The Place We Met

by Isabelle Broom

  ‘Do you want another drink?’ Marco asks, slowing down as we pass a small stand selling vin brulé. I shake my head.

  ‘I think I’m OK, grazie.’

  ‘Shall we go to Vista Lago?’ he suggests, stepping over a half-eaten hot dog. ‘The bar will be open until the morning, I think.’

  ‘You should go,’ I urge, feeling suddenly guilty. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your night as it is.’

  ‘Taggie,’ he warns. ‘Do not start this silliness again.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I mutter, amused by his mock-stern tone. ‘I’m just exhausted.’

  And I am. Now that I’ve articulated it, I find that I’m so tired I could curl up under one of the trees and fall straight to sleep.

  ‘Are you going back to the hotel?’ he says, putting a hand in the small of my back as we cross the road beside the ice rink. It’s closed for the night now, and the shutters have been pulled down on all the wooden stalls in the Christmas Market.

  ‘I …’ There’s a pause as my words wither and die on the end of my tongue. I don’t want to go back to the Casa Alta yet. I can’t face it – can’t face all the questions and rebukes. It doesn’t feel like a safe place any more.

  ‘You do not want to go,’ Marco guesses, and I nod, feeling pathetic.

  ‘You can stay with me,’ he offers, quickly holding up a hand when he sees my shocked expression. ‘I mean, sleep over. I have a couch.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, before I have time to change my mind, and he smiles with relief.

  Marco lives in a small apartment about fifteen minutes’ walk away from the lake, not far from Como’s central railway station, situated above a grocery store. The air in the stairway up to the front door smells mildly of garlic and lemons, but that scent is replaced by a peppery one that I recognise as his, as soon as we cross the threshold. I’m pleasantly surprised to discover that my Italian friend is fastidiously tidy, and everything in his compact, four-room home appears to have its place.

  Ignoring a rather beaten-up green sofa and a low wooden coffee table with a gleaming glass top, I walk across the front room and pick up the photo frame on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Are these your parents?’ I ask.

  The dark-haired couple in the black and white photo are both smiling, and if I was to guess, I’d say it had been taken up in Bellagio. I recognise the snow-topped mountains in the background.

  Marco takes it from me, his expression unreadable.

  ‘Yes,’ he says at last. ‘It was taken a year before I was born.’

  ‘Are your parents still together?’ I ask, even though I have a feeling from his manner that they aren’t.

  He shakes his head. ‘No.’

  Apparently, that’s as much information as he’s willing to share, because before I can reply he’s turned his back and is heading into a small kitchen.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I call. ‘Just some mineral water, if you have it?’

  The fridge door opens and closes, and I hear a kettle begin to boil.

  ‘Can I borrow your bathroom?’ I ask, and he sticks his head around the open door.

  ‘Only if you bring it back.’

  ‘Funny,’ I grin, taking off his leather jacket as I leave the room.

  I hardly dare look in the mirror, but when I do, I find that I don’t look all that bad. The dancing has given me a glow, and the ponytail that I casually scraped back together in the toilet of Vista Lago so many hours ago now has stayed in place all night. That’s one of the benefits of having this ridiculously thick hair, I think to myself, going to pull out the bobble and then changing my mind. I don’t want to scare Marco by reappearing as a wildebeest, not when he’s been so kind to me.

  He’s sitting on the sofa when I get back and has taken off his shoes. A cup of coffee sits on a coaster on the table, my water beside it, and I pick the glass up gratefully as I lower myself down next to him.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, but he pulls a face.

  ‘It is only water.’

  ‘I mean for letting me stay here,’ I explain. ‘And for tonight, for looking after me and not asking questions.’

  ‘I think we are friends?’ he says, and I nod.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, then, you do not have to thank me.’

  ‘But I want to,’ I argue, poking him, and he grins.

  ‘Then I must let you.’

  It’s so refreshing, I think to myself, to be able to sit and talk to a man without the conversation descending into an argument. Towards the end of our relationship, all Pete and I ever did was disagree on things. But no, I promised myself that I wouldn’t think about him.

  ‘You are tired,’ Marco states, raising an eyebrow as I yawn widely.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say again, covering my open mouth with my hand. ‘It’s been a very long day.’

  ‘I can sleep here.’ He points to the couch. ‘If you would prefer the bed?’ But I laugh.

  ‘On here?’

  We both look down at the snug two-seater sofa we’re sitting on. Marco is a six-foot man – there is no way he’d even fit half of himself on this thing.

  ‘I would make it work,’ he assures me, but he’s fooling nobody.

  ‘You have the bed,’ I order him, copying his mock-stern voice of earlier. ‘I insist!’

  ‘Fine,’ he says, taking a nonchalant sip of his coffee. ‘You are the boss.’

  There’s a short beat of silence as we look at one another, and I’m aware of a tingling sensation in my hands and along my arms. I’m still only wearing my black party dress, and I shiver involuntarily. Marco, seeing this, leaps to his feet.

  ‘You are cold,’ he says, vanishing from the room and returning less than a minute later with a large grey T-shirt and a thick red blanket, which he arranges around my shoulders. He’s doing what I have always hated people doing – fussing – but for some reason it doesn’t seem to irk me as it usually would. Could it be that I enjoy being looked after by Marco?

  ‘I will leave you alone now,’ he says, picking up his coffee. ‘Try to get some sleep.’

  ‘OK, boss,’ I say, saluting him lamely, and he considers me for a second before crouching down so we’re practically nose to nose.

  ‘Goodnight, Taggie,’ he breathes. ‘Happy New Year, felice anno nuovo.’

  I go to reply, but no sound comes out. I can’t seem to stop gazing at his green eyes, which are so full of warmth as they look at me. The next thing I know, I’ve leant forward and pressed my mouth up to his, closing my eyes as I feel his tongue move forwards and brush against mine. My body throbs as he kisses me tenderly and with care, his fingers trailing across one cheek, making me shiver with desire. I can feel a hunger for him building inside me, a passion that I had forgotten could possess me, and press myself harder against him. Marco dips his chin away from my lips and rubs his nose along my cheek. I want him to kiss me again – more than that, I want him to devour me. Help me to forget. But he doesn’t.

  Instead, he stands up and takes my hand, lacing his long fingers between mine, and smiles.

  I watch as he turns and leaves the room in silence, and hear the click as he closes the door behind him.

  If anyone had asked me less than twelve hours ago if I thought this fresh, new year would be a happy one, then I would probably have scoffed at them with derision. But now, as I settle down underneath Marco’s warm blanket, his T-shirt smelling so deliciously of him against my skin, I’m starting to believe that it really could be.

  48

  Lucy

  I’m still awake when the sun comes up on the first day of the new year.

  Pete and I stayed up talking for most of the night, not just about Taggie and the lost baby, but about the future of our relationship. I opened up to him about my struggle to trust people, and he listened as I told him all about my ex, Spencer, and how his barbaric treatment of me had left such deep welts of insecurity.

  Pete made it very clear to me that what he wants is for us
to look after each other. He wants to be the one to erase all my self-doubt and make me feel like the incredible person he claims I am. It’s what I’ve always wanted, and I should be cartwheeling with joy this morning – but I’m not.

  After he fell asleep a few hours ago, I lay here for ages feeling unsettled. Despite all my protestations to Pete about the importance of honesty, there is one thing I still haven’t been completely truthful about – and now it’s all I can think about. The sad fact is, I haven’t been myself with Pete, not consistently. I worry that he loves me because I’ve been letting him take control and make decisions; I’ve carefully played the part of the perfect, unswerving girlfriend so well that he’s fallen for it completely. I’ve sold him an image of myself rather than the real thing, made him believe that I’m the cream on his apple pie, and now I’m scared that he won’t like who I really am. But more than that, I’m not sure if I even know who the real me is any more.

  The desire to call Julia and beg for advice is a strong one, but I manage to resist. She deserves a day off from my neuroses, and she’s bound to be fast asleep now, anyway. It’s high time I stopped presuming that my big sister has all the answers. She’s the stronger one, that much is undeniable, but the only person who can really see inside my head and know what I’m thinking and feeling is me. I need to decide not only who I am, but also who I want to be – and I need to do it by myself.

  My phone buzzes with a ‘Happy New Year’ message from Dad, and a wave of emotion sweeps over me as I picture him waking up alone, yet again, in a house that by rights should be bursting with the chaotic colour of family life. Whatever self-disparaging traits I inherited from little Johnny’s betrayal that day in the playground were exacerbated a thousandfold when my mum left. It was as if the bogeyman had come to life and crawled out from under the bed, as I’d always known he would. I had feared for so long that people were capable of cruelty, and my own mother had proved me right, which I guess was why I was too angry to hear her out when it happened, and have been too proud to broach the subject since. Maybe it’s not pride, though – perhaps it’s fear.

  I know that Julia demanded answers, because she gave me a blow-by-blow, embittered account of the entire exchange, so I also know that my mum simply reiterated the facts, which were that she no longer loved our dad, and that she could not stay with him. Why is it that I’m able to understand and sympathise with Pete’s actions concerning Taggie, but still find it impossible to forgive my mum? I’m aware of how hypocritical it makes me, but I can’t seem to separate sense from sensibility. Pete hasn’t said as much, but I can tell that what he desperately wants is for Taggie to forgive him. Knowing what I know, however, I’m doubtful that she ever will, and he is going to have to accept that, even if he doesn’t like it very much.

  It’s impossible to be a nurse and not learn about people. I’m in a unique position, because many of the men, women and children I meet are going through something traumatic or frightening. I’ve seen people break down when they learn that the father they didn’t speak to for ten years has been killed in a car accident. I’ve held the hands of grandmothers whose grown-up children have moved abroad and can’t make it over in time to say goodbye, and I’ve seen doctors shut themselves into empty offices to weep over the baby they failed to save from meningitis. I have seen the best, the worst and everything in between, and still I haven’t learnt to let go of my grudges. It’s not just my mum and my ex-boyfriend that I refuse to forgive – it’s myself. Today is the start of a brand-new year, and I’m determined to stop this endless cycle of self-destructive behaviour I’ve been pedalling out, and embrace the very real chance of a happy future.

  Pete stirs just before midday, pulling me against him and nuzzling his face into my neck. He’s predictably ravenous, so as soon as we’re both up, showered and dressed, we wander down to the eastern side of the lake for some breakfast. There’s a café with outdoor tables facing the water, and we choose one without shade to make the most of the sunshine. It can’t be more than a few degrees above freezing, because I can see my breath in the air, but the sun makes it feel much warmer. By the time our hot chocolates arrive, I’ve taken off my hat and gloves and put on my sunglasses.

  ‘I can’t believe we fly home tomorrow,’ Pete says, squinting as he takes in the view. ‘It’s going to be horrible going back to work.’

  I had just been thinking the opposite, so instead of agreeing I simply smile in sympathy. I’m going to miss Lake Como, of course I am, but I’m also eager to get started on the plan I came up with in bed this morning – and I have missed being at the hospital, too, even though I didn’t think I would.

  ‘Shame we can’t take the sunshine with us,’ I say. ‘If winters in England were as gorgeous as this, everyone would be in much better moods.’

  ‘We should look at holidays next week,’ he says then, fiddling with his paper napkin. ‘Get something in the diary so we’ve got it to look forward to.’

  I smile. ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  Breakfast arrives – a crostata pastry oozing with wild berry jam for me and a bacon baguette dripping grease for Pete – and after we’ve eaten we order two coffees to take with us and stroll along the path beside the water. While the pavements have been cleared of any party detritus, the water is still playing host to a collection of rubbish, and we see everything from empty wine bottles to polystyrene food containers floating on the surface. The Chinese paper lanterns that we saw lighting up the sky on our walk back from the Casa Alta last night have long since gone out, and many are now bobbing around in the shallows. Pete waits until we’ve wandered halfway along a narrow, curved pier before raising the subject of Taggie, and when he does it’s with reluctance.

  ‘I suppose I should go back to the hotel later,’ he says, looking at me sideways. ‘You know, to see Taggie again, to explain.’

  There’s a seagull on the wall ahead of us, and it cocks its head to one side, deciding whether to take flight. As soon as I lift the camera to take a photo, it’s gone.

  ‘If you want to,’ I reply, carefully non-committal.

  ‘You don’t think I should,’ he states, turning his face towards the sun.

  ‘I’m not sure it will make you feel any better,’ I say. ‘That’s not the same thing.’

  ‘I need to explain,’ he pauses. ‘About you.’

  ‘Do you?’ I ask. ‘Do you really? Because it might just hurt her more. She probably needs time to digest it all.’

  He considers this for a minute as we continue along the pier, and I stare down to where the light is casting shadows across the concrete walkway.

  ‘Maybe I’ll just send her a message,’ he says, looking down at the boats moored below us. ‘Tell her that I’m here if she wants to see me, and … Well, tell her that I’m sorry. For all of it.’

  I take his proffered hand as we reach a small wooden bench decorated with graffiti. It’s funny how these scribblings feel so romantic in a setting like this, whereas in London the same spray-painted words would look so grubby. There are padlocks attached to sections of the railings here, too, just like those that people leave in Paris and parts of London. They’re supposed to signify enduring love. The coming together of two halves.

  ‘I think that’s a good idea,’ I tell him, and smile encouragingly as he takes out his phone. Now even if Taggie doesn’t respond, as I suspect she won’t, then he will know that he did something. That he tried.

  And that’s all that any of us can ever really do, isn’t it?

  49

  Taggie

  Shelley is waiting for me in reception when I come out of Sal’s office, her cherubic face the picture of concern.

  ‘Well?’ she asks, holding out her arms ready for a hug if I need one.

  ‘A warning,’ I say, holding up a piece of paper. ‘Two more strikes and I’m out.’

  ‘Tchuh!’ Shelley mutters as I step into her embrace, and I smile. To be fair to Sal, he wasn’t as angry as I probably would have been in his posit
ion – he was more disappointed than anything, which is of course far worse. I explained about Pete, leaving out the more morbid details, and he did seem to forgive me for running out on him and the party I’d spent so long planning. However, as he kindly but firmly explained afterwards, I had broken the rules, and there were consequences. Given that he only let me organise the party because I was so insistent, taking a bit of a gamble at the same time, I can’t be that cross with him. In fact, I’m the one who feels guilty now for making everyone worry.

  ‘I’m sorry I ran off,’ I say to Shelley now, following her into the bar, and she turns to me sheepishly.

  ‘I didn’t actually realise you had until we went out to watch the fireworks,’ she says. ‘And then, when I went to get my phone and call you, I found a message on it from Marco, telling me that you were OK.’

  ‘Really?’ I’m surprised. ‘He never told me he’d sent it.’

  ‘Did anything happen?’ she asks immediately, but I quickly shake my head.

  ‘I told you, we’re just friends.’

  ‘If you say so,’ she replies, but I can tell that she doesn’t believe me.

  ‘Honestly,’ I say. ‘Nothing exciting happened. We had a few drinks and danced, and then I crashed on his sofa.’

  The memory of Marco’s lips pressed hard against my own assaults me.

  ‘You went to his house?’ Shelley is practically foaming at the mouth with glee. ‘What’s it like? Where does he live? Does he have any hot, single flatmates?’

  ‘Whoa!’ I interrupt, laughing at her sudden burst of excitement. ‘One thing at a time.’

  Once she’s satisfied that she has every detail about my time spent in Marco’s apartment – excluding the part about the kiss, which I can’t share until I make sense of it in my own head – Shelley hands me a mug of tea.

  ‘So,’ she begins, frowning when she sees my reaction. ‘Don’t pull that face. I’m worried about you.’