The Place We Met Read online

  ‘That’s a lot of holidays,’ I manage, and find that I’ve completely lost my appetite. When the same waitress reappears a few moments later to take our order, I choose a tricolore salad instead of the pizza I’d had my eye on. If Pete notices my unusual restraint, he doesn’t mention it – and, of course, his appetite is totally fine. I stay silent as I watch him ask for a large portion of taglione with red shrimp and clams.

  ‘We saw a lot of the world,’ he says, picking up the thread of conversation exactly where he left it. ‘But we argued a lot, too.’

  ‘Oh?’ I daren’t say anything else.

  ‘Yeah.’ He sighs, fiddling with his knife. ‘She always wanted to be out seeing something or doing something, while I preferred to spend time sunbathing by the pool, or sampling all the local food and drink. It used to drive her mad.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have done both?’ I ask, perhaps stating the obvious.

  He pulls a face. ‘You would think so.’

  Privately, I’m thinking that his ex may have had a point, because I enjoy a bit of sightseeing too – but nothing on the planet is going to make me side with her over Pete.

  ‘Is that why you broke up?’ I continue, blushing at my own bravery. I’m straying into very choppy waters here, and I fear that my emotional state is the equivalent of a rowing boat full of holes. I want to know details, but I’m fearful of how they’ll make me feel. Thankfully, the wine arrives at that moment, which provides Pete with a pause in which to formulate a careful reply and gives me something to do with my fingers other than use them to tear my paper napkin into very small pieces in my lap.

  ‘It wasn’t the only reason,’ he reveals, his brow knotted. He looks as if it’s painful for him to even recount the details, let alone share them with me, and I feel guilty then to have asked the question. Then again, wasn’t it him who started this by volunteering the information?

  He picks up the glass of wine I’ve just poured for him, swills it around, then puts it back down on the table.

  ‘She was …’ he begins, and I can tell he’s genuinely struggling with what to say. It’s an odd place for us to be having such an intimate conversation, because many of the tables here in La Lanterna are occupied and a cheerful cacophony of crashing pots, raised voices and laughter is seeping out from the door leading into the kitchen. This feels like the kind of chat that we should be having in bed, perhaps in the dark, so we can hold each other and he can avoid having to look at me as he speaks. Pete’s having trouble doing the latter now, and as I watch him, he lifts his head and deliberately fixes his eyes on a shelf full of miniature bottles of limoncello that is fixed to the wall above us.

  ‘I haven’t talked about it before,’ he admits. ‘About her, I mean. My mates aren’t really the type for deep and meaningfuls, and my parents were just pissed off with me.’

  ‘Pissed off with you?’ Now I really am intrigued.

  He nods, finally glancing at me before looking quickly away again.

  ‘I was the one who ended it,’ he says. ‘I think my mum had high hopes for a wedding, and she hasn’t forgiven me yet.’

  ‘Does she know about me?’ I say, my voice small. I strongly suspect that I know the answer already, so it doesn’t come as a surprise when he shakes his head.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Please don’t read anything into it,’ he implores, fixing me with a big-eyed stare as I gulp down some of the wine. ‘It’s not because I don’t care about you – I do. It’s just that I don’t want the hassle and all the questions.’

  This must be why he hasn’t properly introduced me to his friends, either – because I’m still his dirty little secret. The practical side of my brain is busy pointing out the reasonable facts: that Pete was with his ex for a long time, and that of course those close to him would need a period of adjustment following their break-up. My irrational side, however – which has always been the more dominant of the two – is jumping up and down, waving a red flag and screaming at the top of its much louder voice that I’ve been seeing Pete for months now, so why is he still being so secretive? It also unhelpfully reminds me that there is a lot I don’t know about the situation – not to mention who the hell Pete’s been ignoring calls from. Is mysterious Manny the ex-girlfriend who can’t get over him? Was that her in the photos I found?

  ‘I’m not reading anything into it,’ I say at last, the tremble in my voice making the lie sound far less convincing than I would like. ‘I just wish you’d told me all this stuff sooner.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ he replies, sounding weary. ‘But I am sorry for bringing up the whole subject of my ex. I don’t know why I did. It was stupid.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ I touch his hand. ‘I want you to feel like you can talk about it if you need to.’

  He considers this, his features set.

  ‘I don’t think I need to talk about it,’ he sighs, sounding far less convincing than I suspect he would have liked. ‘I just want to draw a line under it all, to be honest.’

  There’s a hint of something in his tone that sounds to me like regret, as if the situation is not how he would have chosen it to be. But then he did say that he was the one to end things, so perhaps his ex-girlfriend reacted in a bad way. Maybe the whole thing is too traumatic to dredge up?

  ‘So, you don’t speak to her still, then?’ I ask at last, feeling my heart begin to race with anxiety.

  He glances up in surprise. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘You don’t have to pretend for my sake,’ I add, being careful to keep my delivery light. If he thinks I’m not fussed either way, then he’s more likely to be honest.

  ‘I’m not pretending,’ he assures me, sliding both his hands across the red tablecloth and picking up my wrists. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t think I’ll ever see or speak to her again.’

  I give him a look that I hope conveys sympathy at the same time as mild discombobulation, and lean back in my creaky wooden chair.

  ‘Let’s talk about it later, all right?’ I suggest gently, and am immediately rewarded with a huge smile of relief.

  ‘Thank you,’ he mutters. ‘You know, things were never easy with her like they are with you – it’s part of the reason I think we work so well together.’

  It’s ridiculous how happy that comment just made me feel.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. I felt like she … Well, she didn’t ever like to be wrong – not about anything. She didn’t have any give, while you’re just so … Kind, I guess. Kind and reasonable.’

  ‘Comes with the territory when you’re a nurse,’ I reply, embarrassed to be praised so highly.

  ‘I don’t think it’s your job that makes you the way you are,’ he says, his head cocked to one side and his gaze direct. ‘I think you’re just made that way.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re pretty damn perfect,’ I murmur.

  Pete screws up his face in disbelief. ‘Hardly!’

  ‘Well, perfect for me, then,’ I say, quickly adopting a jokey tone. ‘You’re the lime in my gin and tonic; the Iron Throne to my Cersei Lannister.’

  ‘Who?’ he asks, looking confused, and I remember then that he’s only seen a few episodes of Game of Thrones.

  ‘Just perfect,’ I reply. ‘That’s all you need to worry about.’

  ‘I think we should drink to that,’ he declares, raising his half-empty glass. ‘To having found each other.’

  I smile as I lift my own glass to meet his.

  ‘To us.’

  As if by magic, the food arrives as soon as we’ve toasted, and Pete tucks into his pasta with gusto. To be fair to him, the taglione does look and smell incredible, and my taste buds throb with envy as my nose picks up scents of fresh chilli, tarragon and warm shrimp. The tricolore salad is a worthy runner-up, however, and I almost weep with happiness when I discover that the hollowed-out tomato that I assumed was a fancy garnish has, in fact, been stuffed with a fresh basil pesto. When I d
ip my knife in and spread it over the creamy slabs of mozzarella, I swear I hear a fanfare start to play in the depths of my stomach.

  We barely talk to one other as we eat, which isn’t like us, but in a way, I’m grateful. The methodical action of cutting up food, chewing it, then swallowing is giving me time to digest what I’ve just heard. I find that I can forgive Pete for not telling his mum about me yet, but I can’t quite move past the holes he left in the story about him and his ex. I want to know why he ended things, and when it was. And, most importantly of all, I want to know whether he still has any lingering feelings for her. If he has, then I’m honestly not sure how I’ll react.

  21

  Taggie

  Marco finally heads off to his meeting when I’ve rounded up the group ready for lunch, but not before lifting an unashamedly ecstatic Elsie into his arms and gallantly carrying her back over the crumbling steps. I follow closely with the two naughtiest and muddiest dogs, while shy, red-faced Tim gingerly clutches a docile Bruno.

  ‘Must you go?’ implores Gladys, wrapping her fingers around Marco’s arm and beaming up at him.

  He smiles at her. ‘I must.’

  ‘Agatha, tell him he simply must stay,’ she instructs, her voice all shrill and babyish.

  ‘You’ll see him again on the boat back to Como,’ I tell her, before directing my attention towards Marco. ‘Won’t she?’

  He nods.

  ‘There’s only one boat back at this time of year,’ I explain, not just to Gladys but to everyone assembled around me. ‘If you miss it, you end up stranded.’

  From the look on Gladys’s face as she gazes after a departing Marco, she would quite happily volunteer herself to be stranded in Bellagio for the night, so long as he was trapped here with her. I bet Gladys was one of the popular girls at school, who always had to have a boyfriend – or at the very least a stonking great crush on someone completely unattainable. I had friends like that, and they used to frustrate me so much. I never saw the appeal in mooching around after boys, playing kiss chase or writing love notes in class. The lads I knew growing up were simply my mates, who I rode my bike with or played tag, the very same boys who later became my drinking buddies, or my mosh-pit wingmen at local gigs. It was a long time before my hormones finally caught up with me and made me see any of them differently, and even then, I was extremely picky. I’ve never indulged in a one-night stand, can count the number of flings I’ve had on my thumbs, and even a random snog with a stranger is an extremely rare occurrence. It’s not because I’m frigid or boring, it’s just because I don’t fancy that many guys. When I do meet someone that turns my head, I tend to keep hold of them. Well, I do until they decide that they don’t want me any more.

  We’ve all been walking as I’ve been thinking, and I feel a wave of gratitude towards Elsie for assuming the role of group leader. I can see her at the head of the pack now, the three chihuahuas trotting along beside her and her multi-coloured woolly hat at a jaunty angle atop her soft white curls. The sun has risen as far as it’s going to, and the surrounding landscape is dappled with soft amber light. We’re following the lake back round towards the main harbour, and cypress trees stand tall and proud on the other side of a high, cream-stone wall, which is separating the road from the undergrowth beyond.

  Every now and then, the warm façade of a villa will emerge from between the thick foliage, their outside walls painted red, yellow or blue. Many of the wooden shutters here in Bellagio are painted bottle-green, and as I stare up at them I’m reminded of Marco’s eyes. He has such strange colouring for a native Italian, because even though he has the dark hair and that self-assured swagger, his eyes aren’t the brown that I’m accustomed to seeing over here.

  ‘Miss Torres?’

  I swing around to find Tim a few feet behind me, his arms crossed against the biting cold and his face aflame.

  ‘Hello, Tim,’ I say, happy of the distraction. ‘What can I help you with?’

  He stares at me with big eyes.

  ‘Is your mum OK?’ I ask, looking around until I locate Sue ahead of us.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, jogging slightly to keep up with my fast pace. I’m often told that I cover a lot of ground quickly for such a small person, which of course just encourages me to walk all the faster.

  ‘Has that man gone?’ he asks then, flushing almost purple.

  He can only mean Marco.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply cautiously, wondering where this could be going. I’ve always been aware that flirting is not my forte, but I’m practically gold-medal level compared to poor Tim. That is, if flirting is what he’s attempting to do now.

  ‘Is he your boyfriend?’

  I stop walking, and he comes to a clumsy halt next to me.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ I ask, folding my own arms and pulling what I hope is a kind expression. I have no intention of anything romantic happening with Tim, but I must be careful not to be rude. My mouth has got me into trouble so many times.

  ‘I thought we could … Maybe have a …’

  He hesitates as I shake my head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. ‘But I’m not allowed to go on dates with hotel guests – it’s against the rules.’

  ‘Oh.’ Tim looks sadder than a week-old teabag.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say again, silently thanking Sal and his strictness for giving me the perfect excuse to turn Tim down. He might not be my type – and far too young – but I can tell that he’s a sweet guy. It’s nice to be reminded that there are still some out there. And I admire him, in a way, for having the balls to make such an obvious approach. I’m not sure I’d ever do it.

  Rather than allow the awkward silence to drag on, I start telling Tim more about Bellagio, and why so many people are enchanted by it. He’s a sculptor by trade, he tells me, and only really came along so his mum wouldn’t have to travel here alone, but even he has found himself inspired by the sheer breadth of the landscape here. Talking about Como is one of my favourite pastimes, and I’m nattering away to Tim so happily that the trudge back into town seems to speed by.

  I suggested the famous La Lanterna as a lunch venue earlier, but Elsie disagreed, pointing out quite rightly that it would most likely be busy. I rather like the cosy, hectic restaurant, with its cluttered shelves of limoncello and its bright red tablecloths, but I’m happy to go along with what Elsie decides. She is the Bellagio local, after all.

  Our route to her chosen venue takes us right back through the main road of the town, and when we pass La Lanterna, I peer through the steamy windows and see that it is, indeed, packed. My wily friend was right – we would never have got a table for all of us in there.

  ‘Just up here,’ calls Elsie, her voice slightly breathless from tackling the steep hill. I do worry about her navigating these twisty cobbled passageways, but trying to stop her leaving the house would be as impossible as fitting a horseshoe inside a matchbox – it’s not even worth trying. She would argue that all her walking with Gino, Nico and Bruno keeps her fit, but I think she’s driven outside more by the social aspect than a desire to be healthy. Elsie knows everyone in Bellagio, and her daily walk around the area means that she collects enough gossip to keep her occupied all evening. I know this, because she’ll often impart the lot of it to me during our frequent phone calls. I always make a point of ringing Elsie if I can’t make it up here. She would say it’s because I like checking up on her, but in truth I love hearing all the news – it makes me feel as if I belong here. I talk to Elsie now more than I do with my own parents, and I do feel slightly guilty about that. I hope they understand that I’m simply trying to put myself back together. They know too much about what happened in the spring, back in London – I could see it in their eyes before I left and I can hear it in their voices when I speak to them now – and it makes the weight of what I’m feeling even harder to bear. My poor dad has been left with the job of untangling the ties of my former life, while my mum took the brunt of my inconsolable misery, as it was for
a time. Coming here was as much about giving the two of them a break as it was about me escaping – it’s not their job to look after me.

  We’ve finally arrived at our destination, and the group file ravenously under the green and white striped awning and through the glass door of La Grotta, which is tucked away from the rest of the shops and cafés in a small courtyard. I suspect Elsie must have made a call at some stage of the morning, because a large table has already been laid out for us all, and three waiters hurry forwards to take people’s coats as soon as we’re over the threshold.

  ‘Elsie!’ cries a small man with a shiny round face and an even rounder belly, bustling across the room like an excited chicken.

  ‘Ciao, ciao,’ he says, kissing each of her cheeks and then stepping across to greet me in the same manner. The two of them must be close, because the next second they’re chatting away in a rush of Italian far too fast and fluent for me to understand. I hear the word ‘Taggie’ come from Elsie, and the short man gazes at me in delight.

  ‘I hear so much about you,’ he exclaims, transferring his attention from Elsie to me. ‘Elsie talk about you ever since you were a little girl.’

  Wow, so these two really do know each other well.

  ‘Salve, signore. It’s very nice to meet you,’ I say, charmed by his enthusiasm.

  Elsie explains that his name is Giorgio, and that he inherited La Grotto from his father, whose papa before him had opened the place. Elsie had been great friends with Giorgio senior, but the older man had sadly passed away last winter.

  ‘My father,’ Giorgio says emotionally, unabashed tears glistening in his eyes. ‘He was a great man.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I tell him, and he nods in silence, grasping Elsie’s proffered hand as tightly as if it were a life raft.

  ‘Poor, sweet Giorgio,’ Elsie whispers, as we take our seats. ‘His father was devastated that he never married. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his son was gay.’

  ‘Does he …?’ I ask, and she smiles conspiratorially.