by Primula Bond
I was a single woman among all those Italian men, except I hadn’t met one handsome guy yet. I guessed they were all on holiday. No chance to be a Shirley Valentine, even if I wanted to. I texted my response and a playful smile lifted my blushing cheeks.
I’m OK. No men. Yet! Speak soon. X.
I turned off my mobile and placed it by my side. The overwhelming need to be alone with sculptures and art was the only plan for the day ahead. Any man would have to wait in line until I was finished. No amount of calls and texts, even from Maddy, were going to spoil the afternoon’s experience I’d waited so many years for, and so far, it had been worth the wait.
A slow, staccato clicking of heels echoed through the corridor. A young Italian man, casually dressed in cream slacks and black shoes, stopped next to me. I followed the contours of his legs up to his waist; his tanned, muscular arms peeked from the rolled-up sleeves of his white cotton shirt. Ruffled but elegant mahogany hair flowed around his angular face and draped on top of his shoulders. Under the day’s growth of dark stubble, I noticed the dimple on his chin. He hid behind sunglasses, making him all the more erotically enticing. A powerful scent of Paco Rabane wafted in the air and overpowered my senses.
When he smiled at me, it seemed as if the sun had breached itself from behind the clouds, and warmth travelled through my body. Is it any wonder that women love Italian men, I thought. Now I see why Casanova had so many lovers … there’s no hope for me here! I returned a smile and then turned my gaze toward Venus. A hot flush covered my face, so I retrieved the fan from my clutch. With slow, wafting movements, cool air fanned onto my face. From the side, I couldn’t help but notice he’d crossed his legs. I lingered upon his slacks and the short, black, curly hairs on his umber legs that showed just below the hem. Of course he didn’t need socks – the guy was a fashion statement just as he was. He seemed self-assured and happy with his looks, but he didn’t exude arrogance. No, this guy was the ultimate alpha male and he knew it.
‘It is beautiful,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
His playful tone suggested he knew my attention wasn’t upon the statue. His drawn-out, husky voice and openness to talk to a total stranger took me by surprise. The delivery destroyed my impression of him. No arrogance or fanning of feathers, but a soft, almost feminine quality that broke my prejudice. I’ve never been extroverted to strike a conversation, but I was raised to be polite. And there was something in his voice that commanded attention and demanded an answer.
‘Yes,’ I stuttered, and turned to look at his face.
He slowly turned to meet me, yet through the brown lenses of his glasses I felt his eyes undressing my outer visage and burrowing deep within. A faint quiver, just like the first time Tom had touched my body, passed through my core. I guessed he was in his late 20s and could have the pick of any woman, so he wasn’t hitting on me. I was too old for him.
He raised the sunglasses from his face and pushed them over his forehead. The tilt of his head resembled Michelangelo’s David. If the rest of his body is the same, I thought, that’ll be great. I was getting carried away in the Naples heat, and suddenly became aware that he was watching me stare at him. My throat felt dry and the pulse in my neck quickened. Stop it, I told myself. The sun’s getting to you. Sunlight glinted on the chestnut pools set within his almond-shaped eyes. The mixture of earthy colours accentuated the upper lids, crowned by thick, dark brows. His composure held me under a spell that only he could break. The fluttering intensified in my core, spreading further through my body, hooking into every nerve. As he searched to expose me, I was captivated by his long, almost feminine lashes, but he was still man enough to make me shudder. It was as if he had hypnotised me and I couldn’t pull myself away.
‘Antonio Dell’ora.’
I had to pull myself together. His lips fell apart to create an almost identical shape to his eyes. As he exhaled, a minty smell lingered in the air. He held out his strong, veined hand, the rose-petal touch of his fingers softening my defences and making me feel wet between my legs. Was it the scent that sent me reeling, or the heat? Maybe both. Giddiness swam through my head. I must have looked like a besotted teenager.
‘Stella … Brookes.’
‘Are you from England?’
‘Yes. I’m on holiday.’
He turned toward me and rested one arm along the top of the seat as sunlight lit up his face. ‘I’ve never been to England. My mother was born there. I must go there one day.’
‘Oh … where was she born?’
‘Oxford. Do you know it?’
‘Yes.’ I gazed at Venus, no longer able to keep eye contact with his dynamic gaze. Get a grip, I told myself. Deep breaths. ‘Oxford’s not far from where I live. It’s a beautiful place. You should go there one day.’ Silence ensued within the corridor, broken only by the sounds of coos and restless wings above the museum. I sensed his gaze upon me, willing me to talk, as if I was the only woman he was interested in. Although my stomach felt knotted, I turned my head to meet his gaze. ‘Do you live in Naples?’
‘No. I live in Venice. Have you ever been there?’
‘No. I’m afraid I haven’t.’
‘I am meeting a client tonight. I thought I would make the most of the day and visit the museum. Every time I come to Naples, I have to see the statue of Venus. It is beautiful, yes?’
‘Yes, it is. I’ve always wanted to see it. That’s why I came to Italy.’
When he smiled, it was as if he’d stepped straight out of a Caravaggio painting, every warm and earthy colour in his hair and skin like pristine brushstrokes from a master painter.
Antonio pulled a small sketchbook from a canvas bag. He opened the book and flicked through the completed sketches until he arrived at a fresh page. Holding his pencil at arm’s length, he closed one eye and measured the statue. I watched him slide his manicured thumb along the pencil shaft and line up the statue in his eye line for proportions. With light touches on the textured paper, he found the form of Venus with marks and measurements. Watching him work made me remember my days at art college – the smell of paint and linseed oil, the carefree joy of art imitating life, and my tutor’s voice bellowing across the studio. ‘I’m not after pretty pictures … Work the canvas … experiment … make love to it.’
Breaking from my reverie, I took another glance at his work, which now exposed the structure of Venus. Each light stroke and movement added flesh to the bones. Antonio’s concentration aroused me; his lips were pursed and his eyes stared intently upon the statue. God, he was so good with his hands. I was mesmerised at the tenderness of each stroke followed by rapid shading with his middle finger. My tutor’s advice had been right, and watching Antonio make love there in the museum sent waves of passion rolling through my body. All the artistic dreams and desires I’d wanted to pursue were put on hold when I’d married Tom. Seeing Antonio in a state of nirvana made all the old dreams resurface. I wondered what had happened to the passionate young woman I’d been so long ago, how I had lost that spark and zest for life. Where had all those desires gone? Do they simply dry up if they’re not watered and cultivated? I placed my fan into the clutch and stood in front of Antonio with my hand extended, a rush of endorphins making me feel unsteady and breathless.
‘Excuse me. It was lovely to meet you,’ I said. He laid the open sketchbook by his leg. My compulsion to stare into his eyes became easier with each look because his face invited reciprocal openness, and the thrill of being studied like a great piece of art overpowered me.
‘I am sorry. Am I disturbing you?’
‘No. It’s not you. I need to go back to my hotel.’
‘Enjoy the rest of your holiday. It was a pleasure meeting you.’ He pulled the sunglasses down over his eyes, and hair fell around his cheeks, casting darker shadows on the soft brown skin.
I caught sight of my reflection in his sunglasses and smiled. I looked radiant and inquisitive, as though I was mesmerised by the myriad colours reflecting fr
om a priceless diamond.
‘Goodbye.’
‘Arrivederci.’
Without a pause, he picked up his sketchbook and continued his drawing.
No, he isn’t interested in you, Stella. Nice try, but you’ve blown it again! At the end of the corridor, I glanced in his direction, but he’d returned to his world of pictures where I wasn’t invited.
Outside the Museo di Napoli, I strolled into Via Santa Maria di Constantinopoli. On the pavement outside the bed and breakfast, I sought the shade of a parasol before the late-afternoon heat turned me into a sun-dried lobster. Along the Via, a discordant cacophony of motor engines, horns, and scooters assaulted my eardrums. I ordered a drink to quench my parched throat, dry from the heat and dust within the busy city. Just the memory of Antonio made me happy. I couldn’t shift the image of his golden face and mahogany hair from my mind. His velvet-sounding words echoed over and over in my mind. Antonio Dell’ora. What a beautiful name. And what a hunk. Forget it, Stella, I told myself. He’s a nice guy, but I guess he’s like that with everyone. I reclined into the chair and crossed my legs. I couldn’t suppress the wide smile on my face.
Don’t even think about him … he’s gone and that’s that!
As I waited for the waiter to return, I searched for my mobile phone in my clutch. After responding to Dawn’s message earlier, her reply would have come through. No need to worry about me, though, I was having a great time away from the sodden landscape and grey English skies. Damn it! Where was the phone? I threw my head back and clenched the bag. That was all I bloody needed!
‘Damn it!’
‘Signora?’ a waiter said, with a look of sympathy in his eyes.
‘I’m sorry.’ I offered a half-smile to show my anger wasn’t aimed at him.
‘Is there anything wrong?’
I shook my head. ‘I’ve lost my phone.’
He bowed, seemingly unconcerned about my situation, and marched inside the bed and breakfast. I leant back into the chair and closed my eyes. The heat blazed through the parasol, down onto my face, and the angry, hot flush burned even more. Then I felt the light touch of a hand upon my shoulder. Antonio stood in front of me, a wide smile lifting his cheeks. In the sun’s shadow, his lips appeared darker and accentuated his facial contours.
‘I believe this is yours,’ Antonio said. ‘You left it in the museum.’
‘How … how did you find me so quickly?’
‘I checked your last contact. So I called Dawn, explained what had happened, and she told me where you were staying.’
‘Thank you ever so much. Please, let me buy you a drink. It’s the least I can do,’ I said, as I pointed to the chair opposite. Antonio dropped his canvas bag to the ground and sat down. Underneath the glass tabletop, I saw his relaxed Italian demeanour by the way he folded his legs. The waiter placed a glass of red wine in front of me. ‘Thank you. Could I have one more glass, please?’ There was little room under the table and Antonio’s leg brushed against mine. I pulled it out of reach as a knee-jerk reaction, but I relaxed and regained contact almost at once. The feeling of a stranger’s touch was comforting. On his face, he registered that he felt the same.
‘Dawn is my sister. She … worries about me.’ I knew I sounded flustered and that Antonio probably thought I was just a crazy, mixed-up Englishwoman, out of her depth in Italy, so I pretended to look cool and placed my phone inside my clutch.
‘She said you need to check in … as soon as you get your phone.’ Antonio’s smile seemed to radiate happiness and it felt infectious. I couldn’t help but feel free in his presence. He had a relaxed air, as if nothing mattered except for the present. I imagined Dawn speaking to Antonio with that possessive and wary tone. But sitting here with him, I felt no need to be afraid. Oh God, I realised, he must have read our texts!
I couldn’t help blushing at the thought. Antonio gazed at me, a knowing smile on his face. ‘I suppose you read the text message …’
‘Yes. I’m sorry that you have not met any good-looking Italian men.’ He laughed softly. I just wanted to curl up and hide somewhere … anywhere but where I was right now.
I shrugged. ‘That was then. I think you’ve changed the situation.’
‘So there is at least one good-looking man in Italy?’
‘You could say that. Excuse me for one minute.’ I smiled to hide the embarrassment I felt at Antonio having to deal with me and Dawn in one day. I was surprised she’d not sent him in the opposite direction. I texted Dawn and noticed my fingers fumbling and shaking on the keypad. Pull yourself together, Stella, I chided myself, he’ll think you’re a bloody idiot.
I have my phone. I’ve met the most adorable man. He’s gorgeous. Speak later. X
‘So tell me, Stella, do you like Italy?’ Antonio said as he reclined onto the folding chair.
I sipped my wine and watched Antonio across the table, as if his mind, body, and soul formed a perfect human trinity. His arm trailed across the table as he twirled the wineglass by its stem, the wine bucking gently as it rose and fell with each turn. Only when he lifted the glass did my gaze follow to watch it tilt upon his lips. With the slightest opening, he allowed a small drop of wine into his mouth and as he lowered the glass, I focused upon his glistening lips. The clink of the glass broke the hypnotic spell and I floundered for the right response. ‘Italy? It’s lovely. I wish Tom and I had come a long time ago.’
‘Tom? Is that your husband?’ His voice sounded inquisitive, but his face showed no signs that he wanted to invade someone else’s marriage. I admired and trusted Antonio from that moment. For me, faithfulness had always been one of my virtues and monogamy was my strongest belief.
‘Yes. He’s no longer with me. I thought I’d treat myself.’ I lowered my gaze toward the wineglass on the table.
‘He left you?’ He cocked his head to one side, with that Michelangelo look again, attempting to see my face. Did he sense the sadness in my voice?
I turned from Antonio’s piercing gaze. I didn’t want him to see me fighting back emotions. The rawness of that fatal night still seemed fresh to me. In our long marriage we had become one person, and in losing Tom, I had lost myself. ‘He died two years ago … but I still miss him every day.’
Across the table, Antonio reached out for my hand. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
The touch of his fingers on my skin sent a pulse through my arm. Looking down at his hand on mine, I said, ‘It’s OK.’ I hid behind the wineglass, sipped, and let the glass linger on my lips. Antonio’s fingers felt smooth against mine, and my pulse quickened, but I couldn’t take my hand away without seeming rude. It was Antonio who withdrew his hand and reclined into the chair again.
‘It is painful to lose someone so close.’
‘Yes.’
‘I lost my father last year. It was hard. I remember all the good times. I know he was happy to see what I had achieved.’ A serene smile lit up his face. He lifted his wineglass to his lips and, turning his look away from me, he scanned the street.
The awkward silence was broken by a car horn and animated hand gestures from two male drivers. Other cars pulled up in front of them as the men climbed from their vehicles, neither willing to give ground. The traffic blockade and discordant horns that filled the street only maddened the drivers to square up to each other in a heated, macho contest.
I shook my head and laughed. ‘Men!’
Antonio grinned, obviously used to this everyday occurrence in busy Italian cities, and raised his hands in mock annoyance. ‘Italians!’
‘Yes.’ I almost spluttered on my drink. A new connection sparked between us as if we’d known each other for a long time. I felt I could trust him, tell him anything, and be who I really wanted to be with no fear of his judgment.
More drivers stood by their car doors, threw their arms in the air, and shouted. Antonio looked at his watch. He drank the last of his wine and stood up. With the sunlight beaming on his hair and the tilt of his head, he looked divine.
I shielded my eyes from the overbearing light behind his head.
‘It has been lovely talking with you, Stella. I hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday,’ he said, looking at his watch, ‘but I have to go. I have to prepare some photographs for my meeting this evening.’
For the second time within one hour I was losing him, and I was pretty damned certain that it wouldn’t happen a third time. I finished my wine and placed my mobile inside my clutch. ‘I shouldn’t lose this again. I’m glad we met. I hope your meeting goes well.’
Antonio’s phone vibrated from inside his shirt pocket. ‘Excuse me for one minute,’ he said, showing his palm before placing it over his ear.
I noticed his upturned eyes as he listened to the caller. Then he shut down his phone and dropped it into his bag.
‘Bad news?’ I said, knowing what the answer would be.
‘The meeting is cancelled.’
‘Oh.’ I sensed some response was compulsory, but I felt inadequate on how to offer anything but a ridiculous remark to my new friend.
‘It is OK. These things happen.’ Antonio forced a smile. The flamboyant image crumbled before me. He bit his bottom lip, the agitation showing on his face. Then that broad, European smile lit up his face once again. ‘I still have a reservation for dinner tonight. Would you join me? I would like that very much.’
‘I couldn’t possibly intrude on your evening.’
Antonio laid his hand on my bare arm. ‘Of course you can. The restaurant is booked. Table for two, and I would enjoy your company.’ He gestured toward the empty wineglasses left on the pavement table. ‘See it as repayment for your kindness. And I would love to have you there. I do not know anyone in Naples and you are alone too. It will be fun.’
He pleaded with his eyes and that incurable smile of his.
‘OK. I’d love to.’ There was no way on God’s green earth that I was going to let Antonio walk away a third time without so much as a kiss.
‘Good. I will be at Le Stanze del Vicerè hotel on Via Stella.’ He laughed. ‘It is a sign it was meant to be.’