Nearly an hour later, after appreciating far more stone carvings than I thought could ever exist in one place, I happened upon the echo room. It was on the upper-level of the temple, meaning I had been forced to climb hundreds of stone steps to reach it, but I overheard one of the guides say it was also a wishing room. If you stood inside, banged on your chest three times and made a wish, then the gods would hear you. Unsure if this was a ploy by the locals to make tourists look ridiculous, I hovered around the entrance, despite reassuring nods from the little Cambodian man with a toothless grin. What would I even wish for? Stronger legs perhaps, because mine were already seizing up as a result of the climb.
‘What are you waiting for?’ the voice encouraged. The silhouette of a man stood in the doorway, staring at me from behind a book. He held it out before him, its pages splayed open like the arms of a long lost friend. As my eyes adjusted to the light I could see he wore a blue t-shirt and had golden skin framed by midnight-coloured hair. Only then did I see his sparkling eyes. They were full of expectancy and promise.
Miraculously, words sprang to my lips without hesitation. The enlightened Renée was taking control of her future. ‘Well Cameron, I’ve just found out it’s a wishing room and I don’t know what to wish for.’
He slapped his sketchbook together with one hand like a teacher in need of the class’s attention. ‘That’s the beauty of a wish. It can be anything.’
‘Anything but the impossible,’ I said wryly. ‘I don’t like disappointment.’
‘Nothing’s impossible.’
I laughed. ‘Excuse me, but I beg to differ,’ I smirked. ‘But I could always wish for a monkey to jump out of your arse just to make sure?’
Cameron laughed a rich, warm laugh that sent tingles up my spine. ‘When you put it like that, I’d prefer it if you didn’t – you know, just in case. This is a magical place and something like that could be rather painful.’
‘You might enjoy it.’
‘Nah, I’m not really into that sort of thing.’
‘You might not have a choice. It’s my wish after all,’ I nodded, feeling full of confidence now I’d banished my page of demons into the pond and out of my head. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be nice.’
With that, I turned and clambered as gracefully as I could through the small window-like gap, knowing full well that Cameron had just got an eye-full of my backside, which I hoped looked particularly pert after all that climbing.
I jumped down into the enclosed chamber, which looked out onto the surrounding acres of green, tranquil space. Taking a deep breath I struck my chest with a soft fist, making a simple – and more importantly – possible wish.
The sound reverberated around me like a massage for the soul. I relished the sensation for a few more moments and thought about making several more wishes just on the off-chance the gods were listening. But I resisted. One was enough.
‘Right then,’ I called out to Cameron as I re-entered the main chamber. ‘Prepare for a chimp to explode from your –’
My stomach dropped as I registered the empty space. He’d vanished. With my eyes as wide as dinner plates, I rushed towards the small Cambodian man. ‘Excuse me, where did the man go?’ I asked, making exuberant gestures at the spot where Cameron had stood. ‘He was tall and had a sketch book,’ I added, making a squiggle across my palm.
The man pointed past the large statue of Buddha surrounded by fragrant flowers and incense. I followed his outstretched arm towards the exit, scanning the passing tourists for the face that had etched itself permanently into my memory despite only seeing it twice.
But as I retraced my steps I lost all hope of finding the Scottish beauty. He really had disappeared. My only conclusion was that Fate was a bitch. Either that or Cameron was getting his own back for my earlier rebuke.
‘It wasn’t meant to be,’ I reassured myself and quickly made the solemn promise to compartmentalise all thoughts of our brief encounter into the same place as smears and self-assessment tax forms. Yes, I would forget Cameron for as long as possible – I wouldn’t let him spoil my trip.
And so it was, feeling tired, hungry but a little bit liberated, that I made my way out of the temple grounds. The sandstone causeway cut across the moat in which the local children were enjoying a morning bath, their joyous laughter punctuating my laboured steps. But before I could reach the other side where the tuk tuk drivers clamoured for passengers, a little girl with a short crop of jet-black hair sprang out from behind the ancient stonework.
Her bare feet were impervious to the sharp stones littering the ground beneath her as she ran and in her hands I noticed a wad of paper and something pink. ‘Lady, lady,’ she called.
I practiced the phrase ‘ot tey ahr coon,’ a couple of times in my head, ready to decline the onslaught of guilt-trips she’d utter in order to make me buy whatever she was selling. But there was something contagious about her smile and I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. By the time I’d pulled a couple of one-dollar bills from my pocket ready to complete the transaction, she was at my side.
I offered her the notes but she waved them away. ‘Lady, this is you?’ she asked instead, looking from me and back to the pieces of paper several times over. Intrigued by the question, I took the postcard-sized sheets from her dusty hands.
A smile burst onto my lips as I gazed down at Cameron’s sketches of me by the lotus flower pond. I looked almost angelic; my smile grew wider with each second that passed.
‘Lady, he give me this too for you,’ the little girl said, handing me a lotus flower. ‘He said read,’ she added, pointing to the back of the pages. I turned them over immediately and began to read Cameron’s delicate artistic hand.
I’m sorry for leaving you earlier. I went to fetch you the lotus flower, which you seemed to crave so badly. You disappeared from the echo chamber before I could return with it. I hope you wished for something nice. There’s no sign of a monkey yet, so I think I can relax.
I hope you like the sketches - I told you it wasn’t always the view that was inspiring. However, I am a perfectionist and therefore I’m never truly happy until my pieces have a name. I would really appreciate it if you would help me with this matter.
If you meet me here tomorrow at sunrise, perhaps we could entitle them together?
Yours hopefully,
Cameron Blake
Butterflies beat their wings wildly inside my chest as I read the note over and over again. I cradled the lotus flower in my palm, inhaling its sweet scent and my heart began to drum at the thought of seeing that beautiful man again. It was at that moment I suddenly realised the ancient temple behind me had provided much more than just enlightenment…
…this was divine intervention. The gods had listened and my simple wish had been granted.
About the Author
Laurey Buckland is twenty-seven years old and was born in Nottinghamshire, where she still lives. She spent three years as a reporter at the Newark Advertiser before initiating a career change and is currently studying to become an English and Media teacher. Having a romantic short story published in 2011 gave her the kick up the backside she needed to write her first novel A GIRL'S GUIDE TO FAIRY TALES which she self-published last year. She is a qualified aerobics instructor and has a healthy obsession with carrots and hummus.
Facebook: www.facebook.com/LaureyBucklandAuthor
Twitter: @LaureyBuckland
Blog: www.laureybuckland.blogspot.co.uk
Visit the Sunlounger website at www.va-va-vacation.com/laurey-buckland
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ROSIE’S ITALIAN LOVE LETTER
***
Abby Clements
Destination: Sorrento, Italy
The day I found the letter again was a month after Ben moved out, and ten years since I’d received it.
It was a warm Saturday in May, with enough of a breeze to send the white curtains in my bedroom gently fluttering as I sorted through old boxes. My bedroom – it was still strange to think of it like that. Not ours anymore.
I was clearing out a few of Ben’s things, the DVDs and clothes he had forgotten to take when he left with the rest. There was some paperwork in the bedroom cupboard too, contracts from when we’d bought the flat, and a couple of photos of us together, when my hair was a lighter blonde and our smiles had come easily.
I found a red A4 folder that was older than the others – inside were letters, printed emails and postcards from the time before Ben. I put my gin and tonic on the side table and opened the envelope. The pages were worn from reading and re-reading. Ha, I smiled to myself, remembering. Gianluca.
Rosie, when we met, your smile changed me.
A memory of the golden light of the Amalfi coast came back to me.
‘I’ll never forget you. Come back to Sorrento and make me happy again.
When that letter had landed on my doormat, I was seventeen years old. I’d hastily squirreled the envelope away inside my jumper so that I could read it in the privacy of my bedroom without my mum and dad seeing. There, among the Nirvana posters and with a stick of cheap incense burning, I’d opened it. It was a flash of the summer I’d just shared travelling with Rae and Ewan, my friends from sixth form, when I’d met Gianluca. Moments that felt as if they were out of a film, far too glamorous to be my real life. I read the letter over now, and there was Gianluca, gently persuading me to abandon my A-levels at St Mary’s in Chiswick for a life of romance with him in the Italian olive groves. I had been tempted then. And now – a decade on – I was tempted again.
I took the letter and my drink over to the sofa and sat down. The buzz of traffic on Clapham High Street drifted in through the open window, and chatter came from the beer garden on the corner. The coming of spring had marked the end of a long year of arguments with Ben and of a relationship we’d both thought was headed down the aisle. After six years you should know, shouldn’t you? But all we knew was that at twenty-seven, we’d both forgotten how to laugh.
Two people helped me remember how – Rae and Ewan. When Ben moved out, they were round the same evening – with a bottle of wine and their unique ability to spin comedy from what felt to me quite a lot like tragedy. They’d stayed over that night, Rae in my spare room and Ewan on the sofa, so that I wouldn’t wake up on my own.
When I’d met Rae in the sixth-form common room, her flair for thrift-shop chic and penchant for dirty jokes was what hooked me. It was foolish really, to choose a best friend who was so much more attractive – a stunning mix of Spanish and Indian running through her veins – but I’d got over that, and we’d been close ever since.
Ewan was a late arrival at St Mary’s after getting kicked out of the local private school, and when he walked into the common room, in his ripped jeans and mussed dark-blonde hair, all the girls had turned to stare. We’d barely looked up, consumed in listening to a CD on Rae’s Discman, and I think that was why he decided it was us he wanted to be friends with. He invited us along to gigs, made us laugh, and slowly, reluctantly at first, Rae and I had been persuaded to expand our small circle to three. By the end of the year it was hard to imagine that he’d ever not been there.
It had been Ewan’s idea to go interrailing round Europe in the summer before our exams and, once we’d all convinced our parents, we excitedly plotted out our route. I’d wanted escape and adventure – I’d never bargained on finding love.
I drained my G n’ T, picked up the phone and dialled Rae’s number. She picked up right away.
‘Rosie,’ she said brightly.
‘Hi, Rae. Quick question. Have you got any holiday days left? Say, a week?’
‘Of course I have,’ she said. I could hear the excitement in her voice. ‘I’ve had my nose to the grindstone since winter, like you. What’s your brilliant plan?’
And that was how me, Rae and Ewan ended up in a rattling train carriage on the way to the Amalfi coast, playing cards and swigging from beer bottles. Outside, tall cypress trees and golden and terracotta houses dotted the landscape.
‘Twist,’ I said. Ewan turned over an ace of clubs for me.
I’d called Ewan just after Rae had agreed to come to Italy. He’d agreed right away too – his wife was away at a conference, and film-making work was slow. He needed a break and some inspiration, he said.
‘Nothing’s really changed, has it?’ Rae put down her hand and bowing out of the game she’d been losing for some time.
‘Nothing?’ Ewan said, with a smile. His dark blonde hair was close-cropped now, and his ripped jeans and leather jacket had been replaced with khaki chinos and a white t-shirt. The more clean-cut look suited him.
‘I’d like to think we’ve grown up a bit,’ I added. ‘Haven’t we?’
My argument wasn’t strong – I was back to square one romantically, and I was still barely scratching a living curating art exhibitions. But I felt different. Wiser, maybe.
‘I don’t know,’ Rae said. ‘Ewan has, I guess – he’s the one with the ring on his finger and the mortgage.’
Ewan had settled down with a pretty dentist called Jasmine, whose practical outlook somehow worked with his more creative dreams of being a filmmaker. They’d met at uni and got married just after graduation, then bought a house in Kingston. It had been a surprise to all of us – Ewan was the first to become a proper grown up.
‘You forgot the unreliable freelance work,’ Ewan said, taking a swig of beer. ‘As much as I love what I do, it’s not exactly steady.’
‘At least you know what you want to do,’ Rae said. ‘Both of you do. I feel like I’ve been floating since uni, one office job after another. A permanent temp. How did eight years pass so fast?’
‘Look at this, Rae.’ I nudged her and pointed out of the window at the Italian scenery that was whizzing by, ‘this will take your mind off it.’ We were travelling on the circumvesuviana, the slow train from Naples to Sorrento. ‘Check out the volcano.’
‘Wow. Amazing!’ A smile lit up her face. ‘I remember this view from when we last came.’
‘It was a train just like this, wasn’t it?’ I said, running a hand over the leather cover of the seat. ‘And we had no idea where it was taking us to,’ I laughed. ‘After those hazy days in Amsterdam, we crammed in a bit of culture in Paris and then come down here, headed for Sorrento.’
‘I’d heard the ice cream was good,’ Rae said. ‘Didn’t have a clue beyond that. But the Amalfi Coast turned out to be the best part of our trip, didn’t it?’
‘Do you mean that first night when Rosie passed out after drinking too much Limoncello?’ Ewan said, smiling. Our eyes met.
‘A learning curve.’ I laughed.
‘It was a lot of fun,’ Ewan said. ‘Our road trip down the coast to Positano and Ravello, those beautiful coloured houses...’
‘The boat out to Capri,’ Rae reminisced. ‘The cobbled streets on the island, all bright purple with bougainvillea...’
‘Then of course I was left propping up the bar while you two were swept off your feet by locals,’ Ewan added, rolling his eyes playfully.
‘That restaurant in Sorrento,’ Rae recalled. ‘Gianluca passed by the door and saw you –’ she looked pointedly at me – ‘then just stood there, you guys locking eyes, all sort of sizzly and awkward. Him with his dark curls and tanned skin, you all blushing and young and sweet, Rosie. I swear if we hadn’t eventually invited him over he would have combusted with desire.’
I laughed. That was pretty much how I remembered it too.
‘And the other guy, what was his name?’ Ewan asked, glancing upwards as he searched his brain to recall it.
‘Laurenz or something,’ Rae smiled at the memory. ‘Nice bum.’
‘Lorenzo,’ I said. ‘Gianluca’s cousin. Gorgeous face too, as I recall.’
‘He was a charmer,’ Rae added. ‘I learned
a few things about romance that summer. Ah, those were the days.’
‘So how come we’re out here to track down Rosie’s long-lost amore,’ Ewan asked, ‘and we’re not looking for yours too, Rae?’
‘Because I’m a realist – not a hopeless romantic,’ Rae said, smiling indulgently at me.
‘Look you guys got free flights out of this, if you remember.’ I said. Twenty quid each, admittedly, but still a free ride was a free ride. ‘So you can’t take the mick out of me too much.’
‘Yes, you old cynic, Rae,’ Ewan said. ‘Rosie deserves someone special, and who knows, maybe this guy is that person. So, do we get to see this letter, Rosie?’
‘No.’ I hugged my handbag to me, defensively. ‘No way.’
‘Not even a line?’ Rae prodded.
I thought of how Gianluca had written about the time we’d spent together, his sweet words a mix of Italian and English. Reluctantly, I conceded. ‘Okay, he quotes the lyrics from that song – you know, “Come Back to Sorrento”.’
Rae’s eyebrows shot up in horror.
‘I know, I know,’ I said. ‘It sounds a bit cheesy. But I really think he meant it. That he may still be thinking about me, the way that I haven’t forgotten about him.’
Rae looked unconvinced.
‘So, how are we going to find this guy if you’re saying we can’t Google him?’ Ewan asked.
‘Surely we can have a cheeky look on Facebook?’ Rae added, getting out her phone.
‘No!’ I said. ‘I thought I made it clear on the plane. I don’t want to find him like that. I’ve got his address on this letter, and we can start there.’
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