‘My head hurts,’ I mutter, rubbing it and sighing irritably.
Pete tips back his cup and then crushes it in his hand. I want him to say that he’s sorry, or say anything, really, that will reassure me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he grabs my hand and pulls me backwards in the direction of the way we’ve just come.
‘Enough of this depressing talk, Lulu,’ he says with stern enthusiasm. ‘Let’s go and have some lunch, yeah?’
I nod, leaning against him as we walk to show him I’m OK, but inside I’m churning with worry. What if he’s not the man I thought he was – what if he’s cruel? Or worse, what if he’s still in love with somebody else; somebody that hurt him, just like my mum hurt my dad?
I’m so caught up with it all that I forget why I was leading Pete along this particular Bellagio street in the first place.
19
Taggie
‘Gino, no! That is not a toy. Gino! Leave it. Leave it.’
It’s very hard not to laugh as the naughty little dog scuttles away across the stony beach, a selfie stick clamped between his pointy teeth and a definite expression of smug self-congratulation on his furry face.
‘Sorry,’ Elsie apologises, throwing up her arms in defeat. ‘He’ll get bored and drop it in a minute, don’t worry.’
The young French couple, who inadvisably put their selfie stick down on the ground, don’t look entirely convinced by Elsie’s assurances, but the girl is enchanted by Bruno at least. He’s no longer in my arms, but on the wet, muddy beach, shivering and gazing up at all the assembled females with those huge, dark-brown eyes of his. Nico, meanwhile, has taken a shine to Marco – and he’s not the only one. I can hear Gladys’s shrill, flirtatious giggle from here, and she and Marco are at least twenty feet away, over by the edge of the water. Poor Will-yum has been instructed to take photos of the two of them together, and Marco only agreed on the proviso that Nico be in the pictures, too. Quite some work of art that’s going to be.
We’ve been at the northernmost tip of Bellagio for half an hour now, the beating sun keeping us warm and the incredible views providing plenty of inspiration to my group of artists. Known as Punta Spartivento – ‘the point which divides the wind’ – it’s an undeniably beautiful yet strangely eerie spot. When you stand right on the edge of the water looking north to where the snow-capped mountains mark the beginning of the Swiss border, it can feel almost overwhelming, as if the lake could swallow you whole.
In the summer months, this semi-circle of beach is packed with visitors, but today we’ve got the place pretty much to ourselves. Monochrome stones litter the ground between the dead white husks of plants, and part of the stone stairway leading down from the road has crumbled and fallen away. I didn’t want Elsie to even attempt them, but she was determined, and before either of us knew what was happening, Marco had lifted her right up into his arms and carried her over the gap. I wish he hadn’t, though, because she’s been unable to talk about anything else ever since.
‘It was as if I weighed barely a thing,’ she keeps saying dreamily, clutching my arm and closing her eyes. ‘I felt like a young woman again.’
It’s a good thing she doesn’t know that it was Marco who rescued me when I fell in the lake. I’d had to tell Elsie about it, because she’d been awake when I arrived, dripping wet, back at her house, and she’d been predictably enthralled by the story. If she knew that Marco was, in fact, my Italian knight in shining leather jacket as well as hers, she’d probably cartwheel up the mountainside in a frenzy. I’m surprised he’s still here hanging around with us, to be honest. I’m sure he has far more important things to do with his free time than pose for photos with crazed, middle-aged women and carry other, less crazed women across beaches. I’m loath to admit it, even to myself, but I quite enjoyed chatting to him on the boat up here today. I used to have lots of male friends back in London – well, they were more his friends – and talking to Marco has made me realise that I do miss the company of men. Shelley is fun and I adore Elsie, but sometimes it’s nice to get a man’s perspective on things. Sal doesn’t count, because he’s my boss – and because the two of us only ever seem to discuss things that are directly related to work.
‘Oh dear,’ Elsie mutters now, pointing discreetly into the middle distance. ‘I think Gino may be burying his treasure.’
It’s true, he is. All I can see of the little bugger is the tip of his rigid tail – the rest of him is obscured by the edges of a muddy trench.
‘Gino,’ I say sweetly, tiptoeing across the stones towards him.
A low growl echoes out from the hole.
‘Come on, now,’ I soothe, crouching down on my haunches. ‘That’s not yours, is it?’
The tail is vibrating now with excited rage, and I reach across and brave a light touch, only to almost fall over backwards when the tiny ball of indignant fur begins yapping at me in earnest.
‘You little …’ I say between gritted teeth, righting myself with my hands and promptly getting mud all over one of them.
Gino pops his head up out of the hole and regards me with distrust, his beady eyes fixed on my hands. He knows I want that selfie stick, and there’s no way he’s going to give in.
‘Having some trouble?’
I look up to find Marco staring down at me, his eyes crinkled with amusement and his hair all blown upwards on one side. Nico has followed him over and is now looking with some interest at the tiny crater dug by Gino, his minuscule nose sniffing the air and his tail twitching with the expectation of a treat. Spotting his adopted brother so close to his new, most prized possession, Gino leaps right out of the muddy cavern and starts growling with alarming menace.
‘Now, now, boys,’ I chide, trying my best to sound stern, even though I find the pair of them utterly ridiculous.
‘Here! What’s this?’ calls Marco, and I look up again to see that he’s now brandishing a bit of driftwood. The dogs, recognising that a game is about to begin, immediately stop yapping and stand to quivering attention by his feet.
‘Ready?’ Marco teases, showing them the stick.
They stare at him, completely transfixed.
‘One, two, three … FETCH!’
He releases the stick and Gino, Nico and myself watch in silence as it flies off through the air and lands a good distance away among the rocks.
‘Well done,’ I say, standing up as the dogs go haring off across the beach. I’ve retrieved the selfie stick from the hole, and now I swivel my bag round so I can find a tissue to wipe off the mud and slime.
‘It was nothing.’ He shrugs expansively. ‘I used to have a dog when I was a boy.’
‘Lucky you,’ I reply, grimacing as a good deal of the dirt ends up on the leg of my jeans. ‘I always wanted one, but my mum and dad weren’t keen. They said they’d be the ones who ended up walking it, but I don’t think they would have.’
‘Did you play outside a lot as a child?’ he wants to know, and I look at him in surprise.
‘Yes. How did you know?’
Again, that non-committal lift of the shoulders.
‘I am the same.’
Gino has brought back Marco’s stick, having screamed at Nico for even daring to chase it, and is now dancing around in idiotic but very cute circles by his feet.
‘Did you grow up here?’ I ask, watching as the stick soars through the air once again.
‘Yes and no,’ he replies, looking at the distant dogs rather than me. ‘I was between two homes.’
‘Where was the other one?’ I enquire.
‘Another place.’
Well, that much is bloody obvious, I think, wondering why he’s being so cagey.
‘You must have lived in Leeds for quite a long time,’ I state.
‘Why do you say that?’
He’s very good at answering polite enquiries with more questions, this man. But two can play at that charade.
‘Why do you think I do?’
He provides me with a wry grin before ans
wering.
‘You tell me.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I say, and he laughs good-naturedly.
‘Your English is very good,’ I point out, and he coughs in reply, reaching down to throw the stick for Gino yet again. Nico has given up trying to play the game and is instead digging his own hole right next to Gino’s, sending splatters of mud flying in all directions as he does so. I take a large step backwards, and Marco, glancing down, follows suit.
‘I did spend some time in England,’ he confirms, and I’m just about to open my mouth and ask how much time, when I’m interrupted by an excitable Elsie as she rushes towards us.
‘The Frenchies are having a lovers’ tiff,’ she tells us, her voice hushed but impish.
We all glance over to where the young couple are, indeed, gesticulating at one another. The girl is red in the face and looks close to tears, and the guy is running his hands through his hair, tugging at it with impotent rage.
‘Ooh la la,’ I remark quietly, dropping my eyes as the girl looks over in our direction.
‘They were perfectly lovey-dovey, and then a message came through on the chap’s mobile phone and all hell broke loose,’ Elsie says, with a certain amount of glee.
‘Probably his ex-girlfriend,’ I state, and Marco scoffs.
‘What?’ I demand.
‘Women,’ he replies, totally deadpan. Elsie chortles, but I immediately feel a prickle of irritation.
‘Do you mean, the women who message their ex-boyfriends, or the women who get angry when they do?’ I ask.
Marco smiles. ‘Both.’
‘Well,’ I reply, careful not to let my grumpiness leak into my voice, ‘I could say the same about men.’
‘Now, now, my dears,’ Elsie places a placating hand on each of our arms. ‘I think it’s always best to agree to disagree when it comes to this subject.’
‘He started it,’ I mutter, before I can stop myself, and Marco laughs out loud, bending down to pick up and throw Gino’s stick yet again at the same time. His shirt has untucked itself from his jeans, and as he bends over I catch sight of the waistband of his boxers against smooth, tanned skin.
‘Taggie was a very argumentative child,’ Elsie says now.
‘Elsie!’ I protest, frowning as Marco urges her to elaborate.
‘I always used to tell your mother not to worry about it,’ she puts in cheerily. ‘Only people with very high intelligence bother to argue about things.’
‘Are you saying that because you enjoy a bicker?’ I guess, and she grins.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Hmmm,’ I reply, giving her my best disapproving expression.
Marco throws the stick again. Gino is going to keel over soon from exhaustion. Well, that or sheer pleasure. It’s not often that he gets somebody’s attention all to himself like this. Bruno has wandered over to join us now, and is doing his usual thing of begging to be picked up. As if I hadn’t already got enough mud on these jeans; now I have muddy paw prints all over them, as well. It’s a good thing I’m hopelessly besotted with the silly creature.
‘So,’ Marco says. ‘You spent a lot of time outside as a girl, and you were naughty – what else?’
‘She used to sneak off all the time,’ answers Elsie. ‘It drove her mother mad.’
I feel as if I’m being ganged up on here.
‘And she had imaginary friends – two of them.’
‘OK, that’s enough,’ I insist. ‘I don’t think Marco needs to hear about—’
‘Froggle and Bella?’ finishes Elsie. The soft skin of her cheeks is strawberry pink with pleasure, and her eyes are glinting with mischief.
‘Froggle?’ asks Marco, scooping a panting Gino up into his arms and kissing the top of his head.
‘He had the head of a frog and the body of a man. That’s right, isn’t it, Taggie?’
I pull my mouth into a thin, hard line.
‘That’s right.’
‘And Bella was a princess?’
‘She was.’
‘She used to sit at the end of my garden, in the shade of the lemon tree, and chat away to Froggle and Bella for hours,’ Elsie tells Marco. ‘It was so sweet.’
‘Did you not have any real friends?’ he jokes.
‘Not here, I didn’t,’ I say, defending myself. ‘This is what happens when you’re an only child – you develop weird traits and have no choice but to conjure friends out of thin air.’
‘What happened to Froggle and Bella?’ Marco asks, again with that crooked smile he seems to habitually wear.
‘They got married and lived happily ever after,’ I say quickly, improvising as I go along. ‘It turns out that Froggle was actually a prince who’d had a spell cast over him, so when Bella kissed him, he lost his frog head and got his human one back.’
‘I see,’ he replies, scrunching up his face as Gino licks his nose. I’ve never seen that angry little mutt be so affectionate before – especially not with a man. Marco must have washed with Pedigree Chum shower gel or something.
‘Taggie knew at the tender age of five that she’d have to kiss a lot of frogs to find her prince,’ Elsie says. She sounds bizarrely proud of the child version of me for coming to that conclusion so early on in life, which is utter madness. There is nothing good about spending time with frog-men, or wasting emotional energy on them, as I know only too well.
‘Have you?’ Marco wants to know. Gino has gone and fallen asleep in his arms now, his tiny head resting on the sleeve of his new hero’s leather jacket and his dirt-streaked paws tucked up underneath his even dirtier tummy.
‘Have I what?’ I say, deliberately obtuse.
‘Kissed many frogs?’
I hesitate before answering, my mood darkening as the inevitable image fills my mind. There was nothing frog-like about him when we first met; no transformation was needed, as far as I was concerned. No, in his case, I started off with a prince, and he slowly but surely turned into a frog.
‘A few,’ I say at last, settling on a half-truth. ‘But I don’t plan on kissing any more of them ever again.’
Elsie must have finally sensed my discomfort, because the next second she’s looped her arm through Marco’s and is asking him if he’d walk with her to the shore so she can look across the water.
‘I’m not as nimble as I used to be,’ she explains, managing to flirt and play the helpless old lady simultaneously.
‘Come on,’ I whisper to Bruno as they walk away. He’s still nestled in my arms. ‘Let’s go and see if anyone’s ready to have lunch yet.’
20
Lucy
‘Oh my God – is that a shrine to George Clooney?’
I look across to where Pete is pointing and promptly gasp with laughter. There, in an alcove halfway up the restaurant stairs, shut in behind a decorative metal lattice and lit up from behind like a statue in a church, is something that indeed looks an awful lot like a shrine to Mr Clooney. There’s a photo of the man himself in an ornate gold frame, which appears as though it’s been taken here in Como – he’s wearing sunglasses on his head and you can see water behind him. Then, next to that, is another framed photograph of Villa Oleandra, the grand house that he bought in nearby Laglio, plus three bottles of wine. One of the waitresses, who is busy running up and down the steps ferrying trays of drinks and food, sees us looking and hurries over.
‘That is Mr Clooney’s wine,’ she says, pride making her chest swell. ‘You can buy it here, if you would like to.’
Flipping open my menu, she points to a list on the final page.
‘Seventy euros!’ I exclaim, loudly enough to make the departing girl turn her head.
‘Sorry, George,’ Pete jokes. ‘I loved you in Ocean’s Eleven, but not enough to pay that much for your plonk.’
‘As if the cheeky fox needs even more money,’ I add, flicking back to the start of the wine list.
‘There, look – a carafe of local red only costs twelve euros. That’s a bit more l
ike it.’
‘I’ll treat us to the Clooney wine if you want it,’ Pete says, stroking my hand.
‘Don’t be silly,’ I say, looking at him incredulously. ‘It’s such a rip off!’
‘We are on holiday, though,’ he reminds me. ‘And it’s still Christmas. Sort of.’
‘I’m not fussed,’ I assure him, lacing my fingers through his. ‘You don’t need to spoil me. Being here with you is treat enough.’
I’m being honest, too. Despite all my own fears and inner voices of torment and insecurity, I am having a mostly amazing time with Pete. The conversation we had about my parents is still lurking in the back of my mind like a relationship Grim Reaper, but I’m determined to ignore it. What I need to be is bubbly and sweet, not grumpy and distrusting.
‘Have you ever been on holiday with a boyfriend before?’ Pete asks without warning, and I blanch.
‘Not really,’ I admit, deciding quickly that a flat no will only make me sound naive. I have been away for weekends with significant others before, anyway, just not to places that required a boarding pass.
‘What about you?’ I say, already dreading his reply.
‘Yeah,’ he hesitates. ‘With my ex-girlfriend. We used to go twice a year at least.’
‘Right.’
I feel like he’s just punched me in the gut.
‘She wouldn’t have let me buy the Clooney wine either.’
It shouldn’t matter to me what his ex-girlfriend was like, but for some reason I hate the fact that the two of us have anything in common. I want to be the opposite of her. It makes no sense whatsoever, but there it is.
‘How long were you together?’ I hear myself ask.
‘Five years,’ he says, his voice non-committal. ‘Just over.’
The Place We Met Page 13