Hollywood Heartbreak

by C. J. Duggan

  ‘Stupid piece of—’

  ‘Here you go!’

  A stapler punching paper drew my attention back to Jan, who, with much care, folded the stapled sheets and slid them into a complimentary faux leather binder embossed with the company’s motto.

  No regrets.

  ‘You’re all set!’ Jan beamed, handing over the blue pouch with a silent fist pump for her commission earned.

  I stared at her outreached hand for a long time, blinking as if I was having an out-of-body experience. I took it from her gingerly, barely believing what I had done. In an attempt to escape another one of my mother’s lectures about what I was doing with my life, accompanied by the drone of the vacuum cleaner as she sucked up wayward chip crumbs from under my feet, I had gone out for some much-needed fresh air and sunshine. Now it seemed I would be basking in Italian sunshine, thanks to the budget ‘Bellissimo’ tour that I had just booked.

  Like, seriously, I had only been making an enquiry, right? Walking past the travel agency, I entered on a whim, thinking only to ask a couple of quick questions, and maybe grab a brochure to take away. But as I opened up the travel pouch as if I was standing on a grand stage readying myself to announce ‘and the winner is’, there it was in bold print:

  Shorten/Samantha Miss

  Economy

  Boarding Pass

  Melbourne–Rome

  Oh, God.

  I felt all the blood drain from my face, the horror registering as I mentally began to calculate how many days I had until I would actually be scanning this very ticket.

  What have I done?

  Jan leant on her elbows and looked at me across her desk. ‘Sammi, you are going to have the best time.’

  I blinked, double-checking the date on the ticket against the calendar on Jan’s desk, then looked up to her kohl-rimmed sparkling blue eyes.

  ‘Remember,’ she said, reaching out and tapping one long fingernail on the binder. ‘No regrets.’ Tap-tap.

  Then why did I want to vomit into her wastepaper basket?

  ‘Rome?!’ My mother’s predictable tirade echoed in the kitchen. ‘That money was meant to be for a car, or a deposit on a house! Bill, talk some sense into her.’

  Dad sighed, rubbing his hand over his beard, weary from the conversation already. ‘Give her a break, love. You told her you wanted her to go out, so she went out.’

  ‘I didn’t expect her to book a ticket on some binge-drinking, orgy party-bus to Rome.’

  ‘That’s not what the brochure says, is it?’ I quickly flicked through the booklet. ‘Oh, yes, that’s right, binge drinking day one. But to be fair, according to the itinerary, the orgy doesn’t commence until day three.’

  I slid the booklet over to Dad, who played along, nodding his head with interest. ‘Well, you have to get settled in first,’ he added.

  Mum snatched the brochure away from us. ‘I am so glad you two think this is funny. Have you given any thought to how you’re going to prepare for this? Monday, Sammi. You fly out next Monday. You have no Euros, no travel adapters; what season is it over there? Are there travel bans in place? I bet you know nothing of all of this.’

  Truth be known, I hadn’t given a single thought to any of those things—I was busy trying not to freak out about what I had just done. But as I watched Mum look over the travel documents in horror, it occurred to me that this was as much about proving to my family that I could indeed make adult decisions as it was an attractive escape route. It all seemed so impossibly grown up, to book a trip away on the other side of the world. I didn’t do these kinds of things; I was the baby, the homebody, strictly anti-change. Unlike my sister, Claire, the globe-trotter, I was happy staying at home. I sat on the stool next to Dad at the kitchen island, my attention drifting between my parents. Was it really such a shock that I could do something like this? That I, Sammi Shorten, could be so spontaneous and whimsical as to book a European adventure? They clearly didn’t think I’d go through with it; I could see it in their eyes.

  Mum squinted at the documents at arm’s length, struggling to see without her reading glasses. ‘You must be able to get your money back somehow … surely there’s something in the fine print.’

  Something inside me shifted, a feeling that drew my weight down onto my elbows as I leant on the kitchen countertop. ‘Mum.’

  ‘There must be some kind of cooling-off period …’

  I sighed. ‘Mum.’

  ‘Surely a special circumstance where they can refund your money or …’

  ‘MUM!’

  Mum snapped up from the documents, blinking, then looked at me closely as if seeing me for the very first time. ‘What?’

  I smiled, small and sad, seeing everything that lay behind her eyes. In her gaze I saw her pleading for me to stay; that I could binge-watch all the TV I wanted, eat out of the fridge, make a mess, leave the hall lights on all night if I wanted—just please don’t go.

  I slid off my stool, rounded the kitchen counter and wrapped my arms around my mum; she seemed so small and fragile against my towering frame. I wasn’t sure where my height came from, but it certainly wasn’t from Mum.

  I kissed the top of her head as she slowly, and somewhat reluctantly, put her arms around me; in ‘Mum-logic’, hugging me back meant admitting defeat.

  ‘I won’t even be gone that long—it’ll be a whirlwind trip. I’ll be home and leaving crumbs on the carpet before you know it.’

  Mum pulled away. ‘Yes, well, that’s what your sister said.’

  My smile dimmed, thinking of Claire, who had ended up in Paris, madly in love and shacked up with a gorgeous Frenchman.

  I laughed. ‘Ah, I don’t think you have to worry about me following in her footsteps.’

  ‘Really?’ Mum looked dubious.

  I grabbed my mother’s shoulders and looked her square in the eyes. ‘I may not know anything about anything, but the one thing I do know is that I will not be falling for some gorgeous Italian man on my trip.’

  Dad folded his arms across his chest, looking ever so stern.

  ‘Seriously, this trip is about me, not about finding love.’

  Mum looked at Dad, defeated but still resolute in her worry as she mumbled, ‘Famous last words.’

  Chapter Two

  Jan had failed to point out in her sales pitch that my trip of a lifetime would begin with me standing in the sweltering reception of a flea-bitten hotel, sweaty and jet-lagged, waiting for the tour guide for a meet-and-greet. My parents needn’t have worried; there was no chance of me finding love in a place like this.

  At first I thought that there had been some mistake. I had stared at the catalogue long enough to memorise the glossy snapshots of smiling, tanned, carefree twenty-somethings with sunglasses and perfect white teeth having the time of their lives. Alongside these images was a picture of a quaint cobblestone street nestled in the heart of the city, indicating where our accommodation was: it said nothing about it being a hole in the wall with dodgy signage. I know I wasn’t exactly well travelled, but when a murderous scream echoes from the top floor, followed by what sounds like a brawl, causing the house clerk to scream up at the guests, one isn’t exactly filled with warm, fuzzy feelings. I half expected to find police tape and chalk outlines of bodies upstairs. For the past week I had dreamt of a concierge flanked by marble pillars floating behind the front desk welcoming me to Rome; there would be 1000-threadcount Egyptian cotton sheets, and a fluffy white robe and minibar. But there was no floating welcome; in fact, as yet I was unable to book in as a man and woman argued over the computer screen. I had no idea what they were saying, but I hoped they couldn’t find me on the system because there had been some mistake, and I was about to be accommodated at a more upmarket establishment.

  No such luck.

  I was instead given a welcome drink, an unexpected inclusion which was sickly sweet. Not wanting to look ungrateful, I took a second sip, and then reminded myself that accepting drinks from a winking stranger probably was
n’t a great idea, despite the official-looking, faded gold name badge.

  ‘Please, sit. It won’t be long.’ He gestured toward the lounge area, where a cracked brown leather wingback chair had my name on it. I smiled gratefully at Gabriello (at least, that’s what I thought I read on the man’s name badge).

  Arriving in the dark of night, the city had seemed beautiful and electric. My initial excitement was subdued as soon as I entered the taxi, the fear of certain death soaking my already dampened clothes as the driver darted, weaved and honked through city streets. It had been a complete miracle that we had arrived in one piece, and I wanted to kiss the filthy stone floor of the foyer.

  The hotel was a narrow, faded building that looked more like a boarding house for ex-cons than the opulence I had been promised. My desperate thoughts were interrupted by the clicking of heels as a group of English girls strode in off the street and headed for the stairs, the elevator cordoned off with crime scene tape. I watched them linking arms, laughing, seemingly uncaring that they were about to spend the night on stained, grubby mattresses. Maybe that’s why they were drunk? Loaded up to forget their regret of having booked into such a place. But then I had a thought: maybe they were part of another tour group, on an empowering girls’ night out, bonding while enjoying the city sights. Maybe there was hope yet? The tour guide would soon make him or herself known, and with a friendly smile and an enchanting accent, he/she would lead me onto an exotic balcony where all the other travellers waited, making lifelong friends whilst supping on delicious antipasti and toasting the beginning of a grand adventure.

  Or maybe not.

  I pulled my suitcase closer to me in the lounge, waiting for someone else who looked just as dishevelled and lost as I did. Instead I saw the back of a man’s shoulders, square and broad in a well-cut navy jacket. He wasn’t a bewildered foreigner like me—there was certainly nothing dishevelled about him. Even without seeing his face I could tell he was at ease. As I took in the tall, lean man, all the way down to his expensive Italian leather shoes, I realised he stood out for all the wrong reasons. He didn’t belong here at all. What was a man like him doing in a place like this? Again, I let fantasy get the better of me; maybe this was my travel guide? The tall, dark, gorgeous Fabrizio would soon walk over to me to confess that I was the only person who had booked the tour so I would have my own personal guide. I smiled to myself, my imagination giving respite from my squalid circumstances. Or maybe he was a spy? Bond. Gino Bond. Checking into the neighbouring room with a sniper rifle, waiting to catch out a sleazy con. Rather disturbing that the latter scenario seemed more plausible.

  I groaned, rubbing my eyes, never knowing such tiredness. I was hot, gritty, exhausted, hungry: was this what jet lag felt like? I had never travelled further than interstate before, so I’d never experienced it. I was way out of my comfort zone for so many reasons and I could feel the panic rise up in me.

  What have I done? What was I thinking?

  I had checked the itinerary a thousand times. Right date, right hotel, right time: where was everybody? Why was I stuck here in this hotel jail all alone? I dragged my hands through the darkened, messy curls of my wayward hair, fighting back tears of fatigue and hopelessness. It was then that I realised I wasn’t exactly alone. Lifting my face up from my hands, I took in a deep, steadying breath as I glanced upwards and stilled. For a long moment that was more than just deliriousness or fantasy I locked eyes with the tour guide/spy. He was no longer turned away from me, but looking—no, make that staring—at me. I turned around, thinking maybe there was some mistake, that there was a beautiful, leggy blonde woman in a mink coat and diamonds standing right behind me, but after a quick glance over my shoulder, I realised this was not the case and once more my eyes locked with the man’s.

  In my fantasies, the spy guide would summon a waiter from nowhere and, before our eye contact broke, an exotic cocktail would arrive ‘with compliments from the man at the front desk’, as he acknowledged me with a cheeky little wink. I, of course, would clutch my pearls (that I didn’t own) and send back a coy message of thanks and a request to join me.

  But this was reality, and there was no drink, no invitation, there was just a long, lingering stare from both of us that bordered on the ridiculous, as if neither one of us wished to break the contact out of fear of defeat. The strangeness of the situation was apparent to us both; the man’s mouth tugged a little, and my brows furrowed with a ‘What are you looking at?’ scowl. I decided to be the bigger person, lifting my chin and turning away as I nestled back into my wingback chair, feeling vaguely superior as I imagined him looking on with an amused and impressed expression. The exchange with the sexy stranger had been the highlight of my day so far. I breathed out a laugh, crossing my feet at my ankles and feeling so utterly smug—until I looked up.

  ‘Oh, Christ.’

  There before me, a full-length reflection near the fireplace mirrored my gaping face. My eyes stared wide at my mussed halo of hair, a knotted-up curl protruding from the top of my head like the crest of a cockatoo.

  Oh, my God—how long had I been walking around like this? From the plane? In the taxi? Sitting here for how many hours? I clawed at the mess, fighting against the frizz in an effort to tame the horror, thinking back to how the beautiful stranger had stared at me. He wasn’t going to send me a drink: he was going to send me some hair product. I wanted to die. I pushed myself way back into my chair, my hands on my head with my eyes closed, hoping against hope that he wasn’t watching me now. Oh, dear Lord, please make him be gone, let my humiliation die. I slowly peeled my eyes open thinking I could spy his reflection in the mirror, but the angle was all wrong and I couldn’t see the reception desk.

  No big deal—he was there or he wasn’t; what did it matter what some stranger thought, some sexy-sexy, tall, dark stranger. I would never see him again. We were just two people in a shitty hotel, never to be known to each other. There was an upside to being in Rome: no one knew me, or my story; I was a complete enigma. I could be whoever I wanted to be and no one would be any the wiser. I could simply float under the radar and lose myself in this city. At this point in time, losing myself sounded like a bloody lovely idea.

  I inhaled a deep breath, calming myself. Yes, that’s what I would do: I would simply lose myself. I felt better already, calmed by my own logic. Wow, I am so grown up, I thought to myself with a nod. This trip has matured me already.

  ‘Samantha Shorten?’

  I stiffened in my seat, as if someone had poured ice water down the back of my shirt.

  ‘Is there a Samantha Shorten here?’

  I slowly peered around the corner of my chair towards the voice, dread heavy in my stomach.

  I was no longer anonymous.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Ciao, Samantha, come stai?’

  There was no time to react, no time to run through my mental archive of Year Eleven Italian lessons to gather a response to the woman who approached me, a smiling vision in canary yellow as she took my hand and shook it vigorously. Instead, I blurted out the usual reaction to hearing my full name.

  ‘Please, call me Sammi,’ I said, taking in the petite, attractive brunette with the high-wattage smile and twinkle in her eyes. I felt like a bag lady next to her.

  ‘Welcome to Rome, Sammi. Mi chiamo Maria. Is this your first time?’

  Looking at my scruffy, creased clothes and weary, clammy disposition, it wouldn’t be hard to gather that I wasn’t a high-class traveller. Still, it was a polite icebreaker.

  ‘I’ve never been anywhere,’ I confessed, glancing up, relieved to see the man was no longer at reception. I was safe to be as tragic as I wanted. Not that I cared what he thought, I lied to myself.

  ‘Ah, well, you are in good hands then; Bellissimo Tours is the best way to start your Italian journey, embracing the local attractions, culture, food and people.’

  The fact that Maria had left out the word ‘budget’ was not lost on me. I could imagine her repe
ating this speech a fair few times, but she had it down pat, even if I did see her eyes glaze over a bit as she rattled off the details for probably the hundredth time that night.

  ‘Sounds great. So where is everybody else?’ I asked, hoping against hope that I had, in fact, arrived at the wrong hotel, and that everyone was waiting for me across the road, in a vine-covered four-and-a-half star oasis, getting drunk on wine and eating pizza while dangling their legs into a fountain. But I should have known better than to let my imagination run away with me.

  ‘Oh, they are all out in the courtyard; there are two entrances into the hotel.’

  ‘And I just happened to take this one,’ I said, glowering at the reception.

  ‘Never mind—you are here and that is all that matters.’ Maria clapped her hands together as if something truly amazing was about to begin. Maybe I had entered into the bad side of the hotel. Everything has a good and a bad side—even I had a bad side. It just so happened that of all the entrances in the world that I could have walked into with my matted, curly Mohawk, I had to choose the same entrance as the smiling, Italian sex god from across the way. Still, he was a distant memory now, and my night was about to kick off finally. With newfound energy, I grabbed for my suitcase, only to be waved away from my handle by Maria.

  ‘No, no, Sammi—let the porters take care of that for you.’

  My brows rose. From my experiences thus far, I couldn’t help the reaction: I guessed the man lingering out the front, laughing and smoking with the doorman, was the porter. Nothing had inspired any confidence until Maria had emerged like a sun from behind a cloud, quite literally; her bright yellow sundress was almost as blinding as her smile. That smile was now absent as she made short, determined steps in her heels towards the front desk. Gone was her warm, carefree, welcoming air and reborn was Maria, Roman warrior, breathing fire in loud and quick Italian at the staff. Italian was such a romantic, beautiful language, even in such a tirade.