by Tess Stimson
I move in the next day, staggering up six flights of stairs with Sawyer 2 and my few bits and pieces. The kitten inspects the apartment thoroughly and then curls up in the centre of my new bed, grooming himself.
‘Don’t feel too at home,’ I warn him. ‘This isn’t going to be for long.’
Sawyer 2 gives me a sceptical look, then goes back to washing his ears.
It takes me a day or two to get back into the swing of things, but waitressing is like cycling or skiing: you never really forget. All those summers putting myself through university the hard way stand me in good stead. I’m soon balancing half a dozen plates along my arm and twirling heavy trays of glasses above my head as if I’ve been waiting tables for years – indeed, as a wife and the mother of two teenagers, I suppose I have.
I love leaving work behind the moment I walk out of the bar. No responsibility or deadlines; no managing delicate egos or insubordinate employees. I simply turn up and do the job for which I’m paid.
For the first few days, I’m too tired when I get home to do anything but make myself a quick salad and fall into bed, but as I get used to being on my feet all day, that changes. It’s at night that Rome truly comes alive. Some evenings I walk along the banks of the Tiber, or through the winding streets of Trastevere and the historic centro storico, stopping for a drink or gelato when I get tired. On other nights, I find a table at a trattoria in a hidden piazza and simply sit and watch the world go by over an exquisite puttanesca or zucchini ravioli and a glass or two of earthy red wine. To my surprise, I find I quite like my own company. It’s like getting to know an old friend I thought never to see again.
On my first day off, I go to the Galleria Borghese, one of the museums I never got the chance to explore when I was living here last time. I take my time, reading about each artwork in a thick guidebook and studying it carefully before moving on to the next.
I pause by the life-sized marble sculpture of Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne, arrested by its magnificent beauty. According to my book, two gods, Apollo and Eros, argued, and so Eros wounded Apollo with a golden arrow which made him fall in love with a beautiful nymph called Daphne. Apollo chased and captured her, whereupon her father turned her into a laurel tree. Heartbroken, Apollo cut off some of her branches and leaves to make a wreath, and proclaimed the laurel a sacred tree.
I close my book with a satisfied sigh. Now there was passion.
I’m not a sentimental teenager. I know marriage settles into a routine; it’s the nature of the beast. Part of the price you pay for security. I don’t expect hearts and flowers or a pounding heart every time my husband walks into the room, but most couples have at least the memory of passion to keep them going when enthusiasm and interest wane. It’s two weeks now since Ned and I spoke, and he still hasn’t tried to contact me. Perhaps he’s taking me at my word and giving me the space and time I’ve asked for. But I can’t help being disappointed that he hasn’t made the extravagant gesture I’ve looked for throughout my marriage: the gesture that would tell me we did have passion between us after all.
I blink back a sudden rush of tears. All Ned has to do to win me is get on a plane. No dragons to slay or vengeful gods to defeat. The worst he’d have to face is losing his luggage.
For the first time, I wonder if Ned’s actually happier without me.
Ned
‘This is a fucking nightmare,’ I mutter, throwing a sheaf of red bills onto the kitchen counter. ‘Every day there are more bills, and I’ve got no bloody money to pay them.’
‘Kate managed,’ Eleanor sniffs, buttering two slices of Nimble. I wish she’d buy some bloody normal bread when she goes shopping; this plastic crap sticks in my gullet. ‘It’s just a question of keeping on top of things.’
‘It’s a question of having no fucking money,’ I retort.
‘You must have something put by,’ Eleanor says.
‘We don’t float on a lake of ready cash,’ I snarl. ‘By the time we’ve paid the mortgages, two sets of school fees, council tax, the car loan and all the rest of it, there’s barely enough left over to put food on the table. We’re in the middle of a recession, or hadn’t you noticed?’
‘But you must have some savings?’ she insists. ‘Something for a rainy day?’
I open the fridge and grab a beer. Paying off my gambling debts last year cleaned us out. Our savings these days amount to what we can find down the back of the sofa.
‘It’s not just me,’ I mutter defensively. ‘They say most people are just one pay cheque away from bankruptcy. We’re lucky we’ve lasted this long.’
‘But you said Katherine’s still getting paid.’
‘For now. Her boss said she’s owed eleven weeks’ leave. All those years of refusing to take a proper holiday,’ I add bitterly. ‘He agreed to hold her job open till she’s used it up and said he’d tell everyone she’s taking a sabbatical. But if she’s not back by then, she’ll be out on her ear.’
‘Eleven weeks! She’ll be back long before that!’
‘I bloody hope so. But if I can’t access her account and physically get at the money, it doesn’t make any bloody difference whether she’s paid or not.’
Eleanor takes a bite of her fish-paste sandwich. ‘I don’t know why she doesn’t just have her salary paid into the joint account in the first place.’
I redden. Kate cleared my debts, but she demanded her pound of flesh in return. Cut up all my credit cards, separated out our accounts. Even insisted on paying me an ‘allowance’, like I was one of the bloody kids!
‘Well, she doesn’t,’ I snap. ‘Which means I can’t pay a single one of these damn bills. We’ve got a small overdraft facility, but the mortgage payment has just driven us right through that. God knows what’ll happen if she’s not back by the start of next month. What the hell am I supposed to do?’
‘Write a few more stories,’ she says crisply.
‘It’s not that easy.’
‘It certainly is. You’ve a good brain in that head of yours, Edward. Put it to good use. It’s not as if she’s going to be gone long—’
‘Would you stop saying that, Eleanor! Kate hasn’t gone away for a spa weekend with the girls! She’s left me! Who knows if she’s ever coming back?’ I take an angry pull of beer. ‘In the meantime, I have to hold everything together somehow and find a way to keep all our heads above water!’
‘Well, as I said, Katherine seems to have managed it all these years.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I think it’s about time you faced facts, Edward,’ Eleanor says curtly. ‘My daughter is the one who puts a roof over your head and food on the table. Not many men would be happy to live off their wives the way you do. I don’t suppose your income even covers the electricity bill. That’s supposing you actually have a job, of course; I haven’t seen you sit down at your desk the whole time I’ve been here.’ She dabs at the corners of her mouth. ‘I could understand it if you picked up the slack at home, but let’s be honest. You didn’t do much when the children were small, as I recall, and now they’re teenagers, I’m finding it a little difficult to understand what it is you actually do all day.’
It takes all my self-control not to hit her.
‘I’m sorry to be the one to say it,’ she adds, not sounding sorry at all. ‘But it’s about time someone did. Look how quickly you’ve fallen apart without her. You don’t know the first thing about running this house. You can’t tell me the name of your insurance company, much less call a plumber. Katherine did it all. I never thought I’d say it, but I’m starting to see why she left.’
‘Kate did it all? Oh, that’s rich, coming from you.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Come on, Eleanor. If we’re going to tell it like it is, let’s really dish some dirt.’ I fold my arms and regard her coolly. ‘You haven’t lifted a finger your entire life. You let your husband take care of everything, and when he died, Kate had no choice but to take over. You haven�
��t been a mother to her. You’re nothing more than a parasite.’
For a blissful moment, she’s speechless. ‘Well!’ she splutters finally. ‘Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!’
‘Birds of a feather,’ I say shortly.
‘How dare you presume to know what my marriage was like?’
‘Right back at you.’
‘You have no idea what it was like living with James! I didn’t let my husband take care of everything. In my day, wives didn’t have a choice!’
‘Give me a break. If you didn’t like it, you could’ve left.’
‘My generation doesn’t just quit when the going gets tough.’
‘Whatever. Frankly, Eleanor, I couldn’t give a damn about you or your marriage. It’s Kate I care about. You let that man treat her like shit her entire life. Nothing she ever did was good enough for him. The harder she worked, the more the bastard ignored her. She never had a fucking chance.’
‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use that kind of language in—’
I push my face into hers, feeling a flare of satisfaction as she backs away. ‘If she’s a control freak now, it’s you she has to thank,’ I say savagely. ‘You heartless bitch. You were the one who taught her the only person she could rely on was herself.’
‘Well, it’s just as well, given the kind of man she married,’ Eleanor retorts, quickly recovering herself. ‘When are you going to grow up and act like a proper husband? It’s all very well blaming me, but I can’t help the way I was raised. Women of my generation were brought up to defer to their men. But you?’ Her eyes rake me with contempt. ‘You’re supposed to be the man of the house. What’s your excuse?’
It’s my turn to be skewered by the truth.
My anger drains away as abruptly as it arrived. ‘D’you think I don’t know what a useless husband I am?’ I say wearily. ‘I’ve never been good enough for Kate, and we both know it.’
‘Katherine loves you,’ she says, taking me by surprise.
I stare at her. ‘Well, much good it’s done her. According to you, I’ve let her down since the day we married.’
‘I’ve let her down since the day she was born.’
She drops into a chair, suddenly looking a decade older than her sixty-odd years. ‘This is my fault as much as yours,’ she says quietly. ‘I never stood up for her when she was a child. I was glad James took it out on her instead of me.’
‘What was his problem, for God’s sake? Why couldn’t he just be proud of her?’
She hesitates. ‘It’s complicated. He wanted to hurt me. He knew the best way to do that was hurt the person I loved most in the world. Oh, I know you think her sister was my favourite.’ She shrugs. ‘So does Katherine. Communication was never our family’s strongest suit.’
‘Well, Kate didn’t leave because of you,’ I sigh. ‘I’m the one who screwed up. I left everything to her, and she’s obviously had enough.’
‘She didn’t give you much choice. She never gives anyone much choice.’
‘She can’t help it.’
‘Well, of course she can’t,’ Eleanor says tartly. ‘James and I did that to her. You were right. Nothing she did was ever good enough. She always had to try harder. She doesn’t know how to switch it off.’
‘What on earth was she doing, marrying me? Was I some sort of science project? A fixer-upper?’
‘You needed her. No one else ever had. I told her it was a mistake. I knew something like this would happen if she married you. I suppose it’s not your fault,’ she adds grudgingly. ‘She just needed someone a bit tougher. Someone who’d stand up to her and push back.’
‘She likes being in control,’ I say bleakly. ‘It’s the way she wants it. You of all people should understand what it’s like to live with someone like that.’
There’s a brief flicker in her steel eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was pity.
‘If it’s the way she wants it,’ Eleanor says quietly, ‘then why has she left?’
Kate
My mobile rings just as I leave the Pantheon, where I’ve spent my second Monday off rapt in front of Raphael’s tomb. It’s not a number I recognize, but it has a local area code. With a flutter of butterflies, I wonder if it’s Alessio, and then rebuke myself firmly for thinking that way. He’s married. Off-limits.
Warily, I answer the phone.
‘Kate?’ a man’s voice says. ‘Is that you?’
It takes me a moment to place the velvety soft Irish brogue. ‘Keir?’
‘Hey. Just thought I’d call and see how you’re doing. Still in Rome after all?’
‘How did you get this number?’ I demand.
‘You gave it to me,’ he says, sounding surprised.
I sit on a stone bench by the vast fountain in the centre of the piazza, out of the way of the tourists milling around the ancient circular temple. My phone beeps irritatingly, telling me there’s another call waiting, but for once I ignore it.
‘Sorry,’ I tell Keir, softening my tone. ‘You just got me off guard, that’s all. How are you? How’s Molly?’
‘She’s fine – shit. Look, where are you?’
‘Just leaving the Pantheon. Why?’
‘Reception on this line is crap. If you’re at the Pantheon, you’re only just round the corner from me. I’ve been looking at ruins all afternoon, and I could really use a break. Why don’t we meet up for lunch? If you’re free, of course.’
I hesitate. I barely know him, or Molly.
‘We had such a good time with you the other day.’
‘It was nice,’ I admit.
‘D’you know the Hostaria Antica just behind Piazza Navona? Great place, does cool Tuscan food. You can’t miss it. See you there in five.’
‘Wait. Keir—’
He’s gone. I try to call him back, but his phone goes straight to voicemail; all these tall stone buildings seem to play havoc with phone reception. I can’t just leave him and Molly sitting at the restaurant. Agness says I’m far too hung-up on what people think, but it would be such bad manners to stand them up. Besides, it’s not as if I have anything better to do. My plans for the rest of the day involve a home-made caprese salad eaten alone on my terrace, and a tour of the Mamertine Prison where Saint Peter and Saint Paul are said to have been imprisoned. It’s survived two thousand years; it’ll still be there tomorrow.
It might be nice to have some company at lunch for a change. I like Keir and Molly, even if they are a bit young. I’m fairly sure they’re not serial killers, and if they are, I don’t suppose they’re going to abduct or murder me in the middle of a crowded restaurant. It’s time I started being a bit more sociable again. Apart from Julia and my limited exchanges with Uncle Maurizio, I haven’t spoken to a soul in four weeks, and I’ve scarcely even seen Julia since I moved into Luca’s apartment. She has her own life, after all. She can’t constantly babysit me.
Much as I’m enjoying my freedom, I’m still lonely. I may not like being at the beck and call of Ned and the children, but there was always someone around when I got home, and if our conversations revolved around the need for clean socks or who last fed the cat, at least I had company. I was part of something. Julia can take off whenever she wants, do whatever she wishes, because no one actually cares.
What makes you think anyone cares about you? If it wasn’t for the lack of those clean socks, they wouldn’t even notice you’d gone.
It takes me a little while to find the right restaurant in the labyrinth of streets around the bustling Piazza Navona. By the time I spot the foxy gleam of Keir’s hair at a clashing burgundy-clothed table outside the restaurant, my cheeks are pink, I’m panting slightly, and I have blisters on both my big toes from my new leather flip-flops.
He stands up with old-fashioned courtesy as I hurry over.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Only just got here myself.’
I slide into a chair, carefully wrapping the leather strap of my
handbag around the seat-back so a Vespa-mounted pickpocket can’t grab it and zoom away. ‘No Molly yet?’
‘She’s not here. She went back to uni last week.’
‘Oh. Yes, of course,’ I say, taken aback. ‘She did mention she had to go back.’
‘Sorry if you thought . . .’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s lovely to see you, anyway.’
He smiles, but he doesn’t quite meet my eye, and there’s a slight flush on his high cheekbones. I didn’t give him my number, I realize suddenly. He must have called his own phone from mine when he programmed his number into it the day we met. It occurs to me he might be short of money and doesn’t know anyone else to ask. I have a feeling archeology teachers don’t make much, especially when they’re on sabbatical.
‘Shame you couldn’t make Carmina Burana,’ he says, recovering himself. ‘Molly hasn’t stopped raving about it. The whole thing was a serious one-off.’
‘I had a lot going on,’ I say lightly.
‘I figured. I hoped you’d call, but when you didn’t . . .’ He shrugs. ‘Anyway. You’re here now.’
His amber gaze is peculiarly intense. I find I’m the first to look away. I shake the heavy linen napkin across my lap, wishing I’d worn a longer skirt.
‘I haven’t eaten here for years,’ I say brightly, scanning the menu. ‘Anything you’d recommend?’
‘Mangeremo la ribollita, due da cominciare, ed allora una coppia di bistecche,’ Keir tells the waiter at my shoulder. ‘E una bottiglia di vino rosso della casa, per favore.’
‘Did you just order for me?’ I ask incredulously as the waiter nods and disappears.
‘You asked me what I recommended,’ he says reasonably. ‘I recommend vegetable soup and steak. They serve it on a very hot plate with olive oil and rosemary. You’ll love it.’
I don’t know whether to be insulted or amused by his youthful arrogance. I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to have the confidence to make a decision without examining its ramifications from every angle. These days, I second-guess myself about everything. Was I right to give way to that client, despite the fact that I fear his decision will damage his brand? Should I take Guy out of his school because he hates it, even though I know it’s the best education he could have? Ski at Whistler or Klosters? Buy a Kindle or iPad? Sometimes it feels like too much even to decide between peas or beans for dinner.