Prosecco and Promises

by Prosecco

  Being in lust is a lot like being drunk. Everything softens and smoothes, movements becoming perfect and in sync. I couldn’t remember being kissed like this before. A man who kissed you well could still leave you sweaty and unsatisfied as he moved above you and looked through you, focused on the task at hand – his own pleasure.

  All my kisses, all my experiences, had never felt like this.

  And yet, it didn’t need to be special. It just needed to be enough of an escape.

  I slipped my hand under his shirt, feeling the warm, taught skin beneath. I pulled him closer by the loops of his jeans and smiled against his lips.

  ‘We’re pretty hidden here,’ I whispered. ‘What do you think?’

  He pulled back suddenly. ‘What?’

  I looked at him. ‘I mean, do you think any lost tourists are going to suddenly wander up the beach?’

  ‘No… but…’

  ‘Okay then.’ I bent over and reached up under my dress, wriggling out of my underwear and balling it up in my fist.

  The look on Salvatore’s face was not one of pure lust, though I could tell he was affected. Instead, he backed away, seeming almost scared of me, holding his hands up like a hostage.

  ‘Mia, I mean… let’s go back to my house at least.’

  ‘Where your mother is sitting with a beautiful Catholic Italian girl who wants to marry you? And you bring home the English girl who just wants your body?’ I kissed him again, laughing. ‘Be adventurous. Be spontaneous.’

  ‘But, but we’re not—’

  ‘We’re not what?’ I stroked the skin above his waistband, kissing his jaw, waiting for him to break. I could feel his resistance wavering, the way he kissed me back, the strength in his grip at my waist. It was only a few seconds away.

  ‘We’re not together… properly.’

  ‘So what?’ I laughed. ‘We’re together now. That’s what matters. We don’t live for ever, Salvatore. Make a memory with me.’

  I knew, the minute he pulled me against his chest, his arms around me, so tight that I couldn’t even reach up to kiss him, he was gone. Dammit. The good boys always look like bad boys on the outside. And I’d picked a goddamn nice one. Ugh.

  ‘I can’t. I want to. But I can’t.’

  I couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, and I stared resolutely at his sternum as he released me.

  ‘Well, okay then. Guess I’d better get home.’

  ‘Don’t do that.’ He reached for my hand, and I pulled away.

  ‘Nope, offering yourself up to a red-blooded male and being rejected… pretty much can’t beat humiliation.’ I looked down at my hand, the black underwear balled up in my clenched fist. ‘Oh, no, I was wrong.’

  I paused, unsure whether to try and wriggle back into my underwear in front of him, or simply march away, proud and commando. Well, not proud, obviously, but less awkward, to remain slightly naked.

  Note to self, in the throes of passion, always wait for the guy to take your knickers off.

  ‘Mia, please, it’s not…’ Salvatore’s eyes were imploring. ‘Seriously, you think I don’t want to beat the crap out of myself right now? You think this is an easy choice?’

  I huffed. ‘I think I was offering some fun, Salvatore. You remember fun? Away from all the talk of dead grandmas and mothers and family and history and obligation? I just thought it would be fun.’

  He suddenly grinned, and I wanted to punch him. ‘It would definitely be fun. Definitely. I just… I’m not that guy.’

  ‘Good guys can’t have sex with girls they kinda like? You gotta wait till marriage like all the other good Catholic boys from the sixteenth century?’

  He made a face at me. ‘I’ll walk you home.’

  ‘Don’t. It’s embarrassing enough. Leave me be.’

  And yet, he walked alongside me as I moved towards the town, staying to the shadows, avoiding eye contact with any of the other people along the promenade. I was painfully aware of my underwear, still balled up in my fist.

  ‘I told you to leave me alone.’

  ‘Just making sure you’re okay.’

  I yanked at a strand of my hair. ‘Argh. For fuck’s sake! I spend my time in London, okay? You think walking ten minutes in a tiny town on a tiny island is going to be a problem? I can take care of myself.’

  ‘Well, maybe I want to take care of you.’

  ‘Hey, man, I offered, but apparently you weren’t up for the job,’ I huffed, holding my hands up.

  ‘Not like that. Well, yes, like that, but not now. I want to make sure you’re okay.’

  And with that I turned on him, a sudden rage and disappointment running through my bones, fired up by embarrassment and rejection. ‘I’m not okay. I am broken and angry and fucked up. And all I wanted was someone to help me forget about that. I don’t need you to fucking fix me, okay?’

  He was so shocked that I was able to make a quick getaway, striding up the hill, powered by anger and sadness and irritation at my own childish bullshit.

  But it made sense. If I couldn’t get the light-hearted summer fling that I was so sure this was destined to be, why not end it now? Before it got dark and demanding and full of all sorts of feelings. It was better this way. Leave him standing in the darkness, the candlelight from the restaurant tables lighting his shocked face, as I strode away, certain that I would be alone, and lonely and angry at myself, but I wouldn’t be hurt.

  That was better. It was better to remain broken, than to let yourself shatter.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Three days had passed since I had seen Salvatore. I knew he came to the house, but so far, I had managed to avoid him. I spent my mornings running – not just around Sant’Angelo, but over to the next towns. I got the bus to the harbour and explored other places. I went to tropical gardens and castles and the torture museum. I lost myself in history, and then I was sad that I had no one to share it with.

  I bought myself a notebook and wrote down everything I learnt, everything I wanted to explore more of. I wrote a list of questions I wish I had asked at the catacombs, and they took up three pages. I was avoiding Salvatore, but I was falling in love with history all over again. I let my fingertips trace the stone of the Aragonese castle and I sat with glasses of wine in different restaurants, knowing that however small the place was, I could hide in and amongst different towns on the island, being a tourist.

  Every day when I came home, Allegra would look at me with sad eyes and simply say, ‘Salvatore was here. He brought you coffee.’

  My nonna was starting to regard me with some interest, watching how I responded to this news, or looking at the notebook I scribbled in. Suddenly, I was fascinating to her. I felt her eyes on me constantly. But I had tried; I wasn’t trying any more.

  On the fourth day I had been for a run, working myself as hard as I could, until I was dizzy with dehydration and exhaustion, and the walk back to the house took me longer than I’d imagined. I had slumped up the stairs and collapsed onto my bed, trying to get the energy to get up and shower, when the phone rang.

  I was too tired to even look at the screen. ‘Ugh, hello?’

  ‘Mia?’ It was Marjorie. Marjorie being hesitant and not saying anything.

  ‘Marjorie… is… is it…?’

  I could feel the panic welling up, the fact that I wasn’t ready yet, that I was waiting for this moment and here it was and I wasn’t ready.

  Her voice quivered and broke. I heard her crying down the line, the distance making it echo.

  ‘Marjorie?’

  ‘No,’ she choked out, straining to breathe. ‘I just… Mia, he’s so unwell, and he’s angry and he won’t talk to me. He won’t let me help and I don’t know how to do this.’

  I listened to her crying, and I fought my own tears as the air rasped down the end of the line.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t have called you, and I’m sorry, but no one understands. No one knows. And I love him and you love him and, I just… can’t…’

  I felt mysel
f shaking, taking a breath. I had been here before. I had been there when he was diagnosed, when he relapsed, when he sent me away. And Marjorie had been there, too. Pissing me off, bringing home leaflets and herbal tea and fucking crystals. As much as I didn’t want to do it, I knew what she needed from me. She needed me to be the hard-hearted bitch I’d been from the day she joined our fucked-up family.

  It had happened last time, when the doctor had told my dad that this was the end, that his time was finishing and to make arrangements; Marjorie had needed me to be my worst self, so she could keep it together. We had argued mightily that night, and in the morning she had clear eyes and a louder voice. However much she tried to align herself with yoga and meditation, it was the screaming that let her be free. Marjorie hid behind calm, as if showing no emotion, pretending everything was always fine, was being strong. Focusing on how horrible her husband’s bitchy daughter was being was better than thinking about losing my dad. Anger over sadness.

  She needed me to be awful, and, I would do it.

  ‘Marjorie, you’re going to listen to me,’ I said roughly, tears rolling down my cheeks. ‘This isn’t fucking about you, okay? You backed him up, you sent me away, you decided you were enough for him. You chose to love him.’

  ‘That’s what you think?’ she choked out, half laughing. ‘You think you choose to love a man twenty-five years older than you, with a pissed-off daughter and a terminal illness? What idiot chooses that?’

  ‘You made a choice the moment you moved in, the moment you married him, the moment you sent me away. So you know what? You need to do whatever the fuck it takes to be there for him until this is over.’

  ‘I don’t know if—’ she started, but I didn’t let her finish.

  ‘I don’t care. You married the guy. Keep your promises.’

  I hung up, and took a deep breath, digging my fingers into the edge of the mattress. I closed my eyes, hearing as my breathing slowed, concentrating on the in and out, over and over. Now she would focus on me, and how awful I had been, and how unfair it was. It was almost impossible to make Marjorie angry, but sometimes you needed anger to survive.

  I had to do it. I had to be cruel. It was what she needed. It was what they both needed.

  Oh, but it felt awful.

  * * *

  Nikki came barrelling into my room, without even knocking. I wiped my eyes before she looked, pretending to stretch and wipe my brow. I wasn’t crying, I was sweaty.

  ‘Mia! He’s here!’ Nikki’s whispers were like stage whispers: loud and not fooling one damn person.

  She bounced onto the bed next to me, awaiting a response.

  ‘Fuck off! What are you doing?’

  ‘Salvatore’s downstairs!’ she yelped. ‘He brought you coffee!’

  ‘Damn the coffee! The man’s always bringing bloody coffee.’ I was not in the mood for anything right now. And even though part of me wanted to reach out for Salvatore and lose myself in him, I also didn’t want to answer any questions.

  No thoughts, no feelings, no talking.

  I winced as I thought back to Salvatore’s face that night as I walked away. I had thrown myself at the man and he’d rejected me. And here he was, bringing his goddamn coffee every day.

  Nikki yawned, leaning back on the bed. ‘Do you really love coffee or something?’

  ‘I like it fine,’ I said, pulling clothes out of my case, discarding them on the bed.

  ‘That man is obsessed with coffee. Hasn’t he brought it every time he’s here?’ she snorted. ‘It’s like he brings you a cup of coffee every day.’

  And that was when I realized.

  ‘Fuck.’

  Nikki looked up as I stilled. I was still holding a pair of khaki shorts, staring across the room.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I sighed. ‘Just one more mess I’ve got to fix. Will you give me a minute? I need to shower and get dressed.’

  Nikki frowned, but got up to leave, turning back as she reached the door. ‘At some point you’re going to have to let someone in.’

  ‘Not today,’ I said. ‘Close the door, please.’

  I pulled my hair into a ponytail, and hung my towel over the door for after my shower. I’d already put Marjorie in her place this morning; I was more than ready to do the same thing to Salvatore. And I was going to have to be brutal. The man brought me coffee every morning. He’d told me what that meant.

  It couldn’t happen. From the sound of Marjorie’s whining – I pushed away the guilt at once again picking on her – the end was on its way. No time for lover boy getting all attached. However good it felt. Why did he have to ruin everything by having feelings? Why couldn’t this just have been a fun escape from my fucked-up life?

  I jumped in the shower and rehearsed what I was going to say. I muttered to myself as I roughly towel-dried my hair. I didn’t put on any make-up, and wore my plain shorts and a T-shirt. I couldn’t be kind, I needed to be straightforward. There was no future here. I had been upfront about that.

  I thumped down the stairs and there he was, all gorgeous, charming my aunt, even making my frosty grandmother laugh along with him. She grew stony when I arrived, her gaze focusing out of the window suddenly. Salvatore’s smile widened as he saw me.

  ‘Ah, here she is!’ Allegra cooed, patting my arm as I arrived. ‘Something to eat?’

  I shook my head, smiling tightly.

  Salvatore walked over, placing the takeaway cup of coffee on the counter in front of me, his eyes meeting mine. He wanted me to understand the symbol. He’d been trying to tell me for a while. He was out of luck.

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t feel like coffee this morning.’

  He frowned at me, tilting his head to the side. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘I don’t really like coffee, actually,’ I said, looking past him to the blue tiles on the counter, flicking them with my nail. ‘I definitely couldn’t drink coffee every morning. I think you should give someone else this coffee.’

  ‘Mia—’

  I shook my head, meeting his eyes.

  ‘Can we talk outside?’ he asked, gesturing towards the door.

  ‘Nothing to say. We fixed up the shop. The rest is up to you and Antonio.’

  He stepped closer, lowering his voice. ‘If this is about the other night—’

  ‘It’s not. It’s just about being realistic. I’m here to have fun.’ I watched as the hurt reached his eyes, as he pressed his lips together and nodded. ‘I’m not the girl… you bring coffee to. So, good luck with the shop. I’m sure it’ll be great.’

  He was composed, I’d give him that. A stiff upper lip a British guy would be proud of. He nodded once, not meeting my eyes.

  ‘Okay. Well, thank you for all your help.’

  He nodded at Allegra, and waved at my nonna as he left.

  Nikki rounded on me. ‘What the hell was that?’

  I picked up the coffee, pouring the liquid down the sink and throwing away the cup. ‘Absolutely nothing at all.’

  I started to walk out of the room, when suddenly my grandmother started speaking, a bullet spray of Italian consonants, firing across the room. Her hands were moving erratically, and she pointed at me.

  I turned to Allegra, who shook her head, before talking to her mother in Italian, gentle and calming. She had her hands up in defeat at Nonna’s rapid reply.

  They argued back and forth a while, before I decided I’d had enough. I walked over to my grandmother, towering over the stubborn old bird. She was small and wiry, her black dress hanging over skinny legs. Her white hair was tied back in a slick, tight bun, and her eyebrows wriggled in distaste.

  ‘Talk to me,’ I said loudly. ‘Look at me. I’m your granddaughter, and you don’t even see me!’ I was yelling and couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t tell if she understood, her face unchanging as she regarded me. At least she was seeing me, for once. ‘I didn’t take her away, I wasn’t the one who made her leave here. I didn’t kill her. I loved her and I miss
her and I have no one!’

  Her dark eyes were unmoving, and she didn’t even blink as I swept past her and out of the door. The problem was, I realized, once I’d left, I didn’t have anywhere to go. I didn’t have the shop, and I didn’t have a home. I was surrounded by strangers, and all I wanted was to be at home, where everything was familiar. Except, even back home, what did I have?

  As I stamped down towards the harbour, I carried on walking, following the trail of the beach and up past Nikki’s bar. I watched as the tourists fanned themselves out in chattering groups, slathered themselves in suntan lotion, giggling at the morning chill of the ocean. I didn’t do anything but walk, until I reached the end of the beach, and climbed up, from one rock to another, until I was sitting at the top of the big boulder at the end of the island, looking down on it.

  I reached into the back pocket of my shorts and pulled out my mobile, cringing at how much the call was going to cost, but dialling the number anyway.

  ‘Please pick up, please.’ I closed my eyes, crossed my fingers.

  ‘Mia? Hey, baby!’ The voice was a balm, and I sighed in relief. ‘Mia, you there? It’s been ages!’

  ‘Sav?’ I hiccupped. ‘Savvy? Everything’s gone to shit.’

  She made a gentle laughing noise. ‘When is it not, petal? What’s up?’

  It felt so good to have someone ask me what was wrong and actually tell them the truth, actually trust them to listen, to let someone know me.

  I spoke and spoke, for longer in one go than I had in weeks. And she listened, my best friend, she said nothing, just made comforting noises when I paused, or cried.

  ‘It’s coming, soon, Sav. It’s almost time. And it’s all too much. I came here thinking I could reconnect with my family, find out some things about my mum…’

  ‘And you have, haven’t you? You’ve heard lovely memories about your mum, and you know your cousin, and your aunt? You met that old guy with the shop, you got to flirt with a hot guy… it doesn’t have to be all or nothing, petal.’