if it was because of the language barrier, or whether he just didn’t realise how women sometimes wore shoes because they looked nice rather than for comfort.

  Sacha smiled. “I’m a bit parched. Shall we get an ice cream? This time, I’ll pay.”

  He considered her suggestion and nodded. “I will take you to the best gelateria in Rome.”

  “I’d like that,” she said, happy to be able to tick off another item in her ‘Rome: To Do List’.

  “We have to walk for a few minutes. You don’t mind?” He narrowed his eyes and glanced down at her feet.

  She didn’t want to be a bore so agreed, instantly regretting it after only a few steps. This had better be worth it, she mused, not wishing to make a fuss. He led her down various roads and passageways, and she was beginning to lose her determination not to give up when he stopped in front of a marble fronted building. It didn’t look like any gelateria she’d seen so far.

  She peered inside when he waited for her to pass him. “Where are the glass fronted freezers displaying the flavours?”

  He gave her a knowing smile. “There are none. The gelato is in there.” He pointed.

  Sacha could only see about ten metal bins. “There isn’t much choice, is there?” she asked, hoping that there was indeed some choice. From where they stood it was hard to tell.

  “There are the flavours everyone likes, chocolate, vanilla, mint, but also those of the fruits that are in, um, season? Maybe now would be peach.”

  She thought about it and decided she liked the idea of natural fruits being used in the ice creams. “I think I’ll try a peach one, then. You?”

  He put his index finger up to his chin and gazed heavenward, considering his choices. “I will choose the peach also.”

  “I don’t see how this works, if they’re not displaying the stock to the passers-by.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “This gelateria is known for its excellence and so visitors don’t need to see the product first.” He placed their order and continued. “It is a different way to sell the gelato, but it is working well and people seem to feel like they’re buying into a secret.”

  Sacha mulled over his words, and decided there might be something in them.

  She watched as the assistant took one of the crunchy cones in a napkin, and with the other hand lifted the lid from one of the metal bins and scooped out two large dollops of the pale pinkish ice cream, pushing each one down into the cone. Her mouth watered at the light, fruity scent as the assistant handed her cone over.

  Barely able to resist, Sacha breathed in the delicious aroma as Alessandro patiently waited for his to be prepared. Once he’d been handed his cone, she gave the assistant several euros and they sat down in silence at one of three, small metal tables in the tiny parlour.

  Sacha took a lick, closing her eyes in bliss as the enchanting flavour hit her taste buds, cooling her throat. “Heaven,” she murmured, taking another mouthful. Neither of them spoke as they devoured their gelatos. The sheer pleasure was worth every second it had taken to get there on sore feet.

  “I would walk miles to have this again,” she said, before going back for more.

  “Si, and me,” Alessandro said, smiling at her. “Is very good, no?”

  “Oh, yes. Its texture is a little different to the ice creams at home,” she said thoughtfully. “I wonder why that is?”

  He smiled. “It is because they are made in a slightly different way.”

  Fascinated, she asked. “How though?”

  “The gelato is um, churned at a much slower rate. This way less air is brought into it and leaves the gelato denser than your ice cream would be.”

  “I didn’t know that.” She thought back to the taste and how the gelato had felt in her mouth. “It was silkier and softer, somehow.”

  “It is because gelato is served at a slightly warmer temperature than ice cream. It softens the texture. There is also a lower um, percentage of fat than in ice cream, so that the main flavour that’s added to the mixture, like maybe strawberries, comes across slightly stronger.”

  “Wow, I never knew that.” She’d learnt so much about ice cream since taking over her father’s café, especially the sundaes that she specialised in, but hadn’t realised there were different ways to make it. “I simply thought that gelato was the Italian word for ice cream,” she said, aware she probably sounded rather silly. Giles had never resisted an opportunity to mock her when she got something wrong. She knew he was in the past and that her confidence was slowly building again, but sometimes found it difficult not to question herself.

  “I don’t think many people are aware of the difference.”

  She laughed. “You do, though.”

  He winked at her. “Maybe it is because I eat gelato most days.”

  Her stomach did a little flip. There was something intriguing about him and it wasn’t only his gorgeous looks. Maybe Aunt Rosie had done her a favour, after all. She glanced at him from under her eyelashes. He was still lost in his own world of bliss as he continued eating his gelato. He’d been funny and kind, despite having to bring her here, and to the other places she had wanted to see under duress. She decided to be as generous to him when he visited the Channel Islands. It was the very least she could do.

  They finished and wiped their hands, then strolled back towards the hotel. Their slow pace gave her feet a chance to cope with the heat.

  Sacha had to concentrate on navigating the cobbles while taking in the splendour of the buildings and trattorias as they walked. She pointed up at an abundant display of flowers on a stone balcony just as her foot slipped on one of the cobbles. Alessandro grabbed her left arm a split second later, stopping her from falling over, and then bent to retrieve her hat from the ground.

  “That was close,” she said, smiling at him and taking her hat. “It’s difficult to focus on where you’re walking when there are so many intriguing sights to enjoy.” She placed her hat on her head and they began walking again.

  “The cobbles are not easy for women wearing their heeled shoes.”

  “I’m wearing flats, so don’t really have an excuse for my clumsiness,” she said, giggling as she pictured how silly she must have looked when she stumbled. “There’s so much to take in,” she added. “I don’t want to miss anything.” She watched an elderly couple cross the road holding hands as the man whispered something to his partner, making her laugh.

  “They remind me of my grandparents,” Alessandro said quietly.

  “Me, too,” Sacha said sadly. “I lost both my grandmothers in the past three years and I miss them dreadfully.”

  “Mine also are now dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. Sacha barely remembered her grandfathers because they had died when she was a toddler, but her grandmothers had been strong women and both had made a valuable impact on her life.

  “Si, it is sad. My parents they work hard when I was a small boy and my grandparents looked after me many times.”

  Sacha noticed his broad shoulders slump slightly. “Do you get forced to show many tourists like me around the city?” Sacha asked, determined to change the subject away from anything upsetting.

  To her relief, he laughed. “No. Am I a good guide, do you think?” he asked, smiling at her, his blue-grey eyes twinkli
ng in a rather flirtatious way.

  She couldn’t help being amused by him. “You are.”

  He shrugged. “You are the only person I have agreed to show around. Because your aunt is unwell and my aunt and uncle, they own the hotel where you stay and asked me to help you enjoy your first time visiting Rome.”

  “Well, it’s very kind of you.”

  “No.” He pushed his hands deep into his chino pockets. “I do not mind. I have enjoyed this afternoon very much.”

  She was glad to hear it, a little more than she expected. “Thank you, so have I.”

  They reached the entrance to the hotel and Alessandro stopped. “If your aunt is no better tonight, will you come with me for dinner? I can take you to a small restaurant with views I think you’ll appreciate.”

  She didn’t have to think for more than a second before replying. “I’d like that very much. How will I let you know?” she asked, delving into her bag for her room key card.

  “Er, I can wait for you outside the hotel, here at half past seven? If you do not come I will know that you are with your aunt.

  “Okay, thank you,” she said, excited to have plans instead of spending the evening alone in her room. If she was travelling alone she’d think nothing of setting off to see everything by herself, but she knew how Aunt Rosie fretted about her and didn’t want to give her any cause to do so while she was suffering so badly. “I’ll probably see you later, then.”

  She gave him a wave and stepped into the hotel lobby, instantly surrounded by cold air, and hurried over to the elevator. As she waited, she slipped first one espadrille off her right foot, resting the sole of her foot on the cold floor tile. It was utter bliss. Forgetting others could possibly see her, she stepped out of the other shoe and stood, eyes closed, unaware that the lift had reached her floor.

  “Ahem.”

  She opened her eyes, horrified to see another guest glaring at her with distain. She quickly pushed her feet back into her shoes, wincing as the pain in her toes jolted through her, just as the lift doors drew back, and stepped inside. “Sorry. Hot feet.”