Would you marry your holiday fling?
As eight celebrities look for love on a Greek island, Chloé Esposito, author of the summer’s raciest read, shares her own happy ending
‘I bought a ticket on the next flight back to Rome and rang to say I was moving in’
The first time I met Paolo was in an Irish pub in Rome. It was 2006, I was 22 and on a six-week tour travelling with a friend around Italy. We were fresh out of university and wanted to have some fun.
The pub wasn’t the most romantic place in Rome; down a back alley off Via del Corso, jam-packed with tourists and filled with the smell of beer and body odour. But it was the setting for the most unexpected romance of my life.
We all think of summer flings as ill-fated or comic sub-plots – take ITV’S Our Shirley Valentine Summer, in which eight celebrity women are looking for love on Naxos, like some midlife Love Island – but, 12 years later, my story has us married with kids, two cats and a house in the suburbs.
My friend and I had reached the last week of our trip and drunk way too many free rum-peras when Paolo and his friends walked in – while I was dancing on the bar to Livin’ on a Prayer by Bon Jovi.
After a long night of (more) dancing and a trip to a pool party at someone’s house, Paolo drove us both back to our hotel. I never thought I’d see him again; oh, how wrong I was.
I had managed to lose my phone at some point during the night, and just as I emerged from one of those legendary hangovers, at about 6pm, reception rang up to say that a man called “Paolo” had found it and was waiting downstairs to give it back.
I hadn’t even brushed my hair or taken a shower by the time I came downstairs to see Paolo’s black hair and deep brown eyes, his Baywatch tan perceptible beneath a smart white shirt and a suit that fitted to perfection.
He seemed unfeasibly smooth. The scent of Armani Code Black lingered. It felt like the first time I was seeing him. Sober-me gave drunk-me a massive high five.
We hit it off right away; not bad for two strangers with two different mother-tongues. He asked me out for dinner that night and we went to a different, nicer bar in Trastevere. With his cute accent and broken English and Italian chivalry, he charmed the socks off me.
We flirted all night. There were cheeky kisses. I discovered that Paolo was born in Rome and worked in the city in finance, and while I was fresh out of university, he was turning 30.
My friend and I had bought train tickets to leave for Naples the next day – a forced separation that added to the tension and romance between Paolo and I. We travelled to the Amalfi coast and took a boat out to Ischia, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
So when our journey came to an end and we were supposed to fly back to London, I decided to change my plans. I cancelled my flight and took the next train from Naples back to Rome, meeting Paolo at the station with a stomach full of butterflies. By this point we had only known each other for about a week, spent 12 cumulative hours together and exchanged a handful of flirty texts. But I stayed with him for the next three days. We dined at restaurants
on the beach with the warm breeze caressing our skin and the moon shining bright on the water, visiting the best clubs and the Sistine Chapel.
When he finally drove me to the airport, I was heartbroken. We had planned to meet a few weeks later in London, but I already missed him. For Paolo, it was just (a lot of) fun; more lust than love at this point. He didn’t really expect the relationship to have a future. For my part, I knew unequivocally that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.
But Paolo and I lived in different countries. As I peered over the Alps from the plane, it seemed impossible.
We visited each other most weekends for the next couple of months, and I introduced him as my “boyfriend” to friends. But travelling between London and Rome was getting expensive; I was looking for my first “proper” job, and we both knew that it wasn’t sustainable. One day, he called me up and dumped me out of the blue. He didn’t want a long-distance relationship, he said, and it was over.
I threw the phone across the room and cried. And cried. I knew we were meant to be together (men can be slow sometimes). So, I bought a ticket for the next plane to Rome with my whole world in my suitcase, calling him to say that I was not dumped, I was moving in. Paolo freaked out: the only woman he had ever lived with was his mother, we had only known each other for three months and besides, he didn’t want the responsibility of me leaving my life in London.
In hindsight, it was a rash decision, but I have always been spontaneous. We spent four months together in Rome, living in Paolo’s bachelor flat. I did a TEFL course and taught English to Italians, but the fact that I spoke no Italian was limiting my career prospects – not to mention how difficult it made socialising with Paolo’s friends.
As his English had become so good, we decided it would make more sense for us to live in London.
The relationship had teething problems: gone was sunny Rome with its holiday atmosphere, and we landed back to reality with a bump. Paolo and I were both very busy and he was working full time while completing his business course – he didn’t have much time for his 23-year-old girlfriend. We split up for a few months, but despite the rows, we missed each other and soon got back together.
My family, especially my mum (who fancies the pants off him), thought Paolo was a catch; he was exotic, and caused a stir when we visited my parents in Gloucestershire. In 2011, we got married on a dreamy beach in the Seychelles and now have two gorgeous daughters: Valentina (five years old) and Chiara (six months). We spent our seven-year wedding anniversary on holiday in Venice and go to Italy twice a year to visit Paolo’s family, and love exploring Puglia and Sicily.
But the reality of marrying your holiday fling is that it is not all plain sailing. We have different views on politics and how to bring up the children, and it is difficult for Paolo’s family to communicate or spend quality time with them. I am always nagging Paolo to speak Italian to the kids – I think it’s a real shame that the girls are not bilingual – and, of course, there is always an elephant in the room when it comes to Brexit.
Yet today, Paolo is just as hot as that guy I met in that holiday bar, and his abs have certainly benefited from the discovery of Crossfit. He’s changed, however, from a player into a sweet and caring partner, who is dedicated to his family.
My friend kissed a guy in that Irish pub too, but she never saw him again.
Our Shirley Valentine Summer continues on ITV tonight at 9.30pm. Bad, the second in the Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know trilogy by Chloé Esposito, is out now in hardback, published by Michael Joseph (RRP £12.99). To order for £10.99 plus p&p, call 0844 871 1514 or visit books. telegraph.co.uk
‘Marrying your holiday fling is not all plain sailing’