The Place We Met Read online

  Isabelle Broom

  * * *

  THE PLACE WE MET

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  THE PLACE WE MET

  Isabelle Broom was born in Cambridge nine days before the 1980s began and studied Media Arts at the University of West London before starting a career first in local newspapers and then as a junior sub-editor at heat magazine. She travelled through Europe during her gap year and went to live on the Greek island of Zakynthos for an unforgettable and life-shaping six months after completing her degree. Since then, she has travelled to Canada, Sri Lanka, Sicily, New York, LA, the Canary Islands, Spain and lots more of Greece, but her wanderlust was reined in when she met Max, a fluffy little Bolognese puppy desperate for a home. When she’s not writing novels set in far-flung locations, Isabelle spends her time being the Book Reviews Editor at heat magazine and walking her beloved dog round the parks of north London.

  You can follow her on Twitter @Isabelle_Broom or find her on Facebook under Isabelle Broom Author.

  By the same author

  My Map of You

  A Year and a Day

  Then. Now. Always.

  For Poppy and Zachary, forever the brightest stars.

  1

  Taggie

  Winter is on its way.

  I can feel it creeping through the folds of my scarf, and when I breathe in, the air pooling into my lungs is sharp and cool, bringing with it a clarity and freshness. I feel more awake, more alert, and I allow myself to inhale deeply. There is a faint scent of pine, and something else that I can’t distinguish. Perhaps it is coming from the plants that I know are there, but cannot see, behind the high stone walls, or perhaps it is the lake that I can smell, which is just now coming into view below me.

  It is silent, as it always is at this early hour, and I wonder if the birds have even woken yet. When I come down here in the afternoons, they’re always busy rustling away in the surrounding trees, doing whatever vital job it is that they always seem to be in the midst of completing. It would be nice to be a bird, I think fleetingly. To have the freedom to take off whenever you desired, and soar through the endless blue sky above the water as if you were weightless. Then again, I remind myself, the birds aren’t the only things that have escaped.

  The gradual downward slope of the stony path ends abruptly in front of me, and ahead sits a narrow strip of beach. Beyond that, the lake sits calm as glass, with barely a ripple interrupting its deep blue canvas. I feel better already.

  I stand for a while gazing out towards the horizon, and then my eyes trail west, to where the distant mountaintops seem to shimmer in the morning light, and I take another breath. Yes, winter is definitely on its way. Soon I will wake to find blankets of frost thrown over the ground, and red berries will burst out amongst the clumps of holly that decorate the outer walls of the hotel. It will be cold and stark, but the sun will still shine. Even when the snow comes, it will be baked into a glistening meringue, and the clouds will be permitted only for a short time each day – perhaps not at all. Such is the desire of good old Mother Nature here in Lake Como, and I would not want it any other way. The beauty here feels like a tonic, the relentless sun like a beaming clown, chasing away sad thoughts, and the rich colours of the contrasting landscape a palette that soothes and calms me.

  And this is the place where it all comes together. This beach, this view, this place. My place.

  I bring my hands up to rub some warmth into my upper arms, and lift my shoulders to keep the chill from my throat. My scarf is a helpful barrier, but the thin cotton material is no real match for the cold, and I pull it tighter in a fruitless attempt to cover up more skin. Turning left, I make my way along the narrow corridor of shingle, my hand on the high wall to steady myself, and follow it along until I reach the corner. There’s a wide gap where the lake floods in through an underground passage, and then a wider stretch of beach beyond. An abandoned rowing boat sits idle on the shore, and in that moment, I have a sudden urge to reach it, to run my hand across its coarse, rotting surface and watch the paint disintegrate beneath my fingers – but I hesitate. I will have to jump, and from this position on the corner there is no room for a run-up. And what if I make it across, but then have no way back? It’s too cold to paddle back through the water, and anyway, my skinny jeans are far too tight to roll up.

  ‘Don’t be such a wimp,’ I say aloud, scolding myself as I so often used to as a child. The young Taggie would not have deliberated; she would have leapt straight over and already be at the helm of that boat, on course for an imaginary adventure. I smile as I conjure her up in my mind, that fierce and fearless version of me. How I wish I still had her strength.

  Mind made up, I take a deep breath and crouch down on my haunches, the plan being to spring up and over the channel in one graceful leap. I pause, my hands on the wet stone walkway, then fling myself up with as much energy as I can muster, letting out a shriek as I go. There’s a split second of exhilarating movement, followed by a splash, and then awful, total coldness.

  ‘Wahhhhhh!’ I yell, swallowing a good portion of the lake in the process and spluttering in disgust. I have somehow managed to land face down in the water, and my rapidly soaking clothes are pinning me down. I try to shuffle myself up, but my knee connects with the jagged edge of a stone and my leg buckles again beneath me. Now I’m not just angry, but scared, too, and the realisation causes me to thrash about wildly. I’m going to drown in ten centimetres of water, I think hopelessly, and it will be days until I’m found, washed up on the shore in Como, pecked apart by swans.

  I’m just about to try and roll over on to my back when I hear a shout, and a few seconds later strong hands reach down under my arms and I’m hauled out of the water, dripping and coughing and shuddering with cold. Taking an instinctive step away from my rescuer, I bang the back of my head against the wall and swear in earnest, my chattering teeth making the words sound ridiculous.

  The man, who I realise guiltily is now almost as wet as me, starts laughing gently.

  ‘It’s not funny!’ I snarl, rubbing the sore spot as I look at him properly for the first time. He’s very obviously Italian, with jet-black hair and the remnants of a summer tan, and his eyes are
the most extraordinary shade of bright green. He’s wearing a red jumper that’s been turned part-maroon by the stain of my wet body, and the sleeves are rolled up to reveal thick, muscular forearms.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asks, peering at me in amusement. His English is heavily accented, but he speaks it with an ease that makes me suspect he’s fluent.

  ‘I think so,’ I reply, my cheeks burning with mortification. ‘Thank you for helping me.’

  He shrugs. ‘Of course.’

  I want to ask him what he’s doing down here, on my special, secret beach, so early in the morning, but I don’t. I simply stand there mutely, wringing out my dripping hair and peeling off my saturated scarf with a grimace.

  ‘You’re all wet,’ I point out needlessly, and he looks down at himself, again with a wry smile.

  ‘It will dry.’

  ‘Aren’t you cold?’ I want to know, but he shakes his head.

  ‘Not really. I don’t really feel the cold too much.’

  ‘What are you, a robot?’ I joke weakly, but he frowns in confusion.

  ‘Just a man.’

  He’s certainly that, I can’t help but agree. In fact, this man is the most manly-looking man that I’ve encountered in a long time. Which makes the whole plucking-me-out-of-the-lake thing all the more humiliating. Why couldn’t an old fisherman have found me?

  ‘You are shivering,’ he tells me, stepping forwards. ‘Can I help to warm you up?’

  ‘No!’ I practically yell, stumbling away from his outstretched arms in horror. He’s right, I am shaking with cold, but there’s no way I’m going to let him hug me. Who the hell does he think he is?

  The man folds his arms as he considers my rebuff, his eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a line.

  ‘I do not bite,’ he informs me lightly, but his smirk rankles. I can tell exactly what he’s thinking – he’s looking at me, so small next to him and so apparently helpless, and he’s assumed that I’m just another pathetic female that needs looking after. He’s doing what so many men do when they meet me – he’s making a presumption based on my size and on my sex, and there is literally nothing that annoys me more. OK, so I fell into the lake, but that doesn’t mean I’m weak; it just means I’m unlucky.

  ‘I’m going home,’ I inform him, giving him as challenging a look as it’s possible to do when you’re a sodden mess, and turning my back on him before he has a chance to reply. My boots, which have filled with water, make an embarrassing squelching sound as I stomp away, but I hold my head up high regardless. By the time I reach the beach and the opening that leads to the path, my hot head has cooled, and a twinge of guilt makes me glance back the way I came.

  He’s still standing there, his hands now in the pockets of his jeans and his head on one side. What I should do is mouth a silent apology, or flash him a small smile, hoping it will convey that I’m sorry for overreacting, and that I’m genuinely grateful to him for saving me, but I don’t. The humiliation still feels too acute, and I’ve lost too much face already – so instead I stick my chin defiantly up in the air, and stomp away out of view.

  2

  Lucy

  I was nine years old the first time someone cheated on me.

  His name was Johnny, and he had curly brown hair and permanently pink cheeks. We had been officially boyfriend and girlfriend for two whole weeks, which was a record at our primary school, and I had written his name on the back of my hand in purple felt-tip pen and drawn a heart around it. I was so proud to have been singled out by Johnny, because he was the most popular boy in our year – if not the whole school – and so he could have taken his pick of the girls. But no, he’d chosen me, Lucy Dunmore, with the train-track braces and scuffed knees. The girl who wore her older sister’s tatty hand-me-downs and still sucked her thumb in her sleep; the quiet one in class who would never raise her hand even if she knew the answer; the nondescript, non-beautiful and non-exciting Lucy. I was as surprised as everyone else.

  Every lunchtime, I would make my way to the edge of the fenced-in pitch where all the boys played football, and watch my beloved tearing up and down the grass after the ball. Occasionally he would glance my way and smile, or blow me a sly kiss behind one of his hands, and I would swell with such pleasure that even my fingertips would tingle.

  On this day, however, he was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘I saw him with Chloe and her lot,’ one of Johnny’s minions informed me, abandoning his position between the goalposts and lacing his dirty fingers through the gaps in the mesh fence.

  ‘Oh. Thanks.’

  ‘They said they were going to play kiss chase,’ he retorted, failing to keep the glee from leaking into his voice like spilt milk. ‘I heard that Chloe always picks a three.’

  The version of kiss chase we all played was based on a simple numbered system: one was a cuddle, two a kiss on the cheek, and three, the most daring of all, a kiss on the lips. The fact that Chloe always picked a ‘three’ if she was caught by the boys was not news to me, but Johnny’s friend’s words still made my throat tighten up and my tummy twist into knots.

  I feigned nonchalance, of course, but as soon as I was a safe distance away from the pitch, I started to panic. If Johnny was playing kiss chase, then it was up to me to find him.

  He wasn’t up in the makeshift fort or on the swings. There was no sign of him in the cobweb-ridden alley behind the science block or over near the infants’ sandpit. I ran around the playground twice, my legs burning and my breath coming faster and harder, but still, nothing. The tears were threatening and other children were starting to look at me with ill-disguised bemusement. I was about to scale the big slide for a better look when I saw him.

  And he wasn’t alone.

  They were a fair distance away from me, but I could still make out the beam of pride on Chloe’s face as she followed my boyfriend across the playground. He was looking ahead, rather than at her, but one of his hands was stretched behind him, his fingers entwined with hers.

  I took a breath, and followed them.

  I knew where Johnny was taking her, because it was the same place he’d led me a fortnight ago, on that magical day when he’d whispered in my ear that he liked me, that he thought it was cool how clever I was, how well I could spell, how I was the only person in the class who could hold Snuffles the guinea pig without him wriggling.

  He was taking Chloe to the kissing corner.

  I went as far as the cloakroom doors before I stopped and leant against the glass, watching with a mixture of shock and inexplicable fascination as Chloe and Johnny went straight for a three, both shutting their eyes as they rubbed their faces together. She was taller than him and had to bend down a bit, and if it had been anybody else, I would have laughed. But it wasn’t – it was my Johnny, my boyfriend – and so instead I turned away and went inside. I washed his name off my hand and glared at myself in the toilet mirror, willing my bottom lip to stop trembling. Nine-year-olds aren’t cry-babies.

  In that moment, it was myself I hated, not him. Not even Chloe.

  I went back into the cloakroom and sat by my peg, waiting for the bell to ring and signal the end of lunch break. There was a faded sticker of Kermit the Frog on the wooden bench seat, and I picked at it absent-mindedly, chewing the inside of my cheeks until I could taste blood.

  I never told anyone what I’d seen, or how it upset me.

  But I never forgot it, either.

  ‘Lucy, are you in there? The patient in cubicle three is back from X-ray.’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  There goes my tea break, I think, tipping the remainder of my brew down the sink and giving the mug a cursory rinse.

  Letting the staffroom door swing shut behind me, I almost collide with Doctor Dhillon, who is also on his way to cubicle three.

  ‘Nurse Dunmore.’ He nods a greeting.

  ‘Vikram.’ I smile back.

  ‘All set for a busy night?’ he enquires politely, and I roll my eyes good-naturedly. It’s
the first Friday in December – AKA the night where all the office Christmas parties begin – and as such the Accident and Emergency department here at All Saints Hospital in North London is undoubtedly going to fill up with revellers as soon as the pubs start to call last orders. As Vikram and I are doing a late shift, we’ve only been here for a few hours, and both of us know that we have a very long night ahead of us.

  ‘So, what’s the poor little duck broken?’ I ask as we turn a corner, my rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the laminate floor.

  ‘Ulnar fracture,’ the doctor replies, raising a sympathetic eyebrow when I instinctively glance up at him in dismay. ‘It’s a clean break, though, and she won’t need an op.’

  ‘I’ve got my brave-girl stickers at the ready,’ I tell him, tapping my pocket, and the two of us exchange a knowing grin before I reach up and pull aside the curtain.

  The little girl in the cubicle is pink-cheeked and subdued, while the woman beside her looks positively terrified. It’s a look I’m used to, and as always, I’m relieved that Doctor Dhillon is bringing relatively good news with him.

  ‘Is her arm broken, Doctor?’ the mother cries, grabbing Vikram’s hands before he’s even had time to speak. They’re fabulous hands, the colour of burnt caramel with long, slim fingers, and his nails are short, clean and buffed.

  ‘Take a seat, Mrs Davis,’ Vikram soothes, easing her slowly into the chair next to the bed. ‘It’s a nice, neat break, and she’ll need a cast, but once that’s done she’ll bounce back in no time.’

  ‘Am I going to get a new arm?’ the little girl asks now, and the three of us turn to her. She looks so tiny and helpless sitting up on the bed, with her cuddly toy dog clutched in her good hand and tear marks streaking through the dirt on her cheeks.

  ‘You don’t need one,’ Vikram says kindly. ‘This one will mend just fine, you’ll see.’

  The girl doesn’t look convinced. I know from her notes that she’s only just turned four, but she seems older. There’s a knowing look behind those eyes of hers that I’m not sure I had at the same age, and she gazes at me without trepidation.