The Summer Villa. Melissa Hill

once, she wasn’t playing the role she’d been allotted. If she was expected to assume her part in the Weston family script for the rest of her life, then she needed a chance to play the rebel, even if only briefly.

      Everything was planned to ensure that her parents wouldn’t find her – at least not for a little while.

      Her destination (and certainly choice of accommodation) wasn’t somewhere Peter or Gloria would ever think to look for her, since it was so far removed from the kind of places the Westons usually frequented.

      No five-star luxury hotel suite awaiting Kim when she arrived. Instead she was staying at a tumbledown villa she’d found on the internet, where she’d be sharing living space and possibly even a room with other guests. She shuddered involuntarily.

      Kim was roughing it, in as much as someone like her could. The house had no on-site staff, apparently there was someone who’d come by daily to tidy and meet and greet, but that was it. No concierge, butler, in-house chef – nothing.

      For once, she was going to have to cater for herself – in more ways than one.

      That gave her some sense of unease; she wasn’t exactly Martha Stewart, which was why she also planned to maybe enlist herself in an Italian cookery class, as suggested by the booking site she’d used. Failing that, she’d just survive on pizza and pasta. It was Italy, after all.

      And she could afford that much, for a little while at least.

      It was early afternoon when the flight landed at Naples airport and the transfer service she’d arranged (her final luxury – she wasn’t going to rough it entirely after a transatlantic economy flight) picked her up outside the terminal.

      ‘Signorina Weston?’ the driver holding the sign with her name on it queried as she approached.

      ‘That’s me.’

      ‘Buongiorno. Right this way,’ the young Italian man instructed as he directed Kim to a waiting black Mercedes.

      She stepped outside of the terminal, her long slender legs clad in white jeans, which complemented her hot pink poncho. Sunglasses protected her eyes from the bright sun but she still held a hand to her forehead to shield them as she stared up at an almost cloudless Italian blue sky.

      ‘I am Alfeo,’ the driver introduced himself as they walked, taking her luggage along with him. ‘How was your flight?’

      ‘Long,’ she answered. She was bone-tired, a little cranky and not particularly in the mood for small talk.

      Alfeo nodded and opened the car door for her. ‘The journey will take just over an hour and a half depending on traffic. But we can stop along the way if you need anything.’

      ‘That’s fine,’ Kim replied as she slid into the back seat and tipped her head against the leather headrest. She closed her eyes, suddenly spent and exhausted from worrying now that she was here.

      She was really doing this …

      It seemed as if only a few minutes had passed when she was woken by Alfeo’s voice announcing arrival at their destination.

      Kim blinked several times as she tried to gather her bearings, then lowered the window to look out at her surroundings. They were parked down some kind of laneway, and up ahead she could make out a grubby wall of peach-coloured plaster, and a paint-chipped wooden door – the only interruption on an otherwise blank façade.

      Unimpressed, she regarded the weather-worn door and its tarnished brass ring, and hid a frown as she dragged manicured nails through her tousled blonde mane, pulling her hair partially over her shoulder.

      Her heart fell. This place looked like a complete dump. She sincerely hoped the inside was a helluva lot better.

      ‘This is Villa Dolce Vita, right?’ she asked, casting a fatigued gaze at Alfeo as she stepped out onto the dusty gravel pathway.

      ‘Si. Villa Dolce Vita.’

      ‘I’ll need your number,’ she stated as she walked towards him with her phone in hand. ‘Just in case.’

      Alfeo complied, assuring her that he’d be available whenever she needed, the suggestive grin on his face indicating he meant for more than just transportation. Were Italian men really such unabashed flirts?

      ‘Can you maybe just help get my cases inside before you go?’

      ‘Of course.’ He duly took her suitcases out of the boot, while Kim wandered further along the perimeter wall to where a break in the trees gave way to a view of the sea.

      Realising that they were on an elevated site, high above the glittering Gulf of Naples, she glanced to her left to see a group of impossibly beautiful pastel-coloured buildings and terracotta roofs, clinging and huddled together.

      The set-up immediately put her in mind of a huge piñata cake: the centre of the green and grey mountain cut open to release a tumbling selection of irresistible pastel-coloured candy.

       Now this is more like it …

      Further along down the coast, rock promontories jutted out above diverging bays, beaches and terraces, all presiding over cerulean waters. Hills dotted with lush vineyards, olive trees and citrus groves looked down over the colourful shops, cafés, hotels and historic buildings scattered below.

      Sailboats dotted the clear blue waters and, looking down from where she stood, Kim could see snaking wooden steps leading all the way to the rocky shore below.

      The whole thing was dizzying in every sense of the word.

      By the time she returned to the villa entrance, Alfeo was gone, but the old wooden door had been left ajar.

      Kim slipped through into the courtyard area to discover a hidden garden of sorts.

      The dark pea gravel of outside gave way to a lighter-coloured, more decorative kind, and she noticed heavy stone planters dotted throughout the small courtyard area, housing rows of mature lemon and olive trees.

      Coupled with vibrant magenta bougainvillea tumbling down the edge of an old stone building – evidently the villa itself – the garden was a riot of colour, and against the azure sky and glittering water on the bay, made for a picture-perfect entrance.

      Citrus scent from the lemon trees followed as Kim walked to the front of the property, her senses now well and truly awakened.

      The villa was of the same blotchy peach plaster as the outside wall, a pretty two-storey house with a terracotta roof and rustic windows trimmed with dull cast iron railings that had long since seen better days.

      Turning to check out the view from the front of the house, Kim noticed a terraced area beneath the gardens, accessible by four or five stone steps leading down to small pool bordering the edge of the entire site overlooking the panoramic bay.

      Without the ornate bougainvillea-laden perimeter railings holding everything together, it was as if the entire site could easily slip right off the edge and plummet down to the rocky shore below.

      OK, so this place was old, but surprisingly charming, and while Kim didn’t have high hopes for the quality of accommodation, given the crumbling exteriors, she already felt a weird sense of calm at just being here.

      It was as if Villa Dolce Vita had already cast a spell on her.

      A chipped wooden front door with a ringed black-painted knocker at its centre stood wide open, and Kim hesitated momentarily as she listened for noise from inside.

      She wasn’t sure if there were other guests staying there already or if anyone was even expecting her, but there was no going back now.

      She took a deep breath. She was really here. Doing her own thing, finding her own path.

      Time to take the plunge.