‘I’ll send that to Lauren,’ Stella said. Her daughter was probably in some high-powered meeting right now, silencing some chap in a suit with a withering look.
Stella crossed the petal-patterned pebble mosaic paving, past plinths topped with white marble cherubs. After a look inside, gasping at the frescoed ceiling, the twisted marble pillars and sheer sensory overload of colour and statuary, they reversed their climb, resting for a while on a bench by a small glass-fronted shrine to the Virgin Mary set into the rough stone wall. Stella had started to notice the signs of devotion everywhere and each time, an image of Fernanda, Gino’s mother, came unbidden: a tiny ancient woman wielding a broom on the church steps. Of course, Fernanda couldn’t have been all that old back then, no more than mid-forties, but her stern countenance made her seem as old as the stones she swept.
‘Are you okay to carry on?’ Joe said.
Stella stood up, creaking slightly. Perhaps Carol was right to nag her to join the yoga class at the Leisure Centre. She’d be fit for nothing when they got back to the hotel except for lounging by the pool. She wasn’t too sure of the way back but she soon recognised a particularly vibrant display of geraniums by someone’s front door. And as long as they kept walking downwards, they’d reach the main town for sure.
Joe strode under an archway, past a small café with tables around a fountain with a bull’s head through a small courtyard where washing hung across the balconies and down more steps. Somehow, they ended up on a piazza directly opposite the place where they’d had lunch.
‘I don’t know how we got here,’ Joe admitted.
‘But we’re here, that’s what counts.’ Stella smiled.
‘Here together.’ He pecked her on the lips. ‘Shall we stop at the gelateria with the big blue cone? It’s on the way to the hotel.’
Stella considered. She was already having trouble doing up the zips on some of the slightly too tight dresses Joe had bought her. But shewason holiday. ‘Yes, that’s a nice idea. We’re not having dinner until half-eight.’
‘I think you’ll like the restaurant.’
‘I’m sure I will. Shall we go to the casino afterwards? It’s such a beautiful, famous building, I’ve always wanted to see inside.’
Joe turned to her, his brow troubled. ‘I didn’t know you were a gambler.’
Stella laughed. ‘We don’t have to have a bet – and anyway I don’t think a few spins of a one-armed bandit will corrupt us.’ An image of Fernanda waggling her finger entered Stella’s head. In Gino’s mamma’s eyes the casino was akin to Sodom and Gomorrah, a sinful den of bright lights. Fernanda didn’t even like to see Gino play cards with his mates like all the other kids – and men – in the village did.
‘Not for me.’ Joe shook his head.
Stella felt a sudden stir of something. Daring? Rebellion? That was daft, Joe would never stop her doing anything. ‘Come on, just one go on the roulette. It will be fun. We might even win!’
‘You don’t want to set off down that rocky road.’ Joe’s laugh seemed a bit forced. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea, Stella. I don’t want you to do something you’d regret.’
‘I guess you’re right, I’d probably just lose my money.’
She pushed aside the uneasy feeling. Joe was just being responsible. And that was a good thing. She didn’t want another reckless husband like Ricky.
There’d been too many nights when Stella had woken up to find her ex-husband’s side of the bed empty. She’d find him passed out on the sofa more often than not. She didn’t know how she’d put up with it all: caring for Lauren; sorting out Ricky’s debts; the lonely nights listening to the click, click, click of his cigarette lighter as he crumbled a lump of hash, the sweet grassy smoke wafting up the stairs.
They set off towards the gelateria, Joe holding her hand. The pedestrianised area was quiet save for a large family group jostling to take multiple photographs by the bronze statue of Mike Bongiorno, arm raised in his familiar pose.
‘Who’s Mike Bongiorno? They seem very excited,’ Joe said.
‘He organised the Sanremo festival and hosted family game shows. When I was a kid he was one of the most recognisable people on TV. They called him The Quiz King.’
Mamma and Papà had been huge fans. The whole family had gathered around their small portable set, never missing an episode ofI Sogni nel Cassetto– the dreams you put away in a drawer. Stella hadn’t put her dreams in a drawer. She’d buried them far deeper than that.
8
Amy stepped out of the train station, struck at once by the aura of tranquillity. Alassio bore no resemblance to Rome, the only Italian city she’d previously visited, where the ghosts of ancient civilisation, the tourists of the world, the power of the Catholic church and the glamour of Italian high society clashed in an intoxicating mix. Here, fine buildings and tall palm trees created a feeling of elegance; not a scrap of litter swirled along the well-kept street. She could almost imagine Grandpa Lance, who never considered himself dressed without a shirt and tie, walking along this same pavement. She took another swig from her trusty water bottle. It was daft to feel so nervous. Her brother Jack would be in Central America by now, probably dangling from a high wire somewhere. She was only a two-hour flight from home, negotiating a wheelie case down a pedestrianised road past handbag shops, art galleries and houses of yellow and terracotta.
The concierge at Amy’s small hotel was welcoming, allowing her to stow her case until she could officially check in. She walked back into the sunshine, her red suede bag dangling from her shoulder, clutching her new fold-out city map. The hotel’s location was marked by a big green arrow but she was at a loss as to where to begin. She’d been nursing some fanciful idea that once she arrived in Alassio, Grandpa Lance’s spirit would somehow guide her. Had she expected him to float past on a fluffy cloud, pointing the way with his walking stick? She’d be waiting a long time for that; the sky was an unbroken blue, vivid as a kingfisher.
She unfolded the map: the famousmurettowith its hundreds of ceramic tiles; the oratorio of Santa Caterina d’Alessandria; the sixteenth-century watchtower: where would young Lance have spent his time? She decided to start with the sea. The beach at Alassio was known to be the best in the region, more than two miles of golden sand. Grandpa must have walked there a hundred times and with the curve of the coast as her guide she couldn’t get lost. She headed for the front.
The walk along the promenade didn’t disappoint, the sea a vibrant turquoise, the water so clear she could see through to the rocks below. But after a while her view was blocked, obscured by the bars and changing facilities of the rival beach clubs whose hundreds of colourful umbrellas and loungers were arrayed along the shore with military precision.
She passed a set of ride-on animals: a dolphin, an orange fish, an unlikely bear. A small boy with a huge grin grasped the neck of a big blue whale. The animals looked like a long-loved fixture but they certainly weren’t pre-war. She tried to imagine Grandpa as a skinny boy in knee-length shorts and a Fair Isle tank top with some 1930s toy – a spinning hoop perhaps – walking along this same seafront holding his mother’s hand. If only she could feel him here, it might help her cope with her loss. But at least in Italy she wasn’t surrounded by well-meaning people telling her Grandpa had had a good innings, that instead of feeling bereft she should be moving on with her life, as if grief had an in-built expiry date she’d failed to observe. Of course, nobody actually said that out loud, but the unspoken words hovered behind their nervous smiles and hasty changes of subject.
Amy kept on walking, the sun warming her bare shoulders. The beach clubs petered out as she approached the outer reaches of the town. Beyond the high wall to her left she glimpsed the top floors of elegant villas, soaring palm trees, a cascade of purple bougainvillea spilling over a wall.
