The Place We Met Page 19

  ‘I’m scared this is it, Ju,’ I say then, and immediately start crying again. ‘I’m scared he’ll finish with me.’

  ‘Oh, Lucy.’ Julia sighs with dismay. ‘Don’t you see? It’s not you who should be scared, it’s him. You shouldn’t be worrying about him dumping you. What you should be doing is thinking about whether you still want to be with him.’

  Another long intake of breath follows.

  ‘Promise me you will think about it. I don’t like that he’s made you this upset. And it’s only been a few months, for heaven’s sake. What other secrets is he hiding?’

  ‘I promise I will,’ I assure her, but I know breaking up with Pete is not an option. Despite everything that happened, I still care about him. Yesterday I was getting ready to tell him I was in love with him. What kind of person would I be if I just turned my back on him as soon as something like this happened? Doesn’t he deserve the chance to explain? If it was the other way around, I would want him to listen to me.

  ‘I should go,’ I tell Julia. ‘I don’t want him to wake up and find me gone.’

  I stand up from the bench and begin walking back the way I came, scattering a flock of hopeful seagulls as I go. Julia only hangs up when she’s reiterated her point about being careful and thinking about what I want, and finishes by telling me to call her later with an update.

  ‘And if you want me to fly over there and break his bloody nose for him, I will.’

  I don’t doubt her for a second.

  29

  Taggie

  ‘Hi …’

  I stop, unsure of what to say next. Marco is silent on the other end of the line, no doubt picturing the shaking, emotional mess that he helped into a taxi the previous evening.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he says at last.

  ‘Yes. Well, no. My face is OK, if that’s what you mean.’

  He sniffs. ‘I meant that, and …’

  He pauses. Perhaps there isn’t an Italian word for ‘crazy mental breakdown’, or maybe he’s just avoiding using it.

  ‘Thank you for helping me,’ I say quietly, pushing aside a stapler and sitting down on the edge of Sal’s desk. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that – see me like that.’

  ‘There is nothing to say sorry for,’ he replies, and I make a small muttering sound.

  ‘What are you doing tonight?’ he asks then, and I frown in confusion at the abrupt change of subject.

  ‘Um, nothing,’ I admit, immediately cursing myself. This is what happens when people catch you unawares – you can’t help but land yourself in it by being honest.

  ‘Will you come to meet me?’

  Can he seriously be talking about a date? Today? After what he witnessed on the boat?

  ‘Where?’ I ask warily. There is no way I’m venturing into town, not now I know that Pete and Lucy are in situ.

  ‘The lake,’ he replies. ‘The west shore, by the big wheel.’

  I know where he means – it’s not quite in the town, but about halfway between there and here. The Ferris wheel has been erected as part of the area’s festive celebrations, and I can see its multi-coloured lights from my bedroom window at night.

  What I really want to do this evening is climb under my duvet in my big bed upstairs and hide, but I owe Marco this much. He may have done his best to break my nose, but he also defended me and had my back against Pete with no questions asked.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘But it’s not a date.’

  He laughs at that, and I find myself smiling despite my sour mood.

  ‘Not a date,’ he agrees, before adding, ‘I will be there at eight o’clock.’

  ‘Eight-thirty,’ I reply, for no other reason than because I don’t like being told what to do.

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Ciao, Taggie.’ And then he’s gone.

  The rest of the day passes without incident, with both the bar and the hotel phone remaining blissfully quiet, and I take advantage of the time to try and get ahead with my party plans. I order in enough fairy lights to put even the snazziest Santa grotto to shame, triple the standard Prosecco haul and sweet-talk one of the sous chefs into making a batch of canapés so I can test them in advance. Unfortunately, despite all the distractions, being alone most of the day does mean that I have far too much time to think – and there’s only one subject on my mind.

  The more I try to make sense of the way I reacted yesterday, the worse I feel. I’ve never been demonstrably emotional, and I’ve always managed to maintain self-control, but when I saw Pete standing there in front of me, I lost it. I know I did, and the ferocity of that rage scared me. What does it mean when you can’t even trust yourself? In those few moments on the boat, where I hurled myself at Pete and screamed at him to leave me alone, I genuinely lost myself. That screeching, flailing girl was not me; she was a banshee.

  In the days after Pete dumped me, I was muted with shock and resentment. We lived together, so we still had to come home from work every evening and face one another. He kept trying to begin a conversation about when he should move out, but I shut him down every time. I wasn’t ready to accept what was happening, and I didn’t know what to do. That was how we were for two whole weeks, and then everything changed.

  I think I could have forgiven Pete for falling out of love with me, but I can’t forgive what he did next.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he’d shouted at me on that boat. But it was. It was his fault.

  I pass the hours cleaning everything I can lay my hands on in the bar, starting with the glasses, then all the bottles. By the time Shelley and the group arrive back, not long after six, I’m halfway through polishing all the small round tables.

  ‘You know we have a cleaner for that?’ is her first comment, as she dumps her bag on the bar top with an exclamation of relief.

  I pause mid-scrub.

  ‘I like doing it.’

  ‘If you say so. How’s the lip?’

  ‘It’s fine, thanks. How was your day?’

  Shelley glances over her shoulder to make sure there’s nobody else within earshot, then she stage-whispers, ‘Gladys and Bill.’

  I pull a face and stage-whisper back, ‘I know!’

  Shelley laughs and makes her way behind the bar, reaching for a glass and filling it with water from the tap. I still can’t drink the non-bottled stuff without getting stomach ache, but she’s got used to it.

  ‘Honestly, I’ve never met anyone so blunt in my life,’ she continues between gulps. ‘And she wouldn’t stop going on about some bloke who had a row with his girlfriend on the boat yesterday.’

  ‘Oh?’ I enquire, my body tensing up.

  ‘Yeah, according to Gladys, this random guy apparently stormed off and his other half went after him, and then the whole group heard her yelling at him, and then him shouting right back.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Did you hear anything?’ she asks, mistaking my mortified silence for mere distraction. I’ve moved over to the window now, my eyes searching out the ripples on the dark surface of the lake. Of course they all heard me, but they wouldn’t have been able to see who it was.

  ‘No,’ I say, my voice tight. ‘I was sitting at the front with Marco, trying to stop my nose bleeding, and you know how loud the engine noise is on that boat.’

  ‘Marco is a very good distraction,’ she says then, sounding deliberately dreamy.

  I cough.

  ‘I know, I know – you don’t fancy him,’ Shelley says, and I turn from the window in time to see her rolling her eyes. ‘But even you can’t deny the fact he’s fit.’

  ‘How many tickets have we sold for the New Year’s Eve party again?’ I ask, firmly changing the subject even though I know more about the sales figures than anyone else does. Luckily, after the subject of Marco, the sacred guest list is Shelley’s favourite topic of conversation, and she’s soon telling me all about the hordes of people she accosted up in Cernobbio today, and how many of them seemed keen to book.

  ‘I think it’s going to be a
brilliant night,’ she enthuses. ‘Even if we do have to put up with Gladys and Bill.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I agree, but my delivery is half-hearted at best.

  ‘Cheer up,’ Shelley jokes. ‘This is your party, remember! Your big chance to prove to Sal just how amazing you are, so that he falls over himself to promote you.’

  I imagine Sal’s impressed face when he sees all the decorations I’ve ordered, the murmurs of delight when the carefully selected food appears on tables, and the expressions on the faces of the guests when the fireworks light up the dark sky, and I find my smile again.

  ‘You’re right,’ I tell her. ‘It’s going to be the best New Year that Lake Como has ever bloody seen – and the first of many parties that I’m trusted to throw in this hotel!’

  ‘That’s more like it!’ she declares, holding her hand out for the apron I’ve just taken off. ‘I would never have forgiven you if you’d bailed and left me to get pissed all by myself.’

  ‘Would I do such a thing?’ I tease. The truth is, what I’m feeling most is relieved that I had the idea for this party in the first place. Now I know for certain that Pete is here in the vicinity – and he’s bound to still be here for the New Year; it would be odd if the two of them left before – I’m keen to stay well away from the bars in town. The chances of their turning up here at the Casa Alta are minuscule, and that is a huge comfort.

  ‘You not staying for a drink?’ Shelley says, pouting at me as I reach the doorway.

  I need to wash off the smell of furniture polish and stale wine before I go down to the lake to meet Marco, but I’ll never hear the end of it if I confess as much to Shelley.

  ‘My face is really hurting again,’ I fib. ‘I might go and lie down for a bit.’

  She waves me off, telling me that she’ll see me after dinner, and I know I should put her straight. By the time she realises I’m not in the hotel, however, I will be long gone. As I take the stairs back up to my room, I’m aware of a feeling in the very depths of my belly. Is it nerves at the prospect of seeing Marco again, or excitement? Either way, it makes a pleasant change from the rumbling rage and fear I’ve had to endure all day. Perhaps it will do me good not to think about Pete for a few hours. I’m going to do my very best to try.

  30

  Lucy

  Pete is sitting waiting for me when I get back to the apartment, a cup of coffee sitting untouched on the table in front of him and a sheepish expression on his face.

  ‘Hi,’ I mumble.

  ‘Hi,’ he replies.

  I go to unwind my scarf, but Pete stands up.

  ‘Don’t. I’ve booked us a surprise.’

  I sigh. ‘Pete, we really need to—’

  ‘Talk. I know – and we will. But we need to go right now, or we’ll be late.’

  My resolve to be tough on him splinters like old driftwood.

  ‘Fine then, whatever you say.’

  We’re back outside on the street less than a few minutes later, and Pete reaches for my hand. He’s acting as if nothing has changed between us, as if I wasn’t there to witness his ex-girlfriend lay into him with her fists as she wept. This whole surprise thing has thrown me, but I suspect that’s Pete’s reason for arranging it.

  ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘We’ll get a taxi.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask, utterly mystified as he hurries me through the Piazza del Duomo and past the impressive façade of Como’s cathedral.

  ‘If I tell you, it will ruin the surprise,’ he replies.

  We pass a Christmas tree almost as tall as a house, its blue lights dim in the daylight. Small groups of people are starting to settle in for breakfast at the nearby cafés, and my stomach rumbles in envy as a waiter flounces out with a plate of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. It’s not like Pete to skip a meal, so I can only assume that whatever he has planned will include food. It occurs to me then that a lot of what we do as a couple revolves around food. Most of our dates are either meals out in restaurants or dinner cooked by me, and in the five months we’ve been together, we’ve only been to the cinema twice and a museum once. It makes more sense to me now, though. Now that I know he’s been keeping me a secret.

  It takes only a few more minutes to reach the taxi rank by the edge of the lake, and Pete is careful to whisper our destination into the ear of our driver, so as not to give it away. He seems excited by all this – buoyant, even, although he’s doing his best to disguise it – and I’m finding it hard to remain stoic. I don’t want him to think that he can sweep all this Taggie business under the carpet – I’m not going to let him off the hook that easily, even if the idea of arguing does make me want to weep. Feeling like the world’s most needy girlfriend, I sneak my hand across the back seat of the car and wrap my fingers around Pete’s, only for him to immediately return the pressure.

  ‘Here we are,’ he announces less than ten minutes later, and I look through the window and gasp. Looming above us, its huge blue-and-white corrugated front blocking out the sun, is the vast steel hangar comprising the Como Aero Club.

  I turn to Pete.

  ‘You didn’t?’

  He smiles sheepishly, and I can’t help but think how absurdly handsome he looks.

  ‘I did!’

  I looked into how much it would cost to go up in a seaplane when I first booked the trip over here, and decided that it was probably more important that Julia and my dad get a Christmas present.

  ‘Pete, this is too much,’ I protest, my resentment evaporating at speed as we clamber out on to the tarmac.

  ‘Please say you’ve never done it before,’ he says, rearranging his blue woolly hat.

  ‘I haven’t,’ I confirm. ‘But it’s so expensive – I can’t let you pay for this.’

  ‘Too late,’ he replies happily, and leads me over towards the glass reception booth. It soon transpires that Pete booked this treat weeks ago, not this morning as I perhaps rather unfairly suspected, and after a brief safety talk, we’re climbing into a seaplane after our grey-haired pilot. It’s snug inside, with room for two up front and two behind, and Pete and I buckle in as the propellers splutter into life.

  ‘I used to watch these planes as a child,’ I tell him, excitement making me giddy. ‘I never dreamed that I’d ever go up in one.’

  ‘Well, then,’ Pete says, his hand firmly clasping mine, ‘I’m very happy to be the one making your dreams come true.’

  He says it without a trace of irony, but I can’t quite find it in myself to be angry with him. Not here, not during such a special moment – I don’t want any more memories tarnished before they’ve even begun. And so I say nothing, instead fishing my phone out of my bag and getting the video function ready so I can record the take-off. Even if I wanted to talk to Pete about Taggie now, he wouldn’t be able to hear me over the sound of the seaplane’s engine, which is even louder than the one on the boat. I look down at the water as we begin to move, and my mouth opens with delight as the churning surface swells white and splashes up against the windows. Pete is doing the same, but on the opposite side of the plane, and I feel his fingers tighten their grip on my own.

  ‘Ready?’ the pilot asks, turning in his seat. He’s so tanned, he looks like he’s been painted with wood stain. Perks of being up above the clouds so often.

  ‘Ready!’ we chorus.

  I experience a thrill as the small aircraft throbs and lifts, its nose propeller a blur as we leave the lake behind and soar upwards into the clean, blue air. It takes us just minutes to reach our cruising altitude, and all the while the surrounding landscape is unfolding around us. From up here, the lake is a pale cashmere blue, and the mountainsides a rich basil green. The private villas that remain hidden behind high walls at ground level are laid out below for all to see, and my eyes widen as I take in the manicured gardens and covered swimming pools. There is so much colour to behold, and so much light – it’s simply impossible to feel anything but alive and enthralled by it all.

  Pete seems to be just
as enamoured as I am, and each time we turn to one another and our eyes meet, he beams at me. He did this all for me, a small voice whispers. Before I even knew that Taggie existed, he had booked and paid for this surprise, and pictured how happy I would be when I found out about it. I can’t take away this fact, and I’m glad. I don’t want Pete to be that person I saw on the boat last night, the man I couldn’t help but see through Taggie’s eyes – I want him to be my Pete, the man I’m in love with.

  We’re further along the lake now, not far from Varenna, and I gaze down at the papaya-coloured buildings hugging the length of the shore. The sheer scale of the mountains is enough to hush me, the purr of the engine a steady vibration in my limbs, and as we round a corner and see a tiny white church come into view, I find myself swallowing down a gulp of emotion. How could I have thought that Lake Como was sullied by my parents and their silly disagreements? I’m ashamed that I ever questioned the power of its beauty, now that I can see it all so clearly. This was what I needed to remind myself of just how extraordinary this place is, and why I will always love it, no matter what happens to my heart while I’m here.

  It’s only when we’re coming back in to land, twenty minutes later, that the morning’s trepidation begins to resurface inside me.

  As surprises go, I don’t think I’ve ever had a better one, but while this flight was fun, romantic and unforgettable, it can’t make up for what’s happened, for the dishonesty and Pete’s reluctance to talk about things. When he was sitting across from me at dinner last night, barely speaking and hardly able to look me in the eye, it was as if the past few months had never happened – I had felt like I didn’t know him at all, and it scared me. No, this little adventure has been a good distraction, but it hasn’t fixed what was broken yesterday, and when I look at Pete, I see that he feels it, too.

  All I can do now is hope that he’s able to be honest with me. Anything less than that, and I don’t know what I will do.

  31

  Taggie