The Place We Met

by Isabelle Broom

  ‘Come on, beautiful – let’s get the hell off this hill and find ourselves a drink.’

  15

  Taggie

  I can still remember the first time I ever came to Lake Como, which is quite impressive, really, given that I was only five years old at the time. My parents had debated the choice of location at length, concerned that I would find little to entertain me amongst the narrow cobbled streets or on the stony shores, but they needn’t have worried. I adored Como from the very moment we drove around that final mountain corner and I saw the clear blue sky reflected in the water below.

  I’m not sure if it’s because I’m an only child, but I always was grown-up for my age, and can clearly remember being impatient with the slow passing of time when I was young. I wanted to be old enough to stay up late, to eat off one of the large plates using the adult cutlery, to raise my own glass of wine in a toast at one of my parents’ numerous dinner parties. Being deemed ‘not old enough’ to do things was something I found tremendously frustrating – and being below average height only seemed to exacerbate the problem. There were rides at the fair that I wasn’t allowed to go on, clothes I couldn’t wear and, a few years later, pubs that kept their doors resolutely closed to me, despite the fact that all my underage college friends seemed to be served alcohol with no questions asked.

  ‘You’ll be glad of it when you’re older, Taggie,’ my mum would say. ‘You’ll still look twenty-one when you’re forty, unlike me.’

  My mum has never tried to hide the fact that she’s envious of my darker colouring, being pale, freckled and mousy-haired herself. When we’d visit Como during the summer months, she’d sit defiantly on a deckchair in the full glare of the sun, and I’d wince in sympathy as her skin turned an angry shade of red in protest. This, coupled with an unfortunate fondness for the odd cigarette or twelve, has left the skin on her face and chest lined and coarse as she’s reached middle age, whereas my own, in comparison, has remained as smooth and unblemished as the bonnet of a car in a garage showroom. Today, however, I can see a change for the first time, and I squint into the mirror to make sure I’m not imagining things. Nope, that is definitely the beginnings of some frown lines.

  Sighing deeply and wrinkling up my nose in disgust, I reach into my make-up bag for a pot of concealer and then think better of it. It’s only a few fine lines, after all. And it’s not as if there’s anyone in Como that I’m trying to impress. I got out of the habit of wearing much make-up during my last relationship. We’d been together for so long that he was more than simply my boyfriend – he was my best mate, the only person on the planet that I would feel comfortable talking to about anything, the one other soul that I trusted with my deepest fears and my secret vulnerabilities. Well, I thought he was.

  As an image of him floods into my mind, I catch sight of my expression again and realise that I’m frowning. So, he is the one to blame for these new etchings of weariness on my face, just as he is the one I hold responsible for the bottom no longer being intact in my world, but rather a floating jetty of uncertainty. I drop my eyes from the mirror. That’s quite enough dwelling for one morning.

  I find my group of budding artists huddled together in the wide tiled hallway at the bottom of the stairs, their cheeks collectively pink after what I know would have been an excellent breakfast, and expressions of expectant joy on most of their faces. It doesn’t take me long to spot Gladys and Bill, who today are clad in bright red his-and-hers fleeces, because they are the only two in the group who don’t appear to be very happy, and I brace myself as they bustle forwards to greet me.

  ‘Agatha,’ cries Gladys, flapping her hands up and down like an agitated bat. ‘There you are. We didn’t know where you were. I said to Will-yum, “Do you think we scared her off last night?” And he laughed so hard that he choked on his hot chocolate, didn’t you, Will-yum?’

  Bill nods earnestly in agreement. ‘I did – on my hot chocolate.’

  ‘We thought we’d see you at breakfast,’ Gladys scolds, giving me the benefit of what I can only assume are her disappointed eyes. I’m starting to feel increasingly like their adopted daughter, and I wonder then if they have any kids of their own. From the manner in which Gladys bosses around anyone in her vicinity, I’d guess that she must be a teacher of some kind – perhaps one of very small children. She definitely seems accustomed to being listened to and obeyed.

  ‘I was hoping to show you some photos of the collection that Will-yum’s been working on back in Kent,’ she says now.

  ‘Oh?’ I manage, before she barrels on with a further flurry of gesticulation.

  ‘Will-yum’s calling it Peach Perfection, but I’m not sure if that conjures up the right image.’

  ‘Are they paintings of fruit?’ I enquire hopefully, and they both chuckle with mirth.

  ‘Oh gosh, no – that would be so bore-snore,’ giggles Gladys, taking Bill’s phone out of his skinny hand and flicking through his photos with her finger.

  ‘Ah, here. This is probably the best one.’

  I peer down at the screen.

  ‘Wow. I mean, wow. You are so …’ I pause.

  ‘Resplendent?’ offers Gladys, using another finger to zoom in on the painted image of her own – rather untamed, it has to be said – bush.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I agree, looking from her, to Bill, to the floor – anywhere but at the image on the phone. ‘And, er, naked.’

  This admission causes the two of them to shake with laughter yet again, and I take advantage of their momentary loss of speech to make my excuses and scurry across the foyer into the office, shutting the door firmly behind me.

  ‘Something the matter?’ enquires Sal, turning from his seat in front of the computer and looking at me curiously.

  My boss is nearing sixty now, with a small, neat paunch and almost completely grey hair. But, like a lot of older Italian men, his advancing years don’t seem to have dulled either his swagger or his self-confidence. If anything, he struts around his beloved Casa Alta with even more sass than the pigeons down by the lake.

  ‘Gladys just showed me a painting of herself that her husband did,’ I tell him, leaning against the wooden door.

  One of Sal’s perfectly groomed eyebrows twitches with mild interest.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, it’s not really what I wanted to see, first thing in the morning,’ I exclaim, checking my watch and grimacing. We need to leave in five minutes if we’re going to stand any chance of reaching the harbour in time to catch the first boat up to Bellagio. I don’t want the group to miss a minute of what is shaping up to be another stunning day, and there’s lots of ground to cover before lunchtime.

  ‘Are you feeling OK today?’ Sal asks then. He’s appraising me, I can tell, and I curse myself for not applying make-up after all.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I assure him, nodding in determination when he raises a disbelieving brow at me.

  ‘You are tired,’ he argues. ‘Your eyes are red and your skin is crumpled.’

  Don’t hold back, Sal. Say what you really think.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I repeat, turning my back to him as I search through one of the desk drawers for the Bellagio street maps. ‘Just traumatised from seeing Gladys and Bill’s Peach Perfection.’

  ‘Che cosa?’ Sal replies, reverting from English to Italian as he’s wont to do.

  ‘Trust me, Sal,’ I tell him, reaching for the door handle. ‘You really don’t want to know.’

  Luckily for me, all thoughts of wrinkles and inappropriate nudity are thankfully swept aside by the beauty of the morning, and as we leave the hotel I pause for a few blissful seconds to drink it all in. The sky is Smurf-skin blue behind the complicated pattern of tree branches, many of which have been stripped of their leaves by the change in season. A mottled frost covers the lawn on either side of the gravel driveway, and its glistening silver surface is polka-dotted with patches of green, where the sun has slipped through gaps and melted the fragile ice.

 
Oh, how I love this place, I think to myself, as I always do, pushing my gloved hands deep into my pockets. I’m so grateful to have it, to be here, and to feel so cocooned in safety by its familiarity. What would I have done if I hadn’t had Como sitting here waiting, ready to shelter me from the misery that had assaulted me with such force? Remaining in London, where it happened, was not an option, and even my childhood home hadn’t felt like the sanctuary I’d hoped it might. There were too many memories, even there, of the times I spent with him. The very fittings and furnishings felt like enemies, the photos I knew my mum had hidden away like ticking time bombs. I would have gone mad if I had stayed there any longer.

  Our brisk stroll down to Como harbour is sound-tracked by birdsong, the hard, broken earth providing a crunching percussion underfoot. The lake is a deep, murky green today, and the opposite shore is shrouded in the mist left there by night. The group are as entranced by the views as I am, with even Gladys hushed into silence by the emerald sparkle of the sunlight on the water, and the rustling sway of the trees.

  The boat is waiting when we arrive, and I’m relieved to see that the upper deck still has plenty of empty seats. It’s never as much fun when you’re forced to sit downstairs, where the tiny scuffed windows offer barely more than a glimpse of the unfolding landscape. I hand over our pile of tickets and usher the group aboard ahead of me, counting heads as they go. Gladys and Bill seem to have adopted a middle-aged German couple during the walk down from the Casa Alta, and I watch, bemused and sympathetic, as the two of them are beckoned into neighbouring seats. I tried to engage Sue’s son Tim in conversation over dinner last night, but he doesn’t seem able to look at me without turning redder than a packet of Maltesers. Am I really so terrifying?

  Once I’m happy that my ladies and gents are all settled and chatting amongst themselves, I decide to give poor, flustered Tim some breathing space and make my way towards the front of the boat in search of an empty chair, thinking as I do so how nice it will be to grab forty minutes of quiet time before the busiest part of my day begins. I’m in luck, too, because there are two places available – one for me, and the other for my coat and bag.

  Using my sleeve to clear a porthole in the condensation covering the window, I arrange myself comfortably on the seat and smile as I feel the boat’s engine tremble into life far below me. Just as we begin moving, however, I’m aware of a shadow falling across me, and a deep Italian voice asking, ‘Can I sit down?’

  Removing my head from where I had already rested it against the glass, I swallow a big sigh, turn around, and immediately feel a rush of heat fill my cheeks. Because standing there, looking unshaven, unrepentant and undeniably bloody attractive, is Marco.

  16

  Lucy

  ‘Look, there’s the boat going up towards Bellagio.’

  Pete follows the direction of my outstretched arm and squints into the middle distance.

  ‘It looks busy,’ he says. ‘I’m glad we decided to get the next one.’

  The pair of us are up in Brunate at last, after walking over from the apartment to the funicolare straight after breakfast this morning. Luckily Pete saw the funny side when it took us barely ten minutes to complete a journey that yesterday we abandoned after a good hour. Spending all this lovely uninterrupted time with my wonderful man is teaching me lots more about him – on a basic level, I now know that as long as Pete’s never too far away from food, beer and plenty of affection, then he’s extremely happy. If any one of those things is found to be lacking, his energy level can plummet like a pebble into a pond. But I feel as if I’m seeing new layers to him, too. The conversations we’re having are more in-depth, and he’s opening up to me about all sorts of things, from his upbringing to why he is and always will be a staunch Labour supporter. It’s the first time we’ve ever really discussed politics, and I’m gratified to know for sure that he sees the world in much the same way as I do, and that he cares for people from all walks of life. It makes me even more sure than I was before that he and my dad will get on well, and I’ve almost blurted out an invitation for Pete and him to meet as soon as we’re back in the UK, only to stop myself at the last minute.

  There have also been several occasions where I’ve caught him simply staring off into space, as if he’s lost within his own thoughts, and I have to gently bring him back to the present moment with a kiss or murmur.

  It’s a flawlessly beautiful day today, even by Como’s standards, and for the past ten minutes or so, Pete and I have been content to simply stand by the edge of the road looking down at the view. The sky is clear, the vast lake an ever-changing kaleidoscope of blues, greens and greys, and the brilliant sunlight is making everything below us sing with clarity. Pete has taken off his hat for once, and his ginger curls are clashing adorably with his cold red ears and matching nose. I decided to tie up my hair today, but I’ve been regretting it ever since we reached the top of the hillside and encountered the wind. Down in Como town, the bulk of the surrounding landscape protects you, but up here the icy draughts seem to work their way through every single layer of clothing, until your very skin is tingling in protest. I’m glad that I have Pete here next to me keeping me warm.

  Brunate itself is a strange but beautiful little hamlet, with a handful of gift shops and cafés, a collection of impressive private villas, several churches, and – rather wonderfully – a lighthouse. It’s got a vaguely timeless atmosphere, as if nothing has been altered for hundreds of years, and I say as much to Pete.

  ‘Did you never come up here when you were a kid, then?’ he asks, keeping his arm wrapped protectively around me as we continue to stroll along the road leading away from the funicolare. There are plenty of cars parked up here, but we’re yet to see one moving, and I try to imagine how it would feel to live in such a quiet place. London never seems to stop moving – it’s like a huge, agitated dragon in comparison to this sleepy hamster of a tiny town – but is that really such a bad thing? Isn’t it better to be surrounded by the throb of life than to be marooned in solitude? I can’t imagine not having people around me, whether that’s family, friends, Pete, or even the patients at the hospital – being alone makes me feel on edge; it always has.

  ‘We didn’t, as far as I can remember,’ I reply, casting my mind back to the final time I ever came here with Julia and my parents. I was fourteen, so it was half a lifetime ago, and back then I was far more interested in getting a tan and shopping for clothes than I was in sightseeing. Because Julia’s a few years older, my mum would persuade my dad to let the two of us spend our days alone, while they took the hire car and went off exploring. Dad never wanted to leave us behind, though, and during that final holiday, it became a huge bone of contention between them. I realise Pete has come to a stop only when my hand snags in his, and I turn to find him looking at me in concern.

  ‘Are you OK, Lulu?’ he asks. ‘You’ve gone very quiet.’

  I take a deep breath. I haven’t divulged any murky details of my parents’ break-up to him yet, only the fact that they are no longer together, but I have a sudden urge to tell him, to share something with him.

  ‘Part of the reason I love this place so much,’ I begin, gesturing with my hand to show that I mean Como, ‘is because for such a long time I associated it with feeling happy. Whenever we came here as a family, it was always so much fun. Well, it was up until the last time.’

  ‘Is that why you haven’t been back until now?’ he asks me gently, and I think before I reply, momentarily distracted by the rustling sound of a bird fighting its way out of a patch of dense shrubbery.

  ‘It’s silly, isn’t it, to hold a place to blame for something?’ I say, and he frowns.

  ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  ‘Haven’t you ever been reluctant to return to a place where something bad happened?’ I ask, and he nods his handsome head up and down a fraction.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s how I felt about this place. The last summer we al
l came here, my mum and dad argued almost every single day. It was the first time I’d ever known them to be so cruel to each other, and it was the start of years of rows and fights – the beginning of the end, if you will. I did worry that I’d still be upset by that association, but I haven’t been at all, not with you here.’

  ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’ Pete says, stepping to one side as a tall Dutch couple make their way past us, all blue-eyed, blonde-haired and statuesque.

  ‘It is.’ I smile at him. ‘I always loved Como so much, and it was sad that my memories of it were tainted. I wanted to come back here with you, partly so I’d be able to create new memories, you see. I wanted to fall in love with the place all over again, like I did before.’

  ‘And are you?’ he prompts, his expression thoughtful and his eyes wide. ‘Falling in love with it?’ Again, I marvel at how easy it is to be mesmerised by him.

  ‘Very much so.’ I close my eyes as he leans across to kiss me. What I wanted to say, but didn’t dare, was that Como isn’t the only thing I’ve been falling hopelessly in love with since we arrived. Then again, perhaps that is something that deserves more than just words. I’m not convinced there are any phrases in the English language that wouldn’t feel inadequate when it comes to describing the way I’m feeling. If only Pete would say those three magical words to me, then perhaps I could find the courage to try.

  We spend the next hour meandering aimlessly through the twisting streets of Brunate, taking photos of the decorative metal gates guarding the villas, and the wild flowers that are sitting in colourful sporadic bursts along the edges of the pavements. Pete is attentive and chirpy, chatting happily to the locals we encounter as we stroll along and pointing things out to make me laugh. Before taking the funicolare back down the hillside to Como, we stop in one of the cosy cafés for a cup of thick hot chocolate, and he deliberately lets a large blob of cream stick to his nose so that I’ll kiss it off. I appreciate the fact that we must look sickeningly soppy to anyone watching, but I couldn’t care less. This was exactly what I wanted from this trip: a chance for Pete and me to grow closer, and plenty of new, treasured memories to take home. Aside from the tiny niggles that I brought over with us from London, things could not be more perfect. And anyway, I remind myself, picking up Pete’s hand as we take our seats in the funicolare carriage, there will be plenty of time to tackle those more difficult questions once we’re back on UK soil.