The Place We Met Page 21

  I smile to myself as I think this, knowing that Marco would almost certainly be very happy to be in a boat – even one rocked by scandal and full of emotional holes.

  Once I knew I had a good few hours to myself, I resisted the temptation to hide away in my bedroom, and instead hopped on the bus up to Bellagio. The chances of Pete being there again are slim to none, and I’m always looking for an excuse to spend time with Elsie and the boys.

  I can’t believe how incredible the weather has been this past week. The sun has shone every day, and there have been fewer clouds than you’d find puddles in the Sahara. I take the long route to Elsie’s cottage, stopping to smell the wild flowers growing in robust clumps atop the harbour walls, their bright yellow petals as vibrant as a firework against the unblemished backdrop of the lake. On the far shore, the mountains sit as they always do, rooted and unmoving, and the smudgy morning light makes them look as if they’ve been drawn with pastels. They’re not the dark brown you would expect, but a heady riot of blues, pinks and creams, and the white-tipped peaks glow like lamplight.

  I climb the cobbled hill, past La Lanterna, which is just opening its doors for the day, and carry on round until I reach the narrow pathway that will take me down to the shore. I can remember so clearly the first time I stumbled across it, and how excited I was to veer off the main road and into the unknown. Of course, now that I’m older and wiser I know I’m not the only one who knows about the hidden little beach at its end, but I still like to think of it as mine. I wonder if Marco feels the same way. After all, it is the place we met.

  I glance at the time. It’s close to ten a.m. Elsie is expecting me, but I can be half an hour late. The urge to venture down to the isolated stretch of shingle is a strong one, and I set off along the path before I can change my mind, following it first up, then across the ridge of the hill, and then back down again. When I get to the wooden gate and the sign fastened to the wall, telling me in strict Italian that I’m about to trespass on private property, I ignore it and clamber over, wobbling slightly as I scale the top bar. Being small may never have stopped me doing what I want, but occasionally it slows me down.

  I can see the water now, as calm as a bath at the base of the slope, and beyond it the outline of sailing boats, each one reflected in the surface of the lake below. A high wall stands guard on each side of the passageway opening, and I relish the feel of my boots sinking into the crunchy earth underfoot. It’s impossible to go right without walking straight into the lake, so I hop across to the narrow concrete walkway that follows the wall around to the left, and walk slowly up to the fateful corner. This time, I won’t be attempting to jump over to the dilapidated old rowing boat.

  Save for the faint sound of lapping water and the odd cry from a passing bird, it’s wonderfully quiet, and I lean against the sun-warmed stone and close my eyes. I spent so many hours here as a child, plotting my future, dipping my toes in the clear water and breaking up Elsie’s homemade breakfast loaves for the ducks. It was all so easy then, adulthood a tiny speck far away on the horizon, but being back here in the same spot now, with the landscape barely altered from how it was more than twenty years ago, I feel as if I’ve reached a crux. Now that everything I’d had mapped out has fallen to pieces, I need to decide where to live, what to do and even who I want to be.

  I love it here in Como, where the sun shines every day and the views in every direction are enough to make your heart sing, and it’s been so much fun spending more time with Elsie. But is working as a tour guide at the Casa Alta really what I want to do indefinitely? And even if I manage to pull off this party tomorrow night with aplomb and persuade Sal to promote me to the position of events manager, is that really going to be enough? A few days ago, I would have answered yes, but now I’m not so sure. Marco’s concept of turning a boat into a restaurant kept me awake last night in the best possible way. His passion for the project is wonderfully contagious, and the more I think about it, the more I realise that what I might want is something that I can call my own, too.

  In my darker moments, however, I feel torn by the prospect of plotting my own future. I’d been resigned to trundling along the path that I assumed fate had chosen for me, and now that I’ve been ripped off it and thrown back to a crossroads, I’m not sure I’m equipped to know which way to go.

  My phone beeps in my pocket, shattering the shifting silence with its ugly modern sound. I’m expecting it to be Elsie, so when I see Pete’s name, I almost drop the handset into the lake in alarm.

  I’m sorry I yelled at you, it reads. I hope you’re OK.

  No, I am very much not bloody well OK. I hate him even more now, for contacting me when I’m standing in my special place, trying my damn hardest not to think about him. It’s bad enough that he’s here at all, let alone sending me messages.

  I told you to leave me alone, I type furiously, pressing the send button as hard as you can on a touchscreen phone without causing it any damage.

  I wait for a full ten minutes, my heart racing and my fingers twitching with displeasure, but he doesn’t send another one.

  34

  Lucy

  I had thought I would dislike Taggie if I ever met her, and she is everything she seemed from Pete’s photographs – petite, beautiful, exotic – but all I really feel towards the poor thing now is pity. She looked so wretched on that boat, so broken down, and I wouldn’t wish that level of misery on anyone – not even the person I hold most responsible for damaging me beyond repair. Being a nurse has meant that I’ve had to develop a thick skin over the years, but I do still get shaken up by the sight of people in pain, and that was exactly the case with poor Taggie on the boat. I hope she has people around who will look after her.

  After our chat yesterday, Pete and I agreed to draw a line under everything that happened up in Bellagio. Julia will probably roll her eyes when I tell her that I forgave him for fibbing, but I do understand why his knee-jerk reaction was to lie to Taggie. He didn’t do it out of spite to me, but out of regard for her feelings, and both of us have agreed to tell each other nothing but the truth from this point forwards. It feels as if we’ve reconnected, but more than that – our relationship feels more serious, and more grown-up. I trust Pete not to withhold the truth from me any more, and I haven’t been able to say that about a man in a very long time.

  Today we’ve decided to head over to Cernobbio, which I’ve never been to before, but which the guidebook informs us is ‘charming and attractive’. TripAdvisor has also ardently recommended Ristorante Miralago as the ideal place to sample the catch of the day, and that detail was all it took to persuade me and Pete, who are both fish-mad, that the five-kilometre walk was worth the effort.

  We head along the western shore of the lake hand in hand, me admiring the reflection of the landscape on the surface of the water, and Pete pointing out the seaplanes that are busy flying low overhead. The frozen air is fresh and smells faintly of pine, and fallen leaves crunch beneath our feet as we reach the lakeside park and stroll past the Ferris wheel.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  Julia has been trying to reach me all morning. I sent her a message late last night after Pete had fallen asleep, telling her not to worry and that everything was OK, but she’s still demanding to speak to me. I know what she’ll say if I answer, though – she will tell me I’m being too soft on Pete, and that I need to punish him more for lying. That’s her, though – confrontational and begrudging – I’m far more like our dad, and will do anything to avoid being combative. While I understand Julia’s need to protect me, I just can’t face an ear-bashing. Not on such a beautiful morning.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Pete asks, after I’ve opened my bag and shoved my phone to the bottom.

  ‘Julia,’ I say. ‘I’ll call her back later.’

  I’m sure Pete will have guessed that I’ve reported back to my sister, but he wisely chooses not to pull at that particular thread. Instead, he changes the subject by asking me to tell him m
ore stories about some of the bizarre cases we’ve had at the hospital. Apparently, there’s nothing more hilarious than tales about unfortunate men that have got certain parts of their anatomy stuck in various household appliances, and Pete is soon bellowing with laughter loud enough to frighten the birds out of the surrounding trees.

  We take the route that leads us through the grounds of the palatial Villa Olmo, with its breath-taking views and manicured gardens that are so unlike the wild tangle that my dad long ago gave up on, and continue along the main road. There isn’t much traffic, save for the odd car and convoy of cyclists, and it’s nice to simply breathe in the alpine air and savour the warmth from the sun. It’s nice being with each other, too, now that all the drama is behind us. Pete is such easy company, and the more time I spend with him, the deeper my feelings go. When we reach a small roundabout, he points ahead of us, to where a large yellow villa is nestled on the upper slopes of a hill.

  ‘Look,’ he says. ‘That’s the Casa Alta Hotel.’

  I peer at the sign on the opposite side of the road, then up again at the impressive building.

  ‘Wowee,’ I remark. ‘It’s quite something, isn’t it?’

  ‘Are you still happy to see the New Year in there tomorrow?’ he checks. Since our talk, he’s started running everything past me, seeming more anxious to make sure I’m happy.

  ‘Of course!’ I beam at him. ‘I can’t wait.’

  What I don’t add is that it will be nice to spend the evening away from the centre of Como, where Taggie could so easily stumble across us. The chances of her choosing the exact same hotel as us to spend New Year are virtually zero. She’s far more likely to be out with her Italian friend, or back up in Bellagio. We’ll be safely out of the way at the Casa Alta.

  Cernobbio turns out to be every bit as charming and attractive as I’d hoped, with its higgledy-piggledy houses thrown against the slopes of Monte Bisbino and its quaint collection of shops, cafés, gelaterias and boutiques. Larger and livelier than Bellagio, but far less hectic than the neighbouring Como, Cernobbio offers a best-of-both experience to foreign visitors, and it isn’t long before I’ve begged Pete for his camera and am persuading him to pose beside twee fountains carved from stone, and elegantly festive shop window displays.

  ‘The Swiss border is on the summit of that mountain,’ I tell Pete, using my chin to indicate the vast, snow-topped peak in the middle distance. We’re sitting down on a bench beside the water, sipping takeaway cups of vin brulé to keep warm and watching a hopeful gang of pigeons strut around in an unwieldy circle by our feet.

  ‘That close?’ he exclaims. ‘That’s pretty crazy, isn’t it? You know so much about this place, Lu. You must have been studying the guidebook before we left.’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ I begin, then stop as we both look down at the sound of my phone vibrating in my bag yet again.

  ‘You should just answer it,’ he says. ‘Julia doesn’t strike me as the type to give up easily.’

  I laugh without humour. ‘You’re not wrong.’

  Leaning over to give him a quick kiss on the lips, I stand up and retrieve my phone, waiting until I’ve walked a few feet away before sliding my finger across the screen to answer.

  ‘Hello …’

  ‘At last!’ Julia is not amused. ‘I thought you’d thrown yourself in the lake.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ I correct mildly. ‘I texted you about two hours ago.’

  ‘I’ve had a fight with Abby,’ she says, her voice high.

  ‘Oh no,’ I cry, immediately full of concern. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You did.’

  I’ve walked all the way across to a cluster of bare lime trees now, and I lean against the crumbling trunk of one for support.

  ‘What do you me—’

  ‘I told her about you and Pete, and explained what happened, and she took his side. Can you believe it?’

  I can’t. Abby is warm and kind and supportive.

  ‘Why did she do that?’ I ask, feeling hurt. I knew I shouldn’t have answered the bloody phone.

  ‘She said …’ Julia pauses, presumably deciding whether to continue.

  ‘What?’ I persist. In the distance, I see Pete take out his own phone and stare at the screen.

  ‘She said you’d brought this on yourself.’

  For a moment, I can’t even speak. I feel like I’ve been winded.

  ‘Erm, ouch. How does she figure that?’

  Julia is in full rant mode now, angry with her girlfriend and desperate to unleash her fury.

  ‘Well, she knows about your little … problem. You know we tell each other everything. Anyway, she reckons that Pete wasn’t honest with you because he knew you’d react badly, and she basically accused you of being unstable, so I told her where to go.’

  ‘My little problem?’ I repeat.

  ‘Yeah, you know, the fact that you can be a bit paranoid. And jealous.’

  ‘I didn’t know we referred to it as “Lucy’s little problem”,’ I say acidly. ‘And I didn’t know you were psychoanalysing me with your bloody girlfriend!’

  ‘Oi!’ Julia is cross now. ‘Don’t start on me – I’ve been the one defending you for the past few hours.’

  What is it that people always say? That the truth hurts. They aren’t wrong.

  I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  I hear her sigh. ‘I don’t, either.’

  ‘I’m sorry you had an argument, and I’m sorry I was the reason.’

  ‘You always do that,’ Julia groans, clearly exasperated.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Apologise for things that you shouldn’t. It’s not your fault that a vile toad of an ex-boyfriend treated you like rubbish all those years ago – it’s his. And it’s not your fault that Abby can be an argumentative cow sometimes – it’s hers.’

  ‘I’m sorry for being the way I am,’ I say, stupid tears welling. ‘I wish I wasn’t.’

  ‘This is exactly what I mean,’ Julia says, her voice becoming gentler. ‘The way you are is fine. It’s better than fine – it’s great. Your jealousy stems from the fact that you’re insecure, and you’re insecure because of what you’ve been through. You don’t need to change for a man, you need to change for yourself. You’re confident at your job, and you’re so great with people – far better than I could ever be – yet you beat yourself up when it comes to men. It makes me so sad, Luce. And when Abby tries to make out that it’s a choice rather than an affliction, it makes me bloody mad. That’s why I yelled at her.’

  I pick at a bit of the tree bark until it flakes apart.

  ‘Do you think I need professional help?’ I ask, my voice small.

  ‘Maybe,’ Julia replies. ‘Or maybe you just need to spend some time on your own, rather than with a man who makes you feel constantly on edge. I know Pete does that, and this latest debacle has proved he can’t be trusted.’

  ‘He’s told me everything now,’ I say loyally. ‘We’ve agreed to draw a line and focus on the future.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ she mutters.

  ‘It’s different now,’ I continue, telling her a half-truth. ‘I stood up for myself yesterday, I promise you I did. I asked him outright why he lied, and he told me.’

  ‘Wonders will never cease,’ she says drily, but I can tell she’s softening.

  ‘Make up with Abby,’ I urge. ‘Life’s too short.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she replies, and I know that’s the best I’m going to get. I’m so lucky to have a sister like Julia, I think, as I say my goodbyes. She may be blunt and feisty, but she’s also fiercely loyal – a trait she most certainly gets from Dad. I can’t deny that what she told me about Abby didn’t hurt, though. I know I’m prone to jealousy and can be a bit possessive, and it’s true that I do give myself a hard time, but simply telling me to stop isn’t going to work. I’ve been repeating the same pattern of behaviour since I was nine years old, so it’s going to take a hell of a lot of work to ch
ange.

  I make my slow way back towards Pete, who is looking at his phone instead of me, and as I draw close he stuffs it quickly back into his pocket.

  ‘Anything important?’ I ask lightly, returning his kiss of greeting.

  ‘Nah,’ he replies, standing up and wrapping an arm around me. ‘Nothing you need to worry about.’

  35

  Taggie

  Elsie greets me with her usual enthusiasm, planting a kiss on each of my cheeks and telling me I look more beautiful than a summer’s day. She’s been saying that to me since I was seven, but it still makes me glow. The dogs fall over themselves to be the first to touch me, and I make a fuss of them in turn before picking Bruno up off the floor and propping him up on my shoulder.

  ‘You’re soft on that dog,’ Elsie remarks, heading for the kettle. ‘Shall we take our tea out into the garden?’

  I’m not sure if it’s because of the incident on the boat, or because I’m simply weary of facing everything alone, or because tomorrow the year will come to an end, but as soon as Elsie and I are sitting at her little metal table overlooking the lake, a blanket arranged over our knees, I tell her everything. I start on the day that Pete broke up with me, and I finish with the message he sent me today, and all the while she listens without interruption, her pale-blue eyes full of sympathy. When I’m done, and the tears finally fall, she shuffles out of her chair and wraps her thin arms around me. She smells of lavender and, faintly, of dog biscuits, and I sob my heart out against the itchy material of her shawl until I have nothing left.

  ‘You poor, poor darling,’ she says, again and again. ‘I had no idea what you’d been through. I’m so sorry.’

  I nod, unable to speak.

  ‘I know how you feel,’ she adds, causing me to sit up in surprise.

  ‘You do?’

  She nods, her mouth a tight line and her eyes glassy.

  ‘It was a very long time ago, and I thought my heart would never mend. But if life has taught me anything, it’s that a person’s heart is very much like an elastic band. Even when it’s broken, it will still bounce back. All you have to do is learn to trust someone enough to hand it over again, without worrying about the sting if they let it go.’