Authors: Joanna Rees
‘The best way is by boat,’ he said eventually in flawlessly pronounced English, bringing a smile to Romy’s lips. ‘Around the coast. Pietro will take you.’ He nodded
over to the toothless man on the fish stall, who grinned at Romy.
Twenty minutes later Romy found herself clinging to the rigging, as the small fishing tug nipped through the water. Pietro grinned again over his shoulder at her, as he headed out away from the
port, driving the boat at full tilt, as if it were a bumper-car in a fairground.
They went right out into the Bay of Naples, and Romy felt the wind blowing her hair back from her face as she took in the spectacular view and the cliffs of the rocky coastline. She turned her
face into the hot sunshine, suddenly not caring how she would ever get back to Naples by this evening. Below her the boat cut through the clear greeny-blue water and she saw the shadows of fish
chasing the boat, as if they were daring each other not to get caught.
Soon they rounded the headland and Amalfi came into view. The engine changed gear and, as they got closer, slowed to chug towards the port with its pretty pastel houses along the quayside.
The fishing boat slowed and stopped at the end of one of the long wooden jetties. Pietro nodded for her to get off and explained it was faster into town from there than if she went all the way
with him to the port.
She waved to the fishing boat as it travelled on towards the high harbour wall and she set off down the jetty, past the sleek white yachts.
At the end, where the quayside was packed with cars, she saw a guard in the office by the barrier reading the paper, stuffing his face with a sugar-coated pastry, and she waved to him as she
strode past, as if she owned the place, enjoying the way her yellow sun-dress flapped around her thighs.
As Romy stopped and ordered a cappuccino at a small cafe she wanted to pinch herself. She was really here. In Amalfi. There was no one telling her what to do. No shift to be on anytime soon. No
one snoring, or talking in her cabin.
This was what real life was like for everyone else, she thought. This is what it really felt like to be free. As she stared out at the street and at the small cafes opening up, she understood
that deep down she was always waiting. Always expecting someone from her past to spot her. But as she breathed in, feeling the rising heat of the sun, she remembered the cold orphanage a world
away, and let herself say the words, ‘They can’t find me here. They will never find me.’
When she’d finished her coffee, she went to the shop to ask directions, pushing through the plastic strip-curtain. It was cool inside like a church. In the sudden dimness, Romy could make
out shelves stacked sparsely with provisions.
A man carrying several awkward black bags was buying lots of packets of cigarettes. He looked hassled. He took off his baseball cap and she saw that he had closely cropped dark hair, which only
made his eyelashes look longer. He glanced over at Romy as he dug in his jacket for his wallet.
Romy stood by the postcard rack and turned it slowly round. Dust-motes swirled down from the high window above the door.
And suddenly, there it was. Her picture. Identical to the one she’d had in the orphanage all those years ago. She felt her heart in her throat as she reached out and plucked it from the
stand. As she held it, staring at the bright colours, Romy felt as if she were reclaiming something precious for herself. Her chance to dream.
Because if one of her dreams – if
this
dream – could come true and she could stand in that picture and look out at that view, then she’d know anything was possible.
The curtain rattled as the man left the shop, and Romy was alone. She looked out and saw that he was climbing into a waiting yellow taxi. Maybe she could get a taxi too.
She paid for the postcard, handing the coins over to the woman in the grey dress, a black shawl draped over her shoulder at the counter. A black cat wound around Romy’s heels, tickling her
ankles.
‘Where is this?’ Romy asked the woman, pointing to the picture.
The woman took the card, putting thick brown-framed glasses over her eyes.
‘Hotel Amalfi, along the coast from here.’
Romy’s stomach jumped at the words. ‘How do I get there?’
‘You don’t have a car? The last taxi just left.’
Romy shook her head. ‘Go by moped. You can hire one from Rene, my grandson.’
Romy had driven a moped once before, when she and her friend Donna on the
Norway
had gone ashore in St Barts, but she was surprised at how speedy this one was, as she
followed Rene’s directions out of town, along the road dappled with shadows, the glittering sea flickering between the Cyprus trees as the dusty road curved up and away out of town.
The more the open road unravelled before her and she climbed the steep bends, the more she felt her ties with the cruise ship breaking. The staff, her responsibilities, fading into the distance,
lost on the twinkling expanse of ocean.
Now a delicious thought occurred to her. What if she never went back?
But she couldn’t just leave, she thought. She needed a reference to get another job. And besides, what other job could give her the opportunity to travel as much, and to earn and save so
much, until she decided what to study?
So much for the University of Life, she thought, remembering what Christian had told her in the hotel in London all those years ago. She’d thought travelling on a cruise ship would give
her proper life experience, but she’d been just as institutionalized and protected as she had been in the orphanage.
She hadn’t really been
living
her life at all. Not until today.
Soon, at the top of the cliff, Romy saw the sign and, indicating, she turned down the lane leading to the lavish gates of the Hotel Amalfi.
Romy had seen some high living on
Norway
and
Spirit
, but this place was opulent to a whole other degree. Romy stopped the moped and stared at the palatial frontage, with its pretty
paintwork and fancy shutters. Neat box-hedges lined the gravel driveway.
She took a deep breath, feeling her nerves threatening to overtake her resolve. What if someone stopped her? How could she explain why she’d come?
But she was here now. She’d been carried here by fate. She couldn’t stop now.
She walked up the smooth stone steps, and a porter opened the green wooden and glass doors from inside and bowed to her.
Nervously she walked across the marble hallway, glancing up at the enormous chandelier above her head. It’s a confidence trick, she told herself. Act like you belong here and nobody will
stop you.
She made her way over towards the desk. A man and woman were standing with a girl with dark curly hair. The girl was wearing silly Doc Marten boots and tie-dyed trousers and was crying.
‘You’re overreacting,’ the woman said. She had a posh English accent and put her arm maternally around the girl.
‘I found them together,’ the girl said, stuffing a wad of tissue against her eye. ‘I knew he’d do this to me. He’s always done this to me. He’s always stolen
everything I cared about.’
‘I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,’ the woman said. She mouthed something over the girl to the man with the bushy moustache. He shrugged, clearly not knowing what to
do. ‘Tell her, Duke.’
‘You always take his side,’ the girl shouted suddenly, her raw eyes turning to the woman’s.
‘Please, Bridgey, calm down,’ the man said. ‘I’m terribly sorry about this,’ he added to the concierge, who smiled at Romy.
‘Could I help you?’ the woman asked Romy in Italian in an embarrassed whisper. This obviously wasn’t the kind of place that this sort of thing happened.
‘I’m meeting a guest here,’ Romy lied quietly, making it clear to the concierge that she was just as shy of getting involved with the other guests. ‘Would you mind if I
waited on the terrace?’
‘Of course.’ The concierge pointed to the door and Romy headed outside, feeling each step lighter than the other, as she saw the familiar balustrade and the ocean stretching
twinkling into the distance.
Nico Rilla sat on the terrace, squinting in the early-morning sunshine as he threw his baseball cap onto the table. His head thumped as he reread the fax he’d just picked
up at reception and cursed.
Fucking movie directors
, he thought.
They were so unreliable.
He’d slogged his guts out to get enough time in his schedule to meet the great Carlos Antonio, who summered here at his favourite hotel, but his assistant had sent a message to say that
Antonio had been delayed in LA for the foreseeable future.
God damn it, Nico thought. Antonio might have won a score of Oscars for his last movie and was a busy guy, but even so. To let Nico down like this was bad form. He’d been relying on that
commission for
Vanity Fair
.
And without the job he had no idea now how he’d ever pay for his rent in Milan – one more missed payment and Signor Ziglioni would be bound to throw him out. Nico rather liked his
rooftop apartment, even though it was barely large enough to swing a cat and the pigeons woke him in the morning. But it was all he had. The place he called home.
He lit his sixth cigarette of the morning and drained the black espresso in front of him. Then he ran his hand over his new buzz-cut, trying to get used to the feeling of not having any hair. It
was the only way to go, he told himself again, unable to ignore how much he was thinning on top. It pained him that he’d lost his hair so young, and working around beautiful people all the
time only added to his sense of inadequacy. It didn’t help that after his last relationship with Misha six months ago, he was still single. He wondered what Misha would make of his hair
now.
But suddenly his attention was caught by a blonde girl, her hair messed up, her face streaming with tears, running after another girl with short dark hair. Why the hell was she wearing boots in
this weather?
‘Wait,’ the blonde girl called in English. ‘You don’t understand—’
‘You don’t get to come on holiday and do this to me,’ the other girl shouted back. ‘You broke your promise.’
Automatically Nico appraised them with a photographer’s eye. He was always doing it. It was his job to find talent wherever he could.
Neither of those girls would cut it in his business, he thought, inhaling on his cigarette. The spoilt ones never could. Not enough need. Not enough hunger. The short freckly one was too
furious-looking, and the blonde one was tall and had a good figure, but it was hard to tell what her face was like, as it was blotched with tears.
Teenage girls, Nico thought, puffing out smoke sardonically. They were all the same. Hysterical. They had no life experience to ground them. He should know, he was an expert on the species. It
amazed him that he was only just twenty-six and yet he felt old already.
That’s why he’d been so glad to get off the catwalks and do some portraits for a change. To be one step closer to doing photography as art. Proper art. Like he’d dreamt about
at college. The portrait of Carlos Antonio had felt like the first step on the ladder. But he might have known this commission was too good to be true.
He took out his mobile phone from his jacket pocket. There was nothing for it. He was going to have to grovel to Simona.
Simona Fiore ran one of the biggest European modelling agencies and she was ferocious. But she also happened to be the most-connected person in the fashion world, and Nico had done her more
favours than he cared to remember. If there was any shoot that needed a photographer fast, then Simona would know about it. As long as there was a cut in it for her.
He sighed, looking up and then back at the phone, but as he did so, something caught his eye. A girl was leaning on the stone balustrade, her dark hair blowing softly in the breeze. Nico’s
cigarette paused midway to his lips.
Christ, was that the girl he’d seen earlier in the kiosk in Amalfi? The girl who’d caught his eye as she’d stood in the shop looking at him.
And she was here?
Nico felt a tingle start inside him as he stared at the girl, watching the expression on her face. Backlit by the sun, he could see her fine bone structure. Hell, with those long legs, Nico was
willing to bet she had one hell of a body underneath that sundress.
But there was something about her. Something that he’d known in his gut the moment he’d seen her. Something that made him unable to take his eyes off her now. It was just that
expression on her face . . . as if nothing else in the world mattered except this moment.
He watched as she guiltily looked back behind her, towards reception. Then she quickly walked along to where the steps led down towards the beach.
Jeez, Nico thought, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. Maybe he was being crazy and desperate, but if he was right . . . ? He felt his hairs tingling on the back of his neck again.
A gut feeling was a gut feeling.
What are you waiting for, stupid
? He’d not had the time to speak to her in the shop, as he’d been in such a rush to get here to meet his
goddamn Houdini of a director, but now he had all the time in the world and a rare second chance. He stabbed his thumb down to disconnect the phone. Then he quickly ground out his cigarette and
grabbed his camera bag.
Romy breathed in deeply, feeling the sun on her face. Even though she’d been awake all night, she felt more alive than ever as she tripped down the stone steps, through
the fragrant bushes towards the twinkling ocean.
All her life she’d longed to find out what was on the other side of the balustrade and now here she was, alone amongst the olive trees, on the hot stone path, her fingertips trailing over
the flowering cacti nestled in the rocks.
It was so weird to be here. She’d imagined it for so long, but now it felt illicit, as if she didn’t deserve it. As if she might get found out any minute. It felt like she was in a
dream.
The path got steeper and steeper and soon the steps led down to the beach.
A tiny sliver of sand framed the perfect cove, set amongst the craggy rocks. The water was crystal-clear. She gasped, jumping down onto the rocks, then flinging her bag on the sand. She checked
around her to make sure she was alone, then ripped off her sun-dress and threw it beside her bag. Then a crazy idea hit her. She checked again. If this was a baptism, then she needed to be
naked.