The Place We Met

by Isabelle Broom

  Marco narrows his eyes at me for a split second, but then he’s back laying on the charm as thickly as Parmesan over a bowl of pasta, complimenting Elsie on her colourful hat and scarf combo and making a fuss of Bruno, Gino and Nico, who are yapping away like hairy gnats by her feet. I know that all three of the chihuahuas must be secretly thrilled to be meeting so many new people en masse, but you wouldn’t think it to look at them. I have to hide a smirk behind my hand when Will-yum, following Marco’s self-assured lead, bends down to pet them only to recoil in horror when Gino promptly bares both rows of his pointy teeth and growls like a tiny dinosaur. Meanwhile, their elderly pack leader is still focusing all her attention on Marco.

  ‘Well, aren’t you a tonic,’ she exclaims, beaming up at him.

  ‘And I’m a measure of gin!’ booms Gladys, seemingly oblivious to her husband flapping his arms up and down like a distressed ostrich.

  ‘It is very nice to meet you ladies,’ Marco says, kissing both Elsie and Gladys’s upturned cheeks and only just swerving his head away in time to avoid a third smacker right on the mouth from the most colourful member of our group.

  ‘Are we still walking up to Punta Spartivento first?’ asks Elsie, hushing Gino and Nico as they start barking at a group of passing teenagers. Bruno, the little angel, has stopped yapping now and is scrabbling at my leg. Squatting down, I scoop him up into my arms and plant a kiss on his cold, wet nose.

  ‘That dog is smitten,’ remarks Elsie, looking at the two of us fondly, and Marco smiles in agreement.

  ‘Bruno has very good taste,’ he remarks, and I hurriedly turn my back on the two of them before Elsie can catch my eye.

  ‘Right then, everyone – are we all ready?’

  The group all nod their heads, presumably keen to start moving again and warm up their limbs, and glancing around I realise that we’re the only passengers from the boat that are still standing here. I really am being a terrible tour guide today. Sal will not be impressed if I bring his guests back with chilblains. But then Bellagio’s main harbour is beautiful, with a wide, cobble-covered road snaking its way past the row of cafés and gift shops behind us, a cluster of tangled yet decorative lime trees in a large square courtyard beside us, and a breath-taking view of open lake and distant mountains right in front of us. Bellagio is smaller and sleepier than Como – especially at this quieter time of the year – and there’s a hushed stillness in the air that seems to reach right inside you and slow the beating of your heart. The morning sun is sitting low in the sky, bathing the middle portion of the nearby buildings in buttery light, and a gentle breeze tickles at the tendrils of hair on my cheeks.

  You don’t need to be an artist to be moved by this place, but I can see that the group I have with me are just as captivated as I’d hoped.

  I’m surprised when I turn back and find Marco still standing there, his head slightly on one side as he looks at me, almost as if he’s trying to work me out. I wish he wouldn’t.

  ‘Don’t you have a meeting to go to?’ I ask, squeezing Bruno’s tiny cold paws softly between my fingers.

  He shuffles his feet. ‘I have some time.’

  ‘Marco has offered to come with us,’ interjects Elsie, and I know without looking at her that she’s got a mischievous expression on her face.

  ‘I’m sure he’s far too busy,’ I argue, but my delivery is as weak as my belief that saying the words will make the blindest bit of difference. That’s the thing about Elsie – she has a way of always getting what she wants. She would call it ‘the benefit of old age’, whereas I know better. She simply doesn’t take no for an answer. She never has, and I imagine she never will. No wonder she and Marco have hit it off so well.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Elsie declares, proving my point. ‘He can keep me company while you’re working.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ I ask Marco, and he smiles good-naturedly.

  ‘It would be my pleasure.’

  As we all turn our backs on the lake and begin walking away across the cold, damp cobbles, I hear Gladys loudly asking Marco if he’s ever considered posing nude for a portrait, and I only just manage to bury my laugh in Bruno’s soft, brown fur.

  18

  Lucy

  Bellagio is exactly as I remember it. I don’t know what I was expecting, because I knew there wouldn’t be a dirty great McDonald’s on the harbour and a skyscraper blocking the view of the mountains, but I didn’t think I would step off the boat and feel instantly as if I was a teenager again. It’s as if someone has reached through the twisted pathways of time, snatched me up, and deposited me here in the past. And, as well as being unnerving, it’s oddly comforting at the same time. For a few moments, all I can do is stand still and stare, a wide grin expanding my cold cheeks.

  Pete is quiet beside me, subdued by the majesty of Bellagio’s timeless beauty – the multi-coloured cobbles decorating the pavement beneath our feet, the butterscotch-coloured buildings bathed in light, the ornate lampposts and contorted branches of the trees. And it’s not just the harbour that is splendid enough to render the two of us mute. The view over the lake behind us comprises a glorious sweep of dark-blue molten water, unblemished sky and vast, distant hills. The houses and villas of Varenna, on the opposite shore, look like pieces from a Monopoly board, dwarfed as they are by the bulk of the land. I take a deep breath, and feel Pete slide his gloved hand into mine.

  ‘Now I see why George Clooney bought a place here,’ he murmurs, and I nod in agreement. One of the things I love most about Como – and this entire area of Italy, in fact – is how unspoiled it all is. So much of England has been desecrated by greedy construction companies, the land carved up to make way for faster trains, bigger roads, blocks of apartments too expensive to live in, and with every new eyesore that is erected, another piece of Britain’s beautiful heritage is lost. They haven’t allowed that to happen here, and I’d put good money on the fact that they never will.

  ‘Now you see why this place is known as the pearl of the lake,’ I say, turning to look at Pete. ‘Come on, let’s find out if I can still remember my way around.’

  Bellagio is famous not just because a certain silver fox from Hollywood decided to buy a villa nearby, but also because of its unique location. The arms of Lake Como are an inverted ‘Y’ shape, and Bellagio sits at the base of the triangle, between the two arms. When you reach the most northern part of the town, it’s possible to stand on the shore looking out across the section of water where the Como and Lecco sides of the lake come together, and feel as if you’re on the tip of the world. Well, that’s how I used to feel as a child, anyway, and I can’t wait to show Pete and see what he thinks. First, however, I want to take him through the town, so we cross the road and head right past a small collection of shops, cafés and a large hotel, which looks to be closed for the winter.

  ‘I remember it being so busy here when we used to visit,’ I tell Pete. ‘It feels like a ghost town today.’

  Aside from a few groups of tourists and the odd shopkeeper, there aren’t many people around at all, and I take advantage of the deserted streets by making Pete pose for a series of photos. When he insists on taking a selfie of the two of us, it’s hard not to combust with pleasure, but then as soon as he shows it to me, I’m reminded yet again of the photo I found. His ex-girlfriend is so striking, with her dark hair and wide eyes, and now that I’ve seen her, I’m finding it impossible to forget just how perfect they looked together. I hate that my mind does this to me, that it disloyally compares me to others – why can’t I just live in the moment, rather than raking up the past all the time?

  ‘Let’s go up here,’ Pete says, interrupting my self-destructive train of thought. We’re at the base of a wide, uphill street, with cobbled steps leading past houses the colour of peaches and honey. Pots of evergreen plants sit outside many of the smart wooden doors, and looking up I can see oak shutters, and balconies with decorative wrought-iron railings. What a dream to have a holiday home in a place
like this, I think. Would you eventually become blasé, or would the beauty always remain as intoxicating as it feels today? I like to assume it’s the latter, and chide myself for being so critical of London. OK, so the charm of the UK’s capital might be trickier to find, but it’s still there, in the parks and along the banks of the Thames. I shouldn’t blame London for the fact that I work too hard to ever appreciate it; what I should do is make more effort to get out there and enjoy it, and I say as much to Pete as we make our slow way up the hill.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ he agrees happily, but he seems a bit distracted. I need to stop babbling on about a load of old nonsense and let him soak up the atmosphere. The view is getting better the higher we go, and we stop so many times to take photos that my phone battery has drained to twenty per cent by the time we reach the top. It’s a strange feeling to be able to see the roof tiles of the houses that a few minutes ago were towering above us, and beyond them the lake is dappled gold by the light from the sun. If it wasn’t for the tasteful array of Christmas decorations and fairy lights strung up between the buildings, the pictures we’ve amassed could just as easily have been taken in the summer.

  I’m tickled pink that Pete is enjoying himself – and he is, I can tell from the colour in his cheeks and the way he can’t seem to stop grinning – because booking this trip was a bit of a gamble. He could easily have said it was too soon for us to go on holiday together, and if he had, I would have ended up wasting the only time off that I’d ever had over the festive period by sitting on Julia’s sofa sobbing. My poor big sister – she’s had to put up with a lot of drama from me over the years, and it’s almost always been for the same reason. There is more to life than boyfriends, I know, and I always agree with her whenever she makes that exact point, but then I can’t deny the truth, which is that I want to be in love and I want to have a family. Those two things are irrefutable.

  ‘Oh, wow – look at that!’ Pete exclaims, peering through the window of a gift shop and making an impressed ‘oohing’ sound as he sees a hand-carved wooden chessboard on the other side of the glass.

  ‘Are you a big chess fan, then?’ I reply, and he grins at me, all excited.

  ‘I’m more than a fan – I used to be the school chess champion!’

  ‘You did?’ I must have pulled a face as I spoke, because Pete starts laughing.

  ‘It’s not that shocking a thought, is it?’ he asks. ‘I may not look much like a geek now, but that’s exactly what I used to be. Honestly, I used to spend every summer holiday playing chess. I’d even play against myself when my family got fed up with me asking.’

  ‘Oh, you poor thing!’ I cry, immediately touched by the image of a lonely little Pete shut away with his chessboard.

  ‘We’ll have to play one day,’ he tells me. ‘Although, I warn you – I’m seriously skilled with a queen at my disposal.’

  ‘I wish I’d known about your secret chess obsession,’ I say. ‘I could’ve got you a set for Christmas.’

  We move away from the shop and Pete wraps an arm around my shoulders.

  ‘You’re sweet,’ he says, then releases me and looks around. ‘I can’t believe this is where you came on holiday,’ he remarks enviously. ‘I had to put up with camping in Wales every single summer, where it rained so much that cowpats would run right under the tent.’

  ‘I’ve never been to Wales,’ I admit, cringing as he stares at me in mock horror.

  ‘Never?’

  I shake my head. ‘Nope. And I’ve never been to Scotland or Ireland, either.’

  ‘Whaaat?’ He’s clearly astonished. ‘That’s crazy! Well then, we’ll have to go.’

  My chest expands with joy.

  ‘Really? You’d take me?’

  ‘Of course I would,’ he replies. ‘I will! You just get a long weekend booked off, and we’ll go.’

  ‘Ah …’ I groan, crestfallen. ‘A long weekend might be a bit of a big ask – especially since my boss let me have this week off. Perhaps after Easter …’ I trail off as I see his smile droop.

  ‘Sorry,’ I apologise in a rush. ‘My job doesn’t have the most sociable hours, does it?’

  ‘That’s true,’ he agrees, stopping to look at me properly. ‘But I think what you do is incredible. Honestly, I admire you so much. Don’t ever say sorry for who you are or what you do – it’s those things that define you.’

  ‘Oh, don’t,’ I say shyly, feeling my frozen cheeks heat up. Compliments make me more uncomfortable than tights that have lost their elasticity.

  ‘Did you always want to be a nurse?’ he asks now, and I mull over the question for a moment before answering.

  ‘No,’ I say slowly. ‘When I was nine, I wanted to be a teacher. Then I wanted to be a police officer. Then I considered the army – but only for about ten minutes,’ I add, laughing at the look on Pete’s face. He must be thinking what anyone else would think if they looked at me – how could a girl like that ever be fit and strong enough to be a soldier?

  ‘So, you always wanted to work with people?’ he surmises, and I smile.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I did. I don’t really do too well on my own; I never have.’

  Pete stares at me for a few seconds, and I wonder if I’ve been too honest, but then he puts one of his big arms around my shoulders and pulls me towards him.

  ‘You’re not on your own, Lulu,’ he says, his voice muffled by my woolly hat. ‘I’m here now, and I’ll look after you if you look after me.’

  ‘I’d like that a lot,’ I say into his chest, and his grip grows tighter.

  We continue strolling through the back alleys and winding roads, past wine bars with bright red shutters, window boxes full of winter flowers, and ristoranti emitting mouth-watering aromas of garlic, lemon and oregano.

  There are other tourists milling around, but only in groups of five or six, and it doesn’t feel as unbearably hectic as I know it would have if we’d chosen to visit in July or August. We don’t see many families with small children, either, and after a while I joke to Pete that we might be the youngest people in Bellagio today.

  ‘You mean you might be,’ he laughs back, referring to our five-year age gap.

  Pete tells me more about his childhood holidays, building sandcastles and riding donkeys, and admits that his parents didn’t have an awful lot of money in those days. They made do, he explains, and came up with creative ways to treat him and his brother so that they never felt as if they were missing out. This must be why he’s always so keen to spoil me, I realise – now that he’s able to do so, it means more to him than it would for most people.

  Of course, this realisation just makes me love him all the more, and to stop myself from tearing up with the emotion of it all, I begin to tell him tales from my own family holidays. Perhaps it’s because he already knows that my parents are no longer together, or maybe it’s because I’ve been openly discussing them as they were, but after a while he starts asking a few hesitant questions about what exactly happened to split them up. Usually I would change the subject, but today I feel more comfortable about the idea of sharing a bit of the load that I always haul around with me.

  And so, I tell him about my mum’s growing coldness towards my dad, which began that summer here in Como and gathered pace over the years, finally building into an unstoppable avalanche of resentment. I try to explain how it felt to get that phone call from him late at night, when he told me through his tears that she had left, and that she would not be coming back. Mum had called Julia first, so I suppose Dad felt obliged to contact me. I hope it wasn’t just that, though – I hope he reached out to me because he wanted support. As upset as I was at the time, my priority was, and has been ever since, the welfare of my father.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, my mother chose to distance herself from me and Julia,’ I tell Pete. We’re leaning against a wall drinking a takeaway coffee each, and a vibrant patch of purple and yellow pansies is bursting out from between the cracks in the stone. ‘She’s never on
ce apologised for screwing over my dad – or us, for that matter.’

  ‘It must have been a difficult time,’ Pete allows, blinking as he gazes up at the clear sky.

  ‘It was,’ I confirm, swallowing a sip of my drink as my voice begins to waver.

  ‘But what would you rather she had done?’ he asks, and I turn to him in surprise.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, do you think she should have stayed with your dad even though she didn’t love him any more?’

  His question has baffled me so much that for a full minute I don’t say anything.

  ‘I think she should have at least tried to make it work!’ I say at last, far more aggressively than is totally necessary, and Pete widens his eyes.

  ‘Perhaps she did,’ he argues, his expression unreadable. ‘Did you ever ask her?’

  ‘I …’ I pause, my cheeks colouring as I realise that my answer is no, I never did – not really. I simply cut her out of my life until I was ready to forgive, and then I didn’t let her talk about it. Her answers were never satisfactory, as far as I was concerned, and so I held up my hand to her whenever she broached the subject. As the years passed, she gave up even trying. She couldn’t ever tell me what I wanted to hear, so there was no point.

  ‘Why are you on her side?’ I ask Pete, shame and confusion making my voice quiver.

  ‘I’m not on her side,’ he says, a deep sigh misting the cold air in front of us. ‘I’m on your side – I always will be.’

  ‘But then why …’ I begin, but he continues talking.

  ‘I just think that things come to an end for a reason, and yes, it might be sad, and yes, the other person might not agree with your reasons, but when something isn’t right, then it just isn’t. Sometimes things are too broken to fix.’

  I fall silent, sobered by his reasoning. He’s not just talking about my parents now; he’s talking about his own experience – but which of the two has Pete been? Has he had his heart broken, or has he stomped all over someone else’s? The photo predictably swims back into view. Why would he keep it hidden away if he didn’t still have lingering feelings? Surely if he was the one to end things with that girl – and looking at her I find this very hard to believe – then wouldn’t he find it easy to discard any memories that he had?