The Place We Met Page 18

  ‘It was Marco.’

  That stops her prattling in its tracks. For a moment she says nothing, just stares, then all her questions come out in a whoosh.

  ‘Why did Marco hit you? Did he try it on and you rebuffed him? Did he go to punch a rival suitor and get you instead? Wow, I didn’t think he was the violent type. And what was he doing in Bellagio anyway? Did he follow you? Oh my God – he’s a stalker, isn’t he?’

  ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa!’ I silence her with an upward palm. ‘It was none of the above. I bent over at the wrong moment, that’s all. He was standing next to me and reached for something. It was a total accident.’

  Shelley sniggers. ‘Sorry, it’s not funny, but poor Marco.’

  ‘Poor Marco?’ I repeat.

  ‘Yes!’ She’s still laughing. ‘He’s mad about you, and now he’s gone and done this. You’ve cursed his lothario charms.’

  There is only one man I would curse if I had the choice, but I don’t say as much to Shelley. I’m very relieved that she’s not asking more questions. The two of us have become close these past few months, but I haven’t even mentioned Pete to her, let alone what sent me running out to Como. She seems to think all that happened to upset me yesterday was that I got hit in the face – and that is more than fine with me.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ she asks next.

  ‘It’s bearable,’ I say. ‘But I don’t feel much like taking a tour out today. Do you think Sal will let me off this once?’

  She frowns. ‘Have you even met Sal?’

  ‘Good point.’

  I reach around her for my hairband, which I tossed on to the bedside table last night, and start pulling my unruly locks up into a large bun. Perhaps if I get up, have a shower, and force myself to do normal things and revert to the classic Torres way of bottling everything up, then I’ll feel better. But I don’t hold out much hope.

  ‘I know!’ announces Shelley, making me pause mid-bun wrap. ‘I can take the group to Cernobbio for you today.’

  ‘I don’t know if—’ I begin, but she cuts across me.

  ‘I’d like to. I never get out in the daytime, and I know Cernobbio really well.’

  ‘Do you?’ I’m not entirely convinced.

  ‘Yeah.’ She waves a hand around. ‘There’s that hidden garden with the sculptures, the map house, Como Burger …’

  ‘Como Burger isn’t a famous landmark,’ I remind her.

  She widens her eyes in mock horror. ‘Well, it should be. Have you even eaten there?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I admit.

  ‘Well, there you go. Trust me – the group and I will have a whale of a time. There’s just one catch.’

  Dread bubbles in my belly. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You’ll have to run the bar for the day.’

  The pub I worked in at university was rather unimaginatively named the Red Lion. It had a sticky, threadbare carpet, an ancient dart board and a pool table in the back that wobbled whenever you leant over it to take a shot. Our wine list consisted of one red and two whites, and most of the punters I served were hardened ale drinkers.

  The bar at the Casa Alta Hotel is a little different.

  I waved Shelley and the group off an hour ago, and was touched by the fact that they all seemed sad to have lost me for the day. Gladys, especially, had plenty of questions as to why I was playing barmaid instead of going with them, but Shelley helpfully drew her away with the promise of lunch at Como Burger. I don’t know how much they all saw yesterday, or if they heard Pete yell at me. I’m hoping the boat’s engine was loud enough to drown him out, but Gladys’s expression this morning seemed to hint otherwise. Still, there’s nothing I can do about what happened. I’m just focusing on trying to get through this weird day in one piece.

  I had planned to get more preparations underway for my New Year’s Eve extravaganza, now that Sal has agreed to cough up the cash for my chosen DJ, but Shelley has also left me a to-do list, and I kicked off by restocking all the fridges and deep-cleaning the glass washer. There aren’t many guests around, so I’ve pretty much been left to my own devices. Sal, to his credit, took one look at my injured face and agreed with Shelley that I should stay put. He’s gone out for the day, too, so as well as manning the bar, I also need to listen out in case the phone rings in his office.

  It doesn’t seem to matter how many glasses I polish, all I can think about is the look on Pete’s face yesterday as I launched myself at him. I’m still too shaken to know if what I’m feeling is regret or a low, trembling anger. Perhaps it’s a bit of both. I’m embarrassed that Marco saw me in such a state, but I don’t blame myself for that. I blame Pete. Not for the first time in my life, I wish that I wasn’t an only child. I wish I had a sister I could call. Of course, I do have my parents, but telling them would only make them worry even more than I know they do already. My mum would probably get on the next plane over just to put Pete in his place, and I don’t want that to happen.

  The knowledge that he’s here, in Como, walking the same streets as I am and breathing the same cold air, is making me feel nauseous. This is my place, my safe haven – how dare he come and pollute it with his new relationship?

  As I work through Shelley’s list, I find myself thinking about Lucy, my replacement. I can see why Pete likes her – she couldn’t be more different to me. She’s got the gorgeous womanly shape I’ve never had, the perfect English rose complexion and that long, blonde hair. And she’s tall, too – she looks right next to him, whereas he and I were always stared at by passers-by. The hulking great rugby lad and his tiny girlfriend. Why did I ever think it would last?

  Because you loved him, whispers a small voice in my head.

  Yes, because I loved him.

  I don’t want to think about the day we broke up, but I can’t help it. The memory of it is wrapped so tightly around my heart that it feels like barbed wire, and any attempt to dislodge it could be fatal. It still hurts all the time – especially today.

  Pete waited until after we’d eaten dinner and were sitting side by side on the sofa. Our sofa. The one we’d picked out together when we first bought the flat. How excited we’d been then, how we’d laughed as we bounced on endless cushions to test their springiness.

  ‘Tags,’ he’d said. ‘We need to talk.’

  The four words that no human ever wants to hear from the person they love.

  ‘What’s up?’

  I had remained upbeat at that stage, my voice high and uncharacteristically shrill.

  He’d taken a deep breath, and that was when I noticed the tears in his eyes.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘Well then, what?’

  I hadn’t meant to sound so impatient, but his odd manner was freaking me out.

  ‘I’m scared,’ he admitted then, refusing to meet my eyes.

  I picked up the TV remote and muted Come Dine with Me.

  ‘Scared?’ I repeated. ‘Scared of what?’

  He sighed then, and I could tell how much he was struggling.

  ‘Scared of what I’m about to say.’

  For a brief, absurd moment, I thought that maybe he was about to propose. We’d joked about getting married before, but only when we were out drinking. I didn’t think it was high up on our list of priorities.

  ‘Pete,’ I said, reaching for his hand. It felt limp and heavy. ‘You’re scaring me.’

  And then it happened. He opened his mouth, the same mouth that I’d kissed so many times, that I’d seen spread into a happy grin as soon as he saw me, and told me that he didn’t love me any more, that he didn’t see a future for the two of us. That he thought we should break up.

  I wanted to know why, of course. I ranted and shouted and yelled that what he was telling me wasn’t fair. Had he even tried to fix things? Why didn’t he talk to me before it got to this point? Why couldn’t we work on it? How could he just throw away five years? How
could he throw me away? Us away?

  He had listened to all of it, but his mind was made up. He didn’t love me, and that was the bottom line. No amount of raging or begging would change that, and once I’d run out of words I simply curled up into a ball and sobbed. He hadn’t even attempted to comfort me.

  I’m startled out of my miserable trance by the sound of the phone ringing in the office, and in my hurry to reach it, I accidentally drop the champagne flute I was polishing on to the wooden floor, where it smashes into pieces.

  ‘Shit!’ I mutter, stuffing the cloth inside the front pocket of my apron and walking quickly across the hallway.

  ‘Pronto, l’hotel Casa Alta.’

  ‘Buongiorno, posso parlare con Taggie?’

  My stomach plummets to the floor.

  ‘Hello. Who is it?’

  ‘It is me,’ comes the reply, and I swear I can hear his smile.

  ‘It is Marco.’

  28

  Lucy

  I feel as if I’m living in the middle of a nightmare.

  Everything that I thought was true is now false; nothing is making any sense. It’s as if someone burrowed their way deep into my mind until they discovered my absolute worst-case scenario, and then spun it into reality. I could have chosen anywhere in the world for Pete and me to spend our first holiday together, but I chose here – the exact same place that his ex-girlfriend did.

  Taggie might be the one who was punched, but I feel as if I’ve been gored by a charging bull.

  Pete was silent during the walk from the boat back to the apartment last night, and shut himself in the bathroom as soon as we got there. Moments later, I heard the shower begin to run and, unsure of what to do next, I simply sat on the edge of the bed and waited for him to re-emerge. When he did, his eyes looked red.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked. He had yet to extend the same courtesy to me.

  ‘Not really.’

  He looked so forlorn standing there, the water from the shower dripping off his chest, his wet hair plastered across his forehead.

  ‘About Taggie—’ I began, but he silenced me with a look.

  ‘I can’t, Lulu. Not now. Please understand.’

  He crossed the room and rifled through his case, extracting clean underwear and a T-shirt, then headed back into the bathroom and shut the door.

  I wanted to run after him and bang on the wood with both fists, but of course I didn’t. Lucy Dunmore isn’t that girl. She’s the meek one in the corner not making a fuss. The supportive one, the kind one, the one getting walked all over as readily as if she was the living room rug. In that moment, I envied Taggie and her fiery temper. The way she had hit Pete on the boat may have looked crazy, but at least she had done something. I hadn’t done a thing save for stand there and stare.

  ‘You hungry?’

  Pete had come out of the bathroom fully dressed and was doing a very good impression of a man who hasn’t just run into his ex-girlfriend in the middle of Italy and had a horrible confrontation with her on a boat.

  I gawped at him, aghast.

  ‘No, not really. Are you?’

  ‘I could eat,’ he said, looking apologetic. His enormous appetite is something I have always found lovable about him, but not now. Not after everything that has gone on.

  ‘We should talk about what happened,’ I said in reply, but he shook his head.

  ‘Tomorrow. I promise tomorrow.’

  My deep sigh told him all he needed to know, but instead of elaborating on why he required an entire twelve hours to get his thoughts in order, he merely reached for his coat and started pulling it on.

  ‘Pete—’

  ‘Just leave it alone, Lulu, I’m begging you.’

  I couldn’t believe he was being like this, so cold and so stubborn. It was only a few hours ago that he’d been telling me how much I meant to him, and now he had completely shut me out. It wasn’t fair, and the injustice I was feeling made me cross my arms and glare at him as he sat down to tie his laces.

  ‘Are you coming with me or not?’ he asked, so briskly that tears welled up in my eyes. I wished I had the strength to tell him where to go, but silly little Lucy has never been strong. It’s why things like this always happen to me.

  ‘Tomorrow morning then,’ I told him, standing up. ‘That’s when we’ll talk about it.’

  Dinner was awful. I pushed a salad around my plate in a circle, while Pete steadily drank his way through five bottles of Peroni and several straight whiskies, sticking strictly to the subject of work, and refusing to meet my eyes as he explained at great length how a radio broadcast mixer works. He was drunk enough to be wobbly on his trainers as we stumbled back through the streets, and passed out on the bed fully clothed shortly afterwards, so that’s exactly where I’ve left him this morning.

  It takes Julia a while to answer, which isn’t surprising really, given that we’re an hour ahead here, and the sun has only just come up.

  ‘Hello.’ Her voice is suffocated by sleep.

  ‘Ju, it’s me.’

  That’s all it takes to start the tears – hearing my sister’s voice and knowing that I can talk to her.

  I hear her cough, then the sound of what I assume is the duvet being lifted out of the way.

  ‘Hang on a sec,’ she whispers.

  I’ve wandered down to the shore and turned left, following the pathway as it leaves the roadside and cuts through a small park. There’s a deserted play area for kids and the kiosk where you buy boat tickets has its shutters down. Save for a few locals walking their dogs and some young men heaving nets into a fishing boat, there isn’t a soul around. It’s going to be another beautiful day, with a proud sun and a solid blue sky, but the colours may as well be shades of grey as far as I am concerned. This place is sullied now.

  ‘Sorry,’ Julia says, her voice now at its usual volume. ‘I didn’t want to wake Abby.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I sniff, coming to a stop by a wooden bench and sitting down. I wish I’d thought to pick up a hot drink on my way through the town. It’s not going to take long for the late December chill to work its way right into my bones.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asks. ‘Why are you crying?’

  Two ducks are waddling over from the edge of the lake, their beady eyes shining in the pale morning light and their feathers slick with moisture. I try to focus on them, but everything is sliding into a blur as the tears continue to fall. Julia is doing her best to soothe me, but I can’t seem to get my sobbing under control. It all feels as if it’s slipping away from me – Pete, our relationship, the future I had let myself daydream about.

  ‘Lucy, listen to me,’ Julia instructs. ‘Take a deep breath.’

  I do as she says.

  ‘Right. Now take another. Right down into the bottom of your lungs.’

  I continue breathing deeply until I’ve stopped crying, and wipe my face angrily with the sleeve of my coat. Julia lets me recover before asking any more questions, instead filling the silence by telling me about her and Abby’s plans for New Year. I envy the two of them and their uncomplicated relationship. Does their both being women make it easier? Or is it simply because they are both so honest with each other? Whatever it is, it works. They trust one another and confide in one another, and the result is a loving and stable union – the like of which I have never managed to find.

  ‘So,’ she says at last, and I swallow another lump. ‘What has that idiot Pete done now?’

  And so, I tell her. Julia says nothing at first, save for a few intakes of breath, but when I get to the part where Pete tried to lie about how long we’d been together, she splutters indignantly.

  ‘The bastard!’

  I love my big sister.

  ‘What was his excuse for lying?’ she demands.

  ‘Well, that’s just it – he won’t talk about it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, he’s so far refused to answer any of my questions. He’s promised me that we’ll talk t
his morning, but I don’t even know where to start, Ju.’

  ‘You can start by telling him he’s a stupid prick,’ she rages.

  I grimace into the phone.

  ‘Don’t pull that face,’ Julia says, spookily accurate with her knowledge of my reactions as usual. My poor sister – this isn’t the first time she’s had to help me pick up the pieces because of a man.

  ‘You should have seen her, Ju – his ex. She was so angry with him.’

  ‘She’s not the only one.’

  ‘No, but I mean really angry. She looked as if she wanted to kill him.’

  Julia pauses as she mulls this over.

  ‘Do you know why they broke up?’

  I think back to the conversation Pete and I had at Bellagio yesterday, when he confessed that he was the one to call time on his last relationship.

  ‘No … But he told me it was him who ended it.’

  ‘That would explain why she was angry,’ Julia surmises, but she didn’t see what I saw. The look on Taggie’s face as she laid into Pete. It wasn’t just anger, it was pain. And something else, too, something that’s been haunting me ever since: fear. What could Pete have done to make his ex-girlfriend fearful of him?

  ‘I knew he was a cagey bastard,’ Julia is chuntering now. ‘There’s always been something not quite right about him.’

  ‘You’ve met him twice,’ I point out gently, but once my sister is on the warpath, she’s not one to be easily deterred.

  ‘Twice is more than enough,’ she argues. ‘And just you wait till the third time, if there is one – I’ll be giving him a piece of my mind, that’s for sure.’

  Sometimes my sister can take her loyalty a step too far.

  ‘I don’t think that would help,’ I groan. ‘I just need to know how to handle him today. What shall I say?’

  I can hear a kettle boiling now, and the clatter of a spoon against the side of a mug. Julia must be making her morning coffee. She has it black with three sugars. Three!

  ‘There isn’t much you can say,’ she advises, her tone now more conciliatory. ‘He’s the one who needs to start talking.’

  She’s right, I know she’s right.