Leo laughs. “There is nothing mediocre about this,” he says, nodding toward the screen. I look back at the view, nervous anticipation about seeing Roger starting to build.
“See, this is why I love the North,” says Leo as we finally chug toward Portofino’s tiny harbor, the colorful buildings clinging to the cliffs above the small rocky bay.
“It’s just, wow,” I say. “Lucky old Roger, eh? Imagine meeting someone with a home here.Nothing bonds the heart like a house on the cliffs and a big-ass fucking boat.”
“Yacht.” Leo shakes his head at me. “I hope you don’t think I’m into you because of your big-ass fucking inheritance.”
“No,” I say quickly, confused for a moment by the idea of it. “It hadn’t crossed my mind.” I step in to take one last hug before we see Roger. “But now that you mention it...,” I add with a grin.
Leo kisses me on the mouth and then fixes his eyes on me, determined. “Last destination. Let’s get this job done, all right? Then I want to get you back to London.”
As we near the jetty, the yacht starts to slow.
“We take a small boat in,” Leo explains.
“Can’t we dock all the way?” I ask Leo, frowning.
“Only if you have about three grand to spend,” he says.
“Three grand?”
“Well, at least you get the whole day for that,” he says, grinning.
“Is why he keeps the boat in Santa Margherita,” explains the captain.
We board a small runabout that comes out to meet us and then we chug slowly toward the jetty. I start to feel nervous as we approach. This is my dad’s best friend. And in a way part of my family until I was fifteen. I try to pull all the memories of Roger together, his jolly, playful nature, bellowing voice, and loud, machine-gun laugh. His scaring my mum by appearing at the side window in a Darth Vader mask. He and Dad drinking outside, listening to old Italian music, dancing sometimes. “Reliving their halcyon days,” Mum used to say, eyes rolling.
“There he is,” says Leo, pointing at a very tanned tall man in cream slacks,a blue striped shirt, and a white hat with a black band. On his arm, a slender woman with blond hair and an enormous straw sun hat; a tailored, sleeveless jumpsuit in lemon; and heeled espadrilles.Effortless summer.
I feel my heart quicken a little. “I feel nervous as hell suddenly,” I say to Leo.
28
OLIVE,” ROGER CALLS, removing his hat and waving it madly toward us. “Olive Stone, as I live and breathe!”
I glance over at Leo for reassurance, take a deep breath, and wave back.
“Hi, Roger,” I shout as the boat pulls closer and our driver tosses a rope over a metal bollard and tugs us in.
Roger is beaming. Close-up he’s heavily lined everywhere but the forehead, with a thick head of silvery hair. His wife, Sofia, is a picture of style and grace, and also, I think, a little Botox.
Roger sticks his hand out to help me up onto the jetty, and I feel so glamorous standing on this gorgeous pier lined with restaurants, in the middle of a bay surrounded by cliffs, the blue sky shining above. Everywhere perfect hair and tailored slacks, everywhere Gucci glasses, Prada shirts, Valentino summer frocks, Balenciaga bags with small dogs at pretty sandaled feet.
“Gosh, it’s so fancy here,” comes tumbling out of my mouth, as I shake Sofia’s perfectly manicured hand.
“Wait till the tour boats come in!” says Roger, looking at his watch. “The great unwashed arrive to buy an ice cream and piss in the bay.”
“Roger,” says Sofia, hitting him with the back of her hand playfully.
“So, Olive, last time I saw you was in Cinque Terre, I think. Sofia and I were trying to remember,” he says. “What did we decide, love?”
“Itwasin Cinque Terre!” she says warmly. “You came for two days on the boat, do you remember?”
“Oh yeah,” I say, pulling out the memory. One of our very last visits, I think.
“Sofia, honey, can we take them straight to lunch? Neither of them really has any luggage. How do you travel so light? Sofia needs her own camel. Or tugboat,” he says jokingly.
Sofia gives him a look, sighing good-naturedly as she guides us down the promenade, each restaurant filled with diners plunging bread into oil and sipping on their bright orange Camparis and Aperols. The smells of barbecued seafood waft through the air, and I think about the crazy difference between here, with its blue sea and salty air; luscious, green Tuscany; and sun-burnished Sicily.
