On the way to the car park, she trawled her mind for something to say, but no words would come – neither Italian nor English.Anyhow, she thought,he probably hears enough inane chit-chat from his passengers throughout the day, so decided to stay silent and enjoy the journey to Torre Annunziata.
He held open the rear door and she stopped dead in her tracks. This wasn’t a taxi, but a blue police car!
He sensed her hesitation. ‘You get the message? From Elena?’
‘What message?’ Lucy nervously rootled in her bulging rucksack for her mobile. ‘Oh, I forgot to switch on my phone after we landed.’ The entire contents of her unzipped make-up bag then spilled onto the ground – including two tampons, one of which landed at his feet, the other scooting under the car.
‘Don’t move!’ she screeched, grabbing the damned thing from the gap between his shiny, leather boots. Then, kneeling onto the oily concrete, she reached under the chassis to retrieve the other.
She hauled herself up, threw the items into her bag and, swallowing hard, whispered, ‘Erm, what message was that?’
‘I tell Elena to cancel the taxi and I bring you to the house.’ A faint smile played across his lips. ‘The airport is very near the station, and now my work is finished.’
‘Well, that’s very nice of you… Signor… Carabinieri,’ she said, heat crawling over her in a rush of mortification.
‘Dario.’ He gripped her hand warmly, then removed his cap and jacket, which he threw onto the front seat.
‘Lucy,’ she said, eyes studying her shoes, wishing she could melt into the concrete.
As they sped along the motorway in the fading light, Lucy fixed her gaze on Mount Vesuvius, even more eerie, mysterious and ominous close up.
Leaving theautostradabehind, they weaved through the mazeof narrow, chaotic, vibrant streets. Lucy was struck by the beauty of the ornate, crumbling buildings. A doubtless ancient fresco peeked through a yellow-washed wall. She had to stop herself from lowering the window to reprimand a group of lads kicking a football against a centuries-old ruin. Old grannies in house coats and shabby slippers stood in doorways, babbling blissfully, arms waving like orchestral maestros. A headless cherub posed proudly in the centre of a magnificent, marble fountain, water spouting from its neck.
Lucy gazed upwards. Balcony upon balcony decked with washing lines, colourful laundry dancing in the breeze, accompanied by the loud peal of ancient church bells. A priest wearing a purple cassock, skull cap and crucifix smoked against a graffiti-covered wall beneath the flashing sign of Enzo’s Bar, as kamikaze mopeds whizzed by, honking their horns, three abreast, no helmets.
‘We are nearly there,’ said Dario, grinning at Lucy in the rear-view mirror.
‘Thank you. I mean…grazie,’ she replied, fleetingly returning his gaze, still dying inside from the runaway tampon incident.
The road curved then dipped slightly, the car stopping before two rusty iron gates. As Dario got out to open them, Lucy dared a glance in his direction.
His white shirt was crumpled after a doubtless long day in the heat, maintaining law and order on the streets of Naples, his dark, close-cut hair, threaded with the tiniest bit of grey, looked damp, or maybe it was gel. She’d read that Italian men could be vain. He turned around swiftly and she pretended to be checking her phone. Climbing back into the car, he released the brake and they free-wheeled down a dusty driveway, drawing to a halt outside an old villa, its walls yellow in the setting sun like old gold, the windows flanked by green, flaky shutters.
Dario opened the passenger door and held out his hand to help Lucy out of the car. No one except her dad had done that for her before. She had also read that Italian men were experts in impressing the ladies. She stepped onto the gravel path. The faint sound and the sweet smell of the sea greeted her. An expanse of un-manicured lawn ran down to the black sand, interspersed with jagged rocks, and the sea beyond. An old tyre, suspended from a tree, swung lazily back and forth.
Her eyes were drawn to a mullioned window, where a small boy stood. She waved, and he immediately ducked down out of view.
Dario slammed the car boot shut, picked up Lucy’s luggage and gestured for her to go first. She climbed up the steep granite steps, terracotta pots of red geraniums and rosemary lined up on either side.
The front door was ajar, revealing a black-and-white tiled entrance hall.
‘This way,’ said Dario, leading her up the soaring staircase to the first floor. ‘Elena! Stefano! We are here!’ he called, turning the key in the lock.
Elena came running barefoot from the kitchen, removing her oven gloves and pulling back the stray strands of her blue-black, silky hair. She drew a deep breath.
‘Benvenuta! Welcome!’ she said switching on a full-beam smile and kissing Lucy on both cheeks.
‘How lovely to meet you in person at last,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m so sorry. I seem to have forgotten all my Italian. Must be the excitement.’
Elena’s Sophia Loren eyes glittered with mischief. ‘But wewantyou to speak English to us – all the time. Especially Dario. His English is sooo bad!’
‘Che cavolo! What cabbage!’ retorted Dario good-humouredly. ‘I put the bags in your room,sì?’
‘Thank you,’ said Lucy, stifling a giggle.
‘Please can you check on Stefano, Dario? Tell him to come and meet our guest.’
Elena took Lucy by the arm and led her to the kitchen. ‘Stefano has been so excited for days about your coming, but when he heard the car he suddenly became shy and ran to his room.’
