Invitation to Italy

by Victoria Springfield

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Abi is distraught when her ex-husband Alex takes their twelve-year-old daughter, Chloe to spend the summer with his glamorous fiancée Marisa and her parents at their home on the beautiful Italian island of Procida. Persuaded by her best friend to book a holiday at the island's Hotel Paradiso, Abi finally meets the woman she's been avoiding for so long. Will the two women's strained relationship survive the summer?

One-time teenage swimming sensation, Loretta, has run the Hotel Paradiso since leaving Capri broken-hearted. When childhood friend Salvo comes to stay, Loretta is forced to confront her past and the fears that have kept her away from the water for forty years. But just as she finds the courage to open her heart, she discovers all is not as it seems with Salvo...

It's a summer of new beginnings for Abi and Loretta - and one they will never forget.

Release date: March 14, 2024

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 336

Sample

The honeymooners were back in the pool again. The girl was swimming breaststroke, holding her head awkwardly. The boy posed on the tiled edge, his golden torso a few shades darker than the day they’d arrived. He ran a hand through his long dark hair, arched his back and dived into the turquoise water. Loretta watched him critically. Surprisingly well executed. Seven out of ten.

The boy swam up to his new wife, put his hands around her waist, lifted her up out of the water and tossed her up in the air. She flung her arms and legs wide apart as if doing a star jump and landed back in the pool screeching with laughter. He scooped her up and held her close so that her red bikini and his toucan-print shorts were melded together.

Loretta turned away and began rolling the pool towels into neat yellow cylinders. Her diamanté shoe buckles glittered in the sun; how glamorous they looked. Money well spent even though her calves would be aching by lunchtime.

When she looked up, the couple were no longer canoodling. The girl was floating on her back, her neat toenails sticking out of the water. They were painted shell pink, a nice bridal colour. Loretta’s were her usual signature scarlet, shade 26, True Passion, reapplied every three weeks by Flavia at Sempre Bella. Loretta wasn’t going to let standards slip just because she’d turned sixty.

‘You should come in!’ The boy waved an arm at Loretta.

She shook her head.

The boy laughed, as if knowing his suggestion had been absurd. How taken aback he would be if she took up his invitation. She’d step out of her emerald-green chiffon dress and high strappy sandals and execute a near perfect dive – she did not kid herself she could score more than nine these days – into that clear, cool water. She’d hold her breath until she surfaced three-quarters of the way along the pool then power her way to the far steps in a matter of seconds.

Loretta smiled politely. ‘I’m afraid I don’t swim,’ she said. It was what she told all her guests at the Hotel Paradiso. The girl they’d once called il delfino – the dolphin – was long gone. Sometimes she hardly remembered her.

Abi closed the lid of her laptop and rested her elbows on the kitchen island. She couldn’t wait for Chloe to get back from her dad’s so that she could tell her daughter about the trip she’d planned. She had chosen a pretty hotel by the sea with spa treatments and all the activities nearby that a just-about-to-turn thirteen-year-old could dream of. There was even a multiplex cinema and a bowling alley in case the English summer weather let them down, though Abi fervently hoped it wouldn’t.

Chloe would have fun; Abi would make sure of that. They’d have a whole week of mother and daughter bonding. Abi would stop obsessing about her ex-husband Alex and his fiancée Marisa, who was pretty, slim, stylish and six years younger than Abi. There would be no rows, no tears. It would be a new start.

Chloe’s key turned in the lock. Abi scrunched up her pasty wrapper and empty bag of Maltesers and chucked them in the bin. She couldn’t be bothered to cook for herself when Chloe was at her dad’s.

‘Hi, Mum!’

‘Hi, love!’ Abi padded into the hall. Chloe stood stiff-limbed as Abi pulled her into an awkward hug. She could smell garlic and the expensive scented candles that Marisa liked to burn.

‘Did you have a nice time?’ She made an effort to keep her voice light.

‘Yeah.’ Chloe dropped her keys into the blue and white bowl on the console table, marched into the kitchen and tossed a pink plastic bag onto one of the chrome bar stools.

‘Did Marisa take you shopping?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And?’ Abi smiled encouragingly. She hoped Chloe wasn’t going to turn into one of those monosyllabic teens. Or maybe Chloe was just like this with Abi.

‘I got this.’ Chloe opened the bag and pulled out some sort of all-in-one garment covered in a riot of hot pink blooms and turquoise butterflies. ‘What do you think?’

Abi smiled. It would be perfect for the holiday she’d planned. ‘It’s great, darling. Hold it up so I can see it properly.’

‘Marisa helped choose it. She says it makes me look more grown up, but Dad says it looks like a pair of old curtains.’

Abi forced a smile. ‘I know it’s going to look lovely on you. Now, tea? Orange juice?’

‘No thanks. I had a Coke … umm, drink at Dad’s.’

‘So, what did you have for your tea?’

‘Parmigiana di melazane, it’s this auberginey, cheesy, tomatoey sort of thing.’

‘Sounds yum.’

‘It was, but it’s not as good as your sausages and mash, Mum.’

Abi felt a little tension ease from her shoulders. ‘We can eat that tomorrow night if you’d like, love. Why don’t you sit down? I’ve got something to show you. Could you pass me my laptop?’

‘Mu-um?’

‘What?’ There was something in the way that Chloe dragged out her name that put Abi on her guard.

‘Mum,’ Chloe repeated. She looked down at the island unit’s glossy granite top. ‘I need to tell you something … ask you something, I mean.’

‘What does Alex, I mean Dad, want me to agree to now?’

‘Dad and Marisa are going to spend the summer in Italy staying with Marisa’s parents.’ Chloe paused.

‘He told me that a while ago. And?’

‘And they want me to go too.’

‘That’s nice, love, but I can’t see how you can go if they’re staying out there for weeks. I don’t want you coming back on a plane by yourself.’

‘They’ve asked me to stay for the whole school holiday,’ Chloe mumbled.

Abi opened her big pink American fridge and unscrewed the top of a half-drunk bottle of Pinot Grigio. She poured herself a glass of wine and took a big sip. She mustn’t cry. Chloe had seen more than enough tears.

‘But what about seeing your friends? What about Olivia and Precious?’

‘I’m not really friends with Precious anymore.’ The corner of Chloe’s eye twitched. It had done that a lot in the weeks after Alex had left.

‘But what about Olivia, you’re still friends with her, aren’t you?’ Abi said. She was aware that her voice sounded unnaturally bright.

‘I suppose … but she kind of hangs out all the time with Precious these days.’

‘Oh.’ Abi remembered what that felt like. ‘But do you really want to go away for that long? What if you don’t like it?’

‘It’s an Italian island, Mum,’ Chloe said slowly. ‘Marisa’s parents live by the seaside.’

‘If they’re taking Elsa, it won’t be much fun for you.’

‘Duh … of course they’re taking Elsa – she’s their kid.’

Abi winced. Alex’s second child. The child that he and Abi had always wanted but who’d never arrived.

‘What if you don’t like the food? There’ll be a lot of seafood and fish.’ Abi was clutching at straws now. She was glad of the steadying effects of her cold glass of wine.

‘I’ll just have to live on pizza.’ Chloe grinned. ‘Anyhow, Dad says Nonna Flavia is a fabulous cook.’

‘Nonna Flavia?’

‘It means grandma in Italian.’

‘I know what it means.’

‘Marisa says Nonna Flavia and Nonno Enzo can be my new grandparents now that Gramps has gone.’

Her lovely dad, Chloe’s lovely Gramps. She would have hit rock bottom after Alex left if it hadn’t been for him. If only he was still here – he’d know exactly what to say and do. Abi and her late mum had never been that close. It was different with Dad. He’d always understood her. She reached in her pocket for a tissue.

‘Please don’t cry, Mum. I miss Gramps too. But Olivia’s mum says: “substitute grandparents can be valuable role models in a teenager’s life”.’

Abi sighed; maybe she was being selfish. ‘But I thought we might go down to Dorset,’ she said. ‘Not Bournemouth,’ she added quickly. Last year’s visit had been an unmitigated disaster. They’d had a massive row when Chloe wanted to go off to the ice-skating rink by herself. Marisa wouldn’t stop her having fun, Chloe had said. ‘Marisa isn’t your mother!’ Abi had shouted. ‘She doesn’t love you – not the way that I do.’ And Chloe had burst into tears in the street.

Chloe got up from the kitchen stool. She stood up very straight. ‘I want to go to Italy, Mum. You’ve got to let me. It’s the most exciting invitation I’ve had in my whole life!’

A week in Dorset with boring, spoilsport old Mum or a summer of Italian sunshine and fun – it was a contest that Abi couldn’t win.

‘Of course, you can go.’ Abi forced the words out.

Chloe flung her arms around her. ‘I love you, Mum. You’re the best mum in the whole wide world.’

Abi buried her nose into her daughter’s hair. She caught a hint of the sophisticated Chanel perfume Marisa had bought Chloe for her twelfth birthday.

Chloe stepped back. Reluctantly, Abi loosened her grip. ‘Best go up to bed now, Chloe, it’s getting late. If you’re not bored with shopping, we could go to Westfield on Thursday night. We could look for a new swimming costume if you like.’

‘Brill! Oh, Mum, didn’t you want to show me something on your laptop?’

Abi picked up her wine glass. It was empty. ‘It wasn’t anything important,’ she said.

‘Okay then. Night, Mum.’

Chloe was singing to herself as she climbed the stairs.

Abi opened the fridge door and reached for the bottle of wine. Out of nowhere she heard her dad’s voice. ‘The answer’s never at the bottom of the bottle, love.’ She left the Pinot Grigio untouched, put her glass in the dishwasher and went to lock the front door.

Abi pressed the doorbell. A blur of bright colour appeared behind the stippled-glass panel. Cherry opened the door.

‘Sorry to call round so early,’ Abi said. ‘I should have messaged.’

Cherry touched her red and green headwrap. ‘Lucky I’m up and dressed,’ she laughed.

Abi smiled. There was something about her friend’s laugh that instantly lifted Abi’s spirits. Cherry found joy in everything. It had been the same way ever since school when Cherry didn’t have a lot to laugh about, being the oldest of six with her dad working nights and her mum out of the door by five in the morning.

‘Come on in, I’ll put the kettle on. Tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee please.’ Abi followed Cherry into her sunny kitchen and leant against the old pine table.

Cherry put two orange mugs on the sunflower-printed wipe-clean tablecloth. She lifted the lid of a large Tupperware box. The heady scent of spices and treacle made Abi’s stomach rumble, even though she hadn’t long had breakfast. ‘Ginger cake? Or are you on your way to the gym?’

‘Gym?’ Abi frowned. She glanced down at her grey jogging bottoms. It was too hot for jeans and she couldn’t do the zip up on her cropped chino trousers anymore. ‘Oh, these joggers, I see what you mean. No, I haven’t rejoined.’

‘Me neither. You won’t catch me on one of those running machines.’ Cherry gave her trademark guffaw.

‘Maybe I should give it another go,’ Abi said. ‘Chloe’s nagging me about it. She keeps telling me that Olivia’s mum says, “Exercise produces feel-good endorphins and transforms your energy levels.”’

Cherry snorted. ‘Olivia’s mother? Don’t mention that woman to me! She drove me half demented at the last PTA meeting. You haven’t changed your mind about joining the committee, I suppose?’

Abi bit into a slice of ginger cake. She wasn’t going to join the PTA or a watercolour class or the refreshments rota at Chloe’s badminton club or any of the other innumerable organisations people had urged her to try in the years since Alex had left. She didn’t want to meet new people. And she definitely didn’t want to ‘get back out there’ and meet a new man, even if there was someone searching for a dumpy, divorced single mum of nearly forty.

‘So, how’s Chloe?’ Cherry asked. She cut another slice of cake and slathered over a generous layer of butter.

‘She’s fine … happy.’ Abi took a deep breath. ‘She’s going to Italy with Alex and Marisa to stay with Marisa’s parents. For the whole of the school holidays.’

‘What?’ Cherry shrieked. ‘When did they plan this?’

‘I don’t know. Chloe only told me last night.’

‘Oh, you poor thing.’

Abi looked into her friend’s warm brown eyes. She swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘I want her to have a good time. Of course, I do. But …’

‘You think if she enjoys it too much, she’ll want to go out there every summer?’

‘Alex can work from home now. His office has embraced remote working; he doesn’t even have to stay in England. What if Marisa wants them to move back to Italy with Elsa. They could leave London for good; they could take Chloe …’ Abi made a strange gulping sound. She felt the tears gathering. She swiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

Cherry tore off a piece of kitchen roll.

‘Thanks.’ Abi blew her nose noisily. ‘Sorry.’

‘Sorry? I won’t take any sorry. What are you sorry for? Loving your child? Anyhow, there’s no point fretting, Chloe might hate it. I bet she’ll be on that phone begging to come back after a week. Marisa comes from a small island, doesn’t she? What’s your girl going to do out there compared to all the fun she can have in London?’

Abi pushed Cherry’s phone towards her. ‘Procida. Google it.’

‘How do you spell … No, hang on a minute, I’ve found it.’

Abi waited. An image filled the screen. Sun-drenched pastel-coloured houses cascading down a hillside under a sky so blue it made her blink.

‘Now I see what the problem is,’ Cherry said. ‘Not quite Jamaica, but even so …’

Loretta reached up to the high shelf behind the pool bar and took the sky-blue envelope with the Naples postmark from behind the bottle of Cinzano. She was tempted to pour herself a small glass of the vermouth in a bid to still her rapid heartbeat, but it wasn’t yet six in the evening. The pool was deserted; all her guests were still out for the day. She couldn’t magic up another excuse to avoid opening the letter. Taking a knife from beneath the counter, she slid it under the flap.

Like the first (and perhaps the second, which she’d thrown away unopened), Amadeo D’Acampo’s letter was brief. Loretta scanned the page; there was nothing aggressive or sinister about the politely phrased, neatly typed lines, but her breath was tight in her chest, her throat dry. She forced herself to press her damp palms flat against the smooth white surface of the bar and re-read each word calmly and slowly.

Dear Madam,

I write to you for the third and final time for if I do not hear from you on this occasion, I will accept that you have, for your own reasons, no intention of considering my client’s interest in the Hotel Paradiso and I will not trouble you further. I write now only to reiterate that my client is a man of vision who desires only to enhance the experiences of the guests of any property in which he invests. He is a fair man, who, if choosing your property, would make a more than reasonable offer. It would be a pity if you were unwilling to even consider discussing such a potentially lucrative opportunity.

Yours faithfully,

Amadeo D’Acampo

Loretta wished she had the courage to write back straight away with a brief but polite note: Thank you for your interest, but please advise your client that the Hotel Paradiso is not for sale. At any price. If only that were true.

She opened the leather-bound book she’d taken from the reception desk; she still preferred it to the electronic diary embedded in the hotel’s rarely used computer. The blank days had multiplied, last-minute cancellations occurring with increasing frequency. Loretta had heard rumours of people booking two or even three different holidays and leaving it to the last minute to choose wherever they fancied or whichever desperate hotel was willing to offer the biggest discount.

Loretta hadn’t believed that people would treat a small business like hers in such a way until the day she took a bus to Marina Chiaiolella on the far side of the island and bumped into Signor Martino and his wife, who’d stayed with her the previous three years. They’d cancelled their booking at the last minute, a family matter they said. Loretta didn’t know who was more embarrassed. Signora Martino begged Loretta’s forgiveness with tears in her eyes. Such a special deal, but such a big mistake! Their new hotel was so impersonal. There wasn’t even a human being to welcome them; they had had to check in on an iPad – imagine that! They would never stay in such a place again. Loretta had expected to welcome them back to the Hotel Paradiso this year but they hadn’t returned; perhaps they were too embarrassed.

She knew she might be forced to consider an offer from Amadeo D’Acampo’s mystery client, but how could she give up her business? She wished she had someone with whom she could discuss her dilemma but she didn’t want rumours spreading that the hotel was in trouble; besides, she had got used to keeping things to herself.

The bells of Santa Maria delle Grazie were chiming six o’clock. She checked around the loungers, picking up the last of the towels, making sure no guest had left their sunglasses, book or phone behind. She closed the leather guest book, tucked Signor D’Acampo’s letter inside the drawer under the counter where she kept her personal bits and bobs and locked up the bar.

The doorbell sounded ten times louder than normal.

‘All right, all right, I’m coming,’ Abi yelled, rubbing her stiff neck. It wasn’t the first time she’d fallen asleep on the sofa since Chloe had gone to Italy. It was so hard to get her seven or eight hours a night; her imagination ran riot in the small hours worrying about what her daughter was doing. She’d tried avoiding blue light and taking long baths; she’d even bought a tin of cocoa to make milky drinks but nothing seemed to work. After a few days she’d taken to coming downstairs at two or three in the morning and reading for a while before going back to bed and trying all over again.

She staggered to the front door. Cherry was standing on the doorstop in a migraine-inducing orange and lime headwrap, skintight cerise leggings and a matching T-shirt with The Bod Squad written across her chest.

‘Well, what do you think?’ Cherry span around. A pair of angel’s wings were printed on her ample backside.

Abi blinked. ‘Great … umm … very you.’

‘Are you ready?’

‘Uh?’ Abi wiped the sleep from her eyes.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.’

‘Of course not.’ Abi’s foggy brain began to piece together the conversation they’d had the night before. She’d phoned Cherry, blubbing hysterically about how Chloe didn’t need her anymore. The memory made her cringe.

‘I don’t know why I agreed to a jog; it’ll be more of a waddle,’ Cherry laughed.

‘And I don’t know why I suggested it.’ Abi had enjoyed running a long time ago, pounding the pavements early in the morning when the only people out and about were dog walkers and the brewery men tipping great barrels of beer through the hatch in the pavement outside The Duchess of York. Then she met Alex, who preferred pumping iron in the gym during the week – where he could admire his muscles in the full-length mirrors – and lying in bed on Saturday mornings. And then, after nearly two years of trying, Chloe had come along.

‘Want to come in? I’ll just be two minutes,’ Abi said. At least she wouldn’t have to get changed; she was still wearing the vest top and pink jogging bottoms she’d fallen asleep in. But she desperately needed a glass of water, her head was banging.

‘Sure.’ Cherry followed Abi through to the kitchen and leant against the island.

‘Water?’

‘Thanks.’ Cherry mopped her brow. ‘It’s gonna be hot today.’

Abi held one of Alex’s old pint glasses under the tap. A saucepan edged with congealed baked beans was resting in the sink. The papery skin of last night’s baked potato was still sitting on a plate by the draining board. She quickly scraped it into the bin. She was thankful she hadn’t taken her friend through to the sitting room where empty crisp packets and chocolate wrappers were strewn across the coffee table and the smell of pot noodle hung in the air.

Cherry chugged down the water. ‘Ready?’ She did a little jog on the spot.

Abi scraped her fine, blonde hair into a quick ponytail, stuck her keys, a credit card and some gum in the pocket of her joggers and slammed the door behind them.

‘Can we walk for a bit first?’ Abi said. The sun was shining, the heavy leaves of horse chestnut trees . . .