The hotel was gorgeous, the most luxurious and indulgent place I’d ever stayed in. After a welcoming glass of champagne (videoed), we admired (and videoed) the stunning views across the Tyrrhenian Sea, wandered out onto the private jetty and took a dip in the clifftop swimming pool (also videoed). In the evening, after dinner and two bottles of fine wine (all videoed), we videoed our way back to our room and Chris flopped onto the bed... videoing while I got undressed. And, well, one thing led to another and before either of us had properly had time to consider our actions, we were making our first “adult” movie. It would be our secret, something to giggle about when we were old and wrinkly.
And, given that it was for our eyes only, there was no need for modesty or restraint. Also, because it wasn’t our house, there was no need to consider the wear and tear on the carpet, the coffee table, the chaise longue or the roll-top desk.
We rewound the video and watched it — and I have to admit, it made damn good viewing. Except for the shower scene, which was completely fogged up.
The next day, we went for a long walk along the cliffs, followed by lunch in the harbour. We sat down on the terrace and ordered the seafood risotto. I remember sighing with happiness: this was all so wonderful. We had survived the wedding, kept both sets of in-laws happy, made it to Amalfi, and now we had two weeks of fine food, daytime drinking and nocturnal filming.
I was about halfway through the sigh when two scruffy young men came up to us wielding piles of newspapers. Their sales method was super-pushy: we were both suddenly and comprehensively overwhelmed with a blizzard of paper and shouting.
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We tried to explain we weren’t interested, but it was only when a waiter arrived and screamed at them that they left. It was a classic distraction technique: by the time we recovered and focused, our video camera was long gone.
Every day since, and it’s been two years, I have died with embarrassment to think of those men and all their mates watching our video. And what if they sold the film to some kind of Neapolitan porn impresario and it ended up on the internet — or even in a cinema full of lonely men? Even though a policeman mate of Chris’s said that they would have chucked the tape to reduce the chances of detection, for the first time in my life I could empathise with Paris Hilton and shed a tear for Pamela Anderson.
We got a replacement camera through the insurance, but now we stick to birthdays and christenings.