by C.J Duggan
After bunk beds, bed bugs and cold showers, I was over it. Over Rome, over Bellissimo Tours and over him! As much as I wanted to back away—the memory of how we parted last night fresh and raw—desperate times called for desperate measures. Slamming the side of my fist against the door in a series of unrelenting thuds, I stood and waited, my heart racing, my patience threadbare as I stepped forward and banged again. I glanced back towards the hotel and saw Luciano standing with his hands on his head, watching on as if he couldn’t believe what I was doing. His look of terrified wonder did little to deter me, however, and I spun around, ready to knock again, only this time the door opened.
My stomach dropped as I finally began to think through the possible ramifications of my actions; what if he had a wife, a couple of kids? But as the door swung open there was only him standing before me. He didn’t look unhappy; surprised, yes, but not as if he’d been caught out. He just looked like Marcello—warm and lovely, a small smile spreading across his beautiful face as he leant against his doorway and those dark eyes drank me in.
‘Sammi?’ It was like he was seeing things, like I couldn’t possibly be standing there, my fists clenched at my side, my brows pinched together, my face unsmiling. And yet, despite what my façade conveyed, my traitorous heart skipped a beat and I could feel my rage simmer down just from witnessing his smile. All the anger that had driven me here dimmed, and for a fleeting moment I simply wanted to forget it all and leap into his arms, have an almighty meltdown and tell him everything that had gone wrong. How I was homeless and trapped, with no idea what to do or where to go. Marcello must have sensed my despair—surely it was rolling off me in waves—but when he stepped out of his doorway and into the street, it was as if he was checking me over for signs of injury. He reached out for me. ‘Are you okay?’
I stepped back, out of reach of his touch, wrapping my arms around myself. I shut down any whimsical, romantic thoughts I had about him and instead channelled my reality, which was enough for the anger to rise once more.
‘I need to speak to your sister,’ I said, my eyes boring into his.
Marcello slowly let his outstretched hand fall. ‘What did she do?’
I scoffed. ‘What did she do? She left me fucking behind, that’s what.’
Marcello’s brows rose, as if he couldn’t have foreseen a delicate little flower like me using such language. But God, I was mad, so damn mad, even more so when he asked, ‘Were you late? I told you she won’t wait for anyone.’ Instead of simply nodding, being a little empathetic or, God forbid, cursing her on my behalf, he chose to defend her. My vision flashed red.
‘Just because you put up with people letting you down and breaking their word doesn’t mean it’s something that I will let slide. Maria took second-hand information from Jodie, who told her that I had cancelled the second part of my trip to meet up with my sister.’
Marcello remained silent.
‘And to be left behind is one thing, but when Jodie takes my passport along for the ride—’
‘She what?’
‘She took my passport, and now I have no way of getting home, no hotel booking and no way of finding them to tell them I am stranded.’ My voice broke—the last thing I wanted to happen. I just wanted to yell at him and then, I don’t even know, maybe go and have a bit of a sook in the hotel lounge area.
Still he didn’t invite me in, choosing instead to just stand there, his brows knitted together like he hadn’t understood a single thing I had said. And just as I was ready to turn and head back to I-don’t-know-where, Marcello laughed, forcing my eyes to snap up at him.
Was he serious? Did he actually find this funny?
He rubbed at the stubble on his chin, as if he was taking it all in.
‘And all this before lunchtime; you have had one hell of a morning,’ he said, looking at me earnestly.
I squared my shoulders. ‘Yes, it’s been rather …’
‘Shit?’
‘Yes, shit. Really, really shit,’ I said, feeling myself falter, because, try as I might, I couldn’t stay mad at him, not with the way he was looking at me now. ‘How do you say shit in Italian?’ I asked.
‘Merda,’ he said, rolling the word on the tip of his tongue.
‘You make even that sound pretty. Why does everything sound better when you say it?’
He smiled and, damn him, those dimples were back. That was clearly unfair. I tried to remain focused, clearing my throat and sticking to the business at hand.
‘So if you can get Maria to call me …’ I paused.
Where? On what number, genius? You have no place to go.
‘I need to tell her what happened, and that she better check with Jodie about my passport; if nothing else, I need that back.’
‘She won’t have her phone on until tonight.’
Yeah, because she’s so professional, I thought bitterly.
I sighed. ‘Whatever—just get her to call the hotel,’ I said, turning away.
‘I thought you said you were homeless?’ Marcello called out after me.
But I kept walking; this time rage didn’t carry me back. All I felt was complete and utter disappointment.
The cold, hard facts of life were that you couldn’t rely on anyone other than yourself, so as I set up my makeshift office in the lounge area of Hotel Luce del Sole, I drew on an even deeper well of determination—or whatever you call three espressos on an empty stomach.
I had studied the itinerary, phoning each hotel that was listed and leaving a message for Maria at every location. She may have her phone switched off but there would be no avoiding me when the front desk staff handed her a note to call the crazed Aussie tourist at Hotel Luce del Sole as a matter of emergency. I had even left a message at the travel agency, so the first thing they would be hearing Monday morning was a diatribe about the failings of humankind, what were we all doing on this crazy, mixed-up planet, and I how really needed to cut down on the caffeine. Gabriello was kindly going to look after all of my incoming messages, should Maria call after I had left; my next port of call was to find alternative accommodation for however long it took to sort this all out. As much as I hated staying here, I had taken comfort in the kindness of the staff, and in a strange way I had become accustomed to the less-than-glamorous lifestyle: did that make me a true backpacker?
By lunch I was sick with hunger, wired from all the caffeine and calling, yet strangely impressed with myself. I hadn’t spoken to my parents once, never alerted anyone back home to the fact that anything was amiss, I was simply getting on with it.
‘Sammi, I have booked you a room at the Scalinta di Spagna. It’s not far from here and I know Mario, who works there—he will take care of you. Check-in is at two.’ Gabriello handed me a folded-up piece of paper.
‘Grazie, Gabriello—you have been such a lifesaver. I’m sorry I’ve tied up your phone line.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He waved my words away. ‘You could probably walk to the hotel but Luciano can take you and your luggage; in the meantime you can stay here as long as you need.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, trying to not let the emotion flood me as I looked up at the kind man. ‘If there’s a cancellation, please still let me know.’
Gabriello chuckled. ‘Once you check into your new hotel, I don’t think you’re going to want to come back here.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, it has its charm,’ I said, thinking only of the hospitality.
Regardless, Gabriello straightened with pride. Maybe he didn’t hear many nice things from people around here, so seeing his face light up kind of made me feel sorry for the way I had behaved.
‘Did you want another coffee?
‘Oh, no, grazie, I am done,’ I said, pushing my empty cup towards him.
He smiled, taking it from me and walking back to his station; this time I swear he had a spring in his step. I, on the other hand, despite all the caffeine, felt utterly spent. I slumped back in my wingback chair, studying the strewn papers
covered with the mad scribblings of a woman on a mission. For all my running around I still hadn’t got very far, and I didn’t feel all that hopeful. What if Jodie had flung my passport out the window somewhere along the Amalfi Coast? I wouldn’t put it past her. No, I would not feel at ease until Maria and the group returned to Rome, and a week felt like a lifetime away. I only hoped that I could make the best of a bad situation and last the remaining days. I breathed out a laugh; how ironic that, since arriving, all I had wanted was to be on my own, away from the giggling girls and the woo-hooing boys. Now I had got my wish: I had woken up and they had disappeared.
I guess it’s really true what they say.
Be careful what you wish for.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I closed my eyes for the briefest of moments, pressed back in my comfy wingback chair, thinking that if only I had mastered the art of meditation then I might have stood a chance of blocking out the noise all around me: the footsteps, the chatter, the animated Italian conversations that sounded boisterous at the best of times.
Block it all out.
And I did just that until I heard the rather irritating sound of suitcase roller wheels on the marble floor nearing me. Seriously, couldn’t they sit somewhere else? Couldn’t they see this was the only comfort I had right now?
Gabriello called out, ‘It is your funeral, my friend.’ And I wasn’t sure to what he was referring or to whom he was speaking, but I smiled in answer anyway. A shadow fell over me and, combined with the halting of the roller wheels, I knew that someone was standing before me. I frowned; was it two o’clock already? Had I snoozed? I blinked my eyes open, expecting to see Luciano waiting to transport me to my new accommodation. When I looked up to see Marcello there, towering over me, his face pensive and serious, I straightened, a panic lodging in my chest at the unexpectedness of his presence.
‘What are you doing here?’ I blurted out.
He had my green cardigan: the very one I had left with my bags was now draped over his arm, which he unhooked and threw on top of me; it was then I realised, my eyes dipping down, that he was holding my suitcase at his side.
What the …?
‘Let’s go!’ he said, turning to exit the building as if the request was non-negotiable.
‘Whoa! Wait a minute!’ I yelled, struggling to get out of my chair. Hobbling after him, I hoped that my leg would wake up sometime soon.
‘What are you doing?’
‘You need a place to stay,’ he said, shrugging one lazy shoulder.
My jaw went slack. ‘I have a place to stay.’
‘Not anymore: I told Gabriello to cancel the booking.’
‘You did what?’ This time, despite my anger and state of distraction, I managed to dodge people in my path as we marched down the street.
‘Maria is going to contact me first, so it makes sense that you be there when the call comes.’
‘I have left a million messages in every possible place she is headed—I don’t need you at all.’
He turned to me with a devilish twinkle in his eyes. ‘Now, that just hurts my feelings.’
I rolled my eyes, moving to reach for the handle of my luggage, but he pulled it out of reach. ‘Look, I know Stockholm syndrome romances are really big right now, but I have no intention of being locked up in your tower.’
Marcello glanced up at his house as if he took exception to my words.
‘Seriously, I have booked into a hotel, I have everything sorted. I will be fine.’
Marcello studied my face, as if he didn’t quite buy what I was selling, probably because I didn’t believe it myself.
‘Lunch is ready: do you like cheese?’
I glowered. ‘Don’t you dare play the cheese card.’
A totally unfair advantage.
A smirk formed, like he was dealing me a hand and he knew he had an ace up his sleeve. ‘Once you’ve tasted Rosalia’s bruschetta, you are not going to want to leave.’
I curved my brow. ‘Oh? And who is Rosalia? Another secret sister? Or a secret wife?’
Marcello laughed. ‘Ah, beautiful Rosalia. She is more like an adopted nonna—she takes care of me.’
‘And now you want to take care of me?’ I mused, hoping that he might say yes, but knowing I would probably be mad if he did. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, I thought.
Marcello looked at me, weighing up how best to answer.
Smart man.
He said nothing, instead stepping closer to me and causing my heart to skip a beat. I was prepared for words, ready with a comeback on the tip of my tongue, but I wasn’t prepared for the feeling of support at my back and the warm sensation of Marcello’s body pressed up against mine as his dark brown eyes looked at me.
‘You must be hungry.’ His words were low, deep, and had my mind whirling; was he talking about food or something else? Either way, my mouth watered and I swallowed deeply, my eyes flicking down to his mouth.
‘I am a little.’
Marcello smiled, knowing he had me just where he wanted me, then opened the door and pushed it wide with his back.
‘La mia casa è la tua casa—my house is your house!’
His voice echoed as we walked into the entrance, Marcello pulling my suitcase along behind him on the marble floor. He dumped his keys and sunglasses on a table near the doorway, a totally ordinary thing to do, but this was anything but an ordinary house. We walked past large, ornate columns to a grand curved staircase, but despite the splendour of the surrounds, the first thing that hit me was the mouth-watering smells that filled the home. My belly rumbled its betrayal and, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, based on that smell alone there’d be no getting rid of me.
It seemed Marcello had heard the rumblings of my empty stomach, too, as he led me straight up the stairs. He may not have lived in an actual tower, but it was close: we ascended a tall, winding staircase, flooded with natural light, to the upper levels, where the aroma of food became more intense and the sound of a woman singing made me soften a little.
‘Rosalia, c’è qualcuno che vorrei che tu incontri,’ Marcello called out as we reached the top level.
‘Are you asking her to put a sedative in my food?’
Marcello laughed. ‘Of course not, I am asking her to get the shackles ready so I can chain you to your bed.’
I laughed too, something I instantly regretted as my cackle echoed so loudly in the space that I sounded like a mad woman.
Marcello smiled broadly as I slapped my hand over my mouth, mortified as he led me to a door and pushed it open.
I tentatively stepped inside. My feet skimmed along the aged parquetry flooring as I entered the light-flooded room that was ten times the space of my hotel dungeon. Large windows overlooked rooflines of tan-coloured buildings, broken up by potted green plants on neighbouring rooftops. The bed was enormous, tucked tightly with white, crisp sheets that I couldn’t stop myself from running my hand over, fantasising about taking a running leap and dive-bombing into the pillow tower.
Calm down, Sammi, no need to get carried away.
Marcello opened a beautifully carved, baroque-inspired wardrobe, the kind you might find in Marie Antoinette’s boudoir. He placed my suitcase inside and tilted his head in the opposite direction. ‘The room has its own bathroom.’
My heart swelled, and I tried to walk casually to where he motioned, barely containing the giddy squeal building inside me. The bathroom was more like a Roman bathhouse, bejewelled with mosaic tiles and featuring a large recessed bath and open shower with a seat. There’d be no worrying about whacking my elbows on the shower door, or shifting piles of dirty towels on the floor as I fought my way to the make-up-trashed vanity; I could almost feel a tear coming, the bathroom was so beautiful.
I caught the reflection of Marcello in the mirror, leaning in the doorway and watching me with a satisfied smile. ‘You know you are staying, right?’
I turned to him, leaning against the marble vanity. I regarded him
for a long moment, wishing that I was stubborn enough to tell him where to go. Who was I kidding?
‘You had me at cheese.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Marcello left me to freshen up for lunch: a glorious, long shower, a fresh set of clothes and the promised dive bomb onto my new bed. I was finally allowing myself to revel in my excitement over having a real room, quite the shift in behaviour from this morning’s depression, and hardly befitting of someone who had lost her passport. I lifted up onto my elbows, looking around at the space with its lofty, frescoed ceilings and marble mosaic detailing. Everything was light, bright and vast, perhaps all the more so when compared to the dingy accommodation I’d had until now. Had I started off my Italian adventure in such a way, would I have had a completely different outlook? Most definitely.
I opened the enormous panelled door leading me out to the hall, straining my neck to see the curved ceilings and wondering how they swept the cobwebs up there. As big as the apartment was, I wasn’t worried about getting lost; I simply had to follow the smells and the singing. Rosalia’s rendition of ‘Blame It on the Boogie’ made me smile as I walked along, exploring the home until I reached a set of large double doors. I wondered where they led to. Was this Marcello’s bedroom? A ballroom, maybe? I reached out and touched the carved detailing of the moulding.
‘You must be hungry.’ Marcello’s voice made me jump, and I pulled my hand back as if I had been caught doing something I shouldn’t. Despite my intrigue and awe, I had to remind myself that I was a guest, and snooping was probably not a great look.
‘What’s in there?’ I asked, hoping that it might prompt a house tour, but Marcello seemed uncomfortable with the question.
‘Nothing. Lunch is ready,’ he said, shutting down the inquiry.
Right. Keep your questions to yourself.
