“Good for Kirk!” says Farida. “You really were one of my more promising groups.”
“Are you going to go?” Felicity asks me, and I blink at her over my wineglass. Go? How can I go? I’m in Italy. I’m writing a book. I don’t “go” to things anymore.
But then it hits me, as though for the first time. I’ve achieved what I came here to do. I’ve typed The End. That was my goal and I’ve done it. So what do I do now? I never thought that far ahead; I never made any plans; I was too focused on the task in hand. I feel a tiny flicker of panic, which I try to suppress by gulping my wine.
“Ava, darling, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like,” says Farida, reading my thoughts. “It’s wonderful to have you. You don’t need to rush into any decisions.”
“Thanks, Farida,” I say gratefully, and for a moment I let myself imagine a sunlit existence where I never leave these walls but just eat olives and drink wine and play with Harold till I’m ninety and fluent in Italian.
But already I know it wouldn’t be the right choice for me. It would be running away. I’ve been cocooned all these months. I’ve had a single purpose. I’ve blocked out all the mess and difficulties of real, actual life. Now I need to get back. Find my place in the world again. Engage with people and challenges and work and shopping and buses and the washing up.
Plus, let’s be frank, I can’t afford to stay here forever. Farida doesn’t charge peak rates over the winter, but she doesn’t charge nothing either. Even with my discount as a former retreat guest, these six months have eaten substantially into my savings. It’s time to go home.
And if I go to Kirk’s launch, Matt might be there.
As I let an unguarded Matt-thought into my brain, my stomach churns reflexively, and I draw breath, trying to stay steady. I’m waiting for the moment that thinking of Matt doesn’t make my stomach churn. It hasn’t happened yet. But, on the other hand, I do manage to go hours without thinking about him now. Now.
At first, of course, it was impossible, and I found myself thinking, What have I done? Why have I come here of all places?
I wandered desperately about the monastery, searching for a safe, Matt-free place, but memories of him were everywhere. In every courtyard, every corner, every doorway, I could see shadows of Dutch. Shadows of Aria. Shadows of us, laughing, arm in arm, a baggage-free couple in matching kurta pajamas, on our way to certain bliss.
On the second night I spilled the whole story of our breakup to Farida and Felicity, thinking that it might help. It was a very bonding evening and I’m glad I did, but it didn’t solve my problem.
In the end, it was like an exorcism. I walked around the whole monastery, my hands in my pockets, my chin stuck forward, muttering, “Bring it on.” Positively encouraging all the painful images to swoosh through my mind. And that did work, kind of. The more I forced myself to think about it, the less raw the hurt became. I started to laugh again and see just a courtyard, not a scene from our romance.
But Matt’s shadow didn’t leave me completely. I still went to bed every night, brooding. Thinking: What went wrong? Did it have to go wrong? Could we have made things work? I tried to retrace the steps to our split. I tried holding all our conversations again, with different outcomes. I drove myself a bit mad. Because let’s face it: We did break up. And Matt hasn’t turned up, hammering on the door of the monastery. Or even sent me a text.
In fact, the last time I saw any Warwick family member face-to-face was when I made a quick delivery to Matt’s parents’ house in Berkshire, before I left for Italy. I rang the doorbell, and as the door swung open, I couldn’t believe my luck, because it was Elsa herself.
“Oh, hello,” I said briskly, before she could speak. “I’ve got a present for you.” I reached into my carrier bag and pulled out a framed photo of Matt swinging a golf club, which I’d harvested from Facebook. “That’s for you….” I reached for another framed photo of him, this one in a martial-arts tournament. “And that’s for you….”