Page 36 of An Italian Wedding Adventure

He still wanted to kiss her when they dashed into the reception venue, a historic limonaia, a lemon garden, on the other side of the lake. He especially wanted to kiss her when he heard her speaking decent Italian as she greeted the middle-aged woman behind the counter.

He wondered what she’d sound like speaking German and reined himself right back in. Giving in to a kiss last night – a kiss that had felt so natural, so good it had shaken him – had been bad enough, but imagining her slotting into his life was a recipe for heartache.

Manaslu was calling him, the first real expedition for a couple of years. He knew a guy who was putting together a team for the Polish Glacier Traverse of Aconcagua early in the new year too. Now Toni’s parents were moving to Weymouth to help with Cillian and Willard had this wedding shit to deal with, he could stay in South America for half the year. There were still so many unclimbed peaks in Bolivia and Peru.

Imagining saying goodbye to Sophie again as he set off on an expedition, as he had eight years ago, was enough to stop him dreaming about turning kisses into something more. Even without the stilted proposal that he’d had to turn down, it would tear him in two.

He mumbled an excuse and left her there to organise her wedding admin and hightailed it to the nearest bar to down a couple of espressi. That was one Italian ritual the Südtiroler had adopted with enthusiasm: the quick espresso at the counter.

Because Lake Garda was a tourist magnet, his cheap espresso was a slightly pricier €1.20 and rather than the comfortably shabby bar he’d hoped for, he drank it at a gelateria while the visitors licked their morning ice cream.

The weather continued to be foul and they filled the afternoon visiting a vehicle-hire company to arrange a quote for Vespa-rental options for the hen and bachelor excursions.

‘Do we need to do a test drive?’ he joked, shoving his hands into his pockets.

‘You’re welcome to. You can borrow my rain poncho. It’ll suit you,’ she replied without even looking at him.

He wanted to shoot back a witty quip, but she’d caught him on a rare day when he hadn’t bothered preparing for the conditions and he deserved the mocking.

The following day, he still didn’t trust the weather. A storm was forecast and this time, the air was already heavy and charged when they woke up. But Sophie had a seemingly endless list of local businesses to visit for this wedding and another she had pencilled in for the following year.

Meaning to just drop her off and find something else to do, he found himself tagging along, juggling samples while she tapped on her tablet: two bottles of Valpolicella from the vineyard restaurant, three sample corsages, two mini wedding cakes; and a heavy book of fabric swatches for something he hadn’t quite caught, even though he’d understood all of the words.

He didn’t speak wedding.

As they waited to chat to one of the stylists on her list, he leaned on the back of her chair and tweaked a lock of her hair. ‘Do you have to try out the hairdressers, too?’

The stylist chose that moment to appear with a warm handshake for both of them. ‘I’m happy to demonstrate!’

So it was his own fault when he found himself in the leather chair five minutes later, a plastic smock around his neck, staring at his own scowl in the mirror while Sophie grinned in the background. Her hair was shorter than the bride’s, had been her excuse.

But it was a passable cut – at least Sophie seemed to think so. She brushed her fingers through his hair, pulling her hand back quickly, but not quickly enough to prevent the shock of gratification at her petting.

He must have still been in a daze an hour later at another florist’s up in the hills behind Bardolino. The storm had passed with more bluster than actual weather and the afternoon blazed hot over the clay roofs of the town. The florist led them to a balcony with a view over the vineyards and a glimpse of the lake, served a fairly good espresso and then brought out her parade of samples.

‘You have to see someone wearing this to truly appreciate it,’ the florist was saying as Andreas was distracted, studying the terraced vines, cypress and olive trees, the brightly coloured render on the houses and the pink rhododendron below. He was only two hours from home, but summer came earlier near the lake. He’d been skiing at altitude a week ago – which only made him wonder if Sophie had skied again since he’d coached her onto her first red slope. Probably not.

‘My assistant has been very hands-on today, so perhaps we can try this.’

Andreas snapped his gaze up, at first wondering what Sophie meant with ‘hands-on’ and then recoiling when he saw what she intended. But his back met the railing and he had nowhere to run, so he dipped his head with a grumble and allowed her to place the floral wreath on his head.

‘On me, it’s going to look more like Julius Caesar than a bride.’ But he enjoyed her smile as she snapped a few pictures.

‘Julius Caesar probably isn’t the right look for clients, though,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Here.’ She thrust the tablet into his hands and plucked the arrangement off him, setting it on her own head.

That was worse. The wedding nonsense made him feel restless – useless. He didn’t care if those flowers were roses or gardenias. The fuss was stifling, claustrophobic. But when Sophie stood in front of him looking like that, he ceased to function. The neurons in his frontal lobe all panicked and he didn’t know whether to haul her over his shoulder like a caveman or run the other way.

‘Are you going to take a photo?’

He managed a grunt in response, but he was in a foul mood by the time they drove back to the apartment.

He managed to keep quiet until they were getting out of the car, packing the samples into a collapsible crate he usually used for ropes. ‘Do you really enjoy this stuff?’

‘Yes,’ she answered stiffly, her top lip thin. ‘I did suggest getting a car myself. You were hired to be my guide… and not my test subject. I’m sorry you’ve had a miserable two days, but don’t take it out on me.’

She hefted the smaller box of samples and turned away. Juggling the crate under one arm while he closed the boot, Andreas had to hurry after her, the words rushing out before he’d thought them through. ‘I haven’t had a miserable two days.’

‘What?’ Her tone was peevish.

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