The little italian hotel, p.18
The Little Italian Hotel, page 18
Edna was delighted and insisted that the others should join them, too. She sat down at the dining table and doled out yellowing numbered cards to everyone, smiling as she placed faded pink plastic balls into a bag and gave them a shake. When she plucked one back out, she held it delicately, as if it was a Fabergé egg.
Curtis stared at his bingo card. He lifted his baseball cap and scratched his head. “This wasn’t in our schedule. How will it make us feel better?”
“It’s a game,” Ginny said. “We’re trying to have fun.”
“Fun? Yeah, right.” Curtis reluctantly reached out for a pen. “Don’t tell anyone I’m doing this. It’ll spoil my reputation.”
“Reputation for what?” Edna asked, her gray eyes growing narrow. “Skulking around the hotel surreptitiously making notes?”
The room fell quiet and Ginny pursed her lips. “I’ve noticed you doing it, too,” she said, remembering she’d promised Nico that she’d speak to Curtis about his snooping around. “You’re the only one who hasn’t shared with us why you’re here.”
Curtis folded his arms tightly. “Eric hasn’t said much either,” he said.
Eric lifted his eyes. “I’ve lost my dog. Everyone knows that. We don’t know anything about you.”
Curtis raised both hands as if being arrested. “Hey, don’t gang up on me. Let’s have a little trust around here.”
Edna hadn’t finished with him. “How can you expect to feel better if you’re not fully involved or committed?” She rapped the dining table. “You haven’t even suggested a heartbreak activity yet.”
Things were getting a little heated and Ginny felt the need to play devil’s advocate. “Maybe Curtis needs more time to—”
“Shh, enough with the advice,” Edna said. She turned and pointed a finger at Curtis. “Come on, young man. We’re waiting for an explanation.”
He looked a little scared. “I’ve got nothing to confess. All’s good.”
Edna plucked a bingo ball out of her bag and threw it at him, hitting him on the nose.
“Ouch,” Curtis yelled. He caught the ball and held it in his fist. “My business is none of your business, okay?”
Ginny slowly became aware that Nico was standing behind them.
He pressed a hand to his chest and nodded solemnly at Curtis. “I have also seen you searching around Splendido. My hotel can never compare to the luxury of the castle hotel. What I offer here is good food, comfort and friendship. It breaks my heart to think you might want to criticize that.”
Loretta stood alongside her father, her eyes shining with tenderness toward him. “Papà is right,” she told Curtis. “This is our family home and you should respect that.”
“Thank you, Lolo.” Nico hitched an eyebrow, instantly regretting using Maria’s nickname for his daughter.
Loretta nodded, assuring him that it was okay.
Everyone stared at Curtis, waiting for him to talk.
He bounced the bingo ball despondently on the table. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “I kind of like to keep a private diary. Nothing wrong with that.” He glanced at each of them in turn and his right eye twitched. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. I’ll explain everything, before you beat it out of me,” he said.
“We need to trust you,” Ginny said. “Perhaps we can also help you, too...”
“Doubt that,” Curtis said.
A hush fell upon the room.
“I promise I feel just as lousy as you guys.” He took off his cap and circled a finger on his bald spot. “I’ve got a brain tumor, okay? It’s the size of a marble with the capacity of a wrecking ball.”
Heather let out a gasp. “Oh, my.”
Edna frowned at him. “I hope this isn’t one of your jokes.”
Edna, Ginny muttered in her head. Let the poor guy speak.
“It’s called a glioblastoma.” Curtis shrugged. “It might sound like a superhero with a laser gun, but it’s a stage four demon. It’s going to steal my life away and there’s no stopping it. So, that’s why I’m here.
“I made a bucket list of things I’ve always wanted to do and Italy was numero uno. I watched all The Godfather films during my chemo downtime.”
Ginny closed her eyes, trying to let Curtis’s situation sink in. She could still imagine him breaking into a grin and admitting he was kidding. “Why have you been making so many notes?” she asked him.
“I’ve got a blog. I make notes of my thoughts and ideas, putting them online when I’m in the mood.” He turned to Nico. “I’m not criticizing your hotel, man. I love a bit of shabby chic. When I get home, I’m going to frame up some photos like the ones on your wall and buy some copper pans. The castle hotel is too sterile for my taste. Reminds me of my hospital visits.”
Curtis took out his phone to scroll through all the selfies he’d taken in Venice. There were also shots of Splendido’s courtyard, Nico’s dining room and other interior decor highlights. In a photo he’d taken in Gianfranco’s hotel, Curtis held up a gold cushion and made a thumbs-down sign. Another shot showed him lying in a hospital bed with a shaved head. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was deathly pale. He showed some of them to the group.
“I call it Curtis’s Brain Blog. Before coming here, I ticked off a few things on my bucket list, like skydiving, going to a footie match at Old Trafford, etcetera. I’m getting tired now and my time on earth is running out.” He tapped his watch for effect. “Going to support groups just reminds me the end is nigh. Friends don’t know what to say to me, and being on my own sucks. If it’s any consolation to you guys, I’ve been happy hanging out with you here, and our trips have been cool.”
Ginny didn’t know what to say. Her own problems with Adrian paled in comparison to Curtis’s illness and a lump formed in her throat.
Curtis unfurled his fingers and stared at the plastic ball. “Number five, man alive. That’s me,” he said wryly. “My mum knew all the bingo nicknames.”
An uncomfortable silence lingered until Edna reached out and gently took the ball from him. “We’re going to need that,” she said, popping it back into her bag. “We can’t play the game with a ball missing.”
Curtis nodded. He lowered his eyes and stared at his hands for some time. “Sure can’t, Edna,” he said.
Ginny, Heather, Curtis, Edna and Eric played several rounds of bingo. At first the games were awkward and reluctant, but they gradually grew livelier. Edna treated her role as games master very seriously, which made the others act like school children, teasing her and messing around.
Heather captured the game on Polaroid, including when Curtis triumphantly punched the air and shouted, “House.” Nico presented him with a small copper pan as a prize and Curtis held it aloft like a trophy. “Oh, man, I love it,” he said, kissing the shiny metal.
After the game came to an end, they all sat around the dining table, talking until midnight. They didn’t discuss their issues, only stories from the holiday. Nico opened a bottle of red wine and they nibbled on bread and olives.
Eventually, Ginny patted a yawn with her hand. “We’ve all put forward heartache cures, so there’s only yours left, Curtis,” she said. “Is there anything you’d like to do?”
He thought about it for quite some time. “There is one thing.” He put his baseball cap back on and tugged on the peak. “Do you guys fancy going to a nightclub?”
Ginny’s eyes widened in surprise. The last time she’d been to a club was for her fortieth birthday. The music was so loud it made her ears ring and she spent the night shouting, “What? I can’t hear you,” to her friends. She glanced at Eric, who had shrunk his head into his shoulders. “Is clubbing on your bucket list?” Ginny asked.
Curtis nodded. “When I’m dancing, I can forget about everything.”
Edna packed up her bingo game. Her lips were pinched, as if she’d eaten lime pickle. “You’ll have to count me out,” she said.
“Why’s that, mate?” Curtis replied.
She tossed her head. “I may have the physique of someone half my age, but jostling on a dance floor with scantily clad young folk is not my thing.”
“It’s a chance to dress up in your finery and be among people having a great time. That’s what you want, right?”
“Not in this way—”
“You all said it was my turn,” Curtis huffed. He leaned forward on both elbows as if about to share a secret. “I’ve seen photos of a beach bar where they serve amazing cocktails while you watch the sunset. There’s DJs and they play cool beats. Nico might even attract some new customers...”
“Where is this place?” Nico asked.
“Rimini. That’s not too away far, right? Maybe you can sweet-talk Gianfranco into driving us there, so you can take a night off.”
Heather, Ginny, Edna and Eric wore a variety of expressions ranging from blank to terrified.
“Sounds fun,” Loretta said, mischievously. “It’s my eighteenth birthday in two days’ time. Time to celebrate.”
“Come on,” Curtis pleaded. “Make a poorly guy happy. I’ll foot the bill. My treat.”
And the thing was, after they’d all pushed him into revealing his heartache, how could anyone refuse?
24
Rooftops
Curtis
Curtis perched on the edge of his bed and spun his cap in his hands. Spilling his guts hadn’t been on his agenda. He’d had a firm handle on things and didn’t need anyone’s sympathy. He’d had enough of that from hospital staff to last a lifetime, and he didn’t want any chance of his insurance company finding out he’d traveled overseas with a terminal illness.
His plan had been to chillax in Italy, soak up some sun and eat great food. If Ginny was offering to provide it for free, that was even better.
Throughout his life, Curtis had never been averse to taking advantage of folks’ generosity. He’d had to forge his own way in the world after losing both his parents in his early twenties. They were in their midforties when they had him, having given up on being able to have children, so it had been like a miracle when he was born. He supposed they’d spoiled him throughout his childhood, doting on him like he was a little prince.
Because of their ages, Curtis had always expected to lose them sooner rather than later in life, but nothing had prepared him for such an early loss and how hard it hit him.
As an only child, he’d had to clear out and sell the family home on his own, whittling down his parents’ furniture and belongings until there were only a few photos, his dad’s fountain pen and mum’s wedding ring left. He’d put the house on the market at a ridiculously high price and learned how to charm prospective buyers. The rush he got when he sold the house, at well above market value, was like no other and selling houses became Curtis’s thing.
He hadn’t earned many qualifications at school and learned his trade on the job. His easy manner and chatty way with words meant he could befriend anyone from any walk of life, from bank managers to plumbers. One of his ex-girlfriends described him as a rough diamond and Curtis was fine with that. He was happy doing what he did without being all polished.
He set his sights on the outer areas of the city, where housing was run-down and cheap. If owners fell on hard times, he offered to pay cash for their properties. He installed budget kitchens, basic bathrooms and carpets and resold the houses pronto, making a profit. Curtis moved into more prestigious areas, too, developing a neat property portfolio. Wheeling and dealing were his way of making a living and getting things done. Although they weren’t here any longer, he wanted to make his parents proud.
Curtis’s business quickly grew. He bought a fancy office but didn’t occupy it much, preferring to get out and about, checking out properties and sealing deals. He celebrated his bigger triumphs with a bottle of champagne in his outdoor Jacuzzi with a view of the city rooftops. If a pretty girl agreed to join him, even better.
One day, he wanted one of those prestigious blue plaques on the wall of his apartment to signify historical importance—Curtis Dunne lived here.
As Curtis reached his midthirties, he watched his friends settling down, buying houses in the suburbs and having kids. He noticed the people dancing in clubs were getting younger. His life of working, partying and hooking up suddenly seemed like a sandwich with a lack of filling and he started to think about the future. A nice wife and a couple of kids suddenly appealed to him.
But then he’d developed headaches that made his head feel like a huge church bell, with the clapper continually striking the bronze rim. Sometimes the pain in his skull was so great he crouched in the corner of his bathroom with his arms cradling his head, dizzy and nauseated.
Curtis initially attributed it to the amount of booze he consumed. He was rarely without a bottle of lager, pinot noir or champagne in his hand. He cut down on the demon drink but still fell over in his kitchen, scoring a black eye when his forehead hit the worktop, when he was totally sober.
He’d laughed when a doctor had first told him about the tumor. It couldn’t be true. Curtis didn’t even believe it when he saw the results of his MRI scan. A gray-white mass on the image looked like a small floret of cauliflower, so harmless. Surely, it couldn’t be that serious.
He told himself he was invincible, that the docs would be able to zap the cancer and decimate it.
Except the bad news kept coming. The words months not years, chemotherapy and prolonging life came at him like army tanks with their guns pointed in his direction.
He’d initially dealt with his diagnosis by throwing himself into work, going out at night and sleeping with too many women, until he realized it was making him feel worse.
Going in the opposite direction, he started to drink coconut water and introduced kale into his diet. He grew nostalgic and bought clothing brands he used to wear in his teens: Reebok, GAP and even a G-Shock watch. He revisited his favorite hip-hop tracks from the nineties and bought an iPod on eBay.
Each time Curtis went to a hospital appointment, he convinced himself his condition would have improved. The doctor would scratch his head and say, “My word, this is incredible. Your tumor has completely vanished.”
And Curtis would raise his finger and blow on the end in victory.
But when the news grew ever graver, Curtis tried to cheer up the doctors and nurses. “Come on guys, it could be worse. I’m still standing and looking good.”
His words didn’t raise any smiles.
Eventually, it dawned on Curtis that there was no holding back the inevitable. His diagnosis was a mix of bad luck and biology, nothing he’d personally done wrong.
It was difficult to accept he’d never meet someone to read newspapers and enjoy a cup of tea with, like his parents had done, something he’d once thought was lame. He’d never get married, or take his child to play football in the park. His thirty-eight years on earth would be snuffed out like a candle flame between damp fingers, with a small hiss and a wisp of smoke.
Curtis tried not to think about his funeral, then couldn’t think of anything else. How many people would even attend it or miss him? What did life mean? What was his legacy? There had to be some reason he’d been put on earth and why he was exiting it so early.
A counselor suggested that Curtis start a blog, to deal with his thoughts and emotions.
He’d initially rubbished the idea, until one night he started to type on his phone and couldn’t stop. Curtis’s Brain Blog was born, a series of random musings, photos and videos that kept him busy and helped him to express himself. It made him feel in control of his brain, instead of the other way around.
On the gong day in the castle hotel, it finally dawned on Curtis that life wasn’t all about him. Seeing Ginny, Edna, Eric and Heather clinging together like barnacles on a rock made him recognize he wasn’t the only one with problems. Although his were definitely bigger, he felt guilty for the first time at viewing his time in Italy as a free ride.
In offering up the holiday, Ginny had shown him there were good people in the world, and Curtis no longer wanted to take advantage of them. He wanted to be one of them instead, even if it wouldn’t get him a blue plaque.
Curtis lay back on his hotel bed and scrolled through the photos he’d taken on his phone, pausing at one of him holding Nico’s copper pan in the air. In Vigornuovo, he didn’t need to try to be cool or flash his cash. He was just a man with time running out, having a strangely nice time with people he’d usually cross the road to avoid.
Acceptance of his lot was bringing with it a calmness Curtis hadn’t anticipated. But before he completely resigned himself to the quiet life, the petering out of his days on earth, Curtis wanted to have a bloody good dance. One last big hurrah.
One day, someone, somewhere, might read Curtis’s Brain Blog and take some kind of inspiration from it. For now, though, it was just him and his words.
He flipped onto his side and started to write a new entry.
Number five, man alive. Today I played bingo and it was fun...
25
Maze
Ginny lay dreaming in bed. She pictured opening a door in a wall to find a maze stretching out before her. She entered and tall green hedges rose up on either side of her, so she couldn’t see where she was going. With each corner she turned, and each dead end she encountered, the more she got lost. She began to run and her body flooded with panic. A hedge crashed down on top of her, felling her to the ground, and everything went dark. As she struggled beneath the weight of the branches, she could hear a ringing noise.
The sound of her phone jolted Ginny awake. She held a hand to her eyes against the bright daylight and tried to acclimatize, her heart still pounding. She could hear laughter and the chink of cups and saucers outside. Nico must be serving breakfast in the courtyard.
