Spoilt rotten prick. As if awakened from a protracted hibernation she abruptly sprang to life and let loose, amidst some proper shouting and yelling, a most colourful array of qualifiers. She was under no illusion that the whole thing was at the point of spinning out of control, or that within a couple of minutes she’d be on her knees sobbing convulsively and feeling regretful for her pitiable and wretched self. But that could wait. And it would. For the moment circumstance called for her to keep on screaming and bellowing until it was emphatically ensured that his adipose contours were well out of her blurred sight. In fairness to the poor soul, he obliged on cue and took his ennuied presence off through the thicket and meekly eclipsed himself.

​

It’s in the nature of planes to fall, and it follows that the sole safe and tested option at hand – for them at least – was, as her flummoxed eyes lacerated by an icy shudder couldn’t have twigged more swiftly, the Super Ténéré. And each of its individual insane 1,199 cc revs well beyond the OED definition of derangement. 733.7 km from Innsbruck down to Civitavecchia, courtesy of Google Maps, the blue line bonding the two white dots refusing to be corralled into her brain without serious protest. And protest she did. To no avail. By the time the Brennerpass was approaching full throttle, well advanced in the process of giving up all sorts of pleading, she opted for doing nothing other than clinging frantically to his padded body in hapless despair and summoning as much strength as her hatred would permit. And all the while, gauging the arrhythmic beats of her appalled heart against the accursed engine.

 

After one-too-many hours of blazing tarmac and an eventless, tedious ferry journey that landed them in Arbatax – ecco Sardinia. Not that she was expecting things to start singing from a more radiant hymn sheet just because. They didn’t. When the charming mention of Sardinia had first been uttered it conjured elementary cravings. Elementary cravings she so well fathomed how to make the most of, which, for their being of so unassuming a stripe, could never go wrong. Such as swimming at the crack of dawn, grilled fish al fresco, sunsets with chilled white wine and no shortage of similar clichés she would come up with, honey-coated dainty clichés. How formidable a word never is.

 

Omega-3 a tad overrated, or so it seemed, and with qualms of sustainability being the main deal these days, burgers and pizza it was. Besides, what other reasons in this world could draw the hordes to such a swanky piece of sand and sea if not the sheer excellence of its pristine waters or the quaint ambience exuding from A-listers-to-be dully wandering about? The proverbial wisdom of the crowds dixit. A beach is a beach, for goodness’ sake. Who would go after secluded calas, obscure places where one could hardly come across a chiringuito serving decent beer? Fair point. And through the night blaring nightclubs aplenty. At which stage she felt she might as well have gone to Ibiza. Though she’d been atoning all right. What a good girl she was being this time. Better take your water and dance till you drop. No swimming at dawn, love.

 

For all intents and purposes it was the wrong choice of film from the very start. For pity’s sake, it wasn’t even the right island. A drop too much of that Martini she’d insisted on buying on their way to the hotel and she quickly plunged into a prolix soliloquy on the plot of L’Avventura. Over the years she’d assembled an eclectic portfolio of cinematic intelligence that tended to react very quickly in the presence of a bottle of cheap liquor. The first sips would very rarely produce more than a bit of assorted trivia about non-entities carefully hidden in the labyrinths of closing credits that every film breeds. But as the units of alcohol kept piling up entire scripts would emerge in true liturgical cadence. The choice of the day would have sent Gabriele Ferzetti and Monica Vitti on a wild goose chase through Sicily had her knackered body not stopped her short. It wasn’t like she was sowing the seeds of an embryonic cinephile deep in him, for whom cinema had reached its pinnacle the day they’d started shooting in Middle-earth. His swoony enthralment could after all be measured with ease by the rhythm of the flow of monosyllables with which he paced the turning of the pages of his magazine. Her address carried on for a while, at times splashed with nuances of painstaking minutiae, but when she eventually dozed off she hadn’t gone much further than a few scenes at the Aeolian Islands. Still, damage done.

 

The next day she got up to a glorious sun shafting through the slashed blinds and could sense the tide was about to turn once again, but she was determined to most definitely overlook all auspices for as long as she possibly could. He’d been busy googling the only bit of the film lecture that had left an imprint on his entangled encephalon. They had breakfast together and the plan was for him to join her later at that secluded cala they’d eventually agreed on despite the troubling beer issue. To call it a hassle-free accomplishment would be nothing short of a joke, though she’d at last engineered a way of talking him into staying in a tranquil place not far from Palau after trying half a dozen places up the west coast in vain. For the first time in what was threatening to become infinity she had made use of the night to sleep. She couldn’t avoid the vibes of the gloomy clouds taking shape but chose not to ask. There was plenty of time for the day that had introduced itself as more-or-less untarnished to be ruined later. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Eighty-six minutes it took if counted from the precise moment she woke up. His candour was priceless and in another life she might even have agreed that it contained a rough draft of something that could be honed into a few decent pages of a script.

 

An incident in Piombino – that’s what it was all about. He’d printed pages about the stuff, vile thing, nasty, nasty business. He’d got concerned, who wouldn’t? But not to worry, he’d already booked them into a climbing camp in Ulassai, the ocean safely at arm’s length. One could never be too careful. Besides, Sardinia –so much more than sea and sun. So looking forward to a most memorable few days hiking and mountaineering. But it was the brochure he handed her that pulled the trigger. Spoilt rotten prick.

 

Then it all unfolded in quick succession and he could count himself amongst the mercifully fortunate. With the continuous spurt of expletives and curses still echoing in the distance he wasn’t quick enough to spot the van before it lost control and only managed to avoid it by a few freakish inches before he watched it crashing with great stridency into a vehicle parked just a few yards down the road. For a moment all went ominously quiet before the driver got the engine started again, reversed with gusto and evanesced in no time, leaving in its place the bleeding wreck of a Panda on its deathbed. He took his time appraising his close shave after which he started back towards the beach. That was the moment he froze.

 

No great white, no Nessie, no Scylla. If anything, merely a stroke of sheer serendipity, but it would take him a few seconds too long to grasp it before he would tire of fighting sea beasts. Her first instinct, the moment she noticed the forgotten keys lying on the towel, was to throw them into the sea, which she would have done as an altogether suitable grand finale to the mezzo-soprano frenzy. Her intention was however cut short because panic took hold of her when the clangs and clashes of glass and metal reached her. She dashed to ensure nothing had happened to him. It hadn’t, and in a flash it became patently clear that he couldn’t be in better shape, but by then the dice had already been cast. She picked up the bike and let it roll down the steep track of tired tarmac before starting the engine and heading towards the hotel, making good use of all 1,999 cc. She always packed quickly, more so today, and wasn’t shy at helping herself to one of his credit cards. With luck he wouldn’t even notice it gone, and if he did she would have to grudgingly resort to using hers and keep a tight lid on her expenses. There would surely be more atoning ahead, but every so often she could turn to her creative self, and plenty of time in any case to come up with some sort of persuasive-enough tale. The sun, the sea. No cliché to be left unturned.