As she fumbles for her phone, I am drawn to a large tray of sparkles – beside the range of individual gems lies what would happily double for an Oscar-night necklace. I reach out and touch the rich blue-tinted crystals.
‘Capri Blue,’ the shoe-maker points to his chart of colours.
I smile. It really has that name. ‘How much?’
‘The basic shoes start at seventy euros, with this added, around two hundred and thirty.’
‘Oh,’ I retract my hand. I’ve already maxed my card on this trip, I really mustn’t be tempted.
‘Are you going to get them?’ Adele asks as she rejoins me. ‘It just takes 15 minutes – you could wear them up the mountain!’
‘Maybe when we come back down,’ I give a blasé shrug.
Besides. It is actually recommended that you remove any dangling footwear when you take the chairlift. As you jigger along it would be easy for them to slip off your free-swaying feet and fall into the wild undergrowth, or clip one of the garden gnomes I am now looking down on.
‘Do you see this enchanted garden?’ Adele calls to me from the seat ahead. ‘It must be so odd tending to your plants with people flying over your head all day long!’
I nod but can’t quite speak. The chairlift experience is actually scarier than I anticipated. The metal bar closed over my lap has no latch, the iron cogs look ancient and the whole thing feels utterly precarious. Thirteen minutes, that’s how long I have to hold it together for. As I look down at the rocks and the tumble of houses and the ever-expanding sea I’m not sure I can make it. And yet. I’m also feeling a barely recognizable sense of peace. Other than the odd comment from Adele, it’s so quiet up here and intermittently I forget my nerves and give in to the sensation that I’m floating. Up, up and away… So high my earthbound problems lose their grip.
‘Here we are!’ Adele cheers as our feet meet the stone slabs at the top.
We scurry out of the way of the rotating chairs, up a mossy path and then, oh – the majesty of the view!
The foliage that surrounds us is such a lush green, the flowers spilling over the terracotta pots a startling pink, the sky a sheer powder blue, the sea a rich azure streaked with white from sleek yachts zipping around the dramatically raggedy coastline. And there below us, settling into the dip at the centre of the island, lies Capri town. A smattering of white sugar cubes radiating dolce vita flair, even from this great distance. I might be a gawping tourist yet still I feel like I’m in a scene from a 1950s movie. The hotel I was staying in last night had curtain tie-backs made from silk Pucci scarves - I wish I’d swiped one and could be sporting it now, in pink with outsize glasses and, of course, Capri pants.
‘This is heaven!’ Adele coos.
‘Paradiso!’ I concur.
I inhale deeply and it feels like a breath of life directly to my heart.
‘Now he’s hot!’
I turn expecting to see a jet-haired Italian with sultry eyes but instead discover a mottled Roman statue of a bare-chested man sporting a sarong-style toga.
‘Look - he’s missing his left hand,’ Adele notes.
‘Well, that’s one way to get rid of all traces of your wedding ring!’ I giggle.
Adele is laughing too as we do a series of selfies, trying to position him just so behind us.
‘That’s awesome,’ she cheers as we get it just right. ‘We even got the Faraglioni in!’
When Adele gets summoned to take a snap of a family I find myself gazing back out to sea – miles and miles of shimmering blue fading into infinity. I wonder why the unknown is always so scary? I’ve had plenty of lovely surprises in my life, why would I expect everything to take a horrible downturn from this point on? Surely there’s a fifty per cent chance things could improve? I mean, imagine being lost out there at sea and then stumbling on Capri! The same thing could happen to us, metaphorically, right?
‘You know one great trick my friend Amy taught me?’ Adele appears by my side. ‘When you’re feeling overwhelmed about the future you just ask yourself, “Do I have everything I need right now?” You don’t worry about tomorrow or the next day, just right now.’
‘The one foot in front of the other approach.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Of course there is one major thing missing right now…’
I frown back at her.
‘We need a cocktail.’
Over limoncello lightly fizzed with prosecco we chat, quite cheerfully, about the sheer exhaustion involved in disassembling a marriage, and the inevitable feelings of failure. ‘Even though I never once thought of anyone else that way.’
‘I know! Me either!’ I tut. ‘I’m just amazed at how deep the disappointment goes – in yourself as much as anything.’
We don’t talk about what led to our respective finales – Adele says that’s what the term ‘Irreconcilable Differences’ was invented for. She believes it’s more important to focus on accepting things as they are and trying to move forward.
‘You know what has helped me the most?’ She sets down her glass. ‘This article my sister sent me called 7 Things You Need To Hear When You’re Getting Divorced. And it wasn’t even the seven things as much as the quotes they ran at the end. Look, I had my assistant make them up into little flash cards for me.’
She reaches into her bag and lays them out one by one like she’s reading my tarot.
‘Life becomes easier when you learn to accept the apology you never got.’ Robert Brault.
Oh that’s good.
‘If you’re going through hell, keep going.’ Winston Churchill.
‘I like this one!’ I pick up the blue card. ‘Better to have loved and lost than live with a crazy person the rest of your life.’
We chuckle and chink to that.
And then Adele looks sad. ‘Only I don’t like living alone. I’m so much better as a pair.’
I find myself shaking my head. ‘I don’t know if that’s true for me. I seem to be a huge source of annoyance on a day to day basis.’
‘Oh don’t say that!’
‘Well, not everyone is meant to co-habit. It is an awful lot of time to spend with the one person.’ I sigh. ‘But I certainly do miss that feeling of belonging to someone.’ I look back at my blank hand. ‘That’s what those sparkles said to me – you’re not alone.’
Adele holds my gaze for a second and then excuses herself, ‘I’m just going to find the Ladies room.’
As she heads off I close my eyes, let the sun seep into my skin and settle deeper into the deckchair. I wonder if I might get one at home. Not that I have a home at the moment, let alone a garden. But I might get one any way. I could sit in it to watch the TV.
Drifting in and out of the conversations around me I find myself glad to have someone to chat to this afternoon. Seated solo at breakfast I was twice offered a newspaper, as if my own company would be utterly unbearable when really all I wanted to do was lose myself to the scent of the jasmine and the pleasure of drinking Italian coffee in its country of origin. Of course that was several hours ago and I’m getting a little peckish now. Adele did mention going to Il Riccio, the hotel’s seafood restaurant. I’m not typically up for tentacles but apparently they have an entire room of desserts known as The Temptation Room…
As my stomach growls a rather aggressive ‘take me there!” I look at my watch. She’s been gone a while. There are some pretty treacherous paving slabs up here, I wonder if I should check on her? No sooner do I get to my feet than I spy her chatting to the barman. She waves at me. I’m not sure if she’s beckoning or just acknowledging but the temperature has just dropped quite markedly so I decide to pop over and see if she’s ready to head on back.
‘This is Luigi,’ she announces somewhat proprietorially and with a noticeable degree of lust.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I shake his hand. ‘It’s getting a bit nippy now, isn’t it?’
‘The weather is going to turn,’ he nods. ‘Is better to either leave now or prepare to
enjoy many drinks.’
It’s clear Adele is here for the duration. And I don’t want to cramp her style so I say I’m going to tootle back. She gives me an appreciative hug, asks for my room number and says she’ll give me a call later about meeting for dinner.
‘Or breakfast,’ I tease as I wave goodbye.
Well, that’s one of us sorted, I think as I head for the chairlift, rummaging in my bag for my cardi. Even though it has now completely clouded over I feel a little reluctant to go back down to earth - as if all the sad feelings I had shrugged off might be waiting to claim me again, now that I am alone again.
But for thirteen minutes, they can’t have me. I can think and feel exactly what I please. And right now I feel grateful.
It’s been so cathartic chatting to Adele and though it would have been fun to carry on I do have a luxury cream-on-cream hotel room to go back to and I could do worse than to make the most of it by snugging up for a little siesta. I give a little shiver - I’d certainly welcome a layer of duvet right now, the temperature has dropped further, I hope it’s not going to-
Before I can finish the thought the heavens open. And this is no light spritz that you can brush away or shake off, we’re talking a big wet dollopy deluge. I gasp in disbelief – there is no shelter to be had, no protection, nothing to stop the rain penetrating my clothes, coating my skin, drenching my hair. I scrunch my eyes, barely able to see out - it’s coming at me from every angle. The metal bar feels slippery beneath my hands. I daren’t move an inch for fear of sliding clean out of my seat. My heart starts to pound. This is seriously perilous and I’ve got at least ten minutes to go. Ten minutes of being pelted by rain while dangling half-way up a mountain. I sense a rising panic, a need to collapse into tears and rally at the sky, ‘Haven’t I suffered enough?’ but then I hear the shouts from the other chairs, some people are cursing, some hooting others laughing and I have a different thought – this isn’t just happening to me, we’re all in this together - chugging along in the world’s biggest human carwash. Suddenly the entire thing seems comical. There is absolutely nothing I can do but let the rains fall. Perhaps this is my turning point? After all, it can’t get any worse than this!
That’s when the white mists swirl in.
Now I can’t see the person in front or behind me – I might as well be suspended in a cloud. It feels utterly surreal – just me and a muffle of white blankness. The whole world has vamoosed but still the chairlift chugs on. As it does so a thought wends into my mind: I’ve been telling myself I lost everything in the divorce – my home, my husband, even the cat - and yet I’m still here. Even when everything else disappears I still have me.
‘Attenzione!’
Voices are calling to me in Italian – I must be nearing the disembarkation point. I brace myself then the bar is lifted, I am released and bundled to the side, out of the way of the next chair.
Even though I can’t get any wetter I start running towards the hotel, thanking my lucky stars I’m not one of the day-trippers over from Sorrento or Naples. I’m just passing the little trattoria I went to last night when my waiter reaches out and grabs me, pulling me under the shelter.
‘Here!’ He says throwing a spare tablecloth around me.
‘Oh I’m fine!’ I protest, ‘I don’t have far to go!’
‘You are so wet, you can’t go on!’
For a second I let him try to dab me dry, squeezing the water from my hair with a series of napkins. This could be the closest I get to a spa treatment, perhaps I should just enjoy it? But then he takes a fresh tablecloth, wraps me in it and pulls me into his arms, attempting to convey warmth. And succeeding.
For a second I let myself lean into him. I can smell the citrus spice on his neck, feel the tickle of his hair on the side of my face. Slowly I surrender to the comfort of the human connection, the first stirrings of attraction, the possibility of a kiss… But then I flashback to my husband’s arms, how I would feel when he pulled me close at night, locking himself around me, kissing the back of my neck, telling me he loved me and to have sweet dreams. The feeling was so sublime, I would always mutter, ‘This is the best feeling in the world,’ as I fell to sleep.
My heart crumples in remembrance. Suddenly it’s too much.
‘I have to go!’ I squirm away.
‘But it’s still raining!’ He protests, reaching for my hands. ‘Wait here, it will pass. Eat something. Drink something. Feel better.’
‘I can’t feel better!’
It might work for Adele but it’s too soon for me.
‘I’m sorry, I have to go!’
I am obliged to stop running when I reach the marble-floored lobby for fear of skidding and cracking my skull but I speed up again when the soles of my feet meet the carpet of the corridor.
Once inside my room I head straight for the shower and stand there for an age letting the warm water gush over me. Now I let it all out. Great chugging, sobbing tears.
Wash it from me, let it all go. Please. Let all the bundled hurt wash away.
When I finally step back into the room it is flooded with sunshine. The clouds are gone. The sky is entirely blue.
And that’s when it hits me - this is what it is like when you’re trying to get over someone – it’s not just good days and bad days, it’s good moments and bad moments, flick-flacking throughout the day. One minute you think you’re cured and the next you get the rug pulled from under you again.
Then little by little the hopeful feelings last longer and the despair starts to lose its vice-like grip. But every step of the way you have a choice over which you give the most credence to. Like now, my more dominant urge is to close the curtains and climb into bed, pull the pillow into my chest and disappear in to the pain. Or. Or I could-
Rat-a-tat!
There’s a knock at the door.
At first I think it’s the waiter and I actually experience a thrill. But then I realize that of course it will be Adele.
‘Oh!’ I startle as I open it to find a bellboy stood before me.
‘For you,’ he says, presenting me with a be-ribboned box.
‘For me?’ I query. ‘From who?’
‘There is a note…’
‘Oh, okay, thank you!’ I close the door, run to the bed and slide open the petite envelope.
‘Remember – just keep putting one foot in front of the other!’
I tear open the box. My Capri Blue sandals!
Beneath them is a second note:
‘There’s more than one way to add sparkle your life!’
My face breaks into a beam – Adele!
Contentedly I flump back onto the very pillow I was about to burrow into and my gaze returns to the window - pure radiant sunshine. I look back at my crystals. I know they would gleam so much brighter in the light. As would I. I take a steadying breath as I slide them on. Just beautiful! I may not be ready for an Italian affair but a small plate of spaghetti wouldn’t hurt…
And so I head back out.
One step at a time. One foot in front of the other. Into the blue…
About the Author
Belinda Jones is the author of 11 vacation-for-the-price-of-a-paperback chick lit novels, one travel memoir ON THE ROAD TO MR RIGHT (which made the Sunday Times Top 10 chart alongside her hero Bill Bryson) and a Peter Andre Annual. Though not remotely summery, her Quebec-set novel WINTER WONDERLAND was short-listed as Best Romantic Comedy by the Romantic Novelists' Association. Prior to writing books, Belinda spent 10 years writing for magazines including New Woman, more! and Empire.
She currently lives halfway up a mountain in San Diego, California with her American dog Bodie and US Navy husband Jonathan.
Belinda's latest book is THE TRAVELLING TEA SHOP, a yummy tale of love and cake - out now!
Website: www.sunloungerstories.com
Twitter: @belindatravels
Facebook: Belinda Jones Travel Club
Visit www.sunloungerstories.com to discover more about the autho
rs and their story destinations.
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Trading Up In Tuscany
***
Lucy Lord
DESTINATION: Tuscany
‘Come on Georgie, this is fun!’
My disgustingly fit boyfriend smiles his irritatingly handsome smile. I want to punch him.
‘No it’s bloody not. Reading in a hammock with a cocktail is fun, swimming in the sea is fun. This. Is. Hell.’
Sweat is pouring off me as I push my hired bike up and around yet another steep hill. It’s July, the blue sky is cloudless and the landscape beautiful beyond belief.
When I agreed to cycling in Tuscany I thought it sounded romantic, and was surprised that Christian had suggested it. My mind had been on vineyards, Renaissance art, and long lazy lunches – with the odd bike ride on the side.
More fool me. We’ve been cycling from Florence halfway to Siena, the traffic is terrifying and every muscle in my body hurts. I knew that Tuscany was hilly but unless you’re trying to push your bike, with all of your luggage hanging from it in panniers, you don’t realize quite how steep those hills are.
‘Don’t be a moaning Minnie.’ Christian mounts his bike again, moving effortlessly up the acute slope. ‘Come on, slowcoach!’ I try to follow him but my legs aren’t nearly as strong as his and the bike starts sliding backwards.
‘Bugger you,’ I say, falling into an elegant roadside cypress as another car screeches around the corner.
*
When Christian first approached me after a gig in an East London pub, I couldn’t believe such a fit specimen of manhood was interested in me. He was nothing like the skinny, grungy hipster guys who tended to hang out with me and my fellow rock/bluesy band-mates – Katrina, guitar, and Zoe, drums. I play piano and sing. We share a flat in Dalston and supplement our music money with part-time jobs.
SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories) Page 38