Page 3 of In Italy for Love

She couldn’t help wondering about the tourism industry in a little place like this, at the edge of the mountains and the sea, but the thoughts were nothing more than habit. One day she’d stop thinking about occupancy rates and giant red numbers in the accounts.

Pulling her phone out, she called her mum as a distraction. While she suspected Brenda would rather be living it up in herretirement than talking her daughter through a crisis, she was only ever a phone call away.

‘Jube! How are you getting on, sweetheart? Have you arrived in… wherever you were going?’

‘Yes, I’m here. I’ve organised the farm stay to start tomorrow and it wasn’t too difficult to find a B&B that takes dogs until then.’

‘I’m still not so sure about this farm work. Shouldn’t they be paying you?’

‘It’s all completely above board. There’s an organisation that runs the programme and I don’t have to work all day every day. Finding paid work and accommodation for a few weeks isn’t that easy.’ Her bitten-down fingernails and distressed bank account were proof of that.

‘I suppose that’s true, especially since you know nothing about farm work.’

‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said drily. She’d been no good at renovations either, or the hotel business – or learning Italian.

Juggling Arco’s lead when they reached a road, she kept him close to her as she negotiated the narrow footpath past a deli where the smell of cheese made him turn in circles, his nose in the air in bliss. Jules happily followed suit.

Her mum continued. ‘But you’ve got yourself out of that… sticky situation and I’m relieved.’

‘Yeah,’ she agreed weakly, swallowing a grimace. ‘No more sticky situations for me. A few weeks of quiet manual labour and I’ll be home – maybe even in time for my birthday,’ she said with a pang of hope. In the strain of the past couple of weeks, she hadn’t allowed herself to picture her birthday beyond the jaded thought that all she’d managed in her twenty-eight years of life was to become a penniless failure.

Passing a bakery advertising something called ‘gubana’ that sounded more like a cigar than a bread product, she saw a signfor the ‘Ponte del Diavolo’ and peered ahead to see a stone bridge, lined with lamp posts.

‘Seeing you for your birthday would be lovely!’ Her mother kept speaking as Jules listened with only half an ear. On both sides of the road, people stopped and gaped and took pictures, their voices animated.

Jules couldn’t see what they were photographing. She wasn’t here for tourist sights and Italian flair but when she stepped onto that bridge and caught her first glimpse of the view from the Ponte del Diavolo, she had no choice but to make a space in her poor, tired heart.

Or perhaps the view made space in her heart. The emerald-green river rippled far below, at the bottom of a stony gorge. The coloured houses of the old town perched on the rocks, surely not as precariously as it appeared. Far off in the distance were jagged grey mountain peaks, the nearer hills turning yellow with the onset of autumn.

Everywhere she looked was alive with colour, the green of the river so vivid it didn’t seem real.

‘Are you still there?’ she heard Brenda dimly.

‘Yeah,’ she said, giving herself a shake. ‘It’s just… this is a pretty place.’

‘Things are looking up then, sweetheart,’ her mum said gently.

As Jules gazed at the view she almost believed her. ‘I hope so. Chat later?’

Ending the call, she allowed Arco to drag her to the middle of the bridge, where a viewing platform jutted out over the ravine and she could look back at the colourful houses built onto the stone – yellow, pink and orange, with terracotta roof tiles. The crooked bell towers of two churches rose above. She leaned on the concrete wall and settled her hand on the dog’sback, needing that uncomplicated presence while her emotions churned.

All her plans, everything she’d pictured about the future, were gone. Luca wasn’t just a quiet regret in her life – he was a betrayal, a mistake so big she should have seen it coming. She’d trusted him, relied on him for so long that she was cracked inside – a mess.

But a world where that river, this view, existed couldn’t be so bad. Perhaps what she had needed all along was a far-flung town called Cividale del Friuli and some fresh perspective – and then perhaps she could go home in peace.

As if on cue, the hum of an accordion reached her ears – the old-fashioned croon that was so stubbornly Italian, whether you loved or hated it. The October air was still and cool. The world around her seemed big and colourful and fresh with possibilities. What an unexpectedly beautiful farewell to Italy, she thought with a prick of tears behind her eyes.

Arco gave the lead an almighty tug, snapping Jules out of her emotional reverie. She stumbled after him as he pulled her across the bridge with a sharp bark, which dimmed to a wary growl as they approached the other side. A grey stone chapel stood on a hill above a small cobbled square and perched casually on the concrete barrier by the sheer drop into the ravine was the accordion player, head bowed, fingers working over the black and silver instrument strapped to his chest.

‘Arooooo,’ howled Arco, pulling and jumping in an effort to get closer to… whatever he thought the accordion was. His pack? His mother?

Grasping his harness, Jules held him back as gently as she could, but the animal was determined. ‘You weird dog,’ she muttered with a dismayed laugh as she stumbled after him.

‘Arooo! Arf!’

The longer she held him back, the more the poor dog fought the restraint, leaping in the direction of the music. His strong little body dragged Jules helplessly along. She dimly noticed that they were attracting attention from passers-by.

‘Arco, shh,’ she tried desperately.

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