Page 27 of Private Lives

‘I thought all movie stars had their own yachts.’

‘I spent the money on tequila.’

She waited for him on the deck, watching a flock of starlings wheel and dip over the headland as the sun sank towards the pink horizon. When he emerged, he was wearing chinos and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. One of those simple thrown-together outfits that somehow looked perfect on truly beautiful people.

He’s a client, Anna, she scolded herself. You shouldn’t be getting all gooey-eyed over him. And he’s a cheater too.

‘Where are you staying?’ asked Sam as he helped her down into the launch.

‘Studio Rosso, wherever that might be. The firm’s travel agent booked it. As you can imagine, there wasn’t an awful lot of choice at twenty-four hours’ notice when it’s peak season in Capri.’

‘Tell you what, I’ll give you a lift. Giovanni, that’s my driver, he knows every house on the island. He’ll know your hotel and has probably dated the owner’s daughter.’

As they slid over to the marina, Anna could see a stretch of pebbly beach dotted with umbrellas; the sun-worshippers in their sarongs and tiny Speedos were rolling their towels and packing up for the day. Sam led her along the jetty and across the road, where a deeply tanned man in his sixties was leaning against a bottle-green Mercedes sedan.

‘Anna, Giovanni,’ said Sam. ‘Giovanni, this bella signorina is Anna. Do you think you could drop her off at her hotel, Studio Rosso?’

Giovanni grinned, revealing a set of amazingly white teeth. ‘It would be my pleasure. It is on the other side of the island.’

‘That’s good,’ said Anna. ‘At least I’ll get to see some of Capri on my whistle-stop visit.’

‘Have you never been here before, signorina?’ asked Giovanni over his shoulder as they set off at breakneck speed.

‘No, I wish.’

With the pressure of work, Anna hadn’t had a proper holiday in over eighteen months. Her romance with Andrew had been sprinkled with mini-breaks to Prague, Dublin and Rome; they’d both worked as hard as each other, trying to scramble up the career ladder as fast as they could, but they had still found time for pleasure. As a single girl, there seemed less point taking two weeks off to spend it alone.

‘In that case, I think we need Giovanni’s pat-pending island tour,’ said Sam.

‘Bellissimo,’ beamed Giovanni. ‘I envy you, signorina, you get to see Capri for the first time.’

Anna laughed. ‘That sounds good.’

The car pulled away up the hill towards Anacapri, the sprawling village at the top of the island. The windows were wound down, flooding the car with pine-scented air. Anna got a feel for the island immediately. It was lush but craggy – the sharp edges of the cliffs would suddenly jut up to the sky, then plummet down to the sea, their sides softened by green trees and bougainvillaea. Each villa they passed seemed more perfect than the last, each twist of the road revealed another ravishing view, and everything seemed old and crumbly and yet smart and elegant at the same time. Along the way Sam pointed out the sights of Capri – down the cliffs towards the Blue Grotto, the Faraglioni rocks, the San Giacomo monastery – with the confidence and affection of someone who had spent a lot of time on the island.

He leaned forward and tapped Giovanni on the shoulder.

‘Can you stop here a moment?’

They pulled up in a dusty lay-by and Sam led Anna to a gap in the low boundary wall.

‘Come on,’ he said, offering her his hand. They shuffled carefully down a short, narrow path, brushing between bushes and emerging in a small clearing on the edge of a cliff.

Anna’s eyes opened wide. They could see all the way down to the Marina Grande with its bustling pastel-coloured houses and smart schooners bumping against fishing boats. Beyond that, the jade and turquoise-marbled sea stretched across to the Bay of Naples, where she could see Mount Vesuvius rearing up on the mainland.

‘Brilliant, isn’t it?’ Sam smiled, sitting next to Anna on a rock. ‘It’s hard not to feel like Cary Grant when you’re up here.’

She looked at him in surprise. For some reason she hadn’t expected Sam to feel the same rush of excitement about being here, that same love of old-school Hollywood glamour.

He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one.

‘Can I bum a smoke?’ she asked.

He grinned. ‘Sorry for not offering. I thought I was the last of the smokers.’

They huddled like co-conspirators around his lighter’s flame.

‘I love the romance of this place,’ said Anna, inhaling. The scent of tar tangled with the heady floral aroma from some honeysuckle. ‘And I’m not leaving before I have a go in one of those convertible taxis, just so I can feel like Ava Gardner.’