‘His address – from ten years ago,’ Rae said. ‘He could be in another country by now.’
‘He could be,’ I admitted, ‘but I bet he isn’t. He said he’d never leave Italy. He’ll be here.’
‘With a wife and three beautiful Italian children, most likely,’ Rae added.
‘Don’t, Rae,’ Ewan said softly. He turned to look out of the window, and took a photo as the sea came up on the horizon.
‘I have thought of that possibility,’ I said. ‘I’m not completely naïve.’
‘What do you think, Ewan?’ Rae said. ‘Is Gianlovely going to be single still, at thirty, and after all this time?’
Ewan seemed to have drifted away. Rae tried again to get his attention. ‘Ewan?’
‘Sorry,’ he said, turning back to face us. ‘What was the question?’
‘Will Rosie find her happy ending?’ Rae asked.
‘I’m sure she will,’ he said. ‘Look –’ he added, pointing to a sign on the platform. ‘We’re here.’
We got to our guest house in Sorrento just after noon and once we’d dumped our things, Rae put on her coral bikini and dived straight into the swimming pool. Her long limbs took her from one end of the small, bright blue pool to the other in just a few strokes. Ewan was lying on a sunlounger immersed in a paperback, squinting against the late afternoon sun.
‘I’m just popping out to buy some water,’ I said, pulling on a strappy blue dress over my own cutaway swimsuit. I got a brief nod from a dozy Ewan in return. Rae was oblivious, somewhere deep underwater.
I walked out into the quiet central square and took Gianluca’s letter out of my handbag, checking the address on it. I’d said we wouldn’t start looking till tomorrow, but I couldn’t wait. The heat and summery aroma of the Italian town had brought memories vividly flooding back. I had to see if Gianluca’s family were still living there, and if they could help me to find him again.
In a quiet café, I found a young waiter leaning by the bar with no customers to serve. ‘Could you help me?’ I asked in English, showing him the address. He smiled in recognition and pointed across the square to a small green-shuttered house, the front door ajar. Closer than I’d thought. I thanked the waiter and walked across the square, straightening my summer dress as I went. He might be there right now. I felt suddenly self-conscious. Should I have had my hair highlighted again before coming, so I looked more like the Rosie Gianluca used to know? I smoothed a strand back behind my ear.
The wooden front door of the house was open. I knocked on it and put my head a fraction inside to see if I could see anyone. A middle-aged woman, her greying hair in a bun, was cooking in the modest kitchen. She stopped her work when she saw me. ‘Buonasera,’ she said, greeting me warmly.
‘Buonasera,’ I echoed, smiling. I brought out a faded photo of Gianluca and me, taken on my last night in Sorrento – his tanned arm round my freckled shoulders in the central square.
I pointed at it, and said, ‘Gianluca?’ Then pointed to her and asked, ‘Mama?’
I waited, my breath held, trying to read her expression. She smiled in acknowledgement, then nodded.
‘I’m looking for him,’ I continued, hoping she’d understand. When no answer came, I played dumb, hands in the air and a quizzical expression on my face. She looked equally puzzled.
‘Where?’ I asked. Then I racked my brain for the Italian word, which came at last. ‘Dove?’
The woman smiled and took the photo out of my hands. ‘Ah,’ she said. She raised her hand to indicate a boy growing taller, older. ‘Gianluca, now… maggiore. You – inglese?’
‘Yes. I’m English. My name’s Rosie,’ I held out my hand. She shook it, the grasp of her solid, slightly wrinkled hand firm.
I stood there awkwardly on this stranger’s terracotta floor, waiting for her to give me the answers I needed. There was one thing I needed to know – the only thing that could put a stop to my search right away.
‘Gianluca. Married?’ I asked, pointing to the ring finger on my left hand to make my point clearer.
‘No!’ the woman said, laughing.
I smiled, relief flooding through me. There was a chance, then. My journey wasn’t over, it was just beginning. Gianluca, the man who’d talked me through the constellations in the night sky and kissed me until morning, hadn’t found his happy-ever-after yet either.
The woman looked at me curiously, noting the excitement in my face, and seemed to take pity on me. She went over to her kitchen table and scribbled something down in a notebook, then tore out the sheet of paper and passed it to me.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Su casa. Venti, trenta minuti in treno.’ She frowned and waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the train station.
‘Thank you,’ I said, sincerely. ‘Grazie mille.’
I stepped back out into the bright square, feeling a wave of gratitude for the kind stranger. She couldn’t know how much it meant to me. In my hand, in that piece of paper, I held hope. I’d made the first step – and tomorrow I’d take the second.
Back at the guesthouse, Ewan was towel drying his hair roughly by the poolside, still wet from his swim, and Rae was asleep in the sun. The scene was almost the same as the one I’d left twenty minutes ago – yet for me everything had changed.
‘You were gone a while,’ Ewan said, towelling down his chest. ‘Find what you were looking for?’
‘Yes,’ I said, excited about telling him what I’d discovered. ‘Look at this.’ I took out the piece of paper and showed him Gianluca’s address. ‘It’s where he lives now. I spoke to his mum and she gave it to me. And wait, it gets better.’
Ewan listened, curious.
‘He’s not married.’
‘Result,’ Ewan said, taking a seat at a shaded table by the pool. ‘So, what’s your plan?’
‘I’m going to go there – tomorrow.’ It felt scary, committing to it – but it felt good, too.
‘And you want to go on your own, I’m guessing?’
‘I think so. You and Rae can keep each other entertained, can’t you – the pool, the town?’
‘Of course,’ he said, smiling. ‘Don’t worry about us for a minute. You look happy.’
‘I am.’ After the painful weeks in London, without Ben, I felt like a teenager again. ‘Nervous, but happy.’
Rae stirred a little, and unconsciously batted a fly away from her shoulder, before settling.
‘And you?’ I said, taking a seat next to him. ‘Feeling relaxed?’
‘Definitely.’ He took a sip from his bottle of cold beer. ‘I needed a break.’
‘Really? From your perfect life?’
‘Perfect,’ Ewan gave a wry smile, glancing down at the ground. ‘Not sure where you got that idea, Rosie.’
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘You, Jasmine, your new film coming out, your beautiful house.’
Ewan shook his head. ‘Well, let’s just say, all that’s not quite how it seems,’ he said, his gaze lingering on mine for a moment. ‘Believe me.’
‘Rosie!’ Rae said, sitting up with a start, looking disorientated. ‘You’re back. You were gone ages.’
‘I am. And guess what. I have news.’
‘Great.’ She stood up and pulled a sarong around her hips. ‘Tell us over dinner? I’m starving, aren’t you?’
We chose a restaurant in the corner of the square, which was lively now with locals promenading in the balmy evening. Over aubergine parmigiana and pizza from the wood-fired oven, Rae flirted with the waiter, and the three of us talked about everything and nothing. I thought, and tried not to think, about what the next day might hold, and dimly wondered how I’d get to sleep that night.
‘Another drink, inside, on the house?’ the waiter asked Rae, after we’d paid the bill. She smiled, and gave me a discreet wink.
‘I think that’s our cue,’ I whispered to Ewan.
‘I guess she found a new Lorenzo,’ Ewan said, smiling, as we walked back to the guesthouse together under the star-filled
sky. ‘And tomorrow I’ll be propping up the bar on my own again.’
‘Sorry. At least I stayed off the Limoncello this time, so you don’t have to deal with that.’
‘I wouldn’t have minded,’ he laughed. ‘This is your room, right?’ He pointed at the small red door to my poolside annexe room.
‘It is. Thanks for walking me back.’ Moonlight reflected off the pool, and the guesthouse was completely quiet.
‘Listen, Ewan. What you said this afternoon. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
I waited for him to go on.
‘Well, I suppose that’s not entirely true. Jasmine and I are getting a divorce.’
‘You’re what?’ That couldn’t be right. Ewan and his wife had always seemed so happy. Plus Ewan had been my rock for the past month – answering every desperate 3 a.m. phone call, bringing food and urging me to eat it even when I didn’t want to. He hadn’t mentioned a thing about his own relationship hitting the rocks.
‘It’s over,’ he said. ‘We’re selling the house. I don’t even know why I’m still wearing this,’ he looked down at his wedding ring.
‘I’m sorry. God, I feel awful. All those times you came to look after me – I had no idea.’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ he smiled. ‘I wanted to be there with you. And while it’s not going to be easy starting again, I know I can do it. It’s better this than me and Jas staying how we were. We weren’t making each other happy anymore.’
‘I wish I’d known,’ I said. ‘Come here.’ I hugged him, taking in the comforting, musky smell of him, and he hugged me back, holding me close. He stroked my hair, and left his hand there, gently cupping my head.
I thought of my plans for tomorrow. The start of a future with Gianluca – perhaps with another Italian sunset we could recapture the passion we’d had as teenagers, a few sweet words and he would make me feel whole again. But then again – we’d spent ten years apart. A long time, in which we’d grown from teenagers to adults in different worlds.
Ewan pulled back and his brown eyes met mine. I remembered how I’d felt the first time he walked into our sixth form common room, a rush of desire I hadn’t been ready to acknowledge back then. Now his face as familiar to me as Rae’s, as my own, but I felt that connection again. In the ten years Gianluca and I had been apart, the two of us had grown up together.
I remembered the folded piece of paper in my handbag, with Gianluca’s address on it. I knew I wasn’t getting a train the next day.
In Ewan’s arms, I was already right where I needed to be.
About the Author
Abby Clements worked in book publishing before she started writing. She lives in north London with her fiancé and loves lazy Sundays, eighties films and sausage dogs. She is the author of MEET ME UNDER THE MISTLETOE and VIVIEN'S HEAVENLY ICE-CREAM SHOP (Quercus), which includes exclusive ice cream recipes from her time in Florence. Her favourite summertime treat is a waffle cone with a scoop of pistachio and chocolate, with hazelnut sprinkles.
Website: www.abbyclements.co.uk
Facebook: www.facebook.com/abbyclementsbooks
Twitter: @AbbyCBooks
Visit the Sunlounger website at www.va-va-vacation.com/abby-clements
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MIDNIGHT IN ST PETERSBURG
***
Miranda Dickinson
Destination: St Petersburg, Russia
In St Petersburg the summer is brief, but breathtaking. For a precious few weeks the days are warm and the gardens alive with colour. But it is the nights that are truly magical… In Russia, we call it Belye Nochi – the ‘White Nights’ – where the sun never quite sets and at midnight the sky glows the most beautiful translucent blue. This is the time for lovers, when a city known so well for its icy splendour allows its heart to melt through. And during this time, we believe that anything is possible…
Yevgeny Andreevich Denisov, author
Tonight, the city was alive with light, colour and noise. But there was something else – something Noura had not expected to find. It pulsed in the pounding of feet on the wide square in front of the Winter Palace; fizzed in the fireworks sending showers of rainbow sparks into the unearthly glow of the twilight sky; and cascaded in the illuminated fountains on the wide Neva River. It was as if St Petersburg was alive with possibility…
Walking through the streets of the city, a little disoriented by the beautiful deep blue sky edged with pink-rimmed clouds at such a late hour, she made her way towards the place where he had first kissed her – a viewing point on the riverbank where couples gathered to watch the rising of the Dvortsovy Bridge. This is where he said he would be waiting: when midnight came on the first night of the White Nights festival. It seemed so long ago now and she was scared she might be too late. But she had to be here, tonight. She had promised him she would be…
*
Almost a year ago to the day, Noura Alkaev-Mitchell first stepped off the plane and into another world. St Petersburg airport was small and barren looking, deserted save for two men with directing paddles and the half a dozen foreign visitors from her flight filing onto the cracked concrete landing strip. The unexpected rush of warm summer air when she stood at the top of the stairs only added to the alien atmosphere. All that was missing was the tumbleweed.
Without speaking, the visitors set off across the airfield, walking the considerable distance from the aircraft to the terminal building, which resembled a tired 1980s shopping mall. Noura followed them, clutching her rucksack and wishing she had accepted her brother’s offer of flying out with him a week ago.
The guards at Passport Control had Kalashnikov rifles and peaks so high on their military caps they looked comical. Noura would have laughed had it not been for Ben’s strict advice: ‘Never smile at the military. Limit your eye contact where possible. Trust me, Nou, they aren’t the type to joke with.’
At least the people at Heathrow and Frankfurt airports had been willing to smile. The sterile silence in the passport queue tipped her nerves on edge, as if she should be apologising for her audacity at wanting to visit this country. A stern woman behind the desk eyed her for a long time, her pale blue eyes flicking between her and the tanned version of herself trying not to smile from the passport photo, taken two years before when she was touring Australia on her gap year. The last time she had been happy. When Karl had still been in her life…
A cough from the man behind her brought her back to see her passport being waved at her. Mumbling her thanks, she passed through the dimly lit corridor, emerging in the bright, dusty hall of the terminal building.
Noura picked up her small, wheeled case from the squeaking baggage carousel and headed for the exit. By the arrivals gate several stony-faced men of differing ages with identical leather jackets were waiting, some smoking, some staring at the people passing by as if seeing an animal parade. She slowed her pace to look for signs, of which there were several in various states of repair – none of which bore her name. Frowning, she retrieved a folded email printout from the back pocket of her jeans and unfolded it to check her brother’s instructions.
I’m sending you a car to pick you up from the airport… look for someone holding a sign.
The sound of running feet made her look up, as the matching-jacketed men grumbled, jostling like leather waves as a new arrival pushed through to the front of the barrier. His face was flushed and he appeared to be searching his pockets frantically. When he finally found what he was looking for he unfolded a dog-eared sheet of pink paper and stared up at the arrivals sign, running a nervous hand through his thick, dark-blonde hair. Suppressing a grin, Noura saw the name in large, wobbly letters scrawled at an angle across his makeshift sign:
Noura Alkaev-Mitchell
‘Zdravstvujtye,’ Noura smiled.
; ‘Miss Alkaev-Mitchell?’
She nodded, noting the relief in his smile and the deep blue of his eyes. ‘Zdravstvujtye – welcome to Russia. My name is Yuri Nikolaevich. I have been sent by your brother. Please?’ He reached for Noura’s suitcase, ducking under the steel-rail barrier to escort her across the grey-tiled terminal floor and out into the warm June sunshine. ‘My car is not far away,’ he said, watching her carefully. ‘How was your journey?’
‘Good, thanks.’
‘And this is not your first trip to Russia, I think?’
Noura was amused by this. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘Your name: Alkaev. It is not a British name.’
‘No, you’re right.’ She grinned. ‘My mother was Russian. She was born in Gelendzhik, on the Black Sea Coast, but I’ve never been there. This is my first visit to Russia.’
‘I see. Forgive me.’ They had reached his car, a dusty Opel at least ten years old. Yuri put Noura’s case and rucksack in the boot and quickly opened the passenger door. ‘Please?’
‘Thank you.’
They set off, passing lines of equally vintage taxis with disgruntled drivers leaning against them, smoking and staring accusingly at the automatic terminal doors.
‘You must forgive my car,’ Yuri said, grabbing a handful of envelopes and empty packets from the dashboard and throwing them behind his seat. ‘And my driving. The regular driver was not available. I am a – ’ he paused, summoning the correct words – ‘ninetieth-minute substitution.’ He grinned proudly at his own joke.
Having a football-mad brother had prepared Noura well for this unexpected reference. ‘Which team do you support?’
‘To my friends, FC Zenit St Petersburg, but,’ he tapped the side of his nose, ‘between us, it is Juventus all of the way. I have seen them play once, at Juventus Stadium in Turin, on a cultural exchange program from my university. Do you like football?’
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