Dreaming of Florence Read online

  ‘How awful for you. Why did you break up, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  Debbie sighed inwardly, loath to revisit old, unpleasant memories that she had been trying so hard to suppress for months now. Reluctantly, she decided that, having started to talk, she might as well go the whole hog.

  ‘He worked for a company that owns English language schools, some of the biggest in the country, and even worldwide. They’ve got branches all over the place and he spent a lot of his time travelling, trying to promote the schools and get students. The trouble we had was that his busiest time was during the winter, while my busiest time in the classroom was the summer. As a result we really saw very little of each other and it was almost impossible even to arrange to go on holiday together. It was a mess.’

  ‘So is that why you broke up? Just logistics?’

  Debbie steeled herself and looked up, turning towards him.

  ‘No, I could have lived with that. In fact, I did live with it. It wasn’t ideal, but I thought we could make it work. That is until I heard a chance comment from the group leader of a big group of Brazilians over in Cambridge for a course this winter. It turns out he and the travel agent in São Paolo had been having an affair for two years, on and off.’

  ‘And you tackled him about it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he admitted it?’

  ‘At first he tried to deny it, but then, finally, he admitted it. Not only that. It transpired that there was also a woman in Mexico, one in Paris, one in Spain… you get the picture.’

  ‘Did you love him?’

  ‘Yes… yes I did.’

  ‘And when did you stop loving him?’

  For a moment she hesitated, unsure of the true answer.

  ‘I don’t know really. I suppose I did sort of love him right up until I heard the whole story.’

  ‘I’m so sorry for you.’ He reached across and took her hands in his and squeezed. She looked up at him gratefully.

  ‘Thanks, Pierluigi. I’m sorry to burden you with that.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s good to talk.’

  That afternoon they visited Thetford and, finally, Bury St Edmunds, stopping to visit the stunning old abbey in the middle of the historic town. The weather remained fine and it was a lovely drive. They spent their time chatting, getting to know each other better and, although she knew it was crazy, seeing as he would be out of her life in a week or so, she felt closer to him than ever. When he delivered her back to her home at half past five, she had no hesitation in inviting him in.

  This time, he accepted the invitation.

  He finally left her house, and her bed, just before midnight, telling her he had to be up early to concentrate on the paper he had to write before the end of his course. As she closed the door after him and returned to the still warm sheets, she had no regrets. He was a lovely man and, although she knew it couldn’t and wouldn’t last, she told herself she didn’t mind. She lay there, staring up at the ceiling, smiling at her memories.

  ‘Carpe diem,’ she murmured to herself as she fell asleep. That night she dreamt about Florence once again, but the figure on the bench beside her now had a form, a face and a name.

  Chapter 4

  When she woke up next morning, it was to the sound of rain dripping from the broken gutter above the front door. She peered out of the curtains and saw that it was raining hard and, seeing as it was a Sunday morning, she had no hesitation in climbing back into bed again. She could still smell Pierluigi’s scent on the pillow and she deliberately rolled her face into it, snuffling happily.

  As she lay there, she thought a lot about him. He had told her that he would be leaving the following Friday, so that gave them barely five more days, and nights, together. Last night had been fun, but she was honest enough to admit to herself, if not to him, that it had meant more to her than that. If only things had been different, she felt sure she could see a relationship developing with him that could become every bit as deep as the one she had shared with Paul. Or at least until it had fallen apart.

  That Sunday morning she also found herself reflecting on something Pierluigi had said. When she had told him of her hesitation about going to visit the site of her most personal of dreams, his advice had been to take a chance and go. Now, the more she thought about it, the more she found herself coming round to thinking he was right. After all, she now had three good reasons to go over there: to see him, to check out teaching opportunities in English language schools and, of course, to look for her secret magical spot. Maybe the time had come to take her courage in both hands and head to Florence.

  She knew she had to be realistic. It wouldn’t always be warm and sunny in Florence. There would be grey, wet days like this over there as well. Cambridge got pretty full of visitors in the summer, and she felt sure Florence would be even busier. But, nevertheless, it would be gorgeous – of that she had no doubt. It was Florence, after all. The more she thought about it, the more the idea grew.

  Over the following days, she spent as much time as she could with Pierluigi, and her feelings towards him didn’t change. In fact, they deepened. As the days leading up to his departure counted down, she struggled hard to control her feelings, but it wasn’t easy. Scared of making a scene, she told him she wouldn’t come to the station with him on Friday morning, so the last time she saw him was at midnight on Thursday.

  It had been an idyllic evening and she had managed to keep a tight rein on her emotions right to the end. She even contrived to produce a smile as she kissed him goodbye, but as she closed the door behind him, the dam finally burst and she cried her eyes out. “Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all,” might sound all right in a poem, but she seriously questioned whether Alfred Lord Tennyson had felt the pain she was feeling. She made herself a mug of camomile tea and reached for the tissues.

  As the next hours and days dragged by and, the more she thought about it, the determination to go to Florence to check out the city for herself developed in her head. This would also give her the chance to see him again and she knew that was something she dearly desired. Of course, he lived with his parents, so she would need a hotel. She knew it was likely to be very expensive, so she did her sums and worked out that with a cheap flight and a cheap hotel, she might just about be able to stay there for three nights or so. Her twenty-ninth birthday was coming up at the end of August and, because of the bank holiday in England on the Monday, this would give her a three-day weekend, so she started seriously looking into just how much it would cost to make a flying visit to the city of her dreams.

  She sent Pierluigi a text message, telling him of her plans, but they were immediately shot down in flames. His reply came as a serious disappointment, and she gritted her teeth as she read it. So sorry. Have got an interview in Boston that Monday and ticket booked to fly to the States the Friday before. X. Pierluigi.

  She tried to make up her mind whether to delay her visit until she knew he would be there, or to go anyway. From what Simon at work had told her of student numbers here in Cambridge, the idea of looking for teaching opportunities elsewhere appeared to be ever more urgent. Maybe she shouldn’t delay. In the end, what swung it was Alice. When Debbie told her she was thinking of going over to Florence for a quick visit at the end of the month, Alice immediately agreed and announced her intention of coming along. Apart from halving the costs of a hotel room, Debbie knew she would be really pleased to have the company of her best friend, so, together, they decided to go for it. The fact that Pierluigi wouldn’t be there was a blow, but at least she would be able to look into employment opportunities, as well as searching out and tracking down the mysterious spot that had inhabited her dreams for so long.

  They booked cheap flights from Stansted to Bologna and a room in the cheapest pensione they could find, not far from Florence main station. From there, Debbie knew from all the hours she had spent poring over Google Earth, they would find most of the main sights, including her happy
place, within walking distance.

  As the day of their departure approached, Debbie found herself more and more apprehensive. Would the city of her dreams match up to her expectations? Would she find the place she had dreamt of for so long? Alice did her best to convince her she was doing the right thing, but by the time they got to the airport, Debbie was having serious second thoughts. By now it was too late.

  The flight was on time, but the aircraft was predictably packed and their hand luggage had to go in the hold. As a result, they were delayed at Bologna airport, waiting for the bags to arrive on the carousel, and had to take a taxi into the city centre station, rather than the bus as planned, for their train to Florence. She gave the taxi driver a tip and he seemed surprised, thanking her profusely. They got there with ten minutes to spare, but almost missed the train as they got lost in the maze of escalators as they plunged deep underground into the hi-tech new station. They finally arrived on the platform just in time to see the swish orange nose of the high-speed train come purring towards them.

  The train ride took little more than half an hour and almost all of that was inside tunnels carved through the chain of the Apennines. When they finally emerged into the daylight again, just before half past five, they found themselves already entering the outskirts of Florence, and Debbie’s first impression of this magical city wasn’t very encouraging. There was no sign of anything historic – just apartment blocks lining the streets, and graffiti all over the walls alongside the railway tracks. She glanced across at Alice and wrinkled up her nose.

  ‘Not quite what I was expecting, Al.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Debs. The historic bit’s bound to be in the centre. Here, we’re just in the suburbs. Everywhere looks grotty from a train.’

  Debbie could hear that she was trying to sound reassuring, but her anxiety that her special place might turn out to be not so special didn’t go away.

  Things didn’t really improve as they left the crowded station in search of their pensione. As they came out into the full heat of the late afternoon, it was like being flung into a sauna. Even the air Debbie breathed into her lungs felt hot. She and Alice exchanged glances and hugged the shady side of the road as a steady stream of traffic roared by. After a hundred yards and a perilous crossing, they turned off into a side street that was, thankfully, completely in the shade, although the heat still radiating from the walls as they passed was testament to the power of the sun earlier on.

  It was a very narrow street and a constant stream of cars, bikes and scooters ensured that they had to be wary as they picked their way along the busy pavement. The buildings here were noticeably older than those out on the main square, with shops and cafés punctuating the ground floor of most of the houses. However, in spite of it all looking older than the station, Debbie still couldn’t really see any signs of the wealth of medieval or Renaissance history she had been expecting. She did her best to keep her spirits up, but she was struggling to stay positive. Had she made a serious mistake?

  The pensione was situated in a nondescript building and didn’t immediately look too promising. They pressed one of a battery of polished brass buttons set into the wall and immediately heard a buzzing sound as the heavy wooden door opened. Inside, things began to improve. The entrance hall was pleasantly cool and, at the far end, it opened out into a courtyard with colourful flowers and plants on display. To one side of the hall, they found a modern-looking lift that took them up to the third floor. When they got there, they received a warm welcome and Debbie started to relax a bit more.

  ‘Signorine, buona sera. Good evening.’

  The receptionist was a man around their age with a meticulously trimmed black beard and a d’Artagnan-style moustache with waxed ends pointing skywards. He was smiling broadly and Debbie found herself smiling back.

  In spite of having rehearsed what she was going to say in Italian over and over again, she took advantage of the fact that he had said ‘good evening’ to speak English with him. It was immediately clear that he both understood and spoke it without difficulty and she felt relieved. Although she had studied his language for a good few years now, she was suddenly overcome with an uncharacteristic attack of shyness at the prospect of finally using it for real.

  She was surprised when the receptionist took and copied their passports, but he returned them immediately with a map of the city and their key.

  ‘Room seven is at the end of the corridor. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate. My name is Ronaldo, like the footballer.’

  Debbie wasn’t too sure who Ronaldo the footballer was, but Alice more than compensated by giving him a broad smile. She admitted later to having “a thing for moustaches”.

  Their room was a lovely large space with high ceilings and a private bathroom. Everything, while not in the first flush of youth, was spotlessly clean and it was blissfully cool in there. It was interesting to see that there was a big radiator on one wall. It was hard to believe on a day like this that it could ever be cold enough in Florence to warrant extra heating.

  ‘Take a look at this, Debs.’ Alice had managed to pull the blind up and light flooded into the room. Debbie went across to join her and followed Alice’s eyes across the rooftops in front of them. Before them, rising up in all its majesty, was the unmistakable cupola of the Duomo, its red terracotta roof divided by white stone ribbing into segments like an orange. At the very top, tiny figures could be seen moving about the viewing platform that dominated the city. Debbie’s anxiety levels began to drop. She was here. This was really Florence.

  ‘So, what’s the plan, Debs? Start hunting round for schools of English, or head straight across the river to look for that place you’ve been telling me about?’

  Debbie hesitated, but only for a moment. Today was Saturday and they only had this evening and all of Sunday. Their flight home was on Monday morning and would mean leaving on an early train for Bologna, so time was of the essence. She nodded decisively.

  ‘As far as schools are concerned, I’ve got a list I found on the internet. Although I imagine they’ll be closed at the weekend, I’d quite like to take a look at some of them from the outside, but that’s not so urgent. Yes, definitely, if you’re up for it, let’s start with trying to locate my spot. It looks like quite a climb up to Piazzale Michelangelo – that’s the viewing point with a stunning panorama over the city – but I was reading that we can take the number 12 bus from the station to get up there. In this heat, it could be a bit uncomfortable climbing a socking great hill on foot. How about we take the bus and then, if we feel like it, we can walk back downhill from there into the centre afterwards. OK with you?’

  ‘Fine by me. You’re the boss. I’m only here for the sights, the food and drink – and maybe a taste of our friend Ronaldo out there.’

  ‘Alice, really…’

  Ronaldo turned out to be very helpful, explaining that they could buy bus tickets from the local tobacconist and showing them on the map where the number 12 bus stop was. Alice rewarded him with a blistering smile and Debbie thought she saw the pointed tips of his moustache twirl.

  It took less than ten minutes to get to the bus stop via the tobacconist on the corner, where Debbie successfully used her Italian to buy them a couple of bus tickets. They then had to wait another ten minutes in the burning sun – still hot even though it was now six o’clock – until their bus arrived. As they were waiting, Debbie spotted a bus with Careggi on the front. She remembered that this was the hospital where Pierluigi worked and she felt another stab of regret that she had chosen to come here the very weekend he was thousands of miles away.

  When their bus arrived, it took them along a circuitous route, crossing the river and then winding up the tree-lined road that led to Piazzale Michelangelo above them on the hillside. Either the driver had obviously been watching a few too many Grand Prix, or he was just very eager to reach his destination and he raced up the hill. He threw the heavy vehicle round the succession of sharp corners wi
th obvious enthusiasm and skill while Debbie and Alice, along with the other passengers, had to hang on for dear life. They were relieved when the bus finally drew up with a jolt and the doors hissed open.

  They crossed the road towards the wide-open space of Piazzale Michelangelo. This flat area dominated the city and provided a natural viewing point from which to admire the full magnificent beauty of Florence. Threading their way through a crowd of people and stalls selling souvenirs, postcards and T-shirts, they reached the edge of the piazza and stopped.

  The view was indeed spectacular.

  The ground sloped steeply from where they were standing, right down to the river Arno below. All along the far bank of the river, four- or five-storey ochre-coloured buildings marked the edge of the old town, and a jumble of red-tiled roofs extended back beyond these. In the middle, the Duomo and its famous bell tower were unmistakable. A bit further over was the elegant fortified tower that Debbie recognized as belonging to the Palazzo Vecchio, with the imposing bulk of the Uffizi Gallery beside it. All around, spires of other churches pushed up among the red roofs, creating a totally unique and unmistakable skyline. On the far side of the city, across the valley, the hills rose steeply to Fiesole and beyond. They both stood and breathed it in. It was magnificent.

  After a while, Alice popped the question. ‘So, is this it? Is this the place you’ve been dreaming about? What kind of vibe is it giving you?’

  Debbie had been asking herself the same thing. The view was almost identical to her old postcard, apart from a couple of massive cranes doing some sort of building work, but something just wasn’t quite right.

  ‘We’re too high up, Al. The roofs are at the wrong angle. Somehow, we need to be lower down.’

  Although the photo had definitely been taken from here or somewhere around here, she felt sure it had to be further down the hillside. The other thing was that although her dreams definitely involved this view, they also included a rose garden and a wooden bench. Although neither of these things were shown on the postcard, over the years, her mental image of her special place had evolved to include them.