The Place We Met Page 22

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ I manage, and she grasps my hand.

  ‘Time is a good healer,’ she says. ‘It’s the oldest cliché in the world for a reason.’

  I sniff in response.

  ‘No wonder you don’t want to start dating again,’ she adds, braving a chuckle. ‘If I’d known, I would never have gone on about you and Marco so much. Sorry about that, darling.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I mumble. ‘You meant well.’

  ‘I should have guessed something else was going on. Obviously, I’ve asked your parents many times, but they always brush me off.’

  ‘I asked them not to tell you,’ I admit. ‘I just wanted to try and forget about it when I got here, and I was doing OK, I really was – but then bloody Pete showed up out of the blue and I just …’

  I stop as I realise my voice is getting louder.

  ‘I’m just still so angry,’ I finish. ‘I can’t help but blame him.’

  ‘Oh, darling girl,’ Elsie reaches across and wipes a tear off my cheek. ‘If you need to blame him, then go right ahead – but it’s nobody’s fault. Something like that never is, it’s just damn bad luck.’

  ‘Why is it so easy for him to move on, though?’ I groan. ‘Why doesn’t he feel the same way as me? Why does he get to be happy and I have to feel like shit?’

  Elsie puts her head on one side, her white curls illuminated by the sun, which makes her look as if she’s wearing a halo.

  ‘Because he’s weak,’ she says with a sad little sigh. ‘It sounds to me as if he’s pushed all his emotions to one side, like a lot of men do. Feeling guilty isn’t very nice, and so he’s chosen not to deal with it. Whereas you, my darling girl, you are dealing with it – even if you think you’re not. You always have been strong.’

  ‘I don’t feel very strong,’ I mutter, and she grins at me with encouragement.

  ‘You don’t have to feel it,’ she says. ‘You just have to believe it.’

  Bruno has zonked out in a patch of sunlight on my lap, and Elsie and I both glance down, the two of us instantly enchanted by the twitching of his little legs and his sleepy snuffling noises.

  ‘Bad dream,’ Elsie whispers, putting a finger across her lips.

  Bruno and I have even more in common than I thought.

  ‘Come on,’ I reply, being careful not to wake the tiny mutt as I get to my feet. ‘If I’m cold, then you must be freezing – let’s go inside and I’ll fix us some lunch.’

  For once she doesn’t battle with me, leaving me alone to potter around in her kitchen while she takes a watering can around the garden. This constant sunshine is all well and good, she informs me, but the lack of rain is wreaking havoc on her peach trees.

  I make a tomato and onion salad, tearing up fresh basil from the pot on the windowsill to sprinkle on top, then cook off some mushrooms and lardons with a splash of white wine, and bring a pan of water to the boil for pasta. Cooking is one of the things I miss most about my life back in London. Living in a hotel sounds idyllic to many people, but the novelty of having someone else cook all your meals for you soon wears off. I love the process of preparing a meal and setting the table, deliberating over which bottle of wine in the rack will go best with whatever it is I’ve prepared. The only time I get to stretch my aspirational chef legs in Como is here, but Elsie will only let me take over her kitchen occasionally. She’s just as keen on cookery as I am.

  I’m just stirring cream into the sauce when my phone beeps again.

  Can you talk?

  It’s Pete.

  No, I reply, putting down the wooden spoon I’m holding on to the draining board.

  Later?

  I chew the inside of my cheek, my fingers hovering above the screen.

  There is nothing to say, I tap out, swearing in earnest as the pasta water bursts its lid.

  When are you back in London? he replies.

  He must think I’m here on holiday like him, so he really does have no idea. I wonder then if he’s even asked my mum and dad where I am, or if he’s been content to bury his stupid big face in the dirt like an earthworm, just as Elsie said. I don’t want him to know that I’m living here. I don’t want him to know anything about me.

  That is none of your business, I message back, picking the spoon up again and stirring my sauce. Some of the mushrooms have adhered themselves to the bottom of the pan, so I pour in another glug of wine.

  Pete’s next response renders me mute with anger.

  Please say that you’ll forgive me.

  When Elsie comes in through the back door a few minutes later, she finds the sauce burning, the pasta a stuck-together lump, and me sitting on the floor, crying yet again.

  36

  Lucy

  We make it back from Cernobbio just as the sun is beginning to set, and the sky has turned from blue to mauve to pink. Pete was quiet this afternoon, and seemed subdued – even when I treated us both to a gelato for the walk back along the lake. Despite our promise to each other to be unflinchingly honest, I haven’t told him exactly what Julia and I discussed when she called, and he hasn’t told me what’s causing him to be so out of sorts. I keep alternating between feeling worried and being annoyed, and I’ve been replaying what Julia said about being on edge around Pete over and over on a loop in my head.

  ‘Shall we go back to the apartment for a bit?’ he asks.

  Perhaps that’s what we need, some time alone in which to reconnect physically. When we cross the threshold, however, Pete removes his coat and shoes, murmurs something apologetic about not feeling very well, and promptly lies down on the bed, facing the wall instead of me. So much for make-up sex. I wait until I can hear his gentle snores, then creep out into the stairwell and close the door gently behind me. I don’t know where I’m planning to go, but I do know that I don’t want to be cooped up in there.

  For the first time since we arrived in Como, I realise that I’m missing work. Being a nurse is relentless, draining and poorly paid, but it’s also dynamic, uplifting and often miraculous. I like feeling useful and being helpful, and I love my team, too. We all support each other as closely and loyally as if we were one big family, and I miss that feeling of being a vital cog in the big machine of the hospital. I know who I am at work, but with Pete I’m never sure who to be. He tells me that he loves my caring side, but then goes cold on me whenever I start to relax into myself. It’s confusing.

  I stroll aimlessly around the Piazza del Duomo, tossing a two-euro coin at the feet of a living statue dressed from head to toe in silver, and with a spray-painted face and hands. He may have a very annoying squeak, but any fella who stands outside in the cold all day deserves a little bit of a reward. Dusk is the time of day when the streets are busiest, and the two main squares are full of families and groups of young Italians. Every other person seems to have a dog with them – and some even have a whole pack of the things, many of them dressed up in tiny coats.

  Crossing the road opposite the ice rink, I walk all the way along the road hugging the lake, only stopping when I reach the entrance to the funicolare. I had thought vaguely about going up to Brunate and admiring the evening view, but now that I’m here it feels too far away. I don’t want to experience new things by myself, anyway – I’d rather do it with Pete by my side. I’m just contemplating turning back, when I spot him on the other side of the road. His leather jacket is zipped right up against the cold and his chin is pressed down against the top of his chest, but it’s definitely him – the man from the boat.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I call out, running after him before I have time to chicken out.

  He turns and looks at me in confusion.

  ‘Sí?’

  ‘I … Hello, we met on the boat. I mean, well, in Bellagio actually. I helped your friend with her nose.’

  ‘Ah,’ he says, his features relaxing a fraction as he makes the connection. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is she OK?’ I ask, and see him narrow his eyes. They’re an extraordinary bright green colour.


  ‘I think so, yes,’ he says, but he doesn’t return my smile.

  ‘Oh, well, that’s good.’

  He looks over my shoulder. ‘Where is your …’

  ‘You mean Pete?’ I guess, and he nods.

  ‘Sleeping.’ I smile yet again with what I hope is sheepish humour.

  ‘Are you and Taggie—’ I begin, but stop abruptly when he frowns at me.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I just thought that you were, you know. You seem close.’

  ‘We are friends,’ he states, glaring at me with an expression that I can’t quite read. He could be pissed off, or bemused, or neither – it’s impossible to tell.

  ‘I see.’

  He’s not very chatty, this man. His name comes back to me then, and I point across the road to a sign that I spotted on the walk down.

  ‘Is that your place?’ I ask.

  He glances up, and the ghost of a smirk passes across his face.

  ‘No.’

  The Hotel Marco sign is made from huge, illuminated red letters, but the ‘E’ and the ‘L’ are broken. I would wager that it’s possible to see ‘Hot Marco’ from right over the other side of the lake, but don’t go as far as pointing that out to him. He doesn’t seem to have any trouble understanding me, but his Italian accent is thick, and he’s not giving me an awful lot in the way of conversation. Just when I think he’s going to make an excuse and leave, however, he steps towards me.

  ‘What did he do, your boyfriend?’

  I’m momentarily taken aback by the question.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Pete. What did he do to Taggie?’

  ‘He broke her heart,’ I say in a small voice, feeling horribly disloyal.

  Marco stands up a bit taller.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing,’ I reply, becoming flustered.

  ‘You believe him?’ Marco asks, not unkindly.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, cursing the wobble in my voice. Coughing to stabilise it, I repeat myself, this time with far more authority.

  ‘I think he has done something very bad,’ Marco states, clearly unconvinced by what I’ve just said. ‘I have known many women,’ he adds, which doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. ‘And I have never known a woman to be upset in this way.’

  ‘You must care about her very much,’ I say, uncomfortable with where the conversation is going.

  ‘Of course,’ he agrees. ‘She is …’ He searches for the word. ‘Extraordinary.’

  I can’t agree, so instead I say nothing. I just stand there feeling absurdly like I’m about to cry. Marco reaches across and touches the top of my arm.

  ‘I have to go to work,’ he says regretfully. ‘Look after yourself.’

  By the time I’ve got my emotions back under control and regained the power of speech, Marco has gone, and I’m left alone by the side of the road.

  Pete is predictably less than impressed.

  ‘Who the hell is he to make assumptions about me?’ he mutters, banging his bottle of beer down on the table. We’re sitting under a heat lamp at a café facing the Duomo, and Pete is having to raise his voice over the jangling Christmas music that’s blasting out from the speakers. It’s even busier now than it was at sundown, and I wince as a harassed-looking mother hurries past with a screaming baby in her arms.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what he thinks,’ I soothe. ‘I believe you, and that’s all that matters.’

  ‘I don’t want him filling Taggie’s head with nonsense, either,’ he adds, immediately looking apologetic. ‘Sorry, Lulu, I know I said we wouldn’t talk about her, but it just pisses me off when people that I don’t know make assumptions about me.’

  ‘You don’t even know him,’ I point out, my heart hammering. ‘You’ll probably never see him again.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ comes the reply.

  Pete takes another miserable swig from his bottle.

  ‘Who he is, anyway?’ he rants. ‘A fucking dickhead waiter with too-tight jeans and gel in his fucking stupid hair.’

  I decide not to point out that Pete wears gel in his hair, too.

  ‘He said he’s Taggie’s friend,’ I correct gently. I’ve never seen Pete this angry before, and it’s horrible to witness. I’ve dealt with injured toddlers that have thrown smaller tantrums, but so far, I haven’t dared say so.

  ‘How can he be such a good friend of hers, anyway?’ he mumbles miserably. ‘She’s known him what – two weeks at the most?’

  ‘How do you know how long she’s known him?’

  ‘Well, she can’t have been in Como that long,’ he states, taking another swig. ‘She’s only here on holiday.’

  ‘Didn’t you say she’d been coming here since she was a child?’ I remind him.

  ‘Yeah, so?’

  ‘So, maybe she isn’t here on holiday. Maybe she moved here.’

  That shuts him up.

  I use the excuse of needing the toilet to get away from him for five minutes, hoping that by the time I return he’s had a word with himself. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told him about my encounter with Marco, but I wanted him to know that Taggie was OK. And, if I’m being honest, the still-paranoid part of me wanted to gauge his reaction at the same time. Now I wish I’d kept schtum. Jealousy is a trait I know all too well, and I recognise it in the way Pete’s behaving. He may say that he’s not in love with Taggie any more, but clearly that doesn’t mean he’s ready to let another man take his place as the most important person in her life. It’s ugly and unreasonable, but I do understand it. I was horribly jealous of Taggie when I didn’t know anything about her, but now that I do, I don’t feel envious. What I do feel is a need to protect her, and to help – and yet again I’m struck with a strange sense of déjà vu. One which is refusing to go away.

  37

  Taggie

  Shelley insists on getting a taxi down to Como after dinner, because for once she’s wearing heels. Unlike me, she’s not used to her toes being crushed and her arches aching, and she’s started limping before we’re even out the front door of the hotel.

  ‘How do you deal with this agony on a daily basis?’ she asks, grimacing as we reach a portion of the pavement that’s cobbled.

  ‘Years of practice,’ I reply, taking her arm and guiding her to safety.

  I took a very long, hot bath when I got back from Elsie’s earlier, and I conditioned and curled my hair. I might feel crap on the inside, but that’s no reason to look rubbish on the outside. I’ve made a good start on all the party decorations for tomorrow, and I’m starting to feel mildly nervous about the event now, which is always a good sign. This dinner and disco extravaganza is just too important to go wrong – my future job satisfaction depends on it.

  ‘Shall we go to the Duomo?’ Shelley suggests, coming to a halt beside the pedestrian crossing. ‘I haven’t been to see the Nativity scene in there yet, and I’ve heard it’s beautiful.’

  ‘No,’ I say abruptly, and she turns to me in surprise.

  ‘I’d rather have a drink!’ I add, and she grins wickedly.

  ‘Now you’re talking.’

  The Christmas Market is absolutely heaving tonight, as Sal warned us it would be. This is the day that many Italians arrive in the area ready for New Year, and every bar and restaurant gets booked up within hours. I don’t mention Marco’s friend’s bar, because I know Shelley will lead us there anyway, but I do experience a small pang of disappointment when we get there and find no sign of him. He’s probably working, of course, making as many tips as he can to add to his boat fund, but I can’t help hoping that he passes by Vista Lago later, once his shift comes to an end.

  Shelley, who is never one to mess about when it comes to a night on the tiles, orders us a round of tequilas to go with our beers. I knock mine back, for once relishing the slightly sick-making rush that immediately follows, and head to the bathroom to check my face. I should write Bobbi Brown a letter of thanks for helping me disguise my tear-staine
d cheeks and puffy eyes, I think, peering at myself in the mirror above the sink. When my phone buzzes inside my bag, I know it’s him, and it’s all I can do not to hurl it at the wall.

  Tell your boyfriend to mind his own business, it reads.

  The subject matter and stroppy tone are both so unexpected that I laugh out loud. Did Pete even mean to send me this text?

  I put my phone down on the edge of the sink and extract my lipstick. I’ve gone for a scarlet shade tonight called Lady in Red, which I hardly ever wear, but I like how it makes me feel. Sassy and strong women wear red lipstick, and that’s the persona I’m channelling tonight.

  Another message comes through.

  Where are you? I need to speak to you!

  Is he for real? I switch the phone off with shaking fingers and head back out in search of more tequila.

  ‘You can drink a lot for a hobbit,’ Shelley remarks, putting down her empty bottle of beer only to miss the edge of the table and send it spinning on to the floor.

  ‘Oops!’ she giggles, reaching down a hand only to fall on the floor right after it.

  ‘What are you doing on the floooooor?’ I cry, pulling her arm uselessly. I’m laughing so much that I’ve lost all my strength, and I didn’t have that much of it to begin with.

  ‘Help meeee!’ she wails, grabbing my knee and trying to stand up. It doesn’t work, though, and soon I’m lying under the table on top of her, both of us in hysterics.

  ‘Ciao, ladies.’

  I recognise that deep, Italian accent.

  ‘Marco!’ I sing in delight, wriggling off Shelley until I’m propped up with one knee on either side of her waist. ‘Help me up!’

  He looks at me with amusement, unzipping his jacket and tossing it over a nearby chair.