The Place We Met Read online

  There are barely any cars passing me on the coastal road as I walk, my head dipped so that my nose and mouth are protected from the cold by my scarf. My hands are as deep in my pockets as they can go, but I can still feel the tips of my fingers tingling. This is the coldest it’s been since I arrived in Como, but in a strange way I’m enjoying the sensation. Just because I chose to swap England for Italy doesn’t mean I don’t miss it – and Christmas has always been my favourite time of year back home. I love how everyone pretends not to be excited about it during the build-up, but then still rushes out and picks up a tree as soon as December arrives. I love Secret Santa and work office parties and cheesy festive songs being played on a loop. I adore advent calendars – both the chocolate variety and those ingenious ones stuffed with beauty products – and I’m a firm believer in the fact that most things in life can benefit enormously from a string of fairy lights being draped across them.

  The people of Como clearly agree with that last sentiment, because many of the trees that I’m now passing in the lakeside park have been adorned with lights, and the town itself is a veritable grotto at this time of year. As I glance across the water now, towards the cluster of houses emerging through the fog on the eastern shore, I can see more evidence of decoration glowing merrily at windows and along fences. The grey of first light is giving way to greens and browns now, but the lake is still a silent sweep of black below me.

  It takes me about fifteen minutes to reach the large white hangar that comprises Como’s Aero Club, which is set back from the edge of the water on the opposite side of the road to where I’m now standing. Seaplanes of various sizes and colours are parked both in the water and on the tarmac slope leading into it, and all around them are the reason I walked all the way down here in the first place – the local bird population.

  ‘Steady on!’ I say fondly, as a particularly overexcited gosling makes a lunge for my first wedge of rye bread.

  My mum and dad used to bring me down to this very spot when I was a child, and we would feed the ducks together with the bread that we’d pilfered either from the hotel buffet or Elsie’s kitchen, depending on where we were staying each time. My dad was a keen photographer back in those days, and the evidence of one of his shoots still hangs in his study today. It’s of me, aged six, one hand outstretched, my eyes tight shut, and a look of pure terror on my face as an enormous swan waddles over to help itself to my offering of bread. He maintains that it’s the best picture he’s ever taken. I maintain that he’s crazy.

  I like birds a lot more these days. I find that the more time I spend down here with them, the braver they become, and I’m even starting to recognise some of them. There’s the pigeon with the pure-white face, the young swan who hates the gulls, and a timid little moorhen who’s always scuttling around at the back of the flock. I always make sure I save a special handful of crumbs, just for him. I must be going soft in my old age – either that or my dad’s fondness for this ritual has finally ingrained itself in me. I wonder if I’ll become a crazy old bird lady one day, like the woman in Home Alone 2, and the thought makes me chuckle into my scarf. It’s nice to know that I haven’t lost the ability to laugh at myself, despite all the shit that’s happened, and as the thought occurs to me I think immediately of Marco plucking me out of the lake a couple of months ago, and how, back then, I was still too delicate to see the funny side. If I slipped over on a bird poo and the same thing happened again, right here and now, I like to think I’d respond in a less stroppy way. But perhaps Marco wouldn’t bother to help me this time – not after I ran out on him and Shelley last night.

  Once the bread has run out and the birds have all gone back to their complicated business of washing in the shallows, pecking through the dirt or perching imperially on the floating jetty, I sit on a bench for a while, drinking my delicious hot chocolate and watching the sunlight creep through the trees. I can see my breath in the air and my toes have long since ceased to have any sensation in them at all, but I’m determined to stay put until I feel completely soothed. Last night’s dream is receding back into the murky depths of my mind, and I find I can no longer conjure it up, even when I allow myself to try. It’s so odd, I think, this yearning for something while at the same time fearing it so acutely. Is it the person that scares me, or the feeling that seeing him will elicit? Perhaps it’s both. But hopefully, I conclude, finally getting to my feet and heading back along the western shore towards the hotel, I will never have to find out.

  12

  Lucy

  After a post-coital nap, Pete wakes up ravenous, almost chasing me out of the apartment in his haste to track down some lunch. I deliberately booked us a place with a kitchen, thinking it would be fun if we cooked together while we’re here, surrounded by such delicious ingredients, but when I mentioned the idea earlier, he shook his head.

  ‘This is your holiday,’ he said, giving me the baby monkey eyes, as I always call them. ‘I want you to relax. You work so hard, and you’ve earned it.’

  No matter how many times I tried to tell him that cooking genuinely does relax me, and that it’s a treat for me to have the time to prepare a proper meal – something working at the hospital rarely allows – he still talked me out of it by distracting me with kisses. I suspect he plans to treat me to dinner every night, but I don’t see why he should pay for all my meals.

  It’s still a bright and beautiful day outside. The sky is such a flawless blue that it looks almost synthetic, as if someone has selected the whole thing with their mouse and then clicked the tin of paint symbol on their computer. The sun is sitting low, its rays slipping around corners and through windows, leaving everything in its wake brushed with gold. Despite this, however, the cold feels solid and unrelenting, and I snuggle down further into my scarf as Pete locks the door behind us.

  It only takes a few minutes to reach the hub of the town, where houses give way to shops and silence is swallowed whole by chatter. Locals greet each other with a merry wave and a shout of ‘ciao’, while others sit at the windows of coffee shops, watching the passers-by through the steam rising from their espressos. As well as these cafés, there are all manner of boutiques selling clothes, handbags, shoes and jewellery, and we also pass a bookshop, a tobacconist and even a pet shop. There are designer stores, too, and I point out a silk scarf in the window of one bearing a seven-hundred-euro price tag.

  ‘Unfortunately for you, I’m not George Clooney,’ Pete says, and I shake my head and laugh.

  ‘I wouldn’t swap you for George even if he offered to buy me all the silk scarves in Italy.’

  I mean it, too.

  We follow the sound of music and bustle until we find the first few stalls leading into the Christmas Market, and Pete immediately comes to a halt next to one wooden hut that is offering giant pretzels stuffed with Parma ham and melted, stringy cheese.

  ‘Wow!’ he exclaims, his eyes widening. ‘Shall we get some? They look incredible.’

  ‘Is that drool on your chin?’ I joke, smiling at the woman taking the orders as Pete uses his limited knowledge of the Italian language to order us two. She’s all wrapped up against the cold in a thick blanket-type coat and hat, but the heat rising off the cheese has turned her cheeks bright pink. I wince a bit at the thought of how many calories I’m about to consume, but it only takes a single bite to convince me that it’s well worth the risk. The bread has been toasted just the right amount to keep the cheese warm but not drop too many crumbs, and the chewy, salty ham lifts the flavour up to a whole new level. I know Pete is enjoying his just as much, because he’s gone completely silent. The way he’s gazing down at his pretzel is almost as ardent as the look he was giving me less than two hours ago in the apartment.

  ‘That was incredible,’ he declares, wiping his fingers and lips with a napkin and tossing it into a nearby bin. ‘Where to next?’

  I don’t answer straight away, because my mouth is full, so instead I use my head to direct him forwards, further into the heart
of the market. I’m enchanted by the cashmere shawls and delicately made jewellery, while Pete spends a good ten minutes at the cheese hut, charming the stall holder out of free tasters. After the pretzel, I’m stuffed, but I know that Pete could go on grazing all afternoon. I seem to remember it was date three when I first accused him of having hollow legs. This is the man who can go for a Sunday roast at lunchtime, then out for a pizza for dinner, and still have room for half a pint of Häagen-Dazs. It’s a wonder he’s in such good shape – not to mention blooming unfair.

  I’m longing to stroll along by the lake with a vin brulé and take in the view from the park on the western shore, but Pete is dragging me excitedly towards the ice rink by the road instead.

  ‘We can look out at the view as we skate around,’ he begs, all bouncy and enthusiastic, and so of course I give in. Ice-skating is not my favourite thing to do – especially given the number of patients I’ve seen who have suffered everything from a fractured coccyx to a broken jaw whilst partaking. It’s unsafe, it’s cold and, as we discover when we reach the booth to pay, it’s eye-wateringly expensive, too. When Pete tries to pay yet again, I elbow him playfully out of the way, insisting that he has to let me, so that when I inevitably fall over, I’ll only have myself to blame.

  ‘Was this ice rink here when you were a kid?’ Pete wants to know. He hasn’t let go of my hand since we strapped on our skates, and we’re now making our circuits at a nice steady pace, while a multitude of daredevil children zoom past us at speed. Being a sporty guy, Pete has a natural flair for this sort of thing, but he tutted at me when I pointed out the fact that I’m slowing him down.

  ‘I can’t actually remember,’ I tell him honestly. ‘We only ever came here for Christmas once, and that time we stayed up in Bellagio.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘My dad once knew a guy who had a house there, although I’m not sure if he still does.’

  ‘Maybe we should go and find out?’ he suggests, spinning me round in a tentative circle, only to almost lose his balance and burst out laughing.

  I cling on to him, willing him not to fall. If he goes down, then I’m going down with him.

  ‘You mean go up to Bellagio?’ I ask, when he’s regained his composure and we’re both on the move again.

  ‘Yeah,’ he takes his eyes off his feet to brave a look at me. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It is gorgeous up there,’ I say, picturing the narrow cobbled lanes and the magnificent lakeside villas, not to mention the views of the Swiss Alps in the distance. ‘I’m pretty sure we can get a boat up there from just over the road.’

  ‘Let’s do it!’ He looks excited again, and his eagerness is infectious. I loved Bellagio as a child, with its hidden coves and warren-like streets. Plus, my secret beach is there, and I’d love to show it to him.

  We stay on the rink until Pete’s finally burned off all his pretzel energy, which unfortunately for me is a good twenty minutes or so after my hands and feet have turned from flesh and blood into solid lumps of ice. Pete tells me a scandalous story about a famous married footballer they had on the radio show recently, who disappeared during what was supposed to be a ten-minute tea break only to emerge from the ladies’ toilet a good while later with the station receptionist in tow, her blouse buttons done up wrong and her skirt twisted round to one side. He often regales me with tales from the studio, and promises that he’ll take me in one day to show me how everything works. I love that he enjoys his job, just as I adore mine – there’s nothing more irritating than someone who complains about their choice of career only to refuse to do anything to change it.

  When I can no longer even feel my toes, I steer Pete by the arm to the nearest vin brulé stall. I order us a couple and pass one across, blowing steam off the top of mine and smiling as the hot sides of the cup begin to thaw my frozen fingers.

  ‘What’s up there?’ Pete asks, pointing up to the right, above the eastern shore of the lake. There are buildings just visible right at the very top of the mountain, and I know from the guidebook rather than experience what it is we’re looking at.

  ‘That’s Brunate,’ I tell him. ‘It’s only a small village, but the views from up there are supposed to be amazing.’

  ‘How do we get up there?’ he asks, scanning the hillside in the middle distance, then spotting the tracks of Como’s funicolare just as I point them out.

  ‘I reckon we could walk it,’ he adds, turning to me.

  ‘Really?’ I’m doubtful. It’s a very long way up, and it’s not as if either of us regularly go hiking. I look down at his trainers, already soggy from the frosty ground, and shake my head.

  ‘It’ll be quicker to just catch the funicolare up,’ I say, putting on my best persuasive-nurse voice, which has served me so well, so many times.

  ‘Yeah,’ he allows. ‘But imagine how much more fun it will be to walk.’

  ‘Fun?’ I deadpan, forcing myself not to react to his ridiculously over-the-top grin. I want to support this foolish scheme of his, I really do, but I know my limits, and I suspect that I know his.

  ‘Come on, Lulu.’ He’s pleading now. ‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’

  I can’t help it, I picture Pete’s ex again, the girl in that ruddy photo I wish I’d never found. She looks like exactly the type of girl who would be fabulous at scaling mountains, being all lithe with skinny little arms and a healthy, glowing complexion. The two of them probably legged it up vast, frost-covered hillsides together all the time.

  ‘OK,’ I agree, taking a deeper breath than I intend to. ‘I’m game if you are.’

  ‘All right!’ he whoops, punching the air. Several tourists turn to stare at him in bemusement, but he doesn’t even seem to notice, and I can’t help but beam at him, besotted as I am.

  Pete’s so enthusiastic to get cracking that he practically skips along the road next to the lake, pulling me along behind him while I hang back, trying in vain to take in the view. The canopy of branches above the path are playing host to a jumbled nest of blue and white lights, and I make a mental note to walk back along the same route later tonight, so that we might get to appreciate them in the dark.

  ‘I reckon it’s this way,’ I tell him, coming to a halt as we reach the corner of the lake and a wide junction. We cross the road hand in hand, leaving the water behind us, and take the first road we find leading away from the shore. I’ve always been pretty good at keeping my bearings, and before long I’ve managed to locate a steep set of stone steps heading up the side of the mountain.

  ‘Are you one hundred per cent sure about this?’ I ask Pete for at least the tenth time since we left the market. ‘It’s going to take us quite a while to reach the top, and the funicolare is just over there.’

  ‘Positive,’ he assures me. ‘It’ll be no bother, Lulu, you’ll see.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ I reply, rolling my eyes good-naturedly. As I turn and put my boot on the first step, however, I make a silent bet with myself in my head.

  13

  Taggie

  I have had a lot of jobs in my life. Before getting the position of tour guide at the Casa Alta Hotel, I worked in PR, which I liked. Well, I liked the events organising, but all the emailing and chasing journalists was horrendous. Before that, I was a marketing executive in a magazine office for three years, and shortly prior to that, I worked in a museum. I was one of those people who glares at you for stepping too close to the paintings and scurries over to tell you off for taking photos of the artefacts. When I was at university, I had a part-time job in a bar, and once upon a long time ago, before even that, I spent an eventful summer walking my parents’ friends’ dogs around the local park three times a day.

  You could say that my employment history has prepared me for most things, and most people. It had not, however, prepared me for Gladys and Bill.

  ‘Agatha! I say, Aggy, dear. Cooee.’

  I grit my teeth.

  ‘I told you already, Gladys – Taggie is fine.’

&nbs
p; ‘Oh, but Agatha is the name your mother gave you, my dear – and it’s so much prettier than Taggie. Don’t you agree, William?’

  ‘Much prettier,’ chirps Bill, who I’m starting to suspect is more parrot than man. Everything his darling wife Gladys says, Bill – or ‘Will-yum’, as she insists on calling him – seems more than content to simply repeat.

  ‘Perhaps just Miss Torres, then?’ I suggest hopefully, and Gladys’s heavily made-up face crumples.

  ‘Oh no, my dear, that’s far too much of a mouthful. I’m not sure I could even say it right. Toulouse, is it?’

  ‘Torres,’ I say again. ‘My father is Mauritian.’

  Gladys raises a drawn-on eyebrow. ‘I see.’

  The three of us are standing on the crunchy gravel beside a large decorative fountain, which sits in pride of place in front of the Villa Olmo. As vast and grand as a palace from a Disney film, and with an immaculate pale-yellow façade complete with tall white pillars, the eighteenth-century villa itself has been predominantly closed to visitors for years now, because it’s privately owned, but the extensive grounds have thankfully remained open to the public. An exhibition was hosted inside the main house a few months ago, so I made sure I took full advantage and had a good old snoop around inside. The view from the upstairs window looking out over the lake is one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen – and Villa Olmo looks just as majestic and unforgettable from the water, too. It’s one of the most famous and most visited Como landmarks for good reason, and I love bringing guests here and showing the place off.

  Given that Gladys and Bill are here with a group of amateur artists from all over the globe, I chose Villa Olmo as a nice spot for the ten of them to get some inspiration and perhaps take some photos. It’s far too cold for any of them to set up an easel here on the shore, but these days I find that many of the more creatively minded guests we have staying at the Casa Alta are happy to work from a photo. We even have a room downstairs set aside for painting, which is warm, cosy and filled with natural light. Gladys, however, prefers portraits to landscapes. Well, self-portraits, to be more precise – and it appears that poor old ‘Will-yum’ is not up to the job of photographer.