It was Julia who worked it out eventually, of course, and who went to Spencer’s posh city office and called him out in front of his colleagues. It’s no wonder that she’s so hyper-protective now, but it still doesn’t seem to matter how many times she tells me that I look perfect, and that Spencer is no better than a sociopath. When I’m at my lowest ebb, I still find myself summoning back that poor, sad and slightly-too-heavy version of myself, and I let her get inside my head again.
Over the years, I’ve seen friends of both sexes treated appallingly by the people claiming to love them, and I’ve witnessed first-hand the scars that their behaviour can leave behind. My dad has never got over the hurt inflicted on him by my mum – he carries it with him like a rucksack full of rocks, and I know I have been doing the same. It’s all very well people urging you to leave the past behind you – the reality is, it’s not that easy.
All this is going through my head as I study Pete’s rigid profile. After Taggie ran out of the office in tears, he simply put his head in his hands and I couldn’t get more than a few words out of him. Eventually I suggested we come back to our table. I needed time to make sense of what I’d heard, and I assumed he would get straight back on the wine – but he hasn’t. I can’t face any more alcohol, either, just like I can’t face food. This latest revelation has made me feel as if I’m tied into literal knots.
I knew I had seen Taggie somewhere before, and now that I know exactly where, I can’t believe I didn’t recognise her sooner. But then, why would I ever make that connection? She had been in such a state when she was brought in, near hysterical as she begged and pleaded for the doctor to tell her that her baby was OK. I could see it in her eyes, though – she knew just as well as the assembled team of medical professionals that the baby was lost. There was blood already drying on her legs, and she had it all over her hands. Her father, who I now know to be the mysterious Manny, had arrived not long after Taggie did, and I remember that he wept silently as he stared down at her.
Pete should have been there, too, but he wasn’t.
I was probably only in Taggie’s hospital cubicle for a few minutes, but seeing her so distraught had shaken me up. It was the main reason I went down for a chocolate bar in the first place – I needed something to comfort me. It feels abhorrent to me now that what I actually ended up finding was Pete.
Everything I heard him say to Taggie, about his reasons for breaking things off, and even his initial reluctance towards the pregnancy, makes sense to me, but what I don’t understand is how he could start another relationship so soon after such a loss. I need to ask him if I’m going to stand any chance of muddling my way through all this mess, but I’m also terrified of what he’ll say. I don’t want to believe that Pete – my kind, thoughtful, protective and loving Pete – could be the sort of man who not only refuses to support a woman he used to love through something so traumatic, but also replaces her with the next girl he meets. It’s unfathomable.
People are starting to get up from their tables and drift through to the ballroom. The DJ has kicked off his eclectic playlist of song requests, and the guests look giddy with the promise of a party. Pete glances towards the doorway, then looks at me.
‘I don’t really feel like dancing, do you?’
I shake my head. ‘No.’
‘Come on,’ he says, taking my hand as he stands up, leading me, not towards the flickering disco lights, but the hotel exit. As we reach the hallway, I wonder vaguely if I should tell one of the staff that Taggie’s upset, but I don’t want to enrage her even more. She must have friends she can turn to here; it is her home, after all.
No, I decide, glancing up at Pete’s pale features. The best thing either of us can do for Taggie tonight is respect her wishes that we leave her alone.
45
Taggie
The cold hits me like an errant wave, causing me to gasp as I half-run, half-stagger down the driveway of the hotel. For the first time in my life, I curse my high heels, which were not designed with gravel in mind. All I can think is that I need to get away. I can’t look at Pete, or Lucy – I can’t look at either of them.
Wrapping my arms tightly around my shoulders, I hurry through the side gate and along the path leading down to the lake, tripping every so often in my haste, and looking regularly over my shoulder to make sure nobody is following me. Lucy must have heard everything. I know she did – I could tell from the look on her face. At least she had the grace to be honest with me, unlike Pete. I don’t even know who he is any more.
By the time I reach the park, I’m far enough away to stop running, but my heart is still racing with anxiety. Looking back the way I came, I see the Casa Alta sitting on top of the hill, so beautiful and striking against the dark backdrop of the surrounding landscape. Golden light leaks out of the windows, making the night air glow, and I can just about make out the silhouettes of party guests on the ground floor. The disco will have started by now; people will be wondering where I am. I know it’s my party, my big night, my chance to show Sal what I’m made of – but I can’t be there, I can’t do it.
Every time my mind takes me back to that day, I want to scratch the memory away. Sometimes when it wakes me in the night, it feels so real that I pull aside the covers and check for blood on the sheets. I imagine that I can feel the pain of it again, clutching at my stomach like the talons of some hell-sent creature, and without warning I’m bent double, clawing at the wall.
I lost my baby. My heart, my soul, my unplanned but so welcome reason for getting up in the morning, for breathing in and back out again, for keeping myself safe and cared for, the very purpose for existing and the best single thing I had ever done.
How can all that have come to nothing? Where is my baby? I ache for it.
I sit down abruptly on the cold, hard earth and raise my hands until they’re in my hair, yanking out my ponytail with a sob and clenching my fists until I can feel my scalp burning. Lifting my chin, I see stars, way up above me, and I curse them. And then I’m screaming, and it feels as if my chest will burst, and my hands are on the earth, the dirt under my nails, my throat burning with misery and my guttural howls like that of a wild animal.
I’m so sorry, I think helplessly. I’m so sorry that I lost you.
When I come back to myself, I’m sprawled sideways beside the path. Ahead of me at the base of the lake, Como town is throbbing with colour, noise and activity. Revellers are spilling out on to the streets in anticipation of the fireworks, and I can hear music coming from the live band that is playing on the temporary stage near the war memorial. As I draw closer and am enveloped by small groups of excited people, the temperature rises enough for me to loosen the grip on my arms. I know my face must be a mess of cried-off mascara, but nobody seems to notice. Everyone is too busy dancing, or cheering, or sipping their cups of sweet vin brulé as they snuggle against their significant other.
Stalls selling hot dogs, burgers, candy floss and overpriced bottles of bubbly are set up along the promenade, and bins overflow with takeaway plates and dirty napkins. A group of young Italian men attempt to block my path, jokingly holding out their hands for me to dance with them and offering me a sip of whatever they have decanted into their plastic water bottles. I dodge around them, shaking my head, refusing to meet their eyes, and carry on through the crowds until I can see the ice rink in the distance. At no point have I thought about where I’m going, but now that I’m here, I find that my legs seem to have their own purpose, and I’m carried by them through the crowds, along to the crossing, and towards where I know he’ll be.
La Vita é Bella restaurant is a hive of activity, with every table occupied both inside and out in the little greenhouse area, and it’s a few minutes before I see him. He’s just emerged from the kitchen carrying two pizzas, an easy smile on his face and a burnt-orange shirt making his green eyes glow even brighter than usual. I stay back, under the shadow of a nearby doorway, but somehow he still sees me. A few seconds pass where he
simply frowns in confusion, and then, before I can gather myself together enough to turn and run away for the second time tonight, he’s deposited the pizzas and is hurrying over.
‘What is the matter?’ he asks at once, taking in my lack of coat, my wild hair, my mud-covered hands, my tear-stained face.
When I don’t answer, he takes a breath and then gently pulls me forwards against his chest, wrapping his arms around me.
‘You are freezing,’ he exclaims, running his hands briskly up and down my arms. ‘Where is your coat?’
‘At the hotel,’ I mumble. ‘I had to … I couldn’t …’
‘It’s OK,’ he says, interrupting me before I start crying again. ‘It will be OK.’
‘Marco!’ yells a short man with a stern expression, who’s just emerged from the outdoor seating area. He takes one look at me, before launching into a volley of Italian. I realise then how this must look, some girl turning up here in the middle of Marco’s shift, covered in tears and falling into his arms. I would make the same assumption as his boss – that I’m just another random tourist that Marco’s messed around.
‘I should go,’ I say, extracting myself, but Marco looks uncertain.
‘No,’ he tells me, his hands on my shoulders. ‘Wait here.’
The short man and I watch – he with irritation and I with numbness – as Marco pushes open a door inside the restaurant and disappears, only to return less than a minute later with his battered leather jacket in his hands.
‘Here.’ He thrusts it at me. ‘Put this on and go to the bar. I will meet you there.’
I usually hate being told what to do, but for some reason Marco’s measured instructions are comforting, and I accept the jacket with gratitude, pulling it on as I turn to go and hugging it close to my body. Vista Lago is only a few streets away, and I inhale Marco’s scent as I make my way there. It’s faintly peppery, with an undertone of citrus, and the jacket feels warm and soft. For the first time since I ran out of the office back at the Casa Alta, I feel safe.
The bar is predictably heaving, but I’m glad of the anonymity all the merry bodies provide. I don’t have any money on me, having fled the hotel without my bag, but Marco must have let his friend know that I was coming, because as soon as I find an empty stool in the corner and sit down, a large glass of red wine appears in front of me.
Alcohol feels like a bad idea, but I’m craving something to balance me out a bit and stop my heart from hammering against my chest. I still feel cold all over, despite the heat of the bar and Marco’s jacket, and my teeth continue to chatter as I bring the glass up to my lips. I don’t have any idea what I’m doing, but I know I can’t go back. I don’t even want to see Elsie, or speak to my family. I need to make sense of all this by myself.
The clock behind the bar informs me that there’s only two hours of this year to go, and good riddance to it as well, I mutter internally, taking another swig. The DJ is playing some sort of U2 mega mix, and I watch through hazy eyes as people begin to dance and sing along. Only twenty-four hours ago, Shelley and I were doing the exact same thing, but now I could no more face dancing than I could fly a seaplane over the lake. I knew that talking to Pete about the baby, our baby, would make everything come flooding back. Now I feel as if I’ve lost it all over again, and the pain is unbearable.
‘Ciao, bella.’
I look up from where I’ve been staring glassy-eyed into my drink. Marco’s expression is all concern, his jet-black hair windswept as if he ran all the way here.
‘What happened to work?’ I ask, my voice croaky.
He shrugs. ‘I quit.’
‘What?’ I’m appalled. ‘Why?’
He touches my cheek, just briefly, to reassure me. ‘My boss would not let me come, so I told him he had no choice in the matter. He didn’t like that very much.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I wail, making to cover my face with my hands, then recoiling when I see how muddy they are. ‘I’ll talk to him for you.’
‘Dai,’ he says, gently lowering my arms. ‘It’s OK. I hate that job anyway.’
U2 have been replaced by Justin Bieber, and an elderly Italian couple are now trying to waltz along to lyrics about it being too late to say sorry.
‘I will get us a drink,’ he says, and I watch him move towards the bar. He hasn’t even asked me what happened, or why I’m upset. He didn’t ask in Bellagio, either, after I bumped into Pete, or on the night he showed me the boat. But it’s not because he doesn’t care – clearly, he does – it’s just not his way. I guess that I knew subconsciously he wouldn’t pry when I decided to head straight to the restaurant and find him. He seems to know instinctively the right thing to do and say to make me feel protected, and I can’t deny that’s exactly how I feel right now. I remember again the pull I felt towards him that night we properly met, and how familiar he seemed despite being merely some stranger who’d rescued me from the lake. It’s still there – but now I feel more able to accept it.
‘I brought you amaretto,’ he says on his return. ‘You need something sweet, you’re shaking.’
‘Grazie,’ I say, taking it out of his hand, his fingers brushing against mine. ‘I’ll pay you back.’
He scoffs.
‘Be quiet.’
There’s a pause, and I watch him sip his beer in silent contemplation.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again, and this time he looks exasperated.
‘Taggie,’ he says, his voice low. Putting his drink down on the wooden ledge next to us, he cradles my upturned face in both his hands and stares at me. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for, OK?’
‘OK,’ I murmur, blinking rapidly.
‘Good,’ he replies, and for a second I think he might kiss me, but instead he lets go of my face.
‘I am happy,’ he tells me, clinking his bottle against the side of my glass.
‘Oh?’
‘That you are here with me,’ he confides. ‘Now we can spend New Year together.’
His straightforward positivity is endearing, but there’s no energy inside me to take it in.
‘I’m glad I’m here,’ I say honestly, getting up on unsteady feet and giving him the best attempt at a smile that I can muster. ‘One day I’ll explain everything, I promise.’
As I turn away towards the bathroom, I catch a flicker of something pass across his eyes – the echo of a feeling, perhaps, a silent wish – and just like that, I’m warm again.
46
Lucy
Pete is crying.
The two of us left the warm cocoon of the Casa Alta Hotel a few minutes ago and made our way outside on to the front lawn. There’s still over half an hour until the firework display is due to start, so when he roused himself from a long, self-imposed silence and suggested coming out here, I initially assumed it was to bag ourselves a good spot from which to watch. I was wrong about that.
‘Oh, Pete,’ I console, grasping his arm as he goes to cover his face with his hands. He’s sobbing so hard that his shoulders are heaving, and his muffled howl of anguish makes me feel as if my heart is shattering into pieces.
‘Sorry,’ he splutters, fiercely wiping his eyes and cheeks. His face is collapsed with grief. It’s awful to see him like this, and I’m reminded uncomfortably of the first time I saw Taggie, so desperate and hopeless in the hospital.
‘Taggie?’ I guess, but he shakes his head.
‘No.’
‘The baby?’
He can’t bring himself to answer, but nods his head up and down, giving in to more angry tears as he takes in my stricken expression. Stepping forwards, I pull him into my arms as best I can, my spiky high heels sinking into the mud, and rub his back until he gets himself under control.
‘Sorry,’ he keeps muttering, and I hush him. I don’t have to be a nurse to know that he needs to let it all out, and so I let him, saying nothing more than a few encouraging and sympathetic words. It’s freezing out here, with a biting wind that seems intent on cutting right through me
, and I squeeze Pete a fraction tighter in an attempt to warm up.
Eventually, after much sniffing and snuffling, he pulls back and fixes me with puffy blue eyes, his expression conveying everything I know he must be feeling – humiliation, wretchedness and guilt. As slapped sideways as I’ve been by the evening’s events thus far, and the revelation that he’s been anything but honest with me, I can’t help but feel sorry for him. Yes, he acted badly and he lied, but there’s no denying how terrible he feels now that he’s been forced to face it. He needs me to be there for him, and at the moment, I’m glad that I can be. This is about more than our relationship; it’s about loss and grief.
‘I’m a fucking mess,’ he grunts, attempting a laugh.
‘Don’t do that,’ I chide gently. ‘Don’t take on more than you need to. I’m still here, aren’t I?’
He nods, fighting back more tears.
‘I don’t understand why you are.’
‘Did you not hear me this morning?’ I ask. ‘When I told you that I loved you, Pete, I meant it. I’m not going to abandon you when you’re so upset.’
‘I don’t deserve you,’ he sniffs. No man has ever said that to me before except my dad in the aftermath of my mum leaving, when I nursed him back from debilitating heartbreak. He was grieving the loss of his marriage, of the person he loved, while Pete is grieving the loss of his child. A baby he never knew he wanted until it was gone.
‘I’ve been such an idiot,’ he groans now, looking at me again. ‘I thought I could just ignore what I was feeling and carry on as normal, but when I saw Taggie tonight, I just …’
Pete trails off, unable to put into words exactly what he felt, and I glance back up towards the hotel. I can hear strains of Abba playing in the ballroom, and the shrieks of dancing guests as they swing each other around, no doubt giddy at the thought of the year ending, another beginning.
The Place We Met Page 26