The Vine (21 page)

Seated and finally left alone by the ample staff that had escorted me, I sit here for a few moments just taking everything in. Suddenly, the red, velvet curtains fly open and the most flamboyant Italian man I have ever seen strides out from behind them. “Buon giorno, Bella, I am Stefano Salvatore,” he loudly introduces himself in the most over-the-top Italian accent.

“Hello,” I say, which is almost a whisper in comparison to his booming voice.

“Ah, you’re English?” he enquires, slightly quieter than before, but still in his extremely strong accent.

“Yes, I’m from London.”

He then leans down to my ear, and in the most cockney voice I think I have ever heard, he whispers, “Good, so am I,” and then laughs hysterically.

I am gobsmacked at first, but as the shock wears off, I start to laugh. “So all of that,” I say as I wave my hand toward the curtain, “is an act?”

“Yep, afraid so,” he laughs, “but it’s our little secret, eh?”

“Of course.” I smile.

“So, doll-face, what are we doing with these luscious locks then?” he asks, raking his fingers through my long hair.

“I want it all cut off,” I state firmly, like I had made my decision and it was final. At my statement, he stops playing with my hair; in fact, he stills completely, and then repeats slowly back to me, “You want it all cut off?” like he can’t quite believe what he is hearing.

“Yes, I want it all cut off short,” I repeat.

“Okay, would you like to look at some pictures first, so you can show me what exactly it is you require?”

“Nope, I would just like you to cut it all off, thanks.” I sarcastically smirk at him at this point, wishing he would just do as I ask. It’s been a hard decision for me to make, so now that I have made it, I just want him to get on with it.

“Okay, doll, I’ll do as you require, but I have to say before I do, these luscious locks are beautiful, and he must have been a real bastard to make you want to lose this gorgeous mane,” Stefano says while brushing his fingers through my hair like it’s made of fine strands of precious gold. I’m lost for words; the thought of Luke being thought of as a bastard has sent me reeling, and I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes.

“What makes you think having my hair cut off is because of a man?” I try to ask normally, but my voice breaking gives me away.

Stefano puts his hands on my shoulders reassuringly, saying, “I didn’t mean to upset you, baby girl; it’s just from my experience, when a young, beautiful woman wants a complete hair transformation that makes no sense, it’s normally because of a guy, or they are running away from something.” I lightly gasp at how accurate Stefano is. “Anyway, it’s not my place to judge, but if you’re sure you want this drastic change, then I’m your man. So leave it to me and I’ll make you look a million dollars.” He smiles.

Although I nod pretty unconvincingly, he takes my hand and leads me over to the basin. I hug the towel he has placed around me and lean back. I feel somehow special, as I know he probably never normally washes his clients hair; he’d have a junior who does that, but for some reason, I’m getting this special treatment, and once again I want to cry, which seems the norm at the moment for any acts of kindness shown to me. While he washes and conditions my hair, he tells me his life story. He was born in Italy, and then his mum and dad had moved to London for his dad’s work when he was promoted, and so he was brought up there. He had
always wanted to be a hairdresser, had trained and worked in the best salons in London and then moved back to Italy to open a world-class salon because there was a market for it. But the type of clientele he had would never accept him with his cockney accent, so he created this alter-ego, and he could switch from one to the other as required.

Stefano leads me back to my seat and brushes out my hair; he then puts it in a ponytail and holds his scissors up to it. “This is your last chance, doll; are you sure about this?” I nod, so Stefano places the shears against the rope of hair and cuts the whole ponytail off. I wince, thinking,
No going back now.

He hands me the ponytail and I take it, stroking the hair Luke and I had loved so much, but now it just reminded me too much of him when I looked in any mirror or caught my reflection somewhere, and the searing pain I got every time it happened was getting harder and harder to live with. So it had to go, along with Lizzy.

We chat easily while Stefano works his magic. He asks where I’m staying, and when I tell him, he seems to be impressed. We gossip like old friends until he finally steps back and I hear him say he’s finished. I’d been looking at him through the mirror the whole time that we’d been talking, but now I focus purely on myself. “Oh, my God,” I say, shocked.

“Is that a
good
oh, my God, or an I’ve-made-such-a-huge-mistake oh, my God?” I hear Stefano say.

“It’s absolutely amazing! This cut is a work of art, and to top it off, you’ve even made me look quite pretty,” I answer, still in shock of how amazing he’d made me look.

“Baby girl, you are gorgeous anyway; this haircut just highlights that fact,” Stefano soothes. He holds a mirror up so I can get a good look at the back. I study it, still in shock, but absolutely amazed. It’s all tapered in at the back, accentuating my long, slim neck, and the front…well, the front just looks spectacular. It is a young, trendy, fashionable pixie cut that looks like it is straight off of the cover of Vogue, and it accentuates my small elfin features to the max. It
makes me wonder why I had hidden myself behind all that hair for all these years; although deep down, I know why—Elizabeth was not a confident girl, and she preferred to be hidden away, rather than be noticed or stared at. Admittedly, that had changed dramatically when I’d met Luke, because suddenly I felt whole, and he gave me confidence. I could not go back to that wallflower again; I wouldn’t allow it. Ella Castel would be strong and confident; it’s what Luke would have wanted. It’s also what Mum and Dad would have wanted, and now I know it’s what I want.

Stefano wants me to have lunch with him, but I feel I need a bit of time to myself, so I take his card and tell him I will definitely meet him for lunch or dinner in a week or so. He makes me laugh as we head to the front of the salon and he goes back to his dramatic, over-the-top accent, using his arms to accentuate every word he is saying. He then kisses me on both cheeks bellowing, “Ciao, Bella,” and winking at me as he waves me off.
Katy would have loved him
, I think.

I go and sit outside a café in the main square, and as I peruse the menu, I wonder if it is socially acceptable to have a glass of wine. I decide since it’s past lunchtime and I’m in Italy, it’s fine. I sit there with my large glass of chilled white wine and people-watch, thinking up stories and wondering if anyone’s tale is as tragic as mine. Before I get maudlin again, I start to think how lucky I’ve been here in Italy since I arrived. After all, I have been here less than twenty-four hours and I have been fortunate enough to not only meet one, but two people who have looked out for me, and who could—at some point, when I am ready—possibly be my friends. I sit at the café for ages, having another couple glasses of wine and eventually a salad, which I play with more than eat.

I finally head back to my hotel to change for tonight. On the walk back, I notice people—both men and women—turning their heads to look at me, probably checking out the new hairstyle. Stefano had done an amazing job fixing my hair in just one hour… what a shame my insides couldn’t be fixed as quickly and easily.

These strangers may be staring now because on the outside I look like your average young, carefree girl wandering the beautiful streets of Verona, but they would stare with nothing but horror and disgust toward me if they knew what I had done.

Hate
is a very strong word, but I hate myself for not being strong, and I despise myself for leaving my beautiful, caring man after what he had been through.
I’m a coward who doesn’t deserve kindness
, I think as I walk back, my head now bowed low in shame. I’ve talked myself in and out of going to this opera, but have finally decided in memory of all the loved ones I have lost, I would indeed go.

It’s a humid evening, so I decide to wear a long, strappy, pale yellow, cotton summer dress, and some diamanté flat sandals. I make an effort by applying some lip-gloss, and I grab a small bag and then head out onto the gorgeous streets of Verona.

I have looked out on to the arena for most of the day from my seat at the café in the piazza, but approaching it now, I am apprehensive; the butterflies in my stomach feel more like fighting birds and it’s making me feel nauseous. People are queuing to enter; they are all giddy with excitement. Some have picnics, and most have drinks, but for me, it’s just not that sort of visit. Even if Luke was here with me, this night of our trip was always going to be a difficult and emotional one. The opera is an emotional experience anyway; add in the sensitive aspect of my mum and I kind of think it’s going to be unbearable. Luke being here with me would have made it bearable. I know it will be nice for me to feel close to her again, but at the same time, I just wish she was here; she would have loved it so much. But here alone without Luke—this is going to be one of the toughest evenings of my life.

I am still standing outside the arena, and it’s with great trepidation I finally decide that if I am going to do this, I need to go in now or I am most definitely going to change my mind. Yes, it is going to be difficult, but it’s also very important I am here. I
start to walk forward on shaky legs, mentally telling myself to put one foot in front of the other—an easy task at any other moment, but on legs of jelly, near on impossible. I hand my ticket to the attendant, who has to physically hold my hand still to take it, as they are trembling so badly. I nod my thanks to him, and continue on my path through the great stone walls.

As I enter and look around, my first thought is how truly amazing it is. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand to attention as I think of the Romans that built it and the gladiators that once fought here. A place seeped in history. There is no seating plan, just large stone step upon large stone step. Bewildered, I finally choose my seat quite high up, and I sit down in the middle of what I suppose would be a row, and there I stay and wait—a complete emotional and nervous wreck—while people pile in around me.

I’m nervous and I can’t sit still; I twiddle my fingers, I tap my feet and my shattered heart feels like it is going to beat right out of my chest. The wait is excruciating, my mind is working overtime and my breathings become erratic. I feel like I’m hyperventilating and about to have an anxiety or panic attack, and it isn’t helped by the fact that the arena is crammed full. Sitting in the middle of a row was a terrible idea; I should have sat on an end so I could get out if I needed to. I’m feeling completely claustrophobic here and my arms and legs feel like dead weights, so I couldn’t fight my way through this crowd anyway—I wouldn’t have the energy.

Suddenly, as darkness falls throughout Verona, the stage lighting in the arena is set ablaze and it looks stunning. I start to look around at this magnificent architecture in all its evening glory, and slowly, I can feel my arms and legs again, my breathing is returning to its regular rhythm and although my heart is still pounding, it’s not through fear anymore. I keep my mind occupied with all this breath-taking scenery until I see movement on the main stage, and then I sit up straight in complete awe as the music starts and La Traviata, my loving, caring, vivacious mother’s
all-time favourite opera, begins. It’s hard, but I try not to think about the fact that my beautiful man should be here with me, sitting beside me, holding my hand and giving me comfort and support at this emotional time.

It wasn’t the first time over the last few days that I noticed I’m not just feeling grief for Luke—I’m also feeling anger. I’m angry at him for leaving me here in this world alone. I’m not sure what I prefer—the nothingness I feel through grief, or the fact I’d found out I’m capable of emotion, even if it’s anger, which I know will turn to guilt. Because how could I be angry at Luke? He didn’t
want
to leave me. It wasn’t his fault; if he’d had any control, I know he would never have let all this happen. No, the fact is, I didn’t want to be angry with Luke; I just wanted
him
.

The music becomes so powerful, it tears me away from my thoughts, and the next few hours are nothing short of amazing. All around me, people are openly crying; the emotion these artists put into their performance is truly incredible. I cry from start to finish; when I’m not crying over the opera, I’m sobbing at my own injustice, and for how much I have been through and what I’ve lost. It is a wonderful but truly painful experience. I can totally see why Mum fell in love with this opera and it brings her back to me for a short while.

I imagine us hugging and crying together, while Dad sits there rolling his eyes at us for being so soppy. God, I miss them so much. If they were here, they would have played an integral part in my grieving process over Luke. Mum would have been there with her words of comfort and wisdom, and Dad would have been there with his endless affection and cuddles. Now they are all tragically gone, and I just feel empty, hollow and alone.

The arena empties out, but still I sit there until there’s barely a soul left. Eventually, I stand, and I feel weak, drained and absolutely exhausted. Everything hurts—my body, my heart, my brain and even my face aches from all the crying I’ve done. I slowly make my way down the steps and out of the arena. I dejectedly
tread through the throngs of people as I make my way back to my hotel. My mind is awash with thoughts of what I had just witnessed—a true love story, although shrouded in sacrifice and misunderstanding.

At last, I am at my hotel. I have no energy for a shower, so I just slip my shorts and t-shirt on, brush my teeth and climb into bed, but unlike the last few nights, it’s not mine and Luke’s tragic story that fills my head before sleep takes me, but Alfredo and Violetta’s from the opera. Their love ended before it could even get started; at least I had six gloriously happy months. It’s like the saying goes—it’s better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all, which I know in my case is true, but why does it have to hurt so much? I drift off to sleep wondering,
Seriously, how much more of this excruciating pain can my heart take? And will it last forever?