One Night in Italy (4 page)

If only she’d known what a surprise they’d both get by her early return, she would have sat in the Liverpool Uni car park a good while longer. In fact, she might not have driven home at all.

Traffic was gratifyingly light and it seemed no time before Catherine was turning into the quiet cul-de-sac where they’d lived for the last ten years. Wetherstone was a pretty South Yorkshire village with picture-postcard stone cottages, a tree-edged village green and a close-knit friendly community. It was convenient for Sheffield, where the twins had gone to school, and a short commute to the Health Centre for Mike.

Catherine got out of the car and gazed up at her daughter’s bedroom, wishing Emily was still there, sprawled on the faded pink duvet texting her mates and listening to music. Sadness cut her like a knife and she swayed against the car for a moment.

Come on, Catherine. Be positive. New Chapter and all that. Besides, this could be a new start for her and Mike, too. They could take holidays in term-time now, try to reconnect a little (he had been so distant lately). They could even be romantic again without hearing an ‘Ugh, gross, get a room’ comment in the background. Why not? They weren’t past it yet, were they?

Feeling a flare of optimism, she unlocked the front door and stepped inside. ‘I’m back!’ she called, chucking her handbag onto the bench in the hall and kicking off her shoes.

He must be in the garden, she thought idly when no answer came. She went upstairs, meaning to have a quick wash before she made herself a cup of tea and started thinking about dinner. Goodness, she’d be cooking for just the two of them now, that would be a novelty. The shopping list would shrink unrecognizably without marauding teenagers wolfing their way through the fridge. They could treat themselves to steak without Emily tutting about vegetarianism, and have a few glasses of wine together without feeling they should be setting a good example.

Music was playing from their bedroom. Ooh, excellent. It sounded like he’d finished his work already.

‘Mike, are you – ’ she began, pushing open the door.

Then she stopped dead. And screamed.

There was a blonde woman in her bed wearing nothing but red lipstick and a surprised expression. And Mike, also stark bollock naked, between the woman’s thighs, his bum muscles clenched, eyes widening in horror. No, thought Catherine, stumbling back, stricken. No.

The woman tittered. ‘Oops,’ she said in a lazy drawl. She seemed amused, of all things. Amused!

‘Shit,’ Mike cried, wrenching himself off her. He grabbed a pair of discarded boxers and covered his privates, strangely coy. ‘Cath – I wasn’t expecting you. I . . .’

Catherine’s brain still couldn’t process what was in front of her. No way. This could not be happening.

‘Catherine . . .’ Mike said, advancing towards her.

A sob escaped her throat and she backed away. Then adrenalin ricocheted through her as she ran downstairs, her heart banging in her ribcage. No. No way. Not Mike.

‘Wait!’ she heard Mike yelling frantically. ‘Catherine!’

For the first time in years, she didn’t obey him. She went straight back through the front door and scrambled into the car, her fingers shaking so violently on the seatbelt it took her three attempts to clip it in. Then she started the engine, reversed wildly out of the drive and drove away.

Chapter Three

Una telefonata
– A phone call

‘
Buongiorno
.
Due cappuccini, una coca
and . . . Did you say you wanted ice cream, Lily? . . . Um . . .
Gelato? Per favore?
’

Sophie Frost took pity on the woman with the pink nose and halterneck top who was floundering for the right words. ‘Don’t worry, I’m English too,’ she said. ‘And we’ve got chocolate or vanilla ice cream.’

The woman smiled gratefully. ‘Oh good! Thank you. My Italian is limited to say the least.’ She bent down to the little girl beside her who whispered into her ear. ‘And she’d love a chocolate ice cream, please.’

‘Coming right up,’ Sophie replied. ‘If you take a seat, I’ll bring those over in a few minutes.’

She turned to the cappuccino machine, humming along with the radio as she set about the order. Other people might moan about bar and café work, but it reminded Sophie of being on a stage, performing to a crowd, particularly when the place was full and buzzing. If only you got a round of applause and a curtain call now and then, rather than measly single-euro tips, she’d like it even more . . .

Still, working here had its compensations, not least being in sunny Sorrento, her own corner of paradise. Above the clatter and music of the café, you could just make out the high-pitched shrieks of seagulls down in the bay below, and she knew without looking that the usual collection of impossibly wrinkled
nonnas
would be sitting across the cobbled square doing their endless crochet together, their potbellied husbands animatedly setting the world to rights over tiny cups of espresso or a grappa at a table outside the bar. She knew the trattoria next door would soon be firing up its ovens and the warm air would be filled with the tantalizing scents of pizza and oregano, while the yachties paraded past, heading for Corso Italia and the designer shops. Girls with bare legs buzzed by on Vespas and car horns honked. Up above, the sun languorously traced an arc across the sky, casting golden light on the glorious old stone buildings.

It was all so perfect. And she lived here! There wasn’t a single place in the world she’d rather be. Uncapping the Coke bottle, she found herself wondering what the weather was like back in Sheffield, and shivered as images of wet leaves, frosty mornings and chilblains sprang to mind. It was mid-autumn now, but still a balmy twenty-three degrees in Sorrento.

‘There we are,’ she said, as she took the tray over to the English customers. ‘Two cappuccinos, a Coke – is this for you? And one yummy chocolate ice cream.’

‘Thank you,’ the woman said, pouring Coke into the glass for her son. ‘What do you say, kids?’

‘Fank you,’ the boy mumbled.

‘
Grazie
,’ the girl lisped winningly.

‘Clever girl,’ her father said, ruffling her hair. ‘Thanks,’ he added to Sophie, ripping open a sachet of sugar and tipping it into his coffee.

Sophie left them to it, but found she was clutching the empty tray to herself like a shield as she walked back behind the counter. She always felt extra judgemental about the British families when they came in – couldn’t help herself. This lot seemed okay, but you got some real horrors in affluent tourist areas like Sorrento: braying moneyed types who badgered their blushing, stammering children to order in Italian whether they wanted to or not; the ones you heard pushing, pushing, pushing all the time, never able to let their kids just chill out and enjoy their holiday.

Parents like hers, in other words, who seemed to think that success was measured by the size of your bank account. It left you unable to ever quite shake off the feeling of being a disappointment, however far you travelled.

‘Waitressing in a café?’ she imagined her mother shrieking if she had the slightest inkling that Sophie was here. ‘What a waste of your education! All those years of private school – for nothing!’

‘Waste of your brain, more like,’ her father would thunder. ‘When you could turn your hand to anything you choose. Is this
really
what you want to do with your life?’

Whatever! Was it any wonder she’d cut herself free, deliberately stayed away like a sparkle on the breeze, unable to be pinned down by them or anyone else?

Okay, so she was not the good little daughter they’d hoped for, even after all the riding lessons and dance tuition and piano recitals they’d bombarded her with, not to mention the awful girls’ school she’d suffered, packed wall-to-wall with snobby princess-types who’d looked down their noses at her for being ‘new money’. Being an only child sucked, she had often thought, wishing for a sibling so that the weight of her parents’ expectations could have been borne equally. As it was, she’d thrown their expectations right back in their faces.
Get over it.

She had been away eight years now: eight years of extraordinary adventures, of bustling foreign cities and white sand beaches, finding jobs, homes and friends in umpteen different countries. She had even been sent spinning by the love affair to end all love affairs, not that it had lasted, unfortunately.

And here she was now, with bright Mediterranean sunshine streaming through the window, with beach life and
bella Italia
and her beloved passport. Not tied down to any person or any place. Not working in a dreary grey office saving a pension as her parents would no doubt have liked. I win, she thought.

‘
Signorina
.
Signorina!
’

Oh Christ, someone was clicking his fingers at her. Actually clicking his fingers. Rude bastard. She raised an eyebrow and sauntered over with pointed slowness to the man in question, who seemed to have lost his manners on the way in. He rattled off a lunch order without a single please or thank you, addressing her breasts throughout the entire list of dishes. Then, as she turned in the direction of the kitchen, he grabbed her bottom and gave it a hard squeeze.

‘
Mi scusi!
’ she cried, yanking herself away as he and his friends sniggered behind her. It was all she could do not to brain the lot of them with the nearest menu.

Trembling with rage, she went into the kitchen to pass the order on to Vito, the chef. ‘Feel free to spit in any of it,’ she added in Italian afterwards.

Well, okay, so perhaps not absolutely everything was perfect, she thought, taking a few deep breaths before returning to the café area. Still, it was a small price to pay for freedom. And that, at the end of the day, was what she valued above anything else.

Home these days was a small flat in an apartment block overlooking the bustling Piazza Torquato Tasso. Her budget hadn’t stretched to a sea view, but from her window you could see the
passeggiata
every evening, the leisurely stroll enjoyed by locals and tourists alike as the sun sank in the sky. She had her own titchy bathroom with a dribbling shower, a single bed, a few changes of clothes, her laptop and a temperamental fan to stir up the soupy air. She didn’t need much else.

When she’d arrived in Sorrento eight months ago, she’d envisaged herself settling down here, making the city her home. Her Italian was pretty good, and she thought it would be an easy matter of blending in with the community, making friends, getting to know her neighbours. Who needed family anyway?

Unfortunately, it hadn’t really worked out like that. She knew Vito from the café, sure, and the manager, Federica, and both had always been friendly enough, but there wasn’t the same camaraderie there as other places she’d worked in. No shared drinks after work, no out-of-hours socializing. The one time Federica had taken pity on her and invited her along to a family party, Sophie had felt completely out of place, her choppy blonde bob and green eyes immediately marking her as an outsider.

Oh well. Being alone every night wasn’t the end of the world; she liked her own company, had always been an independent sort. She checked in with Facebook now and then if she felt lonely. She had books. She had the blogging community too, a whole host of virtual friends around the world who followed her adventures on the travel blog she’d written for years. It was enough. Of course it was enough!

Anyway, she would probably move on soon now that the season here was winding down. She’d worked in a ski lodge in Val Thorens a couple of winters ago, and it had been a right laugh, just what she needed to recover from her broken heart. The staff had all celebrated Christmas and New Year together, and it had been one long, glorious party, way better than strained silence around the turkey back in Sheffield. There was always plenty of work up in the north-west, near the Swiss border, over the winter. Maybe it was time to leave the sea and head for the mountains . . .

Perched in her usual spot on the balcony, with a book, a glass of red wine and a ripe juicy nectarine, Sophie was surprised by a knock at her apartment door that evening. Knocks at the door were extremely rare – unheard of, really. It was probably a mistake, somebody with the wrong apartment number, looking for the surly Polish guys upstairs.

She opened the door. ‘
Si?
Oh.
Buonasera, Signor Russo
.’ It was her landlord. Help. Was he about to give her notice, turf her out? Maybe someone had complained about her drying her knickers and vest tops on the small balcony railing. There had been that embarrassing occasion when her pink bra had actually fallen off in a gust of wind and landed on an old man’s shoulder in the street below, but he’d seen the funny side, thankfully – or so she’d thought at the time.

‘
Telefonata
,’ he said, thrusting a piece of paper at her. ‘For you.’

‘Somebody called me?’ she blurted out in surprise, then saw the scribbled name – Samantha, one of her cousins – and a British phone number. Her stomach clenched. ‘
Grazie
,’ she said, her fingers folding around the paper. ‘
Grazie, signor
.’