by C. J. Duggan
I was tempted to slink off into the night, cringing at the thought that I might have got them into trouble. I mean, I probably could have been a bit more inquisitive, looked around, asked more questions from more people, tried my luck with my fragments of remembered Italian. But all I had the energy to do was slump into the well-worn, yet very comfy chair in the lounge area and hope against hope that the answer would come my way—and it had, in the form of Hurricane Maria. An impressive little pocket rocket, she didn’t appear much older than me, and yet she seemed infinitely more streetwise.
Now action began all around me: the smoking porter quickly extinguished his cigarette and hopped into action, and the flustered man behind the desk, who until now had been struggling between flailing through paperwork and skimming over wall keys, was aided by the young receptionist, who handed him the correct key. His face plum red, he handed the key to Maria with what seemed to be a thousand apologies, apologies that Maria turned her back on. Facing me, she smiled brightly, and there again was the flawless professional tour guide; it was as if I had imagined her fiery outburst, though the ringing of my ears told me otherwise.
‘Sammi, why don’t you freshen up and come meet everyone in the courtyard?’
I didn’t know if it was the warmth of her accent or the notion of freshening up, but I immediately felt better. A nice hot shower to wash away the plane grime, and lathering of conditioner to sort out the curly mess on my head. That Claire had inherited Mum’s non-offensive waves and I had been stuck with Dad’s mop of dark curls was another way Mother Nature had conspired against me. I should have thought to ask Jan how a Roman summer would affect my hair. You know, along with all the other important things like tourist visas, airport transfers and luggage allowances.
My attention snapped to the smoke fumes emanating from the porter as he skimmed past me with my suitcase, motioning me to follow. I glanced at a reassuring Maria, whose smile seemed to magically appear anytime my confidence was flagging; she was programmed so well. ‘When you are ready, just head down past the bar and out the back to the courtyard. You cannot miss it, there is a sign with “Bellissimo Tours”—it’s a private function.’
I felt like such an idiot; a mere wander and I could have found them myself instead of sitting in reception like a bag lady getting laughed at. Still, at least I hadn’t wandered into the courtyard looking like a rooster to a group of strangers. I guess I had to be thankful for that, but, following the skinny porter up the narrow, rusty, winding staircase, I couldn’t help thinking back to those eyes, sparkling and amused, and it made me wonder. Perhaps I would have preferred the eyes of a thousand strangers, instead of that very vivid pair I couldn’t quite shake.
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Copyright
Published in Australia and New Zealand in 2018
by Hachette Australia
(an imprint of Hachette Australia Pty Limited)
Level 17, 207 Kent Street, Sydney NSW 2000
www.hachette.com.au
Copyright © C.J. Duggan 2018
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be stored or reproduced by any process without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the National Library of Australia.
978 0 7336 3956 2
978 0 7336 3957 9 (ebook edition)
Cover design by Keary Taylor
Cover photographs courtesy of Shutterstock
Author photograph courtesy of Craig Peihopa
