Chapter Thirty
Sorrento
Eva leaned on the rail of the swimming deck, looking down at the waves washing over the rocks some four feet below. The afternoon sun was beating down on to her bare shoulders, and the decking was too hot to stand on without her flip-flops.
She was alone. All the other guests at The Royal Hotel had retreated up the steps to the shade of the gardens. She could hear their laughter, the clink of glasses and the soft murmur of the same tape of Italian songs she’d heard almost continually for the whole time she’d been staying here.
The ferry to Capri was just leaving the harbour. As the swell from the boat reached the rocks beneath her, she saw the fish. About ten of them, four or five inches long – sardines perhaps, because there was a flash of silver as the waves tossed them from one rock pool to another. They appeared to be trying to get back into the open sea. But each time they almost made it, another wave came and they were tossed back.
She watched them for some time, almost mesmerized by the futility of their exertions, and it suddenly occurred to her that she had a great deal in common with them. In the last eighteen months she’d been tossed around by outside forces, reeling from one disaster to another, and she had lost all sense of direction.
Just like the sardines in the rock pools with their desire to reach the open sea, she’d left England almost four months ago in the belief that if she just removed herself from her past life, she’d save her sanity and find the ability to be happy again.
She had no fears for her sanity any more. She’d had times in Paris when she’d been terrified and felt totally isolated. She missed Phil so badly, it was like an open wound – just a glimpse of a man who looked a bit like him made her heart race. Yet however scared she was at first in Paris, and however much she wanted to stay in her room in the pension in St Germain and hide away, she made herself leave there each morning. First, she would have a coffee and a pastry at a sidewalk cafe while she people-watched, then later she went off to explore whichever area of Paris she’d decided on the night before. She found her way around the Métro, walked for miles, visited all the well-known tourist attractions – and most of the less well-known ones too – and went to parts of the city most people avoided.
Loneliness, she had finally decided, wasn’t the same as being alone. She did feel lonely sometimes – usually when she saw something that made her laugh, and she wished Phil was there to laugh with her. She felt lonely too eating on her own; food was something which was always better shared. But mostly she found being alone almost a guilty pleasure, because she didn’t have to consider anyone else’s feelings or tastes.
She had felt very sorry for herself when she first left England, and the only way she could stop the self-pity was by reminding herself how fortunate she was that she had money in the bank from the sale of the studio. She still lived frugally, because she had never been a spendthrift, but it was a safe feeling knowing she had that big cushion of money behind her.
Maybe it was Olive’s suggestion that she write down her feelings, or Flora’s influence, which made her start a diary. Certainly the irritation she’d felt at Flora’s lack of real information in her diaries made her record not just what she did each day, what she saw, but also how she felt.
Looking back at her diary almost a month after she started, she noticed that on her tenth day in Paris she’d written that the noise of the traffic didn’t seem so loud any more, that she didn’t mind being jostled by crowds, and that sometimes she even wanted to talk to people. That was the point when she began to feel better.
Writing had been her saviour, she was convinced of that. It filled time, it both soothed and kept her mind sharp, and it became a reason to explore further, just for the joy of writing about it. One day, while scribbling away in a cafe, an English couple asked her if she was writing a book. They said they’d seen her there before, always writing. Without even stopping to think, she said she was. Knowing she was never going to see them again, she told them a fictionalized story about herself, and it was the most liberating thing she’d ever done. To invent a different past for herself meant she could be anyone – rid herself of old scars, emotional baggage and a bad self-image.
It was only once she was in bed that night, with the hum of traffic coming through the open windows on a warm breeze, that it occurred to her that maybe the story she’d told that couple – that she’d taken a sabbatical from her job in an advertising agency in order to write – could well be turned into a book. She found herself excited by the idea of inventing a heroine who was all the things she was not: someone beautiful and brave, who had amazing adventures as she travelled from city to city.
From Paris she took a train, first to Florence and then to Rome. As she assimilated the turbulent histories of both those ancient cities and found herself wowed by their magnificent works of art, she wrote about what she saw and experienced. Paige, her heroine, did things Eva wouldn’t dare: she had an affair with a snake-hipped, doe-eyed waiter who stole her money, she accepted invitations to the homes of total strangers, and she drove a Vespa around the narrow streets in tiny shorts and a cropped top. There really were handsome waiters who made eyes at Eva, but her heart was still with Phil.
Sitting in pavement cafes or strolling past expensive shops, she’d observed the elegance and self-assurance of Italians, marvelling that the design of their clothes, shoes, lighting and furniture were all so much more stylish than their English counterparts. She wrote that Paige was asked to design an interior for a splendid old palazzo Eva had seen on the banks of the Arno near the Ponte Vecchio, and she delighted in writing about the fabrics, the colours and the beautiful antique furniture she would put into it. Paige let herself be seduced by the owner of the palazzo – wild, steamy sex that made Eva feel even more wistful about Phil.
However exciting Rome was, in July it became too hot and crowded for even Paige to enjoy it. So Eva caught the train to Naples and arrived here in Sorrento, on the Amalfi coast, to find that it was a different Italy, one of natural beauty that man had no hand in.
The clear sapphire sea, the terrifying hairpin bends along cliff roads with sheer drops to rocks hundreds of feet below, the slower pace and the air, heavy with the scent of lemons, enchanted her. She had no fear of walking about here after dark, although it was often more tempting to just sit on the balcony of her room in The Royal Hotel to watch the sun set over the sea. The comfort, friendliness and location of the hotel were seductive too. She could catch a train to see the wonders of Pompeii. The ferry went to Capri, Positano and Amalfi, and the staff greeted her each morning like an old friend or a member of the family. And they seemed glad she stayed on and on.
The warm sun, the profusion of flowers and trees, and the writing of her story all worked more magic on her. When she looked in the mirror she saw an attractive girl of twenty-two, small, curvy, with pretty blue eyes and shapely legs – not the plump and plain girl she had once believed she was. So the blonde streaks in her hair weren’t natural, but her suntan was; she looked good in her turquoise bikini, and not a day passed without men smiling or whistling at her.
She wasn’t really aware that she’d started to enjoy other people’s company. It crept up on her. First it was Sadie from Essex, who sat next to her going across on the ferry to Capri. She was a student, alone too, and they talked about the thriller Sadie had with her, one Eva had also read, found on the hotel bookshelf. By the time they got to Capri it seemed natural to explore the pretty little town together. When they arrived back in Sorrento harbour in the early evening, they went to a bar and got drunk together, talking and laughing as if they’d known each other for years. Eva told Sadie about how she had first lied and said she was writing a book, and now it seemed she really was. They talked about the plot and made up more and more ridiculous adventures for her heroine. It was such a fun evening, but Sadie was going back to Naples to meet up with a couple of friends the next day. When they parted, Eva was genuinely sad.
From almost the first day in Sorrento, she’d thought this was the place she could stay for ever. She’d begun to learn Italian, she’d asked about getting work and even buying property here. She’d been convinced that there was no reason to go back to England.
Until she noticed those fish.
The fish were better off in the rock pools than out in the sea. They could bask in the warmer water; they couldn’t be eaten by bigger fish or be scooped up by fishermen. Yet they were striving to get back into deeper water because, dangerous or not, they knew that’s where they belonged.
So where did she belong? Was it in England? There was only really Ben, Patrick, Gregor and Olive there. Freya had no interest in her, and she’d burned her bridges with Phil. The half a dozen postcards she’d sent him had been intended to tell him she was thinking of him all the time, but maybe he found them insulting – as if she was thumbing her nose at him. She thought he must have got a new girlfriend by now. That stung – she didn’t want to picture him with someone else – but after leaving the way she did, she couldn’t expect anything else.
As for her brother and friends, they would be perfectly content with only a letter or phone call from her once in a while, if she was really happy and settled here. Ben and Patrick would come and visit her too. Maybe even Olive would.
She was happy now. She woke every morning feeling good about herself, and felt she’d dealt with all the hurt of the past. Her sorrow at losing Flora and Sophie would never go away completely. And in some strange way she was glad she had that sore place inside her; it was evidence of their importance to her.
But loving Phil was quite different from loving Flora or Sophie. He was there in her heart and mind every day, a raw place that would not heal. Each meal she ate, every beautiful view she saw, she wished she was sharing it with him. At night in bed she pictured his face: those soft brown eyes, the way his lips curled up at the corners like a smile even when he was serious. She heard his laughter, whispered words of love, and she remembered how the lovemaking had been before all this other stuff got in the way.
Lots of men had tried to chat her up – in France, Rome, Florence and here – but she had no interest in any of them. Phil had been special, and no one else would ever make her feel the way she did about him.
But she had blown it with him. She had to accept that and just be grateful that he’d been there for her when she most needed love. He’d also let her go without bitter words or nasty accusations. A man like Phil only came along once in a lifetime.
Tears sprang up in her eyes at the thought of what she’d thrown away. She might have got used to loss in her life: Flora and Sophie, and all those precious things that were destroyed in the fire. She could accept that now. But there would always be deep regret at losing Phil.
She moved away from the rail and walked towards the ladder at the end of the deck to go for a swim. As she descended each rung of the steel ladder and the cold water crept up her sun-baked skin, she gasped at the exquisite torture. Her hands moved down the smooth steel of the rail till they met the waterline, where the metal became covered in slimy green weed.
She let herself flop into the sea and then swam away from the ladder, out to where a string of buoys prevented boats coming close to shore. She turned on to her back and floated, enjoying the sensation of the cool water caressing her hot scalp.
Above, wisps of cloud like candyfloss drifted across the periwinkle-blue sky. And as always when she swam here, she looked back at the land and marvelled at the hotels and houses built right on to the edge of the cliffs. She wondered how the builders had the confidence to believe the cliffs would hold them safe.
Perhaps that was the exact reason why she needed to go back to England? To prove to herself that all the bad things in her past life really were over, that nothing else was going to crumble beneath her, and more importantly too that she was now capable of forging a career and a real life for herself, that she wasn’t dependent on anyone but herself.
Eva turned over, took a deep breath and dived down into the water, staying down and swimming fast until her lungs felt as if they were about to burst.
As she surfaced, she heard someone shout. Treading water, she wiped the water from her eyes and saw a man on the decking, waving. She looked around, but there was no one else in the water, so she swam back to the ladder to see what he wanted.
Climbing up, to her astonishment she saw that the man was Patrick.
‘I can’t believe it!’ she exclaimed breathlessly as she scrambled up the last few steps. ‘How did you know I was here?’
‘Elementary, my dear Watson,’ he said with a wide smile. ‘The last postcard you sent was a picture of this hotel. I rang yesterday to check you were still here.’
‘I’m too wet to hug you,’ she said, but she took his hand in both of hers. He looked handsome in a white short-sleeved shirt and pale-blue slacks, still with his ponytail, but his face and arms were brown and healthy-looking. ‘What a wonderful surprise.’
‘It’s equally wonderful to see you looking so fit and well,’ he said. ‘But it’s too hot for me down here. Shall we go up into the garden and have a drink or two?’
‘What made you come?’ she asked later, when she’d dried herself off, put on a sarong and they were sitting at a table under the trees.
‘To get you to come home,’ he said simply. ‘Phil showed me the postcards you’d sent him a couple of nights ago when I called round to see him. I got the distinct impression from them that you might be miles away but he was still in your heart.’
‘He is,’ she admitted. ‘But I’ve hurt him too badly to hope that he still feels anything for me.’
‘He isn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve or to cry into his beer, but I know he wants you back.’
‘He does?’
Patrick put one of his hands over hers and smiled at her. ‘Yes, he does, Eva. He understood why you felt you had to run away. He said if he’d been through what you had, he’d have done the same.’
A delicious bubbly feeling coursed through her veins. ‘Does he know you’ve come here?’
‘No, I came on an impulse after I phoned the hotel. But the fact you were still here might have meant you had someone new, so I wasn’t going to give Phil false hope. Have you got someone?’
She shook her head. ‘There hasn’t been anyone at all. I don’t want anyone but Phil.’
Patrick grinned. ‘Well then, this wasn’t a wild goose chase. I suggest we ring the airport and get you on a plane home tomorrow.’
The waiter came, and Patrick ordered a bottle of wine. Then he beamed at her. ‘You mentioned on my card you were writing a book. Tell me about it?’
Eva laughed. ‘Oh, it’s just rubbish really – certainly not publishable. But writing it brought back my sanity. It is very cathartic. While pretending something is fiction you can write stuff that really happened, and make it so it doesn’t hurt any more.’
He put a hand over hers. ‘I can see that you are mended. You look fabulous – shining eyes, glowing skin – the way you looked the first time I met you. You know that I went through something like this after Flora left me. I know how it feels. I cured myself too by going to Canada. I wrote very bad poetry, I drank far too much, and then gradually that black mist lifted. But no one ever captured my heart again the way Flora did. I sometimes think if I’d gone up to Scotland and found her, that maybe …’ He paused. ‘I think she sent me that picture of the cottage because she wanted me to come. But I was too hurt and weak to do that. Phil is stronger tha
n that. I dare say some people would say he let you walk all over him. But in my opinion only the strongest of men can let their woman go, and trust that love doesn’t die, and she’ll come back.’
Eva’s eyes filled with tears.
‘Don’t cry,’ Patrick said reprovingly. ‘Today is for celebrating. I’ve got something else to tell you too. Your sister, Freya, is in London. I met her with Phil a few weeks ago.’
‘Really!’ she exclaimed. ‘Where? What is she doing? Is she OK?’
‘Don’t look so anxious, she’s a great little thing. As forthright as you! It seems after you saw her in hospital she had a spell working in a nursing home, which she hated. She didn’t ring you, because she was too proud. She said she was determined to get a good job before she contacted you again. She said something about you both making a promise to see each other in a year’s time.’
‘Yes, we did.’ Eva grinned. ‘But I’d forgotten about that. So tell me, what is she doing?’
‘Well, she managed, in her words, to “blag her way on to a training course in computers”. That was in Newcastle. She lived in some seedy digs while she did it, passed with flying colours and got taken on by one of the big computer companies in London. I can’t remember the name of it.’
‘That is amazing!’ Eva felt jubilant to hear such unexpected good news.
‘She’s a tough cookie and fiercely independent. She’s sharing a flat in Hammersmith with three other girls, and she only rang to speak to you at Phil’s after she’d settled in. Phil was a bit worried about meeting her alone, having to explain how things had been for you and such like. So he took me along. I really liked her – she’s an awful lot like you.’
‘Did she say anything about her mother … ?’ Eva paused. ‘Our mother,’ she added.
‘She still hasn’t surfaced, and Freya said quite bluntly that part of her reason for coming south was so that Sue will never be able to find her. Both Phil and I thought that was both wise and brave.’
Forgive Me Page 45
