‘Ciao,’ the man says as he sits down next to me.
He looks a little bit like a younger Joe Manganiello, but without the beard.
‘Hello,’ I reply.
It’s like something out of a rom-com: a heartbroken woman who has fled the scene of her wedding, only for a handsome stranger to wind up sitting on the plane next to her. If there was any justice in the world, we’d fall madly in love somewhere over the Channel.
Once we are up in the air, things get a little awkward when an air hostess brings us two glasses of champagne.
‘Here we are,’ she says. ‘You two let me know if I can get you anything else, okay?’
You can somehow just detect that she is talking to us as if she thinks we are together.
‘Oh, we’re not together,’ I insist quickly.
‘Okay,’ the air hostess replies, baffled. ‘Well, I will still assist you both, if either of you needs anything.’
Perhaps she wasn’t talking to us as if we were a couple at all, and I wonder why I got so defensive.
‘You don’t want her to think I am your boyfriend?’ the man asks with a chuckle. He has a strong Italian accent, but his English is perfect.
‘Oh, no, it’s not that at all, quite the opposite,’ I reply, embarrassed. ‘I had hoped it would be a seat for my husband.’
‘Oh, er…’ I cringe as I watch him agonise over his wording. ‘This is, er… I’m not looking for a wife. I have a boyfriend, back in London.’
I don’t know what is more embarrassing: that I entertained, hypothetically, for a second, that the first handsome stranger I met might fall in love with me and be the answer to all my problems, or the fact that this poor gay guy thinks I just went from insisting he wasn’t my boyfriend to telling him I want him to be my husband. I down my drink anxiously.
‘Oh, no, you are going to laugh when you hear this,’ I begin to explain. ‘I called off my wedding today.’
The man’s big brown eyes widen. I realise that this partial explanation may have only made things worse. Now he probably just thinks I want to marry him because I’m on the rebound.
‘Wait, I can explain this better,’ I say. I take his untouched drink from him and knock that back too. When, oh, when will the mortification end today? ‘I was supposed to be getting married today, but I caught my fiancé kissing one of our friends. It sounded like they’d been having some sort of affair, God knows for how long.’
‘I’m sorry, that’s very bad,’ he replies.
‘It is,’ I agree. ‘So… I don’t know why but I thought it would be a good idea to still go on my honeymoon, but on my own.’
I can see a wave of relief literally wash over the man as he connects all the dots, and realises what’s going on. First, his tense posture relaxes, then the anguished look on his face melts away.
‘So this seat was supposed to be for your husband…’
‘Yes! But no husband means spare seat – so were you on the waitlist?’
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘I’m travelling home for a wedding. My brother is getting married. I am sorry to hear about your wedding.’
‘Well, if this hadn’t happened to me, then you wouldn’t have been able to take the ticket, and you’d still be stuck in London. So, at least something good has come out of it,’ I say.
‘That’s a good way to see things,’ he replies. ‘But I am still sorry for you.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Well, I’m done embarrassing myself for the day – why don’t you tell me about you?’
‘I’m Angelo, I’m twenty-one,’ he begins. ‘I’m an art student, in London. I met my boyfriend, Liam, while studying. He is so wonderful!’
I smile. It’s weirdly nice, to see someone so in love. You’d think I’d be jealous, being so miserable myself, but it’s comforting to see that real love is still alive and well in some people. It’s only the people who I know who are sick – and me now, of course – and, at the risk of Angelo catching my bitter cynicism, I decide it best not to talk any more about my love life.
The air hostess notices our empty glasses and tops us up. It’s probably best I pace myself for a while now.
‘So your brother is getting married, you said?’
‘Yes, Antonio. He has known his girlfriend since school. They’re very happy together. It would have broken my heart to miss their wedding and I missed my flight earlier. I read the wrong time. Antonio is my twin – we’re like two halves of the same person. I’m his best man. It would have ruined his day.’
‘So I did something good today,’ I say with a smile.
‘Yes, bella, you did something very good.’
I sit back in my seat, able to relax, just a little. I don’t take out my laptop as I had planned. I just don’t feel in the mood for writing romance right now. Anything I try to write, it’s going to come out all bitter and horrible – the best I could hope for is sarcasm, which isn’t really the most romantic tone out there.
‘It’s very brave, to go on honeymoon alone,’ Angelo says, finally at ease enough to enjoy his free champagne. ‘You are a brave woman.’
‘Hmm, I don’t know about that,’ I reply. ‘Just between us… I'm not doing this because I’m brave, I’m doing it because I’m scared. I’m scared to face my fiancé – or ex-fiancé, or whatever. I’m scared of what happens next. I don’t want to talk to him about what we do with the house, or how we split our Blu-ray collection, or who gets the expensive mattress we’ve just bought, which I honestly think he’s going to have to physically fight me for because I love it.’
Angelo laughs.
As that sentence went on, I could feel it getting more and more tragic, and my words becoming more and more emotional. A U-turn into a joke (that is based on something real, as all good jokes are) was my only option.
The truth is that, while I am scared of all those things, there is one thing that scares me even more. It’s the thought of talking to Daniel, and of some little part of me thinking we can work this out because maybe things aren’t so bad… but he said he loved her, and if he loves her, does he even love me? Can he even love me? And if he doesn’t love me, well, I couldn’t take him back even if I wanted to, could I?
‘You should just forget about him,’ Angelo suggests. ‘Have a nice time. Napoli is beautiful. You can see the sights, eat good food, go dancing…’
‘I erm, I’m not actually stopping in Naples,’ I reply. ‘I’m catching a boat there, to San Valentino.’
I blush a little, saying Italian words to a real Italian, knowing I probably butchered them.
‘Oh, you’re going there?’ he replies.
‘Yes…’
‘I’ve heard all about it,’ he continues, an unsure look on his face.
‘Is it nice?’
‘It’s nice for a honeymoon,’ he replies with a shrug of his shoulders.
‘Oh.’
‘You can still have a great time,’ he tells me. ‘It’s summer, and there is plenty to do, even without a man. And it’s mostly tourists, so lots of people who speak English – you won’t be alone.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply.
I don’t know how much of what he’s saying is true and how much is designed just to make me feel better, but I appreciate it either way.
I suppose all I can do now is try and make the best of it, even if I am headed to the most romantic place on earth, absolutely, completely, 100 per cent alone.
6
After clearing up the misunderstanding on the plane, things didn’t seem quite so unbearable. The same went for my time at Napoli airport, where I had Angelo on hand to be my translator.
We made our way through the airport together where we eventually found Angelo’s parents, brother and a few other family members waiting to greet him. He introduced me to everyone but no one else spoke English. His mum did give me a kiss on both cheeks and, not only did she thank me for helping her son, but she invited me to the family wedding (something Angelo had to translate for me). I did consider
it, for a moment. It felt like something from one of my rom-com novels, like the kind of scenario where I would meet the love of my life, but I realised the reality of it would probably be awkward. I wouldn’t know anyone or speak the language. People would ask me questions about why I was there and it would be a whole mess of awkward-to-explain.
Before they left, Angelo did offer to help me find the transportation to the island, but I told him I’d be fine by myself.
But then, all of a sudden, after all the noise and the wedding excitement, I felt very much alone – all alone – in a foreign country, where I don’t speak the language, and I kicked myself for being stupid enough to go on holiday by myself. I felt as if you’d need to be a reasonably strong and comfortable person to go on holiday alone, but to do so after having your heart broken, well, you’d have to be an idiot.
Still, I didn’t panic, because that would’ve only made things worse and, after a few conversations with some very kind bilingual people, I worked out how to get the car service, that would take me to the boat, that would take me to Valentine Island.
I do feel a little better now that I’m on the boat, not just because I feel safe and as if I know where I’m going, but because Ciara, our island guide, is Irish. I had a quick chat with her before we set off. She told me that she used to work in Magaluf until she heard about a job on the boat here. Desperate to swap rowdy young people for romantics, she accepted, but it turns out she’s never actually been off the boat. She ships people over, telling them tales of the island, how it came to be and what it’s famous for, as well as showcasing all the different activities it has to offer, but she’s never set foot on dry land there. If it hadn’t backfired so spectacularly for me with Angelo, I might have asked her if she wanted to join me.
I had hoped the boat trip wouldn’t feel quite so weird, but it does. I was hoping I would just blend in with the other holidaymakers, but the seats are all in pairs, and the seat next to me is empty. Everyone else here is with their significant other, with their head on their shoulder or their hands intertwined as they listen to the tour guide or gaze out of the window – not that there’s anything to see at this time of night. Just wide open space, like the seat next to me. Still, on the plus side, I did get two glasses of champagne, instead of one. Result for the single girl. I’d say I’m winning but it kind of feels like, metaphorically speaking, everyone here is playing chess with their partner, and I’m playing draughts with myself. So I’m not exactly winning really, am I?
It’s still quite warm, even though it is dark now. That’s the south of Italy in July for you, so I don’t know what else I was expecting. It did cross my mind to come when the weather was slightly cooler, but as far as weddings in jolly old England go, I didn’t want to take any chances with the climate there, so July felt like the safest choice.
I cannot believe I had more control over the weather than I did over the groom on my wedding day.
It’s late when we finally arrive on the island. We are ushered from the boat and up a dimly lit path towards the grand hotel building. It feels as if the panoramic sound of the waves pushing against the beach is nudging me towards the floodlit building, but I can’t help but hang back just a little. I feel as if there is strength in numbers, but I am here alone.
I hover outside the entrance, allowing enough time for all the other loved-up couples to check in before me, because the idea of checking in alone, with a queue of couples gagging to get to bed behind me, is just that little bit more than I can handle today, after everything that has gone on.
I step into the huge hotel lobby, with its sky-high ceilings and gleaming marble floors. It’s an ultra-minimal open space, but it’s so full of plants I feel as if I’m still outside. The ambience of the room must shift with the clock because the lights feel romantically low, and the ceiling is lit up with twinkling lights, made to look like little stars in the night sky.
I don’t know why I worried about other people hearing me; it’s as though I was expecting one desk with a naff red-roped queue leading off behind it. Instead, there are multiple desks, all attended by attentive-looking staff. I head straight down the middle, not wanting to look as if I’m playing favourites.
‘Hello,’ I say, testing the waters to see if he speaks English. I exhale pure relief when he does.
‘Hello, signora,’ he replies. He detects my nerves. ‘Don’t worry, almost everyone here can speak English, to our English-speaking guests.’
That’s such a huge relief. I did notice, on the boat, that everything was said in a handful of languages, but English was first. I suppose that’s great for me, but I almost feel guilty, speaking a language that many people take the time to learn. All I have under my belt is an F in GCSE French. If you’d like me to describe my bedroom or order something from a bakery, I’m your girl, but if you’re after a real French conversation, well, my vocabulary is severely lacking in… je ne sais quoi.
‘How was your journey?’ he asks.
I just stare at him blankly. I must look as if I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, and cried all the way.
‘It was great,’ I lie politely. ‘Thank you. I have a booking under Lila Rose.’
He checks his computer.
‘Ah, the Tylers,’ he says happily. A second later it occurs to him that I’m standing here alone. ‘Is Mr Tyler with you?’
‘Mr Tyler got held up at home,’ I lie, because, first of all, this poor bloke doesn’t want to hear me banging on about my private life and, second of all, I’m suddenly worried I might get the boot for being single. ‘He’ll be joining me later.’
‘Not a problem, Mrs Tyler,’ the man replies. ‘If I could get a signature, per favore.’
‘My name is still Rose,’ I tell him politely, hoping he’ll get the hint.
‘I see,’ he replies. ‘Here in Italy, a woman keeps her maiden name when she gets married too.’
Oh, this poor bloke. I’m not going to spell it out for him – it would only make him feel bad. I just smile and nod.
‘You are staying in one of our luxury villas, yes?’
‘I am,’ I reply.
‘Bene,’ he says. ‘It’s all ready for you. Savino will assist you with your baggage and show you the way.’
‘Grazie,’ I say– one of the only two Italian words I have managed to absorb. The other, of course, being ciao.
A small, twenty-something Italian man appears almost out of nowhere. The two exchange words in Italian. I have no idea what they’re saying, but there seems to be some sort of misunderstanding.
‘Apologies, Savino is still learning,’ he tells me. ‘He will take you now.’
Savino is wearing a cream shirt with a gold name badge, but I don’t imagine I’ll learn much more about him.
‘English, only a little,’ he explains to me as he leads me outside to a golf cart.
‘That’s okay,’ I reply.
I don’t feel much like talking. Not just because I’m in a bad mood, but because there’s so much to take in here.
Valentine Island is even more beautiful than the photos, even at this time of night. Tiny lights illuminate the pathways that lead around the resort. One of the things that appealed to me the most was the claim that this place had everything. Multiple pools, beaches, trails, activities, sports, spas, shops, restaurants with cuisine from all over the world – and then there’s the accommodation. When I made our booking, I spent a lot of time looking at different options. There were lots of different rooms in the hotel, where we just came from, but then there were the villas that we’re passing now. I was leaning towards the villas, each of which contained three apartments, one on each floor. I liked the idea of having our own little living space, with a kitchen for cooking our own food (bought from the island supermarket – this place is a dream!) and a balcony for catching some private rays.
But then I saw the luxury villas. Not only were they much bigger than the standard ones, but they came with their own private pool – and you
only go on a honeymoon once, right? Or so I foolishly believed when I booked it.
It’s kind of hard to take the place in, so late in the evening, with my sore, bleary eyes. I think I’ll just get a good night’s sleep, and then explore tomorrow.
We head uphill, to where the luxury villas are. A driveway encased in greenery leads up to a beautiful, long white building with a terracotta-tiled roof. Somehow finding the perfect balance between modern and rustic, the walls are brilliant white, with climbing plants creeping up them and around the arch windows and their white shutters.
To access the villa, you pass through the leafy-green-covered veranda archways, where Savino unlocks my door before ushering me through.
Walking through the door leads us straight into a gorgeous open-plan living area. Immediately there is a kitchen/dining area, with glittering white worktops and a square dining table with just two chairs, one on each side.
Savino shows me up the stairs first, to a mezzanine bedroom. One side of the bedroom is completely open, looking down over the living space. The other is nothing but glass, looking out over an infinity pool, which looks out over the beach. I have a view of the sea that I imagine goes on for miles and miles, because right now, once the beach lights stop reflecting on the water, all I can see is a black-looking ocean, only illuminated slightly by the moon.
The bed, much to my annoyance (although it is a lovely touch) is covered with rose petals and chocolates. There’s a little fridge next to the bed with a bottle of bubbly in it and two glasses on the bedside table. If it’s just for me, I probably won’t need one glass, let alone two.
Back down in the kitchen area, a few steps lead down to a lounge space, where there is a large cream corner sofa, with one side facing the flat-screen TV on the wall and the other facing the bi-folding doors that look out over the pool. The entire back of the villa is nothing but glass; I can’t wait to see it in the daytime.
‘Bathroom,’ Savino says bluntly, gesturing towards a door. ‘And, er, piscina.’
Honeymoon For One Page 4
