One Night in Italy (25 page)

Chapter Twenty

Cosa stai facendo?
– What are you doing?

FACEBOOK STATUS : Sophie Frost

I’m . . .

It was Wednesday evening and Sophie was lying on her bed with her laptop, her brain turning like a hamster wheel as she tried to think of something remotely interesting to write.

I’m restless.

She deleted it. It was true, but sounded too negative, too whingey. Nobody liked a whinger on Facebook.

I’m planning my next move.

She wrinkled her nose. That was true too, but then someone was sure to respond with
Where are you off to next, Soph?
, and she’d be forced to admit that she didn’t quite know yet. She deleted that, too.

Feeling as if life has ground to a halt.
®

Definitely not. Whinging again. Come on. Pull yourself together. Be positive.

Glad my dad is on the mend. Go Jim!

That was an improvement, although not exactly the sort of thrill-seeking update she was used to posting. Ever since she’d first joined Facebook, her timeline had been like a magical mystery tour – here, there and everywhere, with the photos and suntan to prove it.

Sunrise in Byron Bay!

Sampling cocktails with Dan in Darling Harbour. You know you want to!

Swam with dolphins in Kaikoura today. AMAZING.

Buongiorno amici! Now in Rome, working as an English tour guide – love it.

The view from my balcony . . . Don’t hate me

It seemed like another life now, a life she’d abruptly left. What did she have to say on her updates these days, after all?

Another scintillating shift in the café. Made approx. 9,000 lattes and got a massive £2.75 in tips. WHOOP!

Took Dad to his doctor’s appointment. Rock on!

Watching Corrie with my parents. Living on the edge.

The view from my bedroom . . . gotta love a cul-de-sac.

It felt as if her world had shrunk on a huge scale in a matter of months: from oceans, mountains, beaches and rainforest, all the way down to the dimensions of a detached house in the suburbs, a crap café two streets away, and the bus route into college once a week. She kept imagining herself as a digital map that someone had focussed in and in and in, so that the rest of the planet was no longer visible. Distant horizons and adventures now seemed as unattainable as a January heatwave.

Even though these days she actually quite enjoyed her parents’ company, being in their house was starting to wear a bit thin. She badly missed her independence – not only the travelling lifestyle, but also the little things: going out on a whim and not having to explain what time she’d be back, cooking when she felt like eating rather than fitting in with her parents’ mealtimes, not having to ask before she changed the channel on the TV . . . It was hard work living
chez
Mum and Dad, even when they insisted on cooking and ironing everything for her. All that chit-chat and housekeeping stuff:

Has anyone seen my glasses?

Tea’s ready!

Put something decent on, will you, love, Grandma’s popping round in a few minutes.

How long are you going to be in that shower?

She seriously missed having something exciting to put up on Facebook now and then, too.

Sophie Frost . . . is well jel of what you lot are all up to.

Sophie Frost . . . will need to blow the dust off her passport at this rate.

Sophie Frost . . . has nothing to say.

The worst bit was, she couldn’t imagine things changing any time soon. To put it bluntly, she was skint. Even if she knew where she wanted to go next (not a clue), she didn’t have the funds for an airfare yet, nor enough for a place of her own in the meantime. Besides, she was signed up to teach the Italian class until Easter at the earliest and couldn’t bail out now.

Maybe this was growing up – real life. Maybe she just had to knuckle down and get on with it, suck it up. She glanced back at her friends’ Facebook updates with a pang of envy. Everyone else seemed to have exciting things to report:

Matt Howard: Learning to scuba-dive. Get in!

Nell Shepherd: I’m a proud aunty again. Josie and Rob had baby number two yesterday. A boy! Flying over to see them next week.

Ella Fraser: Off to Marrakesh in two weeks. Anyone fancy meeting up there?!

Dan Collins . . .

She stared at the screen as a new update appeared. Dan Collins? A shot of adrenalin pinballed around her at the sight of his name. She couldn’t help a muffled scream of excitement as she read his words.

Dan Collins: I’m back in Manchester. Did you miss me?

Her breath came rapid and shallow and there was a pain in her chest as she stared at his avatar, a picture of him grinning with a pint in some bar or other. Then she shut down the laptop before she typed something she’d regret (
WHEN CAN I SEE YOU AGAIN???
) and went to make herself a cup of tea. Everything felt unreal and floaty; the kitchen floor seemed to lurch and tip as she walked across it, the words still echoing around her brain.

Dan Collins: I’m back in Manchester. Did you miss me?

Dan Collins. Manchester. Miss me? Miss me? Miss me?

Oh my goodness. She’d last seen him through streaming tears at Sydney Airport three years ago as he jetted out of her life. Yes, Dan, of course I’ve missed you, she thought wretchedly. I’ve never stopped missing you, you idiot.

I don’t want you to go
, she’d sobbed as they embraced one last time.

We’ll meet again
, he’d said into her hair.
I’ve just got a feeling.

He probably said that to all the women. He’d managed to peel himself away and fly to Auckland, after all. Thanks and goodbye; it was fun but now I’m moving on.

Fun. It had been more than fun. It had been the best seven months of Sophie’s life, travelling around Australia with him. They’d supported each other through terrible temporary jobs (her worst: a banana farm in Queensland where snakes and cockroaches were regular visitors; his worst: a door-to-door sales job in Brisbane where he had to dress as a strawberry and try not to get beaten up). They’d hired a car and explored the Blue Mountains, Fraser Island and Noosa; they’d freaked out on bad mushrooms in Nimbin and laughed through boozy Sydney nights together. They had gone skinny-dipping together on Coogee Beach on New Year’s Eve. She had said ‘I love you’ and meant it for the first time in her life.

Then, one bright Saturday afternoon, he had told her he was going. His Australian visa was running out and he had a plane to catch. It had been a blast, but . . .

‘I could come with you,’ she blurted out, a single heartbeat later. They had come to Glebe market and the air was full of drumbeats and the scent of frying onions. Stalls nearby offered Tarot readings, second-hand Levi’s, head massages and soya ice cream.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ he said.

Someone was juggling fire clubs a few metres away; a crowd had gathered around, clapping enthusiastically. ‘I know I don’t,’ she said.

He turned to face her, his expression rueful. ‘Maybe we should just . . .’ he said and shrugged.

An elderly Chinese woman grabbed Sophie’s arm. ‘Hey, Miss, you want massage?’ she asked, gesturing to her nearby stall.

Sophie ignored her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well . . . I didn’t come travelling to get in a relationship. And it’s been brilliant, don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved being with you, but . . .’

‘You want massage?’

‘No!’ Sophie almost screamed at the woman, yanking her arm free. She was trembling, the market before her kaleidoscoping into fractured pieces. ‘We don’t have to be in a
relationship
,’ she said, wishing she didn’t sound so desperate. ‘We can just . . . hang out.’

‘Mister? Hey, Mister. You want massage?’

‘No, thanks.’ He grabbed Sophie’s hand and they strode further into the market. ‘Look, you’re really cool. You are totally awesome and fun and gorgeous. And if we were in Britain right now and living ordinary lives, I’d probably want to . . . I don’t know . . . marry you or something crazy. But . . .’

She shut her eyes. Why did there have to be a but?

‘But this trip was meant to be for me. Does that make sense? Me, Dan, going round the world on my own. And that’s kind of how I want to be.’

They were standing near a drumming workshop and the sound seemed to make every bone in her body vibrate. He was almost having to shout to be heard. She stared at him, trying not to cry, wondering how she could have got this so wrong.

‘But I thought . . .’ she managed to say, then swallowed. The incessant drumming made her head spin and she raised her voice. ‘But I thought WE LOVED EACH OTHER!’

Just as she was shouting the words, the drums fell silent. Heads turned and everyone stared at the red-faced, bellowing Pom as she burst into tears and ran away, barging through the market unseeingly.

Ugh. Unhappy times. Despite all of her crying, sulking and then, when she’d completely lost her dignity, out and out begging, he’d gone a week later with an unsatisfactory hug and nothing more.

She was left bereft and confused, missing him so much she couldn’t think straight, unable to eat, sleep or even string a sentence together. It was all so wrong! It was all so unfair! He’d actually said he’d
marry
her if they were in the UK, hadn’t he? She’d heard him with her own ears. How could anyone
say
that to a person then fly off to another country without them? It didn’t make sense.

Eventually she broke all her own rules and bought her own plane ticket to Auckland, flying out ten days after him in the hope that she could track him down.

Unfortunately, within that time, he had completely vanished, swallowed up in New Zealand without a trace. However many messages she left him, however much she embarrassed herself, traipsing around the backpacker haunts showing everyone his photo (
Have you seen this man?
), she received only silence from him, and negative responses and pitying looks from everyone else.

He had gone. Long gone. And never seen again, even though she always kept an eye out for his freckled face and broad smile, cocked an ear for that distinctive too-loud laugh of his. They were still supposedly Facebook friends but that meant nothing; he hardly ever updated his status, and had over 600 ‘friends’ listed the last time she looked. She had once drunkenly scrolled through them all, torturing herself by wondering how many of the women he had slept with. Had he enjoyed a passionate fling in every continent? He hadn’t seemed that kind of bloke, but maybe she was just naïve.

‘Everything all right, love?’ her mum said, coming in and seeing her motionless by the worktop, her mug still empty bar the dry teabag.

‘Um . . . yeah,’ she replied distractedly, lost in a loop of sun-tinged memories.

Dan Collins was back in the same country as her. Forty miles away, no less, just the other side of the Peak District. She had to see him again.

‘Mum, can I open a bottle of wine?’ she asked, suddenly feeling the need to blur the edges of this almighty shock. Tea wasn’t going to cut it.

‘Of course,’ Trish said. ‘Help yourself.’ She hesitated. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

Sophie gave her a small, determined smile. ‘Everything’s fine,’ she said.

The next day, work was drearier than ever. It was pouring with rain and every customer seemed in a foul mood. Grant, her boss, was supposedly on a trip to the cash and carry, although she was sure she’d seen him slipping into the pub over the road half an hour ago. In the meantime, she was left running around doing everything herself. She’d already scalded her hand twice on the coffee machine, and then a rampaging toddler crashed into a table, hurting his head and spilling drinks everywhere.

As the clock dragged out every boring, mindless minute, she found herself glancing at the door, wishing Dan would burst in and take her away from all this.

I made a terrible mistake
, he would say.
I have been scouring the world for you. Let’s run away together and live happily ever after!

The door opened just then and she swung round with an insane burst of optimism, but to her disappointment it was neither Dan nor Grant, back to help out, but a red-haired woman, struggling in with an umbrella and a freezing draught. Then Sophie realized it was Catherine, from her evening class. ‘Oh, hi,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

Catherine folded her umbrella and dumped it behind the door. ‘Hi!’ she said in surprise. ‘I didn’t know you worked here.’

‘Yeah, more’s the pity,’ Sophie grumbled before she could stop herself. ‘Are you local, then? I haven’t seen you around before.’

‘I live in Wetherstone but I do a couple of shifts at the Cancer Research shop just a few doors down,’ Catherine said, unwinding her scarf. ‘I’ve just missed a bus and it’s so horrible out there, I thought I’d treat myself to a coffee while I wait.’