Stranded Bride on an Italian Ride

Esther.

An auction of rare Italian Renaissance furniture had seemed like a good enough reason to pop over to Italy so close to my wedding. Isn’t having it all every woman’s right and duty?

But now that I’m stuck in Rome and in danger of missing my own wedding, this business trip is definitely going onto the pile of poor choices—a pile I’ve been trying to keep under control since my first, unhappy marriage. This is why I desperately need a car to get home.

“I’m here to collect my car,” I say to the lady on the other side of the car rental desk.

“I’m sorry, we have no cars left.”

She has said something like this to the man before me, only in Italian—which, thankfully, I can understand a bit.

“But I’ve got a booking,” I say smugly.

This is my trump card. I’m very proud of the quick thinking that made me get onto the car rental website as soon as my flight was cancelled and before the website crashed.

“Sorry, there are no vehicles, pre-booked or not. We were expecting twenty cars back today but only five have been returned, and they’ve all gone,” the woman says.

She sounds like she’s memorised her spiel.

“But I’ve got to go home,” I say.

“I’m sorry. It’s because of the volcanic eruption,” she explains, as if I could possibly have not realised.

Volcanic ash in the stratosphere is the reason I’m here instead of comfortably sitting on a plane home. I wouldn’t remotely consider driving from Rome to the English Cotswolds if all air traffic hadn’t been grounded, all train tickets hadn’t been sold and my wedding was in five days.

“People are so desperate to get wherever they need to go, that they’re choosing to pay the late-return fine instead of returning the cars,” Rental Desk Woman continues.

I don’t blame them. I’m that desperate, too. I’d sell my hair extensions to get my hands on a vehicle. From tomorrow to the wedding my diary is chock-a-block with appointments with caterers, hairdressers, florists and photographers. Each day’s delay will have serious consequences, like wonky hair, a badly fitting dress, no photos—perhaps not a bad thing, if all of the above applies—or... no groom.

This last one is my real, deepest fear. I’m forty-nine, I’ve never been exceptionally pretty, and age isn’t improving the situation. This wedding might be my last chance to secure a companion for the autumn years of my life. Charles and I aren’t a love match, but I’ve done that before and it didn’t turn out well. So this time I’ve gone for a sensible choice, and I know that I’m a sensible choice for Charles too. But if I stop being his sensible choice—for example, by not turning up to our wedding—he’s not going to stick around the altar in case I arrive one or two days later. I’m not the love of his life—that was his late wife.

A man in overalls emerges from a door in the panelling behind Rental Woman. The door’s position makes it look like he has come out of the bonnet of the car in the photo. The motoring genie glances at the desperate mob on the other side of the counter—my side—and shakes his head, then hands Rental Woman a car key. I think he’s telling her about a return that needs repairs. This might be my only chance. Adrenaline floods my body. I bang my fist on the counter like a gavel.

“I’ll have the car!” I say firmly.

Whatever the problem with the vehicle, if it moves, I want it. I’ll drive it as far as it’ll go then I’ll abandon it and hitchhike or cycle, or even walk.

“Excuse me, I was before you,” someone says in English with an Italian accent.

It’s the man who was before me in the queue. Why hasn’t he gone away?

His shirt’s unbuttoned collar, the rolled-up sleeves and the scuffed boots give him an air of stylish insouciance, but there’s clearly no insouciance about his intention to rent a car.

“I have a booking,” I tell him.

“So have I.”

“There’s something wrong with the car,” I inform him, in case he didn’t catch it.

“I don’t mind.”

“I have to go all the way to England.”

“So have I.”

“It’s not a holiday for me. I’m going home.”

He blows a hank of dark blond hair off his face. “So am I.”

“For a wedding,” I challenge him.

“For a funeral.”

He sounds defiant now.

“My wedding.” Beat that.

He smiles. Is he going to tell me that it’s his funeral?

The people in the queue behind us are tutting and clearing their throats impatiently. They want this standoff to be over, and so do I. This car is clearly mine. I asked for it first.

He pins his fringe back onto his head with a pair of sunglasses. His eyes are the colour of the sea over a pebble beach. I must admit that they’re quite dazzling. He seems to be about to speak but he’s hesitant.

“You could share the car,” Rental Woman suggests tentatively.

No way! Fringe Man frowns so hard that Rental Woman ricochets. At least he and I agree on something.

“I’m sure there’ll be other returns soon. If I get the faulty car off your hands, the gentleman here can have the next return,” I tell Rental Woman, whipping my driving licence out of my wallet and slapping it onto the counter so she can start processing the rental.

But Fringe Man steps closer to the counter.

“I’m happy to have the faulty car.”

Is this man’s purpose in life to ruin mine?

Rental Woman bites her lip, possibly worried we’ll make a scene.

“Sharing the car would halve your costs and your driving,” she says helpfully.

“I don’t mind either. I’ll take the car on my own, thank you,” I clarify.

“Actually, the gentleman was before you in the queue. If you don’t share, the car goes to him,” Rental Woman says.

This changes the situation entirely.

“I’m happy to share!” I chirp.

“The decision is actually his.”

Rental Woman turns to Fringe Man. He doesn’t answer but rocks on his heels with his hands in his jeans pockets. Is he expecting me to beg?

He looks in his late twenties at most—a mere whippersnapper. I could be his mother. Which is exactly why I must get the car: this wedding could be my last chance.

I have an idea.

“Tickets for the Channel ferries or the Eurotunnel are impossibly hard to get, but I have contacts in Calais,” I purr.

My “contacts” are an old aunt and her French husband who live in Calais and are sadly unconnected with the trans-channel transport industry, but I haven’t technically lied.

Fringe Man still holds back his verdict. Oh man, he really wants me to grovel.

Reining in all my irritation, I plaster on a smile and say sweetly, “Can we share the car, please?”

He huffs. “Fine,” he says with the same enthusiasm as if he’d been invited to the phlebotomist.

Now that he has successfully asserted his authority and signalled that he is the host and I am the guest, the whippersnapper smiles. Rental Woman smiles too—presumably with relief. I don’t feel at all like smiling, but I’ve got to travel with this guy so, out of politeness, I push out a smile too.

“Would you like to add snow chains to your rental?” Rental Woman asks.

“Do we need them?” I ask, alarmed.

“You’re driving through the Alps.”

I form mental images of being driven around hairpin bends by an Italian man visually impaired by a fringe in the snow.

“There must be tunnels?” I say hopefully.

“Yes, there are,” Fringe Man says, “and, anyway, there won’t likely be snow on the passes at this time of year.”

“Fine. It was just one of the questions on the list,” Rental Woman says.

Has she got any idea how much her “just-one-of-the-questions-on-the-list” has aged me with stress?

“Would you like to purchase extra insurance cover?” she asks now.

Is this just another item on her list or is it connected with our rejection of the snow chains?

“Yes!” I blurt out at the same time as Fringe Man says a cool, “No.”

“The highest level of cover, please,” I say, handing over my credit card.

I’m tempted to ask her to throw in some life insurance too but I glimpse Fringe Man discreetly touching the metal rim of the desk three times. This is the Italians’ equivalent of touching wood to ward off bad luck. So he’s superstitious.

It suddenly strikes me that I know nothing about this man. Behind those dazzling blue eyes and boyish floppy fringe, there could be an axe murderer, a terrorist or a deathly bore. But I’m too desperate to refuse this lift. So I just brace myself and touch the metal rim of the desk too.

Eventually, Rental Woman hands him the car keys, wishes us buon viaggio, a good journey, and moves on to the next customers. From now on, Fringe Man and I are on our own.

Esther.

We head out to the car park without exchanging a word. When we get there, it’s apparent that Rental Woman hasn’t lied about the dearth of returns: the place is empty except for a handful of sorry-looking cars, likely faulty.

Ours must be the one parked askew across two spaces like a fly-tipped sofa, splatted with mud and with the rear windscreen wiper hanging limply at an unnatural angle.

Fringe Man frowns and I sense his displeasure with the state of our vehicle. I did warn him, but I still feel a little sorry for him.

“We could request a quick valet,” I say.

“I’d rather hit the road as soon as possible, if that’s okay with you.”

“So long as ‘hitting the road’ is only figurative, absolutely.”

“Don’t worry. I’m a very good driver,” he says.

If there’s one thing that inevitably worries me, it’s when someone tells me not to worry. Also, I never trust people’s opinions of themselves.

“Many an epitaph reads that,” I say.

“You don’t trust easily, do you?”

“I hardly know you.”

“Fair enough. I’m Stefano.”

He doesn’t offer his hand but, to be fair, he’s pulling two suitcases, one of which is mine—which he offered to take because I was holding us up.

“I’m Esther,” I say.

“I know.”

“How?”

“Untrusting women shouldn’t write their names on their suitcases.”

***

The car we got was the one we suspected. I reassure myself that the wonky rear windscreen wiper won’t be an issue because no rain is forecast until we get to the UK—where, hopefully, we’ll get on other means of transport, each on their own.

I gratefully accept Stefano’s offer to load the car while I try to call home. The boys must be wondering what’s happening. They’re probably checking their phones every ten minutes for news of their mother.

I ring each of their numbers but nobody picks up. Clearly, I was wrong about their level of concern for me. I leave messages on their answering machines.

I can’t get through to Charles either so I leave a message for him too. I also leave a message for my best friends, Crocetta, asking her to check periodically on the boys.

At eighteen, sixteen and fourteen, they’ll be okay on their own for as long as there are pot noodles in the cupboard and pizzas in the freezer, and Crocetta is in the catering business.

In all the time it’s taken me to leave messages for everyone, my travel companion has only partially loaded the car. Two bags are still on the tarmac with no obvious place to go.

He wipes his forehead with his arm. “We’ve got too much luggage.”

The letter of the comment is “we” but the tone says “you”.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that women need more luggage than men,” I say.

He quirks an eyebrow. “It sounds a little sexist.”

“I can make it ageist if you prefer.” I point to my trolley, still on the tarmac. “This trolley contains regenerating night creams, anti-wrinkle serums, rejuvenating emulsions, collagen restorers—a full arsenal of anti-age weaponry and other miracle workers.”

It also contains concealer, foundation, blush, mascara, eyeshadow, lipstick and possibly more brushes than Michelangelo ever owned—my faithful companions since, early in my teenage years, I discovered that Mother Nature hadn’t endowed me with the look I wished.

A dimple of amusement appears on his cheek. “Dare I ask what’s in your other suitcases?”

“The biggest one is where I store my secret anti-age weapon: my time-traveling machine. And in case all my defenses don’t work, the medium suitcase contains my contingency plan: a Zimmer frame. As you can see, my luggage is fine. It’s the boot of this car that’s too small.”

The eyebrow quirks again but this time he’s smiling.

“That’s not to say that I don’t appreciate this car,” I add quickly, before he gets the idea of offloading me, “and I’m sure I can fit all our luggage in.”

“Let’s see you do it,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets and stepping back.

This is a challenge. I pull up my sleeves.

“Rule number one: biggest suitcases first,” I say.

I pull everything out of the boot then put the largest cases back in, shoving them as far as they’ll go.

“Next, the medium-sized bags.”

I heave those in and push.

“Last, we squish in any soft bags.”

I make to pick up a soft leather satchel from the tarmac but Stefano pounces on it and snatches it.

“No squishing nor squashing this bag!” he says, holding the satchel protectively to his chest.

“Fragile items shouldn’t be packed in soft bags,” I lecture.

“It’s not fragile.”

“Then what is it?”

“Private stuff.”

Ouch, I don’t like the sound of that. For all I know, he could be carrying twenty kilos of heroin, a cut-up cadaver or a homemade bomb.

“I’m sorry, young man, but you’re not traveling with me unless you show me what’s in that bag.”

“Technically, you are traveling with me.”

“Well, yes, but it makes no difference. Show me your loot.”

At the word “loot” he winces almost imperceptibly. He runs a hand over his face resignedly, gently props the bag onto the edge of the car boot and unzips it slowly, uncovering a bag of white powder.

Drugs! “Absolutely no! I’m not having anything to do with that. You leave me the car and go on your way with your stuff and I’ll pretend I’ve never seen or met you.”

He looks confused. “What’s wrong with a bag of flour?”

“I don’t believe that it’s flour,” I say.

He rolls his eyes as if he shouldn’t have expected anything different from me. For a moment, I wonder if I really am such an untrusting and suspicious person.

“Then try it,” he offers, unzipping the bag.

Would it be an incredibly stupid thing to do—one that would land me in the hospital? Would he waste valuable drugs on me? Probably not, and anyway, I’m too curious.

I lean over and sniff it—not that I know what drugs smell like, except marijuana smoke. I dip my finger in and lick it. Yes, it’s one hundred percent flour.

“Okay, but I’ve never seen anyone treat a bag of flour so protectively. So what’s the story?”

With a flourish, Stefano unzips the bag further, revealing an underwhelming Tupperware box. “This is the story.” He opens it slowly. Inside it, is a greyish, sticky-looking paste.

Explosives? I step back. “What’s that?”

“Sourdough starter,” he whispers reverently.

“What’s so special about it?”

“Its uninterrupted lineage and venerable age: it’s one hundred years old. My forefathers have used it since they started our family’s baking business and they have never let it die. This is all that’s left of it. The bag of flour is to feed it and keep it alive until I get to the UK.”

It takes me a couple of moments to recalibrate—not drug dealer but food smuggler—and I’m back on my high horse. “You’re not allowed to take certain foods into the UK.”

“It’s not food. It’s a living thing.”

“Live animals are subject to even more stringent restrictions. Have you cleared it with Customs?”

“I have bigger problems than the UK’s Customs.”

Alarm bells clang loudly in my head and I ask myself why I’m still here when I should have already run away. Maybe because I desperately need the lift. And because I’m a teensy bit curious too.

“Why? What else are you smuggling?”

I don’t wait for a reply but I pull the bag’s zipper down the rest of the way and gasp.