The Place We Met

by Isabelle Broom

‘Well, then, he can’t be Italian.’

  It’s a running joke between the two of us that Italian men are, for the most part, rather lacking in the height department. It’s totally unfair, of course, because as we both know, there are probably plenty of lanky locals mooching around Lake Como – it’s just that every time the two of us venture out on a rare night off, all we seem to encounter are the small ones. I can’t complain, being the minuscule little imp that I am, but poor Shelley is a much more average five foot five or so, and she only fancies men who are six foot or over.

  ‘He’s very exotic-looking,’ she continues, her expression going all dreamy. ‘And the arms. Oh, the arms …’

  ‘Pervert!’ I quip, swerving backwards to avoid her indignant swipe.

  ‘Will you come with me to the restaurant he works at next week?’ she pleads.

  She knows full well that I can never say no to her.

  ‘OK,’ I agree. ‘But only if you promise not to do anything embarrassing, like attempt to set us up.’

  ‘As if I would,’ she replies, but her tone is playful.

  ‘I mean it,’ I scold, trying my best to sound firm. ‘I’m not looking for a man – not now, and not ever.’

  ‘You say that now,’ she retorts, heading over to where the glass washer has just finished a cycle and is beeping incessantly. ‘But just you wait till you see him.’

  4

  Lucy

  ‘Lake Como?’

  Pete stares down at the piece of paper in his hands and then back up at me.

  ‘Please say you’ve never been!’ I plead, crossing my fingers behind my back.

  ‘No, I haven’t. But this is too much, Lulu – I can’t let you pay for a whole holiday.’

  ‘Why not?’ I say, reaching for his hands, unable to stop myself from touching him, even for a minute. ‘It’s a gift to myself as much as you. I used to love it there as a child, and I’ve always promised myself that I’d go back one day. And who better to go with than you, my most favourite person in the whole world?’

  ‘Most favourite person?’ he queries, dimpling.

  ‘Yes,’ I concur, kissing his upturned mouth. ‘But don’t let on to Julia that I said that – she’d never let me hear the end of it.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Pete mutters. ‘Your big sister scares the crap out of me.’

  ‘Me too,’ I laugh, and he gets to his feet and pulls me against him for another kiss, thanking me over and over again for booking such an amazing trip.

  We’re standing in the small kitchen of my rented flat in Finsbury Park, which I share with two other nurses from the hospital. It makes sense for us all to live together, given the erratic hours that we keep, but this evening I’m pleased that neither one of them is at home. Stella, the youngest of the two, is probably out on yet another date. Despite encountering a seemingly never-ending supply of flaky men – so many that one of her friends jokingly wrapped her up a bottle of anti-dandruff shampoo as part of her birthday present a month ago – she continues in her tireless quest to find Mr Right. Luckily for me, I didn’t have to go out and search for Pete – he walked right into my life as if placed there by fate.

  ‘This yours?’ Pete asks, holding up a part-finished wedge of Stilton. He has this habit of rummaging through the fridge whenever he comes over, and I like it because it means he feels at home here, which in turn must mean that he feels relaxed with me – and relaxed equals happy. I’ve only been to his place in Finchley twice since we started dating, because he’s been in the process of redecorating it for months. Aside from a large double bed, one wardrobe, a beaten-up leather sofa and a few bottles of men’s shower gel in the bathroom, everything else is packed away or under a dust sheet.

  ‘Help yourself,’ I trill, making a mental note to buy some more from the deli down the road before Gareth, my other flatmate and owner of said smelly delicacy, notices that it’s gone.

  ‘It’s a good thing you’re a cheese fan,’ I add, passing him the crackers and a knife from the drawer. ‘There’ll be plenty of the stuff at Lake Como.’

  Pete pauses with the Stilton-laden cracker halfway to his mouth. He came here straight from his weekly rugby game with the lads, as he refers to them, and his curly ginger hair is still wet from the changing room shower. I’ve always loved his colouring, the way his pale skin looks almost luminous and his bright blue eyes seem to glow. He’s also reassuringly tall and bulky, with strong, muscular thighs and stocky arms. It’s nice to be with a man who doesn’t make me feel as if my size-fourteen frame is something to be ashamed of. When Pete pulls me down on to his lap, I can relax all my weight against him rather than try to prop myself up awkwardly with one foot. He makes me feel delicate and feminine, which is something I never thought I’d experience, and slowly but surely, I’m even starting to lose my inhibitions and be confident with my clothes off. I’m not quite there yet, but with every encounter that we share, I feel a layer of my self-hate peel away like skin from an onion.

  ‘You’re going to have to let me pay half for this trip, at least, Lucy,’ he says now, eyeing me over the cracker. ‘What will the lads say if they find out I let my girlfriend shell out for my holiday?’

  He’s never referred to me as his girlfriend before, and I’m forced to quell an excitable squeal.

  ‘I won’t tell them if you don’t,’ I say coyly, wondering if now is a good time to bring up the subject of finally meeting these hallowed ‘lads’. As far as I can tell from Pete’s casual mentions and the digging I’ve done on Facebook, there are four of them in the main gang, which includes Sean, the only one I have actually met. In fact, I have him in part to thank for bringing the two of us together.

  Pete laughs away my comment and finishes his cracker, chewing thoughtfully as he raises the knife to attack the lump of smelly cheese for the second time.

  ‘I’d really prefer it if you let me pay my way, Lulu,’ he says, looking down at his plate rather than me. ‘Please say you agree.’

  ‘Of course I do, you daft ape,’ I say, reaching over to pinch a few crumbs. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  Clearly it means a lot to him, because the next second Pete is back up on his feet again and has picked me up in the air.

  ‘Put me down!’ I cry, albeit half-heartedly, giggling as he begins to twirl me around in a circle.

  ‘You know what, Lu?’ he says, sliding me slowly to the ground.

  ‘What?’ I beam at him.

  ‘You’re bloody amazing, do you know that?’

  ‘If you say so …’

  ‘I mean it.’ He fixes me with serious eyes. ‘I care about you very much, I really do.’

  I swallow the lump that’s just formed in my throat and laugh nervously.

  ‘I care about you, too.’

  Once Pete has transferred a healthy chunk of cash into my account using just his phone – oh, the wonders of technology – we spend the rest of the evening cuddled up together on the sofa, my laptop balanced on my knees and ‘Lake Como’ typed into the search engine. Pete seems suitably impressed when I bring up photos of the apartment I’ve rented for the two of us, which is only a few streets away from the lake. There’s a king-sized four-poster bed and a tub big enough for two, and I’ve emailed the owners already to ask for a chilled bottle of Prosecco to be left out for our arrival. I’m determined that this trip will be as romantic as possible.

  We’re both thrilled when we discover that Como is hosting a Christmas market this year, complete with ice rink, and that the annual fireworks display will take place as usual on New Year’s Eve. It’s a big deal that Pete is happy to spend his New Year with me as opposed to his mates, and I had been worried that this detail would put him off the idea of the whole holiday. Now I see that I was being silly. I mean, who wouldn’t want to spend their New Year somewhere as beautiful as Como?

  Just as we’re scouring Trip Advisor for ideas of where to eat, Pete’s mobile lights up with a call. Like me, he habitually keeps his phone on silent most of the t
ime because of his job. He works as a radio producer for a sports show that’s based over in West London, which is apparently nowhere near as glamorous as it sounds – not according to Pete, anyway.

  ‘Who is it?’ I enquire, when it becomes apparent that he isn’t going to answer.

  ‘Nobody.’ He drops the handset back on the table. ‘It can wait.’

  I know the names of his closest mates – Sean, Chris, Stuart and Lozza – so I know it wasn’t one of them calling.

  ‘Manny’s an unusual name,’ I probe gently. He knows I saw his phone; there’s no point pretending that I didn’t.

  ‘I suppose it is,’ he says with a shrug, turning back to the laptop and looking steadfastly at the screen. ‘This place, Insalateria La Vita é Bella, looks nice – over fifty different salads on the menu, apparently.’

  ‘Yummy,’ I manage, but inside my guts are churning with unease. Why didn’t he want to talk to this Manny person? Is Manny the name of an ex-girlfriend? Is she unable to move on and was calling to beg him to take her back? Or maybe Manny is a girl he works with, some young intern with a twenty-three-inch waist and boobs up to her chin. Whoever it is, Pete doesn’t want me to know, and that means there must be a reason.

  ‘Lulu?’

  ‘What?’ I reply, my suspicions souring my tone before I have the chance to rein it in.

  Pete looks momentarily miffed, and points to something on the laptop screen.

  ‘George Clooney,’ he says, his mouth set in a line. ‘Apparently, he has a house on Lake Como.’

  ‘He does,’ I reply, smiling with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. ‘It’s called Villa Oleandra, right?’

  ‘Someone’s been reading their copies of heat magazine,’ he appraises jokingly, but there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. I shouldn’t have snapped at him like I did just now. I hate that my mind always does this, twists something innocent into a dark tangle of confusion and leaves me on edge. Why can’t I just trust that Pete isn’t hiding anything from me? Aside from choosing not to take me out to meet the lads, he hasn’t done anything to make me doubt him, yet here I go again, jumping to the worst possible conclusions. No wonder my previous relationships ended so catastrophically.

  ‘Perks of working somewhere with a waiting room,’ I say, hoping the extra helping of cheerfulness I’ve dolloped into the delivery will go some way towards making up for my stroppiness.

  Pete is still squinting at the screen, but I can sense that he’s starting to relax again. His shoulders are no longer raised and he’s tapping his foot on the floor.

  ‘Are you feeling a bit stiff after the rugby?’ I ask sweetly, as he stretches both his big arms above his head.

  ‘I am a bit,’ he allows, turning to face me. ‘Why? Are you offering to play nurse?’

  ‘I was thinking more of a massage to begin with,’ I tell him, running a finger slowly along his bicep. ‘But I’ll get out my stethoscope if you ask really nicely …’

  And just like that, my silly reaction to the phone call is forgotten and Pete is putty in my hands again. How great it must be, I think to myself as I unbutton his shirt and run my hands expertly across his firm chest, to be able to distract yourself so easily. I know that in just a few hours’ time, Pete will be soundly asleep beside me, while I will lie awake for ages, a single question playing over and over in my mind.

  Who is Manny?

  5

  Taggie

  ‘Vin brulé for the lady.’

  I take the plastic cup from Shelley with grateful fingers, sighing with pleasure as the heat from the hot wine begins to defrost my frozen hands.

  ‘Grazie,’ I say, smiling at my blonde friend through the steam.

  We’ve decided to stroll through the Christmas Market on our way to the restaurant, and I can feel my spirits leaping with every step we take. I love Como at this time of year, when the days are bright and crisp and the nights festooned with fairy lights. In contrast to the sweltering summer months, when you can barely fight your way along the pavements and across the piazzas due to the volume of tourists, the winter season is calmer and less frenetic. The mood is one of expectant joy, as the locals luxuriate in the relative peace and quiet, content to sit by the water with their dogs by their sides, sipping strong espressos and tossing handfuls of breadcrumbs to the gulls as they jostle for position among the ever-present pigeons. For a few months, everyone gets their town back, and this year, for the first time ever, I feel like a little piece of Como belongs to me, too.

  There’s been a period of adjustment, of course. After all, Como could not be more different to London, where people would rather lick the pavement than make eye contact, and you’re as likely to get a friendly ‘good morning’ from a stranger as you are to get a seat on the Tube during rush hour. In Como, everyone takes the time to greet you and ask how you are. Men look you in the eye and aren’t afraid to tell you politely and sincerely how nice you look, which is a refreshing change from the catcalling louts hanging off scaffolding or out of the windows of white vans back in London. Car horns here honk, but in a friendly rather than irate way, and nothing is ever too much trouble in a restaurant or café. Service in Como is always with a smile, and that feeling is infectious. Being here has been such a tonic.

  ‘Taggie – look at this!’

  Shelley has come to a halt in front of a stall selling alpaca hats, scarves and pashminas, but it’s a comedy photo of the creatures that she’s pointing at.

  ‘I think I went out with him once,’ I joke, gesturing at the toothiest of the three. Alpacas are so odd-looking, but hugely appealing all the same. I vaguely remember a former client of mine in my last PR job had bought two for his farm, only to have them cause all sorts of trouble.

  ‘I’m thinking of getting a cat,’ Shelley says as we walk away, and I scoff.

  ‘What? What’s wrong with cats?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I grin, hunching my shoulders against the cold and sipping my hot wine. It’s sweet and delicious, with hints of cinnamon and blackberries. ‘Except that they’re not dogs.’

  I have wanted a dog of my own for as long as I can remember, but thank God I never got one. Running away to Italy might not have been so easy with a pet in tow.

  Shelley is still talking about the breed of cat she wants, telling me that she’d love a Munchkin, so called because of their very short legs.

  ‘I wouldn’t wish short legs on anyone,’ I say immediately, making her laugh. I’m feeling extra-tiny today because I left my heels back at the hotel in favour of flat boots. Como’s pavements are predominantly covered in cobbles, which this evening are coated in a layer of frost, and a broken ankle is not something I can afford to have right now. Or ever, for that matter. I do feel ridiculous, though, and joke to Shelley that she’ll have to ask this hot waiter of hers to fetch me a booster seat when we reach the restaurant. I’ve been referring to him as ‘her waiter’ ever since she first mentioned him last week, in the hope that she’ll forget all about her original plan to hook the two of us up.

  No such luck.

  ‘Ciao, buona sera!’

  Shelley hurries through the door of La Vita é Bella and over to where the tall, dark-haired object of her desire is lounging casually against the bar. He’s facing away from the entrance, and from my position by the counter I can see that he is a good head taller than her, but not so lanky as to earn himself giant status. He’s dressed in dark-blue jeans, a white shirt and a tatty green apron and, like many of the Italians in Como, it looks as if he’s plastered an obscene amount of gel into his thick black hair.

  I emit a small cough, already impatient to sit down so we can order some food, but when the two of them turn at the sound and make their way towards me, all I’m aware of is an instant and urgent compulsion to flee. Shelley’s companion, who is now peering down at me with what could only be described as ill-disguised amusement, is, in fact, the man I met on the beach. The very same man who, just a couple of months ago, plucked me heroical
ly out of the lake in the manner of some boundless hero in a Jane Austen novel. Oh. Dear. God.

  ‘Ciao, signorina,’ he says, smiling across at me. It’s the accepted custom for the two of us to exchange a kiss on either cheek, but instead I offer him a far more English outstretched hand, which he takes and shakes with good humour.

  ‘Marco, this is Taggie.’ Shelley is in her element. ‘Taggie, meet Marco.’

  ‘It is nice to meet you,’ he says carefully, his Italian accent still apparent despite the fact that he’s reverted to English. I remember how easily he slipped into it before, and feel a hot flush start to creep across my cheeks.

  ‘You too,’ I reply, forcing myself to look hard at the wall instead of him.

  Marco picks up a couple of menus and leads us back through the doorway and into the outside seating area, which is rectangular in shape, with glass walls and a roof. Plants hang down from the ceiling and music plays quietly from a radio in one corner. Thanks to the addition of several fan heaters, it’s wonderfully toasty inside, and I’ve shrugged off my thick coat before we’ve even sat down.

  ‘It’s hot enough to grow lemons in here,’ I say, trying not to gawp at Marco’s departing bottom. Shelley has ordered us an Aperol Spritz each to drink while we peruse the menu.

  ‘So …’ she whispers conspiratorially. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Of the restaurant?’ I ask, playing deliberately dumb. ‘It’s really nice.’

  Shelley pulls a face. ‘Not the restaurant, you wally – Marco!’

  ‘Shhh,’ I hiss, as the man himself returns with a middle-aged Italian couple in his wake. I hear the woman mutter something and fan her face in an exaggerated manner, so I can only assume that she’s just commented on the temperature in this weird little greenhouse. Marco gestures up at the condensation-covered glass ceiling and pulls a face, and the three of them share a laugh. Italians are always laughing; it’s one of the things I like most about them.

  ‘Not even you can deny that he’s gorgeous,’ Shelley continues, as soon as the coast is clear.