The Vine (17 page)

Then it’s all just a blur of fuzziness, until it’s like I had just woken up here and was reliving the worst moments of my life all over again.
Would it be like this day after day?
If it is, I don’t think I can take it. I’d have to keep my mind from going there; they say the brain can cut out bad things to make you deal with them more easily. Hopefully that’ll be the case for me. At the moment, I can’t see a single second, minute, or hour of the day when I wouldn’t think about Luke.

Lost in my thoughts, I suddenly notice something in my peripheral vision. I turn to look, and I see a young man in the seat next to Luke’s empty one. That’s how out of it I’ve been; I didn’t even realise anyone was sitting there. I notice his arm is held out to me, and in his hand is a tissue. As I look at it, he pushes it forward, offering it to me. I take it and wipe my eyes and cheeks, soaking it through. I see his hand is out again, and this time as I look, he hands me the whole pack. His mouth has a half smile on it, but I can tell by the way his eyebrows are pulled together he is concerned for me. I smile back, taking the tissues and thanking him. I take one out, wipe my nose and try to blow it discretely.

I figure the man probably doesn’t speak English, as he hasn’t said anything to me, but then he speaks to the stewardess, asking her for a glass of water, and as she walks away he turns to me. “Are you okay?” he asks. I nod in response and realise he actually speaks very good English, but with the most amazing Italian accent.
“You look so sad; in fact, I would go as far as to say you are the saddest person I have ever seen in my life,” he says sympathetically.

“I am,” I say. It’s not a question; it’s a statement, as I’m looking into his dark brown eyes and meaning every word. He nods at me slowly as the stewardess returns with his glass of water. As he turns to take his glass from her, I look him over, wondering why he is on this flight. At first glance, I would’ve said he’s a tourist or on holiday, as he has on shorts, flip-flops and a polo shirt, but after hearing his accent and on closer inspection, his black flip-flops are Prada, his linen shorts are tailored, crisp and well-made, his orange polo shirt is Armani and he has the collar turned up on it.

If a guy is dressed like this at home in the U.K., I’d think he’s a bit of a Jack the Lad, but on this guy, it just oozes class and style—a typical trait of a native Italian. As I look back to his face, I am embarrassed to find he has caught me checking him out. I flush, although I wasn’t checking him out in any other way than to decide on the reason for his trip. In fact, it does nothing but remind me of Luke and when he caught me checking him out over the menu on our first date.

I thank him for the glass of water he’s handing out to me, and I am just thinking what a kind gesture it is when he asks me if I am feeling a bit better. I nod and look away from his two big pools of chocolate.
Someone could drown in those babies
, I think to myself. Unfortunately for him, I would prefer to jump into pools of ice blue. “What’s your name, bella?” he asks.
Wow, that Italian accent is divine.
I’ve always loved that accent, and the language too, actually. It would be my language of choice to learn because it is just so beautiful. Luke speaks fluent Italian…but then I mentally correct myself—Luke
spoke
fluent Italian, as in past tense.

I know enough Italian to get by, which is why it makes such perfect sense for me to start a life there; well, actually none of this makes perfect sense.
So this is it
, I think,
someone has asked me my name. What do I do?
This is so much sooner than I imagined. He’s looking at me, awaiting my answer to what he must think
is the simplest question, when in fact, for me at this moment in time, is the hardest. I ask myself,
Am I Lizzy, trying to cope with this turmoil that’s called a life, or am I Ella?
As I mentally argue the pros and cons, it suddenly hits me what I need to do.

“My name’s Ella,” I say. “Ella Castel,” I continue, holding out my hand boldly for him to shake. He takes my hand, but turns it and lightly kisses the back of it; as I watch him do it, I think to myself,
If Katy was here, she would stick her finger down her throat and make gagging noises, and if Luke was here, he would kick this guy’s arse into the middle of next week.
I smile at these thoughts, but then stop and berate myself. Luke and Katy wouldn’t be here, because apart from Luke being dead, Katy and Luke don’t know Ella, and anyway, it’s not cringe-worthy at all; it’s sweet and quite sensual.

My hand is still in his grasp, so I pull it lightly and he releases it instantly. He looks shocked, like he didn’t realise he was still holding it. “And your name is?” I prompt. “Luca,” he replies. My jaw drops and I feel the colour drain from my face, and all bravado is gone as I think to myself,
You have got to be kidding me.

Before he can say anymore, I mutter something to him about being pleased to meet him, and then I ask if he could excuse me so I can use the lavatory. He must have seen me physically pale, as he looks concerned again. I notice just how tall he is as he stands to let me out, and I head for the front of the aeroplane to join a small queue for the toilets.

I feel like I’m being watched; in fact, I can feel eyes boring straight into me, and unless I’m mistaken, they belong to a tall, dark Italian with the biggest brown eyes I have ever seen. I want to see if I am right, but I don’t want to look straight at him as I don’t want him thinking I am seeking him out. So I slowly look at all the other travellers, wondering what their stories are. As my eyes reach our seats, I glance at him as if in passing, and my thoughts and instincts are confirmed, as he’s brazenly staring straight at me. He’s totally unembarrassed by it too, it would seem, because
as I catch his eye, he doesn’t even look away; he just continues to stare at me. Someone taps me on my shoulder and it startles me, and I whip around to face them; I smile then, as I realise it is a lady letting me know that the toilet is now free.

I step in and lock the door, and only then do I allow myself to breathe. I wash my hands, splash my face with water and look in the mirror. Seeing my own face reminds me of Luke, because I am just so used to seeing his face next to mine—at home, in the bedroom, in the bathroom, in the kitchen, in the lounge, in the car, in restaurants and in pictures.
Oh, God
, I think to myself,
how am I ever going to begin to sort this mess out when my biggest reminder of Luke…is me?

That dilemma is still in my head as I make my way back to my seat. Luca stands to let me back into my seat. “You can sit next to me if you like, Ella,” he offers. I’m instantly thrown by that sentence.

“No thanks, I like the window seat actually.” I smile.

“I would move over,” he suggests, but before I can protest, he continues, “but I like the aisle seat, as being tall I can stretch my leg out now and again.”

“We all have our little quirks,” I say out loud, although mentally I’m breathing a sigh of relief.

“So why are you so sad, Ella? You can tell me to mind my own business, if you like,” he says kindly.

I sadly smile at him, and then I look away wistfully as I say, “A friend of mine has passed away.”

“Oh, I am very sorry for your loss,” he says, tipping his head toward me.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Was she a very close friend?” he asks.

Ignoring the mistake, I nod my head saying, “Yes, the best,” as my eyes well up.

A couple of minutes go by before Luca speaks again, and when he does, I can tell he’s trying to lighten the mood, and to be honest, I’m grateful. “Why are you going to Italy?”

“I just need a break after everything, and I love Italy and have always wanted to go to Verona, so I’m going to start there, and then I might travel around a bit. I’m not really sure yet.”

“It is a beautiful country; I am very lucky to have been brought up there. I mean, I love London too; I spend a lot of time there now, but I do find that in Italy, although everyone knows everyone in the local villages, it’s still a quiet life. We all just go about our daily lives with no one taking much notice, whereas in London, even though it’s quite vast, everyone seems to want to know all your business—what you’re doing every minute of every day—and everything is a hundred miles an hour. When I’m there, I do miss the laid-back, relaxed life of Italy; that is why I come back frequently.”

“Sounds perfect to me.” I smile back, thinking just how perfect it sounds for a quiet life of anonymity. I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a yawn. “Sorry, I think the day is catching up with me; it was a very early start.”

Luca smiles at me kindly, and then catches the eye of the stewardess—which wasn’t hard, to be honest, since they’ve been constantly eyeing him up and checking if he was ok or needed anything. I was just thinking the customer service on this flight was second to none, but I now realise—to them, Luca is a fine source of eye candy, and because he is so polite to them, I think it’s the icing on the cake, since a lot of travellers are so arrogant and rude.

Her eyes twinkling, the over-made-up stewardess returns with the pillow and blanket Luca must’ve asked for, and I am touched when I see he’s done it for me.

I thank him quietly and prop the pillow near the window, leaning into it. It feels wonderful, as my eyes were now burning with exhaustion. Luca lays the blanket over me and I pull it tightly around my neck. Within seconds, I’m drifting off, and I’m glad I can forget everything for a short while.

A bumping and jolting wakes me, and I sit up startled as I try to get my bearings. I look out the window and realise we have landed, and we are now cruising along the runway.

I pull the blanket off and stretch, instinctively looking over at Luca. He smiles at me and says, “You seemed to sleep well.” I nod in response. Considering the circumstances, I really did; I think it came down to pure exhaustion from yesterday.

The plane stops and I hear the
click, click
of passengers starting to undo their seatbelts. Luca stands to get his carry-on luggage out of the overhead lockers. He places his small suitcase on the seat and leans over it, looking at me. “It was lovely meeting you, Ella. I only wish for your sake it had been under better circumstances.” He holds out a card to me. “Here is my number; I will be staying here for a few weeks. My parents own a few properties, including some rental farmhouses around Tuscany, so if you do decide to stick around for a while, give me a call and I’ll get Mama to sort something out for you.”

I take the card, not knowing if I will ever call, but I’m in a foreign country and know no one. “Ella, I mean it; if you need anything, please just give me a call,” Luca says sincerely.

“Thank you,” I say, tears filling my eyes at the kindness of this man I had met just a few short hours ago. It was true, he hadn’t hit on me; he had shown me nothing but kindness, and after what I had been through, I couldn’t have asked for more than that.

I stand up and grab my bag, and as I turn back to Luca, he takes my head in his solid hands and kisses both my cheeks. “Take care,” he whispers, and then he grabs his case and is gone. I think I may see him again as I make my way to passport control, but I don’t, and I feel strangely sad about that. I touch one of my cheeks where he had kissed me as I make my way to baggage claim.

While I stand waiting for my bag, wondering what my next move will be, I look at Luca’s card that’s still in my palm. In a masculine but lovely, bold font, it reads,
Luca Goretti, Interior Designer
. I turn the card over, and in large, handwritten scrawl, there is an address in Verona.

Written underneath, it says,
please get a room here; at least I’ll know you’ll be safe
. I close my palm back around the card, as I well
up yet again at the kindness of a man I had only known for a few hours, and had spoken to for mere moments. I don’t know if I deserve this amount of kindness after what I have done—running out on the love of my life before he is even put to rest. I mean, what sort of person does that?

The sight of my bag on the carousel is the kick I need to get my arse in gear before I go and jump on the first flight back; I miss Luke so much. I grab my bag, and I stand in the taxi queue for only minutes before it’s my turn. The driver hops out, takes my bag and I climb in the back. When the driver gets back in the taxi, I give him Luca’s card and point out the address on it. I’d been wondering where I was going to stay; I don’t think I could’ve faced staying in the romantic luxury villa Luke had booked us into—not alone. The driver smiles and hands the card back to me, and I put it safely away in my bag.

Eventually, we pull up at a small, chic, boutique hotel. I’m sure we must’ve passed some amazing scenery, but in my comatose state, I noticed nothing. The driver runs around to open my door, and I pay him and retrieve my bag. I walk into the lobby of the hotel and it’s absolutely beautiful—just what I would have picked out myself. It’s a very old building, with all the original features and Italian charm but with modern furniture worked into it.

I go to check myself in at reception and the staff is so friendly, it’s almost as if they know who I am and were expecting me—which I know is ridiculous, but I breathe a huge sigh of relief when they say they have availability for as long as I need it. Pretty miraculous, considering I don’t know how long I’m going to be staying. I know I will move on, but at this stage, I have no idea when and where I’d go. The only thing I’m sure of is this evening, I’m going to lock myself away in my room, as tomorrow night is going to be hard.

La Traviata at the Arena de Verona; I had dreamt of this moment since I was a young girl. It was Mum’s absolute favourite opera; she had seen it in London, and Dad had promised over the years he would take Mum to Verona to see it, but had never gotten around
to doing it before their lives were so sadly cut short. Then Luke had surprised me with this trip before his life too was tragically cut short. Life can be too cruel at times.

I had one appointment to get to in the morning I had arranged via reception, but apart from that, I would just walk about and try to clear the fuzzy feeling clouding my head since Luke’s accident. I unpack a few toiletries and head for the shower. I always feel mucky after a flight. I have the quickest shower in history, as even they evoke painful memories of long, emotionally-charged, love-making sessions with my beautiful man. I put on my lounge bottoms, a T-shirt and rough dry my hair; I realise now how unimportant it is to titivate. It all doesn’t matter anymore in my eyes. It seems regardless of what I look like, life is still going to throw a ton of shit at me.