51
Taggie
I find Marco standing in front of one of the Casa Alta’s grand, tall windows, staring out across the dark-green sweep of hillside beyond the glass. The view from here in the bar is one of my favourites in the hotel, because you can see grounds, lake and mountains without even having to tilt your head. Marco must find it just as mesmerising as I do, because I’m only about two feet away when he turns.
Seeing me there behind him, he smiles.
‘Ciao.’
His voice sounds deeper today, as if he’s yet to shrug off the layers of slumber.
‘Ciao,’ I reply, feeling absurdly shy. Reaching across, I lightly brush my fingers against his elbow. ‘Thank you for last night.’
‘You ran away,’ he states, eyeing me with typical bemusement. The sunlight beaming in through the window is making his eyes look the same colour as an infinity pool in a glossy holiday brochure. They really are remarkable.
‘I thought you’d be glad to get rid of me,’ I joke, and he puts his head on one side.
‘I like your hair like this,’ he says, idly picking up a section and rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger.
‘You mean washed?’ I reply light-heartedly, and he smiles again.
‘Undone. And yes, washed is nice. You smell like …’ He bends to sniff, sending about three thousand volts of unexpected desire around my body at the same time. ‘You.’
I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s my almond-blossom anti-dandruff shampoo.
‘Sorry for stealing your jumper,’ I say then, lifting the item up in my arms to show him that I’ve brought it back, along with the T-shirt he lent me to sleep in.
He shrugs. ‘Keep them.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I chide, firmly hanging both the jumper and T-shirt over his leather-clad arm. ‘I always meant to return them; I was just really cold this morning.’
‘What are you doing today?’ he asks then, abruptly changing the subject in the strange yet endlessly entertaining way he always seems to.
‘I, er …’ I falter, tripping over the lie as I’m about to say it. Why am I trying to send this man away, when I know what I want is to see him, to spend time with him? It was only a few hours ago that I left his apartment, and in the time since then I feel as if I’ve missed him, which is of course ridiculous.
‘I was supposed to be working, but …’ He holds his flat palms out to either side.
‘Oh God, the bloody restaurant! I’m sorry. Again.’
He laughs magnanimously.
‘Hush. I told you, I hate that job. I was happy this morning when I woke up and realised that I never have to go back there again. Then I got up to make you coffee, but you had gone.’
I think about saying sorry for that, too, but remember in time how much it wound him up last night when I kept apologising.
‘I have the afternoon off,’ I say, gratified to see his eyes light up. ‘I was going to visit Elsie, but you’d be welcome to come with me. I think,’ I begin, grinning as I correct myself, ‘I mean, I know she would love to see you.’
‘And I would love to see her,’ he replies. ‘And the dogs, too, of course.’
‘Well, of course,’ I agree, feeling all of a sudden light enough to float away like a balloon. ‘Are you OK to wait for half an hour or so, just while I finish off what I need to do?’
‘I’ll look after him!’ Shelley calls out. Marco and I wheel around to discover that she has, of course, tiptoed in and set herself up within earshot behind the bar.
‘Have fun,’ I whisper, sneaking one final look up at his eyes. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
I’m halfway back up the stairs to my room when I feel my phone vibrate in the pocket of my jeans. It’s a message from Pete.
I’m sorry, he’s written. I’m here if you want to talk.
I pause, waiting for the inevitable pain to assault me, but it doesn’t come. In fact, I feel OK to have heard from him. There’s no anger there, or grief – there’s just a twinge of something like sadness. Pete may not have had his heart broken by me, but he’s suffered in other ways, just as I have. It’s not fair of me to keep torturing him now, not any more.
Taking a deep breath, I tap out a reply and press send before I can change my mind.
As soon as Marco and I leave a gleeful Shelley and an intrigued Sal behind in the bar and stroll out on to the sunny driveway of the Casa Alta, he seems to perk up. Bouncing over to the driver’s door of a very beaten-up old Fiat, he turns to me and gestures to the passenger side.
‘Your chariot, my lady.’
I can’t help it, I start laughing, and his face immediately falls.
‘What? What is so funny?’
‘Your car!’ I exclaim. ‘I thought that boat was in bad shape, but this is something else.’
Marco runs a protective hand over the faded blue bonnet.
‘She is my pride and joy,’ he says with a sniff.
I take in the rust-covered panels, the cracked bumper and the large dent in one of the doors, and fold my arms.
‘She certainly has … character.’
‘Enough!’ he says, pretending to tell me off by wagging a finger. ‘Get in before she hears you and refuses to start.’
‘Has she done that before?’ I ask, clambering in. Just like Marco’s apartment, the inside of his car is immaculately clean, even if she is a bit shabby. An image of Pete’s old Peugeot comes to me, with its footwell full of empty crisp packets and muddy rugby boots on the back seat.
‘Only with people she really does not like,’ he says, slipping the key into the ignition. There’s a splutter and a growl, then the decrepit Fiat grumbles restlessly to life.
‘Ah,’ he says, patting the steering wheel with fondness. ‘She likes you. I thought she would.’
‘I like her, too,’ I assure him, my words loaded with more meaning than I intended, and again he gives me one of those sideways looks.
‘Bene,’ he murmurs. Good.
It’s the first time I’ve been in a car that wasn’t a taxi since I’ve been here, and the novelty of sitting in the front is going to take a while to wear off. Usually when I’m in the Casa Alta van with a tour group, I’m either turning around answering a flurry of questions, or have my nose down studying the day’s itinerary, but today I have the freedom to simply sit back and enjoy the view.
The sun is lounging lazily in the sky like a holidaymaker on a recliner, casting its bright, winter light across the surface of the lake below us. As we pass the Aero Club, a seaplane comes in to land, scattering ducks, geese and swans in its wake. Some of the wealthier guests that stay at the Casa Alta go on aerial tours over Como, but it’s never appealed to me much. What I love so much about this area is how reassuringly large and protective the surrounding mountains feel, and how vast the expanse of water. To see it all reduced to a toy town from the air might diminish it somehow, and I’m not willing to take that risk. Well, that and I don’t have a spare three hundred euros burning a hole in my pocket.
Marco drives with ease and admirable grace, given his vehicle of choice, and I can’t help but be aware of how close his hand is to my thigh whenever he reaches down to change gear. The car rattles along quite happily, almost as if it’s enjoying the feel of the New Year’s Day sunshine as much as its passengers are, and we’re through the centre of Como and on the other side of the lake in no time.
I take out my phone and send a quick message to Elsie – she’ll string me up by my ankles if I turn up with a man in tow without giving her the time to do her face – and see that Pete has yet to reply to the text I sent him. Perhaps he’s been shocked into staying mute.
‘I saw that girl,’ Marco says, not taking his eyes off the road. We’ve just passed the point where the wooded park on the eastern shore comes to an end, and there’s rainbow confetti all over the tarmac.
‘Which girl?’ I ask, the hairs on my arms prickling.
‘From the boat,’ he says. ‘The on
e who helped you with your nose.’
‘Thanks again for that,’ I quip, and he narrows his eyes at me cheekily.
‘She asked me if you were OK,’ he adds. ‘I told her yes.’
I smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘But are you?’ he asks, glancing at me when I don’t immediately reply. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I am,’ I say honestly. ‘I really think I am.’
We don’t talk much more because Marco needs to focus all his attention on the road. It becomes pretty hair-raising as we cruise further along the coastline, and I try not to wince whenever another car whizzes past on one of the many blind corners. To distract myself, I start looking out for the signs so I can keep track of where we are, mouthing each of the beautiful place names as I read them. There’s Torno, Lario, Careno, Nesso and, after a mercifully straight stretch of open road, Lezzeno, all unique and beautiful, all steeped in history and all with spectacular views. Why would anyone choose to live anywhere else in the world?
While the scenery is sublime, I still find my eyes slipping constantly towards Marco. I take in the faint trace of freckles across his nose, the lines on his brow where it’s knotted in concentration, and the fingernails bitten down and clean. He’s less bulky and muscular than Pete, but in a way Marco is even more masculine. I know from inspecting the contents of his bathroom cabinet that he’s not averse to moisturising, flossing and tweezing, but there’s nothing girlish about him. He’s straightforwardly male, and I find that simple fact hugely comforting for some reason. I’ve never been the type of woman to crave a man to look after me – in fact, I’ve been anti the whole concept for as long as I can remember – but with Marco I feel safe. And it’s not a bad feeling, actually; it’s a nice one.
‘Darlings!’ Elsie holds her arms out to either side in greeting, pulling first me, then Marco down against her bosom. She smells sweetly of rose water today, and has gone to the trouble of applying lipstick for our arrival.
The dogs are even happier to see Marco than their mistress is, and all three of them pirouette round in tiny circles by his feet, barking excitedly. Even Bruno, who I thought liked me best of all, has transferred his affections, and when I go to pick him up, he tries to nip my finger.
‘Happy New Year to you, too,’ I retort, putting him down. ‘Bloody charming!’
‘Typical man,’ Elsie says drily, with the ghost of a wink. ‘Come on – the kettle’s on.’
The two of us follow her, Gino, Nico and Bruno through the front porch and into the hallway, where Marco excuses himself and heads into the bathroom. As soon as the door closes, it takes Elsie approximately five seconds to start firing questions at me.
‘Shhh,’ I hiss laughingly, lowering my voice to a whisper. ‘He’ll hear you.’
She sits down at the kitchen table and looks at me appraisingly. Her hair is covered with a gold and turquoise scarf today, and she’s swapped her habitual bright-green wellies for a pair of fluffy pink slippers.
‘You don’t have to tell me anything,’ she says, her eyes full of mischief. ‘But can I just say that you look better. Happier.’
‘Really?’ I’m touched, and turn away to start readying mugs for coffee.
‘Really,’ she confirms. ‘You have your light back. I haven’t seen it since you came here all those months ago, but today it’s as bright as that sunshine out there.’
‘It’s probably just exhaustion,’ I tell her, but there’s no discounting my smile.
‘Busy night, was it?’ she asks coyly, and I look round in time to see her impish grin.
‘Not in that way!’ I exclaim, unable to stop myself laughing at her bluntness. ‘Get your head out of the gutter, young lady!’
‘Oh, but it’s far more fun down there than up here,’ she giggles, holding her hand up above her head. ‘And nobody would judge you. I mean, you only have to look at him …’
‘Look at who?’ asks Marco. He’s just appeared in the kitchen doorway and is looking at each of us in that casually amused way he has.
‘You, dear,’ says Elsie sweetly, at exactly the same time as I chirp, ‘Nobody.’
Thankfully, Marco has the grace to simply raise an eyebrow. I go back to making the hot drinks, wondering how I got to this point. Less than twenty-four hours ago I was bereft, then last night I felt as if I’d been slammed into a wall of misery. All the revelations about Pete and Lucy and then all my feelings about the baby erupting like messy, emotional lava should have rendered me bed-bound at the very least. Yet here I am, standing in Elsie’s kitchen with a man I’ve only really known a few weeks, smiling with legitimate happiness and basking in the warmth of our shared moment. It’s all the more special, because it’s the first day of a brand-new year. I feel ready to put the past behind me and move forwards, and there’s no better time than right here and right now.
Marco is sitting down now, ignoring the three dogs, who are all scrabbling to climb on his knee. I open a cupboard and take out their tin of snacks, shaking it to get their attention.
‘Treats!’ I call. ‘Come and get them.’
Bruno’s ears twitch, but the other two don’t even seem to register my existence.
‘Well,’ I say, picking up two mugs of coffee and putting them on the table. ‘That’s put me in my place.’
The three of us pass an easy hour chatting about anything and everything, and I tell Elsie about my plans to head back to the UK in the coming weeks. Marco doesn’t say anything, but I feel him stiffen a fraction on the chair beside me, and I quickly reassure them that I will be back. I don’t share the real reason behind my trip, however – that’s not a lid I want to unscrew today. After a while, Elsie offers to make us some lunch, but Marco insists that he is more than capable. He’s not wrong, either, and Elsie isn’t the only one watching with pleased curiosity as he rifles through her fridge and begins making a rich pasta sauce from scratch. But of course, he can cook – it’s his dream to have a restaurant on a boat – and the thought makes me gaze at him with satisfied indulgence. He’s clearly far more passionate about food than he’s let on, and watching him scoot happily around the kitchen now, whistling softly under his breath as he works, makes me feel inspired. Everything that’s been happening over the past few days has gobbled up any time I would have had to plot, but now I’m becoming excited about Marco’s dream boat all over again. Next on my list after my visit back to England will be a business plan – and just thinking about it now is making my heart race with anticipation.
Lunch is, of course, divine, and for once I let Elsie get away with opening a bottle of red wine so we can toast the New Year, not to mention the talents of our Italian chef. However, given the fact that Marco still has to drive us back into Como and I’m trying to be good, Elsie drinks far more of it than we do, and soon announces that she’s off for a siesta.
‘Don’t behave yourselves, will you?’ she says as a parting shot, and I stare down at my scraped-clean plate until my blushes have subsided.
‘She is a brilliant woman,’ Marco comments, helping me clear the table and then leaning against the worktop as I wash up. He did offer to do that, too, but there are limits to how much sitting around and doing nothing I can endure.
I like how we can be together in a space like this and not fill every moment with chatter. Even though I’m feeling hyper-aware around him, I don’t have those awful nerves that make you babble absolute rubbish. I used to be like that with Pete in the beginning, and he was the same, so half the time we ended up talking over each other. With Marco, everything is more measured and relaxed, and I don’t worry what he’s thinking the whole time. I’m confident that if he had something on his mind, he would just say it. He’s far less complicated than any man I’ve ever met before, but then he has so much depth to him, too. Take today, for example. I had no idea he was such a talented cook. He’d never boasted about it or talked himself up. Instead, he’s letting me discover new things about him in a more organic way, and our friendship has developed as it shoul
d, gradually over time, rather than with the pair of us barking attributes at one another like we’re on an audition. I realise there’s still lots that I don’t know about him, but it doesn’t worry me. I trust him, and that is more important to me than anything else.
I wait until the last fork is dried and back in the drawer, then I turn to him.
‘Do you feel like a walk?’
He nods. ‘Of course.’
‘I know just the place,’ I smile, reaching for my coat. ‘And I think you’ll definitely approve.’
52
Taggie
The beach is deserted, as I somehow knew it would be. It’s always been my special place, the place I come to think, to feel, to just be. It’s the secret I have kept since I was nine years old, the one I never shared with anybody else. Until I met Marco.
The lake is as flat as a mirror, the boats reflected in almost perfect detail in the water, and in the distance the mountains seem to throb, as if a heart was beating within them. I bend down and unclip the leads from three tiny collars, watching as Nico, Gino and Bruno step carefully across the sand and stone until they reach the gently lapping shore, sniffing the cold air as they go. There are no clouds in the sky, and barely a sound save for the wind. It stirs the leaves in the surrounding trees, slipping amongst the branches like a whisper, and somewhere I hear a bird begin to sing.
‘I first found this place when I was a little girl,’ I say, looking up at Marco as he glances down at me. His dark hair is free of gel today and his floppy fringe almost reaches his eyes.
‘I used to pretend that it was mine.’
He smiles, lifting his gaze from me to the horizon. He must have left his sunglasses back at the house, because he’s squinting now against the glare of the sun. In this spot, right here on the sloping beach, it could almost be a midsummer afternoon, save for the chill that’s working its way through me. I shiver involuntarily as we begin to make our slow way along the narrow concrete pathway, and Marco slides a hesitant arm around my shoulder.
The Place We Met Page 30