I hate leaving Rome. Giana has become a good friend and I will miss our pebble drops around the city. As a leaving gift she presents me with a beautiful little wooden paint box and brushes, to leave my own marks wherever I go. I will treasure it.
‘I’ll use it as often as I can,’ I promise. ‘And everywhere I go I’ll tell people your story.’
Giana smiles. ‘That’s sweet, Phoebe. You have the dearest heart. But don’t share my story: you have your own story to share.’
Giana makes me promise to visit her again and bring Sam next time. I hope if I return he’ll be with me, that these frustrating doubts will have been dealt with. So much of the distance between us will be solved by just being back in the same space, I think, breathing the same air.
If we make it that far.
It’s strange to see Rome slipping away as my train leaves but my destination is back towards Florence – the city of Siena – so it almost feels like heading home. This is where I’ll be staying with Noura and Stephan, a couple who run an organic cheese business. One of the reviews on the accommodation site caught my attention and made my choice academic. It looks like it’s been carved from the mountains and hidden in the clouds. Also, Stephan makes wine – beware!
After the heat of Rome a mountainside retreat sounds divine, and I might even get to see Osh while I’m there because he’s filming a commercial nearby for a few days. I’ve missed my friends so much. I still get snippets of updates from them occasionally but being able to hang out with Osh, even for a few hours, will be so good. I’ve missed his gossip and big loony smile.
I have a confession – one I won’t even tell Osh: I looked at Gabe’s Instagram last night. Instantly hated myself for doing it, of course, and I still don’t really know why. I saw the images of him, always smiling or laughing, in faraway places or hanging out with beautiful friends on beaches during rare summer weekends when nobody was busy. It looks like another world, one that revolves around him and his perennial smile.
I even found myself in one of the group shots – me and Osh, Meg and the gang with Gabe at our centre, a sentinel. We’re all laughing; we all look like life is a blast. What did Tobi call it? The beautiful ones in the beautiful life. Except I know Gabe was out of work then, had just had the biggest fall-out with his agent and had spent a whole week convinced his career was sinking. In desperation Osh dragged us all out to Brighton (he’d threatened to chuck Gabe off Brighton Pier if he didn’t smile). He’d filmed us that day and I remember the unreal feeling of us all watching it back in London, seeing filtered versions of ourselves dancing around in a parallel universe.
Funny how you forget the boredom, the frustration, the wishing to be somewhere else, when you’re outside looking in.
The Instagram Gabe is in final rehearsals for his play. He’s grinning for the camera, mucking about with daft videos, star-jumping off chairs in the rehearsal room, smouldering beneath street lights with a pint during Pride, posing shirtless and sweaty on his early morning run. Every image has four thousand likes, with hundreds of adoring comments, hopeful questions about his sexuality, proposals of marriage and desperate begging for him to notice them or follow them back. I don’t know if he ever even reads them. But he needs it: the reassurance of seeing the red hearts in his notifications. He’ll be in a panic right now, as he always is just before a production opens, convinced it’s a wrong move that will side-track his career. He’ll be seeking the affirmation from his followers more than ever, all the while playing the cool, fun-loving actor at the top of his game.
Is any of it real?
My own images tell of a carefree traveller, exploring Europe and following her heart. My few hundred followers post occasional messages of encouragement, a little shower of hearts and smiley faces dancing down the comments. But do they think I’ve got it all sorted, like they believe Gabe has the perfect life? Do they think I’m happy?
Has Gabe seen my squares while I’ve been away?
Has Sam?
I didn’t ask if Sam was on Instagram. I didn’t get his Twitter handle or FB profile. When I was with him what mattered was being with him. Not viewing him through a lens or trying to filter him into a perfect image of the moment. What mattered was his touch, his breath against my face, the way he’d held me.
I wish Sam were here. Maybe then we could sort everything. Perhaps it’s the niggling uncertainty that arrives whenever I think of Sam, but on the train I find myself composing a text to Gabe.
Hey G. I figured you’d be panicking about opening night. DON’T. You’ll be amazing. You always are. Sorry I won’t be there to see it, but I’ll raise a glass to you from the cheese farm (!) where I’m staying. Break a leg (please don’t really) P xx
I don’t expect him to see it – the last few weeks before a theatre production are fraught to say the least. It just feels good to know my message will be waiting on his phone.
I reach Siena with an hour to kill. Noura and Stephan’s farm is near Montalcino, so they are going to meet me here and drive me up. Finding a café I order coffee and crisp pistachio cannoli and settle in to watch the world go by.
The café has free WiFi so I log in and check my email inbox. I’ve learned to do this when I find signal and not worry about it when there’s none. I have the best excuse to miss messages this year so I intend to use it whenever I can. And I mostly haven’t missed being contactable.
That’s odd. Three emails from the accommodation website, the most recent flagged with an urgent sticker. I open it – and my heart sinks:
Due to personal issues your booking has been cancelled. Your deposit has been refunded. STAYHERE.com apologises for any inconvenience.
There’s a personal note from Noura and Stephan added beneath the standard message:
Miss Jones, we are sorry to cancel at short notice. My mother was taken ill last night. She has been released from the hospital but will be staying in the guest accommodation so that we can care for her.
We offer our sincere apologies and hope you will visit us in future.
My heart hits the floor. What am I supposed to do now?
I can’t be angry with them for cancelling, but it leaves me in a city I hadn’t planned to stay in, with no idea of alternate accommodation. Even if I find somewhere to stay tonight, I’d planned to spend four weeks in Montalcino. How likely is it I’ll find accommodation for that amount of time at short notice?
Think, Phoebe!
I’ve become so used to all my accommodation bookings going without a hitch. It never occurred to me that they might fall through and I would need a contingency.
A year ago, a problem like this would have terrified me. Even six months ago I would have been thrown into panic. And while this is a mess for sure, I’m not the scared Phoebe Jones who almost didn’t wait for her train at St Pancras when the delay was announced.
I make myself breathe. I can sort this.
A waiter in the café directs me to the local tourist information centre, a short walk from the square. I just need to find a room for tonight and then I can work out where to head next.
The woman at the desk smells of expensive perfume and wears the kind of flawless make-up that looks as if it’s been airbrushed on. She speaks perfect English and has an economic smile that appears for exactly two seconds at a time.
‘It is a busy time,’ she says. ‘We have a festival.’
‘But there must be rooms in Siena for tonight? I’ll take anything.’
She wrinkles her nose and taps at her keyboard. ‘I am sorry. No vacancies.’ She twists the computer monitor to face me and grants me a two-second smile for solidarity. ‘Perhaps next week? It will be quieter then.’
The sun stings my eyes as I emerge from the building. The street hums with the beat of hundreds of feet. I’d seen the crowds but not registered how busy Siena is. Being in Rome for the last eight weeks must have desensitised me to waves of tightly packed tourists. I wander the streets for a while. I don’t know if I’m hoping to magically spot a hotel with vacancies or if it is just that physically moving feels less like defeat.
I spot a tiny cobbled square where an artist has set up a table of her ceramics, a sunny yellow canopy shielding them from the midday sun. It’s hopeful, in the chaos of everything else. I take a photo with my phone and it’s only when I check the image that I see the notification from Osh. A message to say they’ve arrived at their location.
Osh – of course!
I hit ‘call’, praying he’s somewhere with enough signal. On the fifth ring, he answers.
‘Phee! Ciao!’
‘Hi,’ I manage, before bursting into tears.
Two hours later, I am waiting in the car park Osh told me to head to, when a dirty white crew van swings into view, honking its horn madly. I ignore the disgruntled stares of people around me as I wave back. When it pulls alongside me, Osh jumps out. His bear hug is the loveliest embrace I’ve had since I said goodbye to Sam.
‘We’ve got you,’ he murmurs into my hair.
‘Thank you,’ I say, hugging him back.
When we pull apart, Osh grabs the handle of the side door. ‘Got a surprise for you.’ He slides it open.
And Gabe is there.
Arms flung wide as a magician revealing his greatest trick, dark eyes sparkling with mischief, utterly proud of himself.
Behind him, Osh’s crewmates cheer.
He jumps from the van like a Shakespearean player leaping from the stage. Not the highly filtered Instagram imposter @MisterGMarley, but the real, living, breathing Gabriel Marley.
Our Gabe.
‘Phoebs! Wassaap?’
He gathers me into a hug. He smells of vanilla and spice. I let myself rest for a breath, feeling the ground firm again beneath my feet.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, breaking free and holding him at arm’s length to check he really is here and not just a mirage caused by the Tuscan sun.
‘Had a couple of days off before previews so I thought I’d cadge a lift with our esteemed director.’
‘He’s wangled a starring role in the commercial,’ Osh says as Gabe slaps an arm around his shoulders. ‘Bloody thesp.’
Their twin goofy grins are the best slice of home I could have wished for.
‘Part for you too, Phoebs, if you fancy it?’
‘Not likely!’ I smile at my utterly wonderful friends, who have appeared at the moment I needed them most. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
The road to Montalcino takes us high up into the mountains, weaving through an impossibly beautiful landscape. Osh winds down the window, the hire van’s air-con being less than effective, and as we ascend the breeze becomes cooler, bursts of green herbs and lemons scenting the air.
‘We had the same problem as you with accommodation,’ Osh says. ‘Finding rooms for the five of us was impossible.’
‘Where are you staying now?’
‘On the vineyard where we’re shooting the commercial. We’re pretty much just camping in one of the barns and stashing our stuff in the tour van. But there’s plenty of room and the chap who owns the vineyard has given us a ton of food.’
‘And beer,’ Gabe adds, his head appearing in the gap between the driver’s seat and front passenger bench. ‘Which is the most important thing.’
I pat his cheek, his skin cool beneath my palm. ‘I thought you were meant to be working.’
‘It’s a beer commercial. I’m a method guy, what can I tell you?’
The vineyard is stunning. Nestled into the gentle slope of a hillside, its lines of perfect green vines run up from a beautiful stone villa that glows in the afternoon sun. Marco, the owner, is a crinkly-eyed, white-toothed wonder, welcoming us like long-lost family and insisting on bringing us plates of fresh mozzarella with thick slices of beef tomato drizzled with olive oil, and loaves of fresh bread his wife baked that morning. He is instantly in a bromance with Gabe, who laughs and jokes and entertains like Gabe always does, to the delight of our host and his three enraptured kids.
Gabe was born to do this. No matter what the size of his audience is, he has the ability to command everyone’s attention and make each person believe the show is purely for them. He knows I’m in on his game, too, which makes it all the more delicious. His eyes slide to me after each beat of his performance, that smile of his impossibly audacious.
That night, we drink beer under the stars around a fire pit and even though we’re surrounded by the summer sounds of a Tuscan hillside, it feels like home.
‘Thanks for rescuing me,’ I say to Osh, as we watch Gabe entertaining the film crew with his on-set tales.
‘My pleasure. Not so much a knight in shining armour as a knight in a dusty hire van, but I reckon I did a good job.’
‘You did a great job.’ I lean my head against his shoulder. Sparks from the fire dance up into the starlit night. ‘It’s so lovely here.’
‘It is.’ He takes a swig of beer. ‘So what are your plans now? Stay in Tuscany?’
It’s beautiful here but I thought I would be learning to make cheese and experiencing life on a real working farm. ‘I was wondering about maybe finding a job somewhere. Stay put in one place for a bit.’
‘Money getting tight?’ Osh asks.
There is that. My savings and the money Mum and Dad gave me for the trip are definitely dwindling, even considering what I saved by staying with Giana. ‘Always. But I want to do more than just be a tourist, you know?’
‘Sure.’ He chuckles as Gabe launches into an energetic retelling of his one-time attempt to break into action films. ‘Marley is such a tart. I wonder how many bones he’ll break this time.’
‘… three ribs cracked and my leg in plaster for eight weeks,’ Gabe declares. ‘The Rock I’m not…’
‘Three ribs,’ Osh says, raising an eyebrow. ‘Last time it was only one and a sprained ankle.’
‘Bless him.’
‘You’re welcome to hang with us for a couple of days, Phee. We’re filming in the vineyard and might do a bit around here if Marco fancies it. The guys wouldn’t mind.’
‘It’s a kind offer – I’ll stay tomorrow but then I need to move on,’ I say, my resolve strengthening as I speak the words.
When the dancing flames in the fire pit have settled to a molten red-orange glow and Osh and the others are asleep in the barn, I sit with Gabe. I’ll probably regret all the beer in the morning but the buzz is as welcome as the company tonight.
‘Thanks for your text, Phoebs. Earlier. It meant a lot.’
‘My pleasure. Was I right?’
His dark eyes reflect the fire’s glow. ‘Of course you were. You always are.’
‘You’ll be great in the play. Sorry I won’t be there.’
‘It’s okay. I’m sure Meg will regale you with the gory details.’ His gaze slides to me. ‘I’ve missed you.’
A log in the fire pit splits, sending a shower of sparks up into the night.
‘I’ve missed you too. And Osh and Meg.’
He’s quiet for a while. I look up at the night sky studded with thousands of stars. They glow here like they’re never allowed to in London. A shooting star dances across the midnight blue.
‘So tell me about the guy.’
Of course he knows. Meg and Osh do so I couldn’t expect them to keep it from Gabe. And anyway, why shouldn’t he know? When Sam and I are together next year he’ll see him all the time.
I can’t read his expression when I look back at him. ‘His name is Sam. He’s a musician, he’s Scottish, he’s completely gorgeous…’
‘And you’re in love with him?’
‘I am.’
The fire glow dances along the brown glass of his beer bottle as he lifts it to his lips. ‘But he’s in Mull and you’re in Tuscany.’
I don’t know why, but I feel I’ve just been accused. ‘We text and email most weeks. Call each other, too.’
‘But you love him. He’s burst into your life and stolen your heart and you aren’t with him?’
‘We’re both away for a year. When we get back—’
‘How do you know, though? That it’s the real deal? That’s what I don’t get, Phoebs. I mean, it could just have been a great snog when you needed it.’
I sit up a little, pulling my jacket around me. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying if he’s the love of your life why would you want to be anywhere else?’
‘We have things to do first.’ I don’t want to have to justify myself to Gabe and I don’t want to fight with him, either. ‘It works for us. Anyway, it’s late. I should get some sleep.’
‘I wouldn’t leave you for a year,’ he says – and suddenly I can’t move.
‘What?’
‘If you were the love of my life and I knew it like you say you do, I couldn’t walk away. I’d do anything to be with you.’
There’s something in his gaze that I’m not ready to see. I stare at the fire. ‘Yeah, well, you’re not Sam.’
‘Evidently.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing.’
What is he trying to say? I should push him for more but we’re treading on dangerous ground. ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘Phoebs – wait.’ His hand catches mine as I move to stand. ‘I’m sorry, okay? Stay a bit longer. Please?’
I don’t want to but I don’t want an unresolved row to keep me awake tonight. So even though I’m tired, I sink back into my seat. ‘You don’t know Sam. And you don’t know how I feel about him.’
‘Sure. Sorry. It’s just I…’ His sentence remains frustratingly unfinished.
‘I don’t expect you to understand.’
‘It’s the beer making me talk bollocks. Ignore me.’ He takes another long swig. ‘I just think you’re worth more.’
‘Can we change the subject, please?’
‘Okay. No, actually, one more thing…’
‘Oh come on…’
‘I think you’re amazing. I think whoever you choose to give your heart to should count himself the luckiest guy on the planet. You give so much and you don’t think people notice, but they do, Phoebs. I do. I should have said it before you went, but I’m saying it now and hoping it still counts. If you’re sure of Sam, if you know you can be everything you want to be to each other, go for it. Just – make sure you’re certain, okay?’
‘I am certain,’ I say, but my voice isn’t as strong as I expect.
‘Well, good.’ He opens his arms. ‘Bring it in.’
I let him hug me because I want him to see I’m settled in my decision. I’m irritated that he even thinks I want his opinion, but I can’t deny how uncomfortable his question has made me.
His hand cradles my head against his chest and I feel the brush of his lips on my crown.
‘Sorry for being a jerk.’
‘A drunk jerk,’ I say against his chest.
‘The drunkiest jerk in Tuscany.’
‘Drunkiest isn’t a word.’
‘Everyone’s a critic.’
It’s almost 2 a.m. when I finally crawl into my sleeping bag on the bed of hay bales Marco made for me. I keep thinking about what Gabe said. I want to call Sam and talk to him, but things have been on a more even keel with us lately and I don’t want to spoil that. Besides, he’ll probably have been asleep for hours.
Next morning, I pick my way around the sleeping bodies of my friends, open the barn door a little and slip outside. Stillness surrounds me, a prickle of moisture in the air before the heat of the day. In the light pink dawn, the hills roll endlessly like blue-grey waves. I hug my arms around myself and take it all in. Another view I hadn’t planned. Another gem I might have missed. This year is becoming a year of serendipities and I’m determined not to repeat the stress and concern of yesterday. For this moment, I don’t have anywhere else to be.
I don’t grab my phone to take a photo. I don’t swipe to any social media app to frame this moment in a tiny square most will miss.
I keep my eyes open – and I breathe it in.
The serendipities keep coming.
Osh finds a website that lists volunteer jobs across Europe and when I scroll through the opportunities a position in Italy catches my eye. It’s in Puglia – not a place I’d originally planned to visit, but I know from travellers I’ve met that it’s a gorgeous region. There’s a villa that’s being restored to host weddings and events but the scheme has run out of money in its final stages. They are offering bed and board in exchange for a range of tasks: painting, re-establishing a terrace garden and creating a library. It’s the final task that wins it for me. I send an email, which is followed by a phone call with the owner, Lisabeta, and a day later I’m catching a train from Siena to Lecce.
Osh and Gabe drive me to the train station. I savour our final hugs and don’t mind that Gabe’s is longer than it should be.
‘Call me whenever you want,’ he says, his breath warm against my ear.
‘You’ll be busy with your play.’
‘Never too busy to talk to you.’ His eyes are wide and still when we break apart. ‘Remember that, okay?’
It’s hard to let my friends go. I wave from the moving train until they become two tiny figures on the platform, a tunnel finally stealing them from my view.
It turns out Villa Speranza is the most perfect place. Or it has the potential to be.
The moment Lisabeta Sjöberg shows me the bare bones of what will be the library, I’m in love. A large double-height room lined with empty mahogany bookcases draped with dusty white sheets. The floor might once have hosted dances, its intricate inlays and faded gold leaf still beautiful despite the neglect. It’s a huge project, but the end result would transform the room.
‘I want to offer weddings here,’ Lisabeta tells me, gazing out through the tall glass doors towards the Puglian landscape that sweeps away down the hillside. ‘And host writers, artists, maybe even orchestras on summer breaks. The main villa has huge rooms that aren’t being used. The library is the biggest challenge inside – we have boxes of books that the previous owner put in storage when there was a flood. The old shelves look solid enough but I’ve no idea if the books are in any condition to be saved. If we can restore this room, and open these doors onto the replanted terraces teaming with flowers and grasses, I think this will be heaven.’
Sadness clings to her words. It’s profound and out of place in such unkempt beauty.
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Thank you. I hated it at first.’
‘What – how?’
‘My husband fell head over heels for her at an auction when we first came here from Sweden. All our savings are sunk into this project. I felt like she was his mistress for a while. And then, just when Karl had persuaded me I could love her too, he passed away.’
I feel the thud of my heart, the sadness startling. ‘I am so sorry. I didn’t know…’
Lisabeta smiles beneath the loss. ‘Partly I want to restore her so the world can see what Karl saw. And I want people to be happy here.’
That’s my heart gone. ‘I would love to help you do that, Lisabeta. If you’ll have me?’
Her smile is instantaneous. ‘Phoebe, I would love your help. Welcome to Villa Speranza!’
It isn’t just me working on this project, thank goodness. The garden is being tackled by a team of volunteers from a college in Lecce who are here for meals but go home at dusk. In the library I’m working with Amanda, an English professor on sabbatical from Plymouth University. She knew Lisabeta at university and loved the challenge of reinstating the library at Villa Speranza. But there’s so much to do that everyone pitches in wherever we’re needed.
Before long I am completely in love with this place. Puglia is gorgeous, quieter than Tuscany but breathtaking everywhere you look. Working is good for my head, too. I keep thinking about Sam and what Gabe said about him that night in Marco’s vineyard.
If you’re sure of Sam, if you know you can be everything you want to be to each other…
I am sure of Sam. I am. So why do Gabe’s words keep returning?