It Was Always You Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  IT WAS ALWAYS YOU

  Georgie Capron

  Start Reading

  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About It Was Always You

  Libby has been drifting through life for too long and, now in her early 30’s, it’s time to grow up. She decides to have one last summer of fun before buckling down, so heads off to beautiful Positano in Italy.

  There, despite all her good intentions, she can’t help but fall a little in love with the very handsome, but rather naughty, Luca and, as the summer draws to a close, Libby has some big decisions to make.

  Should she head back home and face up to her responsibilities? Is Luca really the right man to start a family with, or has the perfect man been right in front of her eyes all this time?

  And, when it comes to affairs of the heart, is it really better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About It Was Always You

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About Georgie Capron

  A Letter from the Author

  Also by Georgie Capron

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  To my daughter Camilla

  Chapter One

  A thickset Neapolitan blocked her route out of the station. She could smell the stale tobacco on his breath as he wheezed, ‘Ciao bella! You need taxi?’ This was addressed to her cleavage, not her face.

  ‘Non grazie,’ Libby muttered through gritted teeth. She elbowed her way through the crowds that were lurking around the Stazione Centrale. Her patience with the male half of the Italian population was beginning to wear thin. She had spent the past several hours avoiding the advances of an overweight lothario called Luigi. He had been convinced that she would like nothing more than to tumble straight off the train and into his bed.

  Looking ahead with steady determination, she navigated her way through the hustle and bustle in search of a sign for the tram. Libby had studied her Lonely Planet carefully to establish the best route from the train station to the ferry port; only now was she beginning to regret her decision to use local transport rather than the comforts of a taxi. Mentally chiding herself for being pathetic (after all, she was here for an authentic Italian experience, wasn’t she?) she scanned her surroundings, pausing briefly to rest against her bag. She pulled her brown hair off her back and scrunched it up into a ponytail. God it was hot! She felt beads of sweat forming on her neck; her skin was clammy against her T-shirt.

  At last Libby laid eyes on the tram stop. It was just a short walk across the piazza. Remembering that she wouldn’t be able to purchase a ticket on board, she found a nearby tabbacheria. ‘Posso avere un biglietto per il tram, per favore?’ she asked. The buxom lady behind the counter nodded briskly and gave her a ticket in return for a couple of euros. She made her way out into the blinding morning sun.

  After an extremely squashed journey rumbling through the cobbled streets of Naples with her backpack rammed up against her thighs, Libby disembarked at the port. She bought herself a bottle of water and a ticket for the 11 a.m. ferry to Positano. Choosing a suitably shaded spot in which to sit and pass the time, Libby gulped back the ice-cold liquid gratefully as she took in her surroundings. An assortment of tourists of all shapes and sizes were waiting for boats to shuttle them off to the Amalfi coast and the islands of Capri and Ischia. On the opposite side of the port a group of young travellers lounged around, smoking roll-ups and chatting as they listened to the music that was playing from a set of speakers. A small child toddled about haphazardly, picking up discarded bottle tops and chasing an errant pigeon.

  Taking a deep breath, Libby stretched out her legs and kicked off her flip-flops, annoyed that the coral Shellac on her toenails had begun to fade. In the last few weeks her skin had gradually tanned to a deep olive brown as she had made her way south through Italy. What a blissful few weeks it had been. She had started her travels in Verona, before winding her way through the major cities, exploring, practising her Italian and enjoying her new-found freedom. She sifted through her favourite memories of the trip so far: visiting the glass-blowing workshops on the island of Murano, eating gelato while wandering over the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, and soaking up the night life in Rome as she walked the streets looking for hidden trattorias to eat in.

  At that moment her phone vibrated in her pocket, interrupting her reverie. It was Jules, her best friend. As Libby swiped to unlock the screen she saw a photograph of a computer screen with a complicated spreadsheet flash up on her WhatsApp. ‘My view. Kill me NOW!’ read the message. Libby chuckled to herself as she snapped a photograph of the sparkling turquoise water lapping against the stone harbour wall to her right and clicked send.

  ‘Poor you. Come and join me!’ she added. Seconds later another message pinged on to her screen. ‘Lucky cow! I would do anything to be there with you. Can we FaceTime later?’

  ‘Definitely – should be in Positano by this afternoon so will call this eve xx’

  As Libby boarded the ferry that had slowly chugged into the harbour, she couldn’t help but feel smug at the thought of all her friends and family stuck at work back in London. Here she was on a stunning day in the most beautiful country in the world, with three months of freedom stretching out in front of her. A cautionary voice popped into her head, reminding her to make the most of it. Before she knew it, it would all be over. She vowed once again to appreciate every second of the precious time she had left. She would be signing her life over to the w
orld of law once and for all when her training contract began on 1st October. She knew it was about time she grew up and got a serious job at long last.

  Determined not to think about that quite yet, Libby watched as the ferry skimmed over the aquamarine water until they finally began to approach the Amalfi coast. She had dreamed of returning for years, having fallen in love with the place in her early twenties. As part of her degree she had spent a year living in Bologna, and in the summer she had travelled along the Amalfi coast with a group of friends, making a brief stop in Positano. As she drank in the spectacular views she felt her spirits lift. The emerald coastline soared up from the sea in undulating curves, creating little coves and hidden valleys. In one of these coves lay Positano, the picturesque village to which Libby was coming closer and closer with every passing second. The pastel-coloured houses that cascaded vertiginously towards the sea slowly came into focus. The golden dome of the church in the centre glinted like a beacon in the sunlight. Bright bursts of fuchsia bougainvillea tumbled decadently over the endless sequence of steps that crisscrossed the village. As the boat pulled into the harbour, Libby felt overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the place. She took a deep breath in, tasting the salty spray from the sea, a huge grin spreading over her face. She knew she had been right to come back here.

  Gratefully accepting a proffered hand, Libby stepped on to the jetty. She found her bag amongst the mound of luggage that was piling up to one side of the pontoon and made her way across the beach and up on to the sea front. A selection of restaurants overlooked the beach from which various stone pathways led up in twists and turns to the central piazza. The beach was full of holiday-makers soaking up the sun while jealous waiters looked on, sweating in their aprons and white shirts.

  Having made her way to the tiny piazza, Libby turned right, following the pavement to the side of the road for a seemingly endless length of time, reassuring herself that the ordeal was nearly over, she would soon have arrived. On and on she walked, out of breath from the sheer steepness of the incline, stopping occasionally to check the map that she had printed off back in England.

  Eventually she saw a sign pointing up a little set of steps to a bright lemon-yellow front door. It read ‘Ostello La Casetta’ in swirling letters. Elated to have found it at last, she climbed up the steps with a final burst of energy and knocked on the door.

  It was opened a few seconds later by a short man with sky-blue eyes and nut-brown skin. ‘Buongiorno?’ he said, looking at her with a quizzical expression, one grey eyebrow arching up towards his hairline.

  ‘Buongiorno!’ said Libby. ‘My name is Libby Saunders, I am here to work for the summer,’ she explained in her best Italian. ‘I spoke to your wife this morning,’ she added, slightly perplexed by his blank expression.

  ‘Antonio… chi è?’ trilled a high-pitched, singsong voice behind him as an equally small lady bustled over to join them.

  ‘Sono Libby,’ she repeated hopefully. ‘I called this morning… I’m here for the summer job? You must be Floriana?’

  ‘Ah, Libby!’ cried Floriana, reaching out to embrace her warmly before giving her a kiss on each cheek. ‘We are so glad you are here! Excuse my husband Antonio; he never listens to a word I say. I did tell him you were arriving, but never mind! You must be so thirsty… come in! Come in! Bring in her bag, Tonio.’

  Libby was swept into the hostel as Antonio shrugged his shoulders and smiled, chuckling to himself with the air of someone who is used to being told off. The hostel was blissfully cool after the scorching heat of the sun, and Libby followed them inside gratefully. ‘How was your journey?’ asked Floriana, ‘It is too hot, no?’ she laughed, switching to heavily accented English.

  ‘It is very hot indeed!’ replied Libby, determined to practise her Italian as much as possible and therefore starting as she meant to go on. ‘The ferry journey was absolutely lovely; it is such a beautiful part of the world.’

  ‘The jewel in the crown of Italy!’ said Antonio, gesturing over to the terrace from which you could see breathtaking views right down to the sea.

  ‘Wow! It is stunning!’ said Libby. ‘I can’t believe I am actually here.’

  ‘Let me tell you we are glad to have you!’ said Floriana. She showed Libby to her room: tiny, simple and tucked away at the back of the hostel, with a small bed, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe. ‘I always try to find extra help in the high season because the hostel gets so full that I can no longer manage with the staff that I have. You will be an extra pair of hands to tide us through.’

  ‘It sounds perfect. When I saw the advert online I knew that this was just what I was looking for. I can imagine why it gets so busy; the whole of Italy must want to come here for their summer holidays!’

  Having left her bag in her room she was given a tour of the building. It was higgledy-piggledy and full of charm. Light streamed through the windows, bouncing off the whitewashed walls. The rooms were full of the half-unpacked contents of travellers’ backpacks. Little alcoves displayed beautiful patterned blue tiles, and brightly coloured lemon trees in terracotta pots rested on mosaic tables.

  ‘These are the rooms for the guests. We can sleep forty people at any one time and we have a mixture of dormitories and doubles or family rooms,’ explained Floriana, tottering along the corridor. ‘Here is our little bar,’ she said as they entered a spacious room to the side of the building that led out onto the terrace. ‘It is run by a man called Luca. It is normally quite busy.’

  ‘Is it just for guests?’ Libby asked.

  ‘No, no, it is for anyone who wants to use it – we have a regular crowd of locals who come by. You will get to know everyone soon enough, don’t worry!’ she laughed. ‘In Positano, everyone knows everyone.’

  She pointed up. ‘At the very top of the building is our little apartment. We tend to spend our evenings there when we can these days, for a bit of peace and quiet. We are not as young as we used to be, you know.’

  They made their way back to the terrace, which was decked out with tables and chairs that gleamed in the afternoon sun. ‘This is where the guests normally eat breakfast. One of your jobs will be to serve croissants and coffees in the morning, as well as taking bookings, answering the telephones and checking guests in and out. Don’t worry, I will explain everything to you later when you have settled in. You’ll get the hang of it in no time.’

  Antonio, who reminded Libby of a cheerful garden gnome, was busy in the kitchen behind reception. ‘Would you like some lunch?’ asked Floriana. ‘Please join us, we are about to eat.’

  ‘Thank you, I’d love to,’ said Libby. ‘I’m starving! Can I do anything to help?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Antonio. ‘It’s almost ready.’

  He brought out a basket of bread and a huge platter of mozzarella, sliced tomatoes and basil. As she ate, Libby could hardly believe how delicious such simple ingredients could taste. The creamy mozzarella melted in her mouth, the sun-ripened tomatoes burst with flavour, and the fragrant basil mingled perfectly with the nutty richness of the olive oil. It was poles apart from the bland tomato and mozzarella salads that she had eaten so many times in England. Her mouth watered at the prospect of three months of such culinary delights. She had always enjoyed cooking and was determined to add more Italian dishes to her repertoire by the time she got home. She looked at her new employers as they ate their lunch. Floriana’s greying hair curled softly around her ears and her smile reached the corners of her eyes. Both Antonio and Floriana had wonderfully deep wrinkles etched across their faces, each line a reminder of a memory or experience from what had evidently been rich and long lives. She bet they had a story or two to tell. They told her about their children, who had upped sticks and moved away as soon as they had reached their twenties. Their daughter lived in nearby Sorrento, while one son was in Naples and the other in Rome. Apparently they would be coming home at various stages over the summer.

  ‘You must miss them,’ said Libby. ‘I can’t believe
anyone would want to move away from such a beautiful place!’

  ‘Many of the younger generation leave Positano to find work elsewhere,’ said Floriana.

  ‘It’s a shame but it’s not easy for them all to earn a decent living here,’ explained Tonio. ‘We were lucky because we have this place.’

  ‘I bet the house prices are extortionate,’ said Libby. She wondered if the locals had become priced out from buying local properties, unable to compete with rich holiday-makers and foreign investors.

  ‘It’s also seasonal here. You can find yourself worked off your feet in the high season and then twiddling your thumbs and struggling to make ends meet when the season comes to an end.’ Libby hadn’t considered this before. Perhaps, if you put yourself in the shoes of those who were actually born and bred here, life in Positano wasn’t as picture-postcard idyllic as it appeared on the surface.

  After lunch, Floriana explained in detail what would be expected of her. ‘You will have to be up at six a.m. – sorry it is a bit early, I know, but breakfast starts at six thirty, so you will come down and set up beforehand. We have a delivery of fresh croissants from the bakery every day between six and six fifteen. We get plain, almond, chocolate and custard croissants. Each guest has one croissant included and a choice of coffee.’ Floriana told her how to operate the coffee machine and froth the milk. After that she showed her how to take bookings and record them on the computer, what to do when new guests arrived and how to check them out. Libby took notes, but it didn’t seem anything too complicated. Her many years of temping, darting about different jobs and industries trying to figure out what she wanted to do with her life, had armed her with a flexible and comprehensive skill set, if nothing else.

  Libby wasn’t officially starting until the next day, so after she had asked all the questions she could possibly think of, she set off to explore. Her hours would be 6 a.m. until 6 p.m., with two days off a week and a two-hour lunch break. In the evenings there was another girl, Giulia, who came to take care of the guests until the reception desk closed at midnight, and someone else called Andrea, who was in charge of the cleaning and laundry. Floriana assured her that both she and Antonio would be around most of the time during the day, and in the evenings there was Luca, who ran the bar with extra help from a young girl called Maria.