FERN
Matteo was the ultimate host, introducing Fern to everyone, and she was made to feel welcome and not the outsider she was worried about being. Apart from a German couple in their sixties, everyone else was on their own. Of course, Edith would have had her friend with her if that had worked out. Her loss was definitely Fern’s gain and she vowed to make the most of every minute.
There was an international flavour, with guests from Canada and the Netherlands as well as the UK, Germany and Italy. Fern imagined there was a lot of wealth around the table – a two-week catered retreat must have cost a fortune. Retirement – if you could afford it – would be the perfect time to come to a place like this. She felt lucky to be experiencing it now, unexpected and so very welcome.
If she thought the food she’d eaten so far on Capri was special, the combination of the setting, the company and a private chef cooking for the guests was something else entirely. The starter was simple but utterly delicious: crunchy arancini that were smooth and moreish inside. The main course of ravioli capresi gave Fern an idea about what it would be like to live somewhere like this, devouring the tastiest dishes with the freshest ingredients day in, day out. To have your own chef who cooked for you… Fern’s normal life paled in comparison; it was always an effort to think about what they were going to eat each week. Freshly made pasta filled with a smooth almost sweet caciotta cheese and marjoram drizzled with a delicious tomato sauce – it didn’t get much better. She could easily have ravioli as a midweek meal, but the thought took her back to their TV dinners, begrudgingly watching football or some other rubbish programme because Paul wanted to.
‘It’s nice for Matteo to have someone his own age around.’ Edith’s voice close to her ear forced her attention away from the food.
Fern wasn’t sure if Edith meant anything by it or not. She didn’t wink and wasn’t looking at her suggestively; it seemed an honest comment. And it was true. Fern was the youngest by far and Matteo was a similar age, perhaps a little older but not by much. His dark hair was flecked with grey, which was barely noticeable and only because she’d been studying him. Hazel eyes, permanent stubble, a light tan, high cheekbones.
She stuck her fork into her ravioli and tried to focus on her food rather than wavering thoughts about a man she’d only just met…
‘I suppose it’s the nature of running a place like this,’ Edith continued, ‘surrounded by us retired old fogeys who are able to swan off to Capri for a couple of weeks. I’ve always thought of my retirement as my chance to immerse myself in the things I love – art, food and travel being the main ones – wine too of course.’ She chuckled. ‘Capri has all of those in abundance, and this place, well, it speaks for itself.’
Fern couldn’t agree more. She’d never been anywhere quite like it. Just the view through the window in her bedroom was like a painting, with the contrast of olive-grey and fresh green leaves against the vibrant splashes of magenta and fiery red flowers.
‘I adored having a career as a counsellor and working hard, but I knew I wanted my retirement to be more than just putting my feet up.’ Edith’s cheeks were rosy and a smile beamed across her face. Her relaxed hairdo was on the verge of dishevelled, but in a good way, with tendrils of white hair framing her face. Fern thought how nice it would be to reach her age and still have such vigour and passion for life. It would be a feat to get to Edith’s age and know what she wanted to do with her retirement when she couldn’t even figure out what she was going to do in the next twelve months.
Her cheeks felt flushed from lots of wine, unsurprising as her glass kept being topped up. By the middle of the evening, the table was littered with empty bottles. Enclosed within the private garden, it felt as if they were miles from anywhere, when in reality she knew they were on the edge of Anacapri with other grand villas clustered around.
The trickle of water from the fountain not far from the terrace was making Fern need a wee, but she didn’t want to spoil the moment; she was content to sit and drink, listen to the chatter of the guests, chip in occasionally and soak up the friendly atmosphere. She was buzzing inside, having enjoyed a day filled with new people and an experience different to anything back home. She did do stuff for herself – there’d been the spa weekend with Stella, she had occasional meals out with friends, she went to work and had colleagues she got on with… She and Paul had mutual friends they went out with together too, but admittedly Paul was out a lot more than she was.
She sighed. Her life was average, boring really. Maybe Stella was right to suggest she went out with her and her friends. There was nothing wrong with going clubbing; Paul still did. It would be good to go dancing and to live a little. Exactly like she was doing now, living life to the full. Except she wasn’t; she was away with the fairies thinking about all that she wanted to change in her life.
She pushed her thoughts away and shuffled upright in her chair, zoning back in on the conversation flitting back and forth across the table. Everyone was interesting and had really lived – career- and travel-wise. It made her realise how much she’d missed out on having her kids young. Not that she’d change them for the world. It was fate – well, unprotected sex – that had taken her on a journey of motherhood. Yet, on the cusp of forty, with the next couple of decades spreading out with such uncertainty, she couldn’t continue to feel the way she did.
Snap out of it, she thought.
She tried again to focus on what was going on around her. Matteo caught her eye across the table and raised his glass. She returned a nod, sipped her wine and held his gaze. His hazel eyes were darker in the candlelight.
She looked away, conscious of the fluttering in her chest. She downed the rest of her wine. She’d drunk way too much. Butso what, she thought, it’s about time I enjoyed myself. Isn’t that what Stella, Amber and Chloe would be doing right now? Drinking and partying away on a yacht somewhere off the Amalfi Coast.
The main course was cleared away and the dessert was brought out.
Edith leaned in close as a plate with a generous slice of cake was placed in front of her, along with a glass of limoncello.
‘The torta caprese,’ she said, driving her fork into the cake.
Fern sipped the limoncello. Icy cold and wonderfully refreshing after the meal, it was the perfect accompaniment to the richness of the chocolate and almond cake. Even the elasticated waist of her trousers was straining after all the food.
‘I told you he feeds us well,’ Edith said as if reading her mind. ‘It’s why I go for a walk each day – and I mean a proper pacy walk, not a stroll – just so I don’t feel guilty about having pudding.’
‘I don’t think there’s any need to feel guilty about anything here.’ She was constantly watching her weight back home, while here she realised she didn’t give a toss if she put on an extra pound or two. She liked Edith’s idea of a daily walk, plus she was eager to have a swim in the pool. Perhaps she would early in the morning before anyone was up – if she could drag herself out of bed. She smiled; it was a novelty to have no one else to please apart from herself.
With empty glasses and only cake crumbs left on plates, the other guests began to drift away with calls of goodnight until just Fern, Edith and Matteo were left. Edith was talking about her childhood spent in Kenya and at a boarding school in England. Fern wished she was a fraction as interesting as Edith. Her whole adult life had revolved around raising children and looking after her family. It wasn’t something she should be ashamed of, yet the feeling of failure kept tugging at her.
Edith pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘It’s early yet for you youngsters. I need my sleep; I’m an early bird. The best light for painting.’ She patted Fern lightly on the shoulder and smiled warmly – or perhaps drunkenly – at Matteo. ‘Buona notte.’
‘Buona notte, Edith,’ Matteo said as she swept away, her long shawl floating around her shoulders and nearly tripping her up as she reached the stone steps that led to the villa.
Silence descended over the courtyard. The garden was tree-filled, the edges as dense as a forest, filtering everything out. There was no traffic noise either, just one of the unexpected joys of the island. A moth fluttered around one of the candles on the table. Fern gazed upwards. Leaf-filled branches framed the night sky, an inky blue scattered with silver stars.
‘It’s magical, isn’t it?’
Fern turned back at Matteo’s deep voice. He was watching her, his hand clasped around the glass of wine he held in his lap.
‘Almost as clear as in Tuscany,’ he continued. ‘There’s less light pollution there. The sky’s endless and so dark. But this spot is special.’