The Italian Holiday

by Victoria Springfield

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Sun, sea and spaghetti... Italy was Bluebell's dream destination, but taking her granny's place on the Love and Knitting magazine competition holiday she'd won wasn't quite what she'd had in mind. For one thing she didn't knit and for the other...well being single probably discounted her from the love category too. But a free holiday is a free holiday and it's the perfect escape from her lacklustre life. Michela didn't think she'd be returning home to Italy so soon, a new job at her cousin's restaurant on the harbour of Positano was a dream gig, miles away from the grey London clouds. This time though, she vowed not to fall into old habits, Stefano was the past and now her future in her old hometown beckoned. But under the Italian skies a whole host of possibilities await and maybe happy-ever-after is just a plane-ride away...

Release date: March 12, 2021

Publisher: Orion Dash

Print pages: 288

Sample

Sun, sea and…spaghetti. What more could she want? Most people would jump at the chance of a free holiday, especially if they were twenty-eight, recently single and a little bit broke like she was. Italy was Bluebell’s dream destination, but this trip was most definitely not what she had in mind.

‘Not going? Whatever do you mean? Opportunities like this don’t come along very often.’ It wasn’t even seven in the morning and Granny Blue was on the phone already. ‘I can’t believe you’re thinking of turning this down,’ she tutted.

‘It’s your prize, Gran. You won the competition, not me. It’s not fair that you’re going to have to miss out now they’ve rearranged the date of your op. Are you sure you can’t just go another time?’ Bluebell leant against the kitchen counter, her elbow resting on a pile of takeaway leaflets.

‘There’s no chance of that, love. The people at Loving and Knitting magazine can’t change the arrangements to suit one person. Anyway, it could take me weeks to get fully mobile once this hip replacement finally happens. And you said yourself you haven’t got any holiday plans now you’re not seeing that Jamie.’

Jamie was taking Carrie to Cornwall this year. Beautiful, blonde, slim Carrie – the girl who was supposed to be marrying his best friend. Bluebell still could not quite believe it.

‘You’re so lucky,’ Granny Blue chatted on. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to the Amalfi Coast. It’s going to be such a wonderful trip. It says here you’ll be staying at a luxury hotel in the quaint seaside town of Minori and visiting all sorts of places like Sorrento and Capri. Ooh, and you’ll get to see Pompeii, that old buried city. There was a programme about it on the telly last week.’

‘The trip sounds great, but everyone on this holiday is going to be so…’

‘Were you going to say so old? What’s wrong with old?’ Gran’s voice rose in indignation. ‘Shame on you, Bluebell, you know us old folk are just young folk whose packaging has got a bit bent and bashed about. And there’s no reason to think everyone who reads Loving and Knitting is a certain age. And even if they are, there’s no age limit on loving. Or knitting, come to that.’

‘But…’ Bluebell was running out of excuses.

‘I’ve been looking at the weather forecast. It’s raining in London next week. Not as bad as the South West though. They’re going to get drenched in Cornwall whilst you’re off sunning yourself.’ Gran chuckled.

The venetian blind over the sink was still closed. Bluebell tugged on the plastic toggle at the end of the greying cord. Raindrops were clinging to the smeared glass and the path leading to the wheelie-bin shed was darkened by overnight rain. For a moment she imagined stepping off a white boat in a bustling harbour then walking along the seafront licking the drips from a triple-scoop ice-cream cone. But she wouldn’t go. The idea was ridiculous.

‘I’ll have to ring you back, Bluebell, love. I need to go. That nice lady from down the road’s at the door. She’s come round to walk Trixie.’

Bluebell replaced the receiver, flicked the switch on the kettle and reached into a cupboard for a packet of cereal. There was no point going back to bed now. As she walked over to the fridge, she was aware of a knocking sound coming from the hall. The early morning light streaming through the wavy glass panels of the front door was creating a strange optical illusion. It looked as though the man standing on the doorstep was dwarfed by a giant package twice his size. Cursing her missing dressing-gown cord, she clutched the flimsy material together in one hand and opened the door.

‘Ordered a wardrobe, have you?’ the man quipped, heaving a massive parcel into the corner of the hallway, with a grunt. As soon as the door slammed behind him, Bluebell grabbed a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer and sliced open the packaging. There was no note enclosed, but there was only one person who could be responsible for today’s delivery.

She washed her face and scraped her long dark hair back into a ponytail. Then she put on her favourite stripy T-shirt and yanked an old pair of jeans over her hips. Perhaps she ought to try cutting down on the biscuits – again. She peered at her face in the mirror. She didn’t look too bad considering she had stayed up until two. Netflix really should come with a health warning. As she reached for her eyeliner the phone rang. It had to be Granny Blue.

‘I forgot to say, I’ve ordered something for you,’ Gran said.

Bluebell glanced towards the hallway where a huge paisley-patterned suitcase was now blocking the light from the front door.

‘It’s already arrived.’

‘I thought pink and purple was nice and jolly. Much better than your boring old navy case.’

Bluebell knew when she was beaten. Maybe Gran was right: she could do with a proper holiday and all her friends seemed to have other plans. And to be honest, although she couldn’t imagine her future without Jamie, chatting to a group of nice old folk like Granny Blue might be more relaxing than spending a week trying to blend in with Jamie’s pals from uni whilst they talked about property prices and people she’d never met in their loud, confident voices.

She took a deep breath. ‘Thanks, Gran. It’ll be just perfect for my Italian holiday.’

‘It’s nice and big so there’ll be plenty of room for some souvenirs.’

Bluebell sighed. Some souvenirs? There was enough room for half the ruins from Pompeii. At least she would have no trouble picking it out at baggage reclaim. Who else would choose something like this?

She picked up her mobile and started scrolling. The Amalfi Coast is renowned as the most romantic destination in Italy. Romance: that was the last thing she needed right now. At least there was absolutely no chance of finding love on a coach trip with a group of pensioners.

‘If you’re sure…’ Michela said.

‘To be honest, you’ll be doing me a favour.’ Her flatmate grinned. ‘I’ve been looking for an excuse to get rid of it. It’s taking up so much space. And it’s very…’

‘Pink?’ Michela suggested. She took the huge suitcase gratefully.

‘Very pink, very purple, very large and very bright, but you’ll never fit all your things in that old holdall of yours.’

Michela stuffed some socks into a pair of trainers and laid them in the bottom of the case. ‘I can’t believe I’m going home tomorrow. Italy’s going to seem so strange after London.’

‘I’m going to miss you like crazy. But I’ve got to run. Don’t forget: half seven at The Frog and Trumpet.’

‘See you there,’ Michela replied. Her flatmate was halfway out the door already.

She picked up a pile of bright cotton dresses and laid them on top of her shoes. These old clothes held so many memories, but she couldn’t imagine wearing them again even in the Italian sunshine. Within a few weeks of moving into her shared flat in Hammersmith she had become a complete convert to the London uniform of skinny jeans and ankle boots topped off with her long dark hair clipped up in a messy bun. After swapping a seaside town of less than three thousand people for a year in one of the busiest cities in the world, she felt like a different person. She certainly dressed like one.

Now she was going home. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. England was still so new and exciting, and her work placement as a sous-chef at The Golden Wolf was a once-in-a-lifetime experience she would never forget. She had learnt so much, but she wouldn’t miss Aldo, the head chef. Aldo was a control freak who measured every spear of asparagus and stipulated the exact pattern of the balsamic glaze drizzled over the fashionable slates and sharing platters.

Michela couldn’t wait to work with the friendly team at her cousins’ bustling restaurant on the harbour at Positano where nobody counted how many olives were added to a salad, and generous portions of pasta were heaped up on plain white plates. With the tourist season already underway she would be far too busy in the kitchen to waste her time thinking about Stefano. After a year in London she should have forgotten all about him, but it wasn’t that easy. It was pointless thinking about what might have been. Stefano was far away in Rome and she needed to get on with her life.

But before she started her new role, she would spend a few days in Minori. She was longing to see her family again. It had been months since her parents’ brief visit to London. How small and out of place they had looked – bewildered by the noise, the crowds and mamma mia! the weather. It was even longer since she had last seen her beloved grandmother, Nonna Carmela, who had not left their little town of Minori for as long as anyone could remember.

She crammed in the last of her clothes, zipped up the case and leant it against the wall. The gaudy pink-and-purple design seemed to glow in the artificial light. At least there was no chance she would lose it at the airport; you could probably spot it from outer space.

Bluebell spotted the girl from Loving and Knitting straight away. Josie looked about twenty-five with thick red hair caught up in a high ponytail and a friendly, open face sprinkled with freckles. She was standing by the luggage belt talking to a tiny, bird-like old lady in a knitted waistcoat who had somehow managed to retrieve her suitcase already.

Bluebell was about to walk over to join them when her attention was taken by a harassed-looking woman who was trying to juggle three small children and a pile of luggage that would give the Leaning Tower of Pisa a run for its money. The woman gestured helplessly as a pale blue holdall printed with the logo of the Naples football team slid to the floor. Bluebell found herself propping up one side of the luggage mountain as they worked together to balance the trolley’s load.

She could only understand three or four words of Italian, but it was now obvious that the smallest child wanted the toilet and before she knew it she was standing guard over two little boys and a motley collection of bags whilst mother and daughter headed for the loos. By the time they returned and then went straight back to rescue the girl’s lost cuddly bunny, Bluebell ended up running back to the almost deserted luggage belt.

Josie was still standing there patiently, holding up her Loving and Knitting flag. She was obviously used to waiting for waifs and strays. Bluebell felt slightly sick as she watched the few sad-looking bits and pieces still circling around and around on the black rubber belt: three neat, near-identical black cases, a khaki holdall split down the seam and a stray baseball cap emblazoned with the words I Love London. Then, at last, there it was: one large pink-and-purple paisley suitcase. She never imagined she would be so glad to see it. She grabbed it by the handle and hurried along behind Josie, muttering apologies as they zipped through customs and headed for the minibus.

‘All these older ladies and it’s the young one who gets lost,’ Josie tutted, though Bluebell could tell by her smiling eyes and barely concealed grin that she was only joking.

Bluebell gazed out of the window as the minibus began its journey towards Minori. The sky was clear of clouds and the sea was calm and oh so blue. All her misgivings about the trip were evaporating as they travelled through the beautiful Italian landscape. Did it really matter if none of the other prizewinners were going to see sixty again? Josie, the trip leader, was a couple of years younger than her and seemed like she was going to be fun. Massimo, the bus driver, seemed a jolly guy too, though his habit of pretending to clap his hand over his eyes whilst he negotiated the twists and turns was causing a little consternation amongst the competition winners.

The minibus rounded yet another corner. The view ahead was obscured by an oncoming school bus. It was heading straight towards them. Massimo jammed on the brakes. The women clung to the hand rests, their faces tense. There seemed no way that these two vehicles could pass each other on the narrow road. Bluebell looked out of the window and instantly wished she had been sitting on the other side. Below them the cliff edge fell away in a sheer drop down towards the sea. She held her breath as the school bus slowly began to inch back bit by bit, its wing mirror scraping against the cliff side. Massimo was a picture of concentration, hunched over the steering wheel, as he moved them slowly forward.

Bluebell had never been particularly religious, but she found herself staring fixedly at the plastic figure of the Madonna perched on the dashboard. Surely with the blessed mother watching over them a coachload of innocent elderly ladies wasn’t going to tip over and crash onto the rocks below. Bit by bit they moved alongside the bus. Then Massimo leant out of the window and began an animated conversation with the other driver. After several minutes of loud talking and gesticulating, their minibus somehow squeezed past.

‘That was my friend,’ Massimo announced, grinning broadly, as she realised that what had seemed like a near-death experience to her had been no more than a friendly chat for their ebullient driver. Then she looked down and realised she was holding on to the hand of the elderly woman sitting across the aisle.

‘I’m Miriam,’ the woman said.

Bluebell was relieved when they arrived in Minori and pulled up in the car park at the end of the seafront. Massimo hopped out and opened the door of the luggage space. For a small man he was remarkably strong, manhandling the cases two at a time. Soon a pile of sensible-looking navy and black luggage was sitting on the pavement dwarfed by one huge pink-and-purple case. Bluebell reached for her case just as Massimo unloaded the final piece of luggage with a loud thump. There, sitting on the pavement, was an equally large case in zingy shades of lime green and turquoise stripes.

‘That’s mine,’ said Miriam. She and Bluebell looked at each other and burst out laughing.

‘I think you and I are going to be great friends,’ said Bluebell. ‘We’ve already got something in common!’ They walked side by side, wheeling their suitcases in the direction of the hotel. Josie took two cases and Massimo balanced the remainder on a wobbly luggage trolley. A few minutes later they were standing in the lobby of the Hotel Sea Breeze being handed much-appreciated glasses of freshly squeezed fruit juice whilst Josie checked them in.

Bluebell wrestled her suitcase into the hotel’s tiny lift and down a long, tiled corridor. Her room wasn’t large, but it was light and airy and had been furnished with care. The bed was made up with crisp white linens; above it hung a watercolour of the seafront in a light wooden frame. The walls were painted a tranquil lavender and a rickety but comfortable-looking rattan chair sat in the corner by the sliding door, which led to a small terracotta-tiled balcony furnished with two simple metal chairs and a round table just big enough for a cool drink and a book. Above the dressing table was a framed pastel drawing of the town of Minori. Her eye was drawn to a large yellow church. Behind it the town rose steeply, and on the hillside the artist had added a quirky little house, painted a soft marshmallow pink.

The low sun was still casting its warmth onto the balcony and she wasn’t going to waste a moment. She took a book from her large shoulder bag and a cushion from the rattan chair and carried them outside. She laid her book down unopened. She felt deliciously lazy. She would sit here on the balcony in the late afternoon’s sunshine and close her eyes, just for a few minutes. Her unpacking could wait until after dinner.

Michela skipped straight over to the luggage belt, dodging past a pretty redhead holding a clipboard in one hand and a pink-and-white flag embroidered with the words Loving and Knitting in the other. The first item on the belt was her large pink-and-purple paisley case. How lucky was that? She quickly plucked it off and wheeled her way swiftly towards Nothing to Declare.

She walked straight through, past the newsstand and café bar then out through the exit. It was good to be in the fresh air again and even better to look up and see the grey sky of London replaced by the clear blue sky and sunshine of Italy. Her mood lifted. Even her case felt lighter than it had done that morning. She rounded the corner to catch the orange bus that would take her into the centre of Naples. It was about to depart but a tiny nun with a face like a little round button reached down and helped haul her case into a gap by the door. She squeezed in next to it. The bus was full and noisy. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. The silence of the commuters on the London Underground seemed light years away.

They pulled up near the central station. She grabbed her case, scrambled out and scanned the crowded pavement.

‘Sofia! I’m so happy to see you!’ Michela stepped forward and kissed her best friend.

‘Michela! It’s been so long!’ Sofia hugged her, lifting her right off the ground. ‘My goodness, you’ve got so skinny. There’s nothing of you! Didn’t they feed you at that fancy London restaurant?’

‘The food there was amazing, but it was so busy. I barely had time to stand still.’

‘So, no sitting gossiping with the regulars over a cappuccino and one of your mamma’s pastries,’ Sofia teased.

‘Don’t! You’re making my mouth water. We made all these fancy little cakes at The Golden Wolf but I can’t wait to taste one of Mamma’s sfogliatelle pastries again.’

‘Mmm. Maria’s food is just the best. How I envied you growing up at Il Gattino. I used to wish my papa ran a café bar instead of a boring old garage. Come on, let’s go and find my car. I’m parked in the underground car park.’

Sofia’s baby-blue Fiat zipped along, driving too close to the cars in front as she tooted her horn and gesticulated. Michela never imagined she would feel nostalgic for the slow crawl of London traffic, and although she was pleased to chat to her old friend, she was rather relieved when they arrived in Minori and pulled up at the car park at the end of the seafront. Sofia was full of apologies that she could not stay longer and greet Michela’s parents, Mario and Maria, whom she had known since childhood, but she had to get back to Naples. Michela was left to walk the short distance from the seafront to her parents’ café bar.

She crossed Via Roma and wheeled her case through Piazza Umberto. The pink-and-purple design looked even brighter in the Italian sun and she noticed a small child smiling at her and pointing it out to his mother. She smiled back and gave him a little wave.

Minori had not changed a bit since she had last seen it. Piazza Umberto was the largest square in the small town and boasted three handsome restaurants looking out over the sea. On the left were the round tables and blue-and-yellow-striped umbrellas belonging to Trattoria di Napoli, the largest and most popular of the three. She was surprised there were no customers sitting at the outside tables as the evening was so pleasant, and there was no sign of Tommaso Amati sitting in his usual chair near the door. She had never actually tasted Mr Amati’s cooking – it would have seemed disloyal to her family – but sometimes after school she and her brother Paolo had surreptitiously snuck up to the counter to buy ice-cream cones from his special display of homemade gelati and disappeared onto the beach before anyone could see them. And sometimes Stefano came too.

She turned off the square down a side road towards her parents’ café bar. Il Gattino was a much smaller affair than the restaurants on Piazza Umberto. It seated just twelve people but during the warmer months they squeezed a couple of tables onto the pavement, even though passers-by had to step into the road to get past.

Her father Mario opened at seven every morning, serving tiny cups of espresso that most of his regular customers drank leaning against the counter. They munched homemade pastries from the display under the glass dome, their fingers wrapped in flimsy paper tissues from the metal dispenser. Later the café would be filled with men drinking more coffee or small glasses of beer whilst playing endless games of cards, arguing about politics or flicking through the football pages. Her mother Maria would be busy in the kitchen, a pot of her legendary ragù sauce bubbling constantly in one corner whilst she rolled out her fresh pasta dough.

Michela could almost smell Maria’s cooking as she made her way up the road. She couldn’t wait to see her parents and Il Gattino again.

As she got nearer, she could see the light shining through the windows, but no one was sitting at the two little tables outside. There was usually a couple of her father’s old friends enjoying a beer, or a pair of tourists drinking bright orange Aperol spritz away from the busier places on Piazza Umberto. She felt surprised. Where was everyone this evening? Maybe it was still a little early in the season, though the evening was surely warm enough to sit out.

She went around the side of the building to the door that opened onto a steep staircase that led straight up to the apartment over the café and rang the bell. She heard someone running down the stairs. That was odd; both her parents moved with a leisurely gait. The door opened. Her brother Paolo was standing there. Michela threw her arms around him. ‘What a wonderful surprise!’ she cried. He embraced her tightly, crushing her against his chest. Then she looked up into his face and saw an expression she could not quite read.

‘Paolo, what is it?’ His pause alarmed her. ‘Where are Mamma and Papa? What’s going on? What’s happened?’

‘Here, let me help you with that.’

Michela followed behind her brother as Paolo bumped her suitcase up the narrow, wooden stairs. She chucked her shoulder bag onto the back of the chair in the hall. Nothing had changed since she had gone away. The familiar scent of her house-proud mother’. . .