‘Oh no, you cut my chin off in that one, you funny man!’ she shrieked ten minutes ago. I heard her from all the way across the lawn, where I was directing the other eight members of the group to the nearest café, and I couldn’t help but cringe. Wherever you go in the world, there always seem to be some British tourists behaving embarrassingly and totally letting the side down. Another English lady named Sue, who has brought her son Tim along on the tour with her, caught my eye just as Gladys was letting rip, and I can tell she feels my pain. Tim, meanwhile, hasn’t said much to me at all yet. Looking at him, I’d guess he’s in his mid-twenties, but it’s hard to tell, because every time I’ve approached him for a chat, he’s mumbled something incoherent, buried his red face into the neck of his coat, and hurried away. Way to give a girl a complex, Tim.
The remaining members of the group – those apparently not afraid or repulsed by the sight of me – wisely agreed that an hour was more than long enough to spend outside in this temperature, but Gladys is refusing to go anywhere until she has the perfect picture.
‘Agatha, my dear, will you please have a go? Will-yum is all fingers and thumbs with this camera, aren’t you, Will-yum?’
‘Fingers and thumbs,’ he nods with a helpless grin.
The best way I can think to describe Gladys’s ever-patient husband is as a mole. Albeit one with overlarge glasses and a tweed suit, like something out of The Wind in the Willows. And while Bill may act like a parrot, it’s his wife who dresses like one. I don’t think I’ve seen these many colours on a single person since I went to see Joseph and his technicolour dreamcoat at the theatre aged twelve.
‘Are you sure you can lift it?’ Bill jokes limply, handing over the weighty camera. ‘There’s nothing of her, is there, Gladys?’
‘Nothing at all!’ she trills.
What is it about this particular generation that feels it’s acceptable to comment openly on a person’s size and shape? Sometimes I wish that I was knocking sixty, too, so I could brazenly warn Gladys against the perils of too much blusher. Clearly the phrase ‘a little goes a long way’ is not in her vocabulary. Still, I remind myself, lifting the camera up easily and peering through the viewfinder, this quirky pair are exactly the type of client that keeps the Casa Alta in business, and as such I must maintain a polite and professional air around them at all times.
‘Oh no, no, no, Agatha. Oh gosh, no.’
Gladys pouts at me as she examines the first batch of pictures.
‘Did you want more of the villa in the background?’ I guess.
She titters with laughter. ‘Quite the opposite, Agatha. I can barely see myself in any of these. Zoom right in on me, if you will. Remember: I’m the subject matter – the rest is merely setting.’
I try again.
‘Better. Much better – but I can still see the edge of the fountain there, see? I think let’s just focus in on my face this time, OK? Do you think you can do that, Agatha?’
‘Taggie,’ I mutter, just as Bill says, ‘On her face.’
‘Focus on the end prize,’ I mumble to myself, gritting my teeth as I fiddle with the zoom. ‘If you can get through this, then being a proper events manager will feel like a stroll along the lake.’
By the time I manage to bribe Bill and Gladys away from the Villa Olmo and back up to the Casa Alta by promising to point out George Clooney’s house on the way up to Bellagio tomorrow, the light is drawing in. In December, the sun falls rapidly from its low position in the sky, and darkness seems to arrive all of a sudden, without warning. The sun sets behind the surrounding mountains rather than on the water, taking its faint but comforting warmth with it, and you can go swiftly from basking on the shores of the lake to shivering there in the pitch dark. It’s only just gone five p.m., but losing the light has made me feel instantly tired, and as soon as I’ve prised myself away from the group, I head into the bar in search of Shelley.
‘You look terrible,’ is her greeting, as I clamber up on to one of the stools.
‘Gee, thanks,’ I groan, laying my arms on top of the bar and then resting my head on them. ‘You sound like Gladys.’
‘Who?’ Shelley asks.
‘Never mind.’
‘You done for the day now?’ she enquires, selecting an empty wine glass from the shelf by her waist and holding it up.
‘I wish,’ I grumble, shaking my head at her offer of a drink. ‘I’ve promised to have dinner with the whole group tonight.’
‘That bad, are they?’ Shelley remarks sympathetically, putting her blonde head on one side. It’s not the first time a member of staff has sat at her bar and bemoaned the guests.
‘No,’ I say, feeling guilty. ‘They’re fine. Some of them are, anyway. There’s a young guy called Tim who runs away every time I go near him, and a couple who could quite easily have walked straight off the set of a Carry On film. No, I’m being unfair now. I’m just tired, I guess.’
‘I thought you got an early night yesterday,’ Shelley replies. And of course, she would assume that. Hadn’t I run out on drinks with her and Marco because I needed to get into bed and do some reading for today’s tour? In truth, I had done no such thing. I’d rung Mum back, because I’d been ignoring her all day, then I’d sat with my laptop down here in the deserted bar, looking through old photos. I should know better by now than to pull at the thread of the past, but chatting to my mum brought back things that I’d been doing my best to ignore, and last night the need overcame me. Now I wish I’d been stronger.
‘I tried,’ I say, sidestepping the ugly truth. ‘But I couldn’t get to sleep.’
‘Too busy thinking about Marco?’ she guesses, and I laugh in answer because she’s so far from the truth.
‘Are you sure?’ She peers at me, trying to tell whether or not I’m blushing.
‘Very sure. I told you, he’s not really my type.’
‘Tall, dark, handsome and charming is everyone’s type,’ Shelley argues. ‘And you could do a lot worse.’
‘Why don’t you go for it if you like him so much?’ I ask, genuinely curious. In all the months I’ve known Shelley, I’ve never once known her to shy away from what she wants.
‘Oh, I would, believe me,’ she says, arranging some empty dishes along the bar and reaching for an industrial-sized bag of pistachio nuts. ‘But there’s no point when it’s so obvious that he likes you.’
‘He does not,’ I counter instantly, but Shelley simply eyes me over the upturned bag of nuts.
‘Even if he does, there’s no point,’ I say adamantly. ‘Because I’m not interested in him or any other man. I mean it. He would be wasting his energy.’
Shelley surprises me then by reaching across and lightly squeezing my arm.
‘Whatever it is that happened to you,’ she says gently, ‘it doesn’t mean you have to swear off all men for life.’
‘Nothing happened to me,’ I lie, dropping my eyes before she can fix me with one of her Shelley-knows-best stares. ‘I’m just happy as I am, that’s all.’
I can’t stand the way she’s looking at me, as if she feels sorry for me. I may have started leaking water like an incontinent old tortoise lately, but I’m still me; I’m still a tough Torres – and that’s the way I intend to stay.
‘How do you know for sure that he likes me anyway?’ I can’t help but ask her then, and she immediately stops filling her dishes so she can rub her hands together with glee.
‘Well, he basically told me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘As soon as you left last night, he asked me if you were OK. Then he wanted to know if you were seeing anyone, and how long you’d been in Como, and how well you knew the place. It was all he would talk about for the best part of an hour.’
Now I am blushing. I hope Shelley can’t tell.
‘It’s only because he can tell I’m not into him,’ I say knowingly. ‘He’s so used to girls eating out of his hand – finding one who doesn’t has intrigued him.’
‘It
could be that,’ she allows. ‘But I think he does genuinely like you. It’s not so much what he says as the way he says it, and the look he gets on his face when he’s talking about you.’
‘Now you’re being silly,’ I chide, but she shakes her head until her pigtails swing.
‘No, I mean it. If I was in any doubt, you know I would’ve gone for it and thrown myself at him. You know as well as I do that I have zero shame.’
I can’t argue with that, so I merely smile.
‘You should give him a chance to prove himself,’ she persists. ‘What harm can one date do?’
I think back to all those weeks where I could barely get out of bed in the morning, when my legs would shake with the weight of carrying around my broken heart and I could sit, for hours, staring into the dark recesses of my bedroom back at my parents’ house, wishing that the world would curl inwards and swallow me whole.
‘A lot,’ I say, getting down off the stool and giving Shelley a deflated smile. ‘Now, I’d better go and get myself ready for this dinner.’
‘Good luck,’ she offers, as I turn to go, but I can sense that she’s far from finished with the subject of Marco.
14
Lucy
I knew this was a mad idea.
We’ve been walking uphill for over an hour now, and the small town of Brunate is still nowhere to be seen. What began as a series of concrete steps and steep, but paved, stretches of path, have now merged into a stony and leaf-covered track, which feels as if it’s going nowhere at all. On one side, a thick and twisted forest looms above us, clinging to the side of the slope, while on the other is a barely interrupted view of Como, the lake, and the spread of distant mountains beyond. There was one moment about ten minutes ago, just as we came across a rusty old sign with the word ‘Brunate’ painted across it, when the two of us were jubilant.
‘We must be close,’ Pete had panted, peering upwards through the dense foliage. ‘Just over the next ridge, I reckon.’
He had been wrong. Oh, so wrong.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask him now, making my way back down the rough, mud-covered steps to where Pete has just collapsed against a fallen log.
‘No,’ he admits, looking up at me. ‘I’m bloody knackered!’
I know this already, and I also know he’s very thirsty, because the adorable fool’s been saying it at two-minute intervals ever since we left the safe vicinity of the lake, where there were shops and cafés. Unfortunately for him, there is nothing on this walk up the side of the mountain except trees, parked cars, the odd house and, of course, the continually astounding views. The latter was enough to spur Pete on until he began to feel the effects of the climb, but for the past mile or so his thirst and fatigue has been winning the battle against the local aesthetics.
‘Why don’t we admit defeat now?’ I suggest brightly, in the same voice that I use to chivvy patients into sitting still to have their stitches removed.
‘You want to give up?’ he replies hopefully, wiping a hand across his hot forehead. ‘I mean, I’m sure I can keep going, but if you’re tired, then I don’t want to make you carry on.’
‘I am getting a bit tired,’ I agree, forcing myself not to laugh. The both of us know full well that Pete is the one who wants to abandon our climb, but I’m happy to humour him this once.
‘It’s not like it’s been a total waste of time,’ I continue lightly, taking a seat beside him on the fallen tree. ‘We’ve taken some amazing photos – and met those nice dogs.’
‘Ha!’ he states, pulling a disbelieving face. I’m joking, of course, because the dogs we encountered were anything but nice. In fact, they barked, snarled and showed their teeth as we made our weary way past their fenced-in garden a few minutes ago.
‘What if I’d been a little old lady?’ he says now. ‘Those monsters would have scared me into having a heart attack.’
Given his slightly beaten-down mood, I decide against pointing out the obvious, which is that no little old lady in her right mind would attempt the hike that we had. Or little young lady, for that matter. I know Pete’s only feeling out of sorts because he’s desperate for some water, and not because the hill is proving less of a struggle to me than it is to him. I had no idea I was so fit, but I suppose working all those hours on my feet in the Accident and Emergency department has paid off. Pete does play rugby at the weekends and lifts weights in the gym, but the rest of the time he works in a radio studio, sitting on his lovely bottom all day long, whereas I barely get a moment to pause, let alone rest.
‘It’s probably going to get dark soon,’ I add, squeezing his shoulder. The climb has made him so hot that he’s removed his waterproof coat and tied it awkwardly around his waist, and his handsome face is the same colour as my dad’s rhubarb crumble. This is the first time since we’ve met that I’ve known him to be anything but completely affable, but it’s actually more amusing than troubling. This is how I know I have it bad.
‘You should keep going up,’ he says now, like some sort of ridiculous fallen soldier. ‘I know you’re not really tired – you’d probably be at the top now if it wasn’t for me.’
I laugh out loud at that. ‘As if!’
‘You would be,’ he argues. ‘You’ve barely even broken a sweat, woman. Who are you, She-Ra?’
‘Trust me, I’m She-Really-Worn-Out,’ I joke, fanning my face with my hand. ‘Brunate is one thousand six hundred feet above lake level, it says so in the guidebook – that is damn high. And anyway, it’s not safe for either of us to carry on without any water. All we’ve drunk today is beer, Prosecco and vin brulé – no wonder you’re feeling the effects. That’s probably all it is, Pete, just dehydration.’
I hear him take a deep breath as he admits defeat, then he wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer.
‘Thank you,’ he mutters.
‘For what?’
‘For knowing me better than I know myself,’ he says, meeting my eyes with his own as I turn to look at him in surprise. ‘And for not making me feel bad about being an out-of-shape wimp.’
‘You’re not a wimp,’ I say, holding his gaze. ‘You’re amazing is what you are – meeting you has been even more exciting than finding the prize in a box of cereal.’
Pete smiles at the childhood metaphor, then shakes his head. ‘If you knew the—’ He stops abruptly, chewing on his bottom lip and looking back down at the ginger hairs that are beginning to stand up along his bare forearms. I shiver in sympathy, or is it with uninvited trepidation? I can’t be sure.
‘If I knew what?’ I ask gently, leaning aside as he unknots the sleeves of his coat and puts it back on.
‘The things I’ve done,’ he says, his voice small. ‘Things I’m not very proud of.’
‘We’ve all done things we shouldn’t,’ I soothe, shamefully picturing the hidden shoebox in his wardrobe, my hands as they lifted the lid, my incriminating fingerprints on the sticky surface of those photos.
‘Yes, but …’ He stops again, and I make myself wait. ‘I sometimes feel bad that I met you,’ he blunders on, frowning with frustration as if his words are coming out all wrong. ‘I mean, I don’t feel bad that I met you, of course I don’t. But it was … Sorry, I’m not making any sense, am I?’
I’ve started shivering again, but it’s nothing to do with the cold. There’s an edge to his words, and if I had to describe it, my best guess would be that he’s distressed. It’s not an obvious, hands-over-face and hair-tearing sorrow, but it is undeniable nonetheless. What is he getting at here? Has he cheated on me already – is that what he meant by doing things he’s not proud of? Does he think we’re doomed? Is he planning to dump me before we get too serious?
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I tell him quickly, my voice sounding far more resolute than I feel. ‘I promise you that. I’m yours for as long as you’ll have me.’
I know I’m panicking and should instead be playing it cool, but there’s no stopping the words now that I’ve let them out.
>
Pete looks at me again, his blue eyes shot through with speckles of gold. The sunlight here in Como makes them shine even brighter than usual.
‘Do you really mean that, Lulu?’ he asks, his voice sounding husky, as if it may crack.
‘I do,’ I say, nodding to further illustrate the point. ‘I don’t know what it is you think you’ve done, but whatever it is, it won’t change the way I feel about you. Well, not unless you’ve murdered someone. You’re not secretly a serial killer, are you?’
He laughs at that, clearly relieved.
‘No, I’m definitely not a murderer.’
‘Well, then,’ I say, patting his hand, grateful that we’re both wearing gloves, so he won’t be able to tell how nervously clammy mine have become. ‘You don’t have anything to worry about.’
Pete adjusts his position as the cold hurries up with the wind, and wraps his arm further around my shoulders. He is holding on to me tightly, almost as if he’s scared that I’ll run away. It’s the same thing he does when he’s asleep, too – reaches out unconsciously and clings to me like a clam to a rock. He’s the first boyfriend I’ve ever had who doesn’t turn his back on me once the lights are out, and his need to keep hold of me is such a comfort. What I need to do is remember this feeling when I’m freaking out about a mysterious phone call or a glamorous ex-girlfriend.
This would be a good moment to ask him again about that call from Manny. Or perhaps even probe into the subject of his ex, the girl I can’t seem to get out of my head no matter how hard I try. Whether it’s the fear of what Pete will say that makes me hesitate, I’m not sure. But just as I’m about to open my mouth and see what comes out, Pete stands up and takes my hand.
The Place We Met Page 9