‘I have to go,’ I say, standing up so fast that my mum almost falls off the sofa. ‘I need to … I have to go.’
‘Please don’t go yet,’ she says, holding on tightly to my hand. ‘Just stay, please. Just for a few hours. I’ve missed you so much.’
I look down at her, at her ridiculous multi-coloured leggings and soft grey cardigan, at the lines around her eyes and the dark patch of skin on her chest where she’s been burnt by the sun one time too many, and I realise that I’ve missed her, too.
‘OK, Mum,’ I say, smiling at her. ‘But only because it’s you.’
54
Taggie
The third week of January is always a tough one. Pay day feels like a distant memory, the mornings are dark and damp, and night time seems to arrive just after you’ve eaten your lunch. Of all the weeks that I could have chosen to come back to London, this one is probably the dreariest. But then again, I remind myself cheerfully, it’s not as if I’m staying for very long.
The walk from the Overground station to the flat feels strange yet familiar. The faces I pass are the same mix of friendly, grumpy and downright hostile that I remember, and the pavements are grey and littered with stains where people have spat out their chewing gum, only for it to be trodden underfoot. I used to walk along this same route at least twice every single day, sometimes more, but those days feel like a lifetime ago. I keep my eyes wide open, taking it all in, comparing it to the stroll I take along the lake in Como every morning to feed the birds, and laughing inwardly at the contrast. London is a vibrant and dynamic city full of incredible people, but it’s not my true home. I know that now.
My dad gave me the spare set of keys before I left this morning, so I’m able to let myself in, but I pause for a second by the front door, waiting to make sure that I’m not going to get all emotional. Once satisfied, I venture inside.
Pete is standing in the kitchen, and there’s a cardboard box on the worktop in front of him, my name written on the side in felt-tip pen.
‘Oh,’ he says, his cheeks reddening as I make my way towards him. ‘I was expecting Manny.’
‘I thought you might bail if you knew it was me coming,’ I admit, smiling sheepishly. ‘And I wanted to see you.’
‘You did?’ He sounds hopeful, and again I’m hit with a small slap of guilt for what I’ve put him through. He behaved pretty badly, but in the end so did I. When I should have tried to understand, I merely raged and ranted and tried to boss him into loving me again. No wonder he was too scared to face me in the hospital. I would have been, too.
‘So, this is weird,’ I say lightly, putting my keys in my bag. ‘Us, being back here, and not screaming at each other.’
‘Tag …’ he begins, but I shake my head.
‘Don’t say sorry. There’s been enough of that, Pete.’
He nods, understanding.
‘Do you want a beer?’
‘You bought beers in?’ I exclaim, laughing as he opens the fridge to reveal a six-pack of tinnies.
He grins, amused with himself. ‘You know me.’
‘That’s true, I do,’ I say, accepting a cold can and opening the ring pull with a finger.
‘What shall we drink to?’ he asks, poised to toast me.
‘The London property market, obviously,’ I reply, grinning at him. ‘I can’t believe how much more this place is worth now.’
‘I know,’ he agrees, taking a large slurp of beer. ‘Those shelves I put up in the front room must have added at least thirty grand to the value.’
‘You mean the wonky shelves?’ I remark drily. ‘The ones you can’t put anything of value on in case it falls off?’
‘All right, all right!’ Pete exclaims. ‘So, DIY isn’t my greatest skill – but I did manage to fix the toilet flush that time.’
‘Give the man a medal,’ I retort, but we’re both smiling. Pete looks as if he’s lost a bit of weight since I saw him last, and there are dark circles under his bright blue eyes. He’s wearing a butterscotch-coloured shirt today that by rights should clash with his ginger hair, but somehow it works. He always was good at picking clothes, and not just for himself, either. Some of my favourite dresses are gifts from him, including the one I have on today, which is made from soft grey wool.
‘Remember when we first moved in here?’ Pete says then, leaning against the edge of the worktop. ‘How disgusting this place was.’
‘The pink wallpaper!’ I remember with a shudder. ‘And that yellow carpet in the bathroom.’
‘I don’t think it was yellow when the previous owners first laid it,’ he says, and I pull a face.
‘Urgh!’
‘I still love it, though,’ he continues wistfully. ‘It’s been really bloody weird living here alone, but I’m going to miss the place.’
‘Did you never consider just buying me out?’ I ask, but he shakes his head.
‘No. This was our place, Tag. It would feel wrong staying.’
‘Are you and Lucy …’ I begin, but stop when I see the look on his face.
‘She dumped me,’ he says, quickly taking another sip of beer. ‘You’ll probably say it’s karma.’
‘No,’ I assure him. ‘I’m not that bitter – and I’m sorry things didn’t work out between you two.’
He looks as if he doesn’t believe me.
‘I mean it,’ I insist. ‘Lucy seems lovely, and she was so nice to me in the hospital when … You know. There were all these doctors standing over me and talking away like I wasn’t even in the room, but she held my hand and made sure I knew what was happening. It made all the difference.’
‘She is lovely,’ he agrees. ‘She deserves far better than me.’
‘Is there no hope for the two of you?’ I ask, slightly taken aback to discover that I do genuinely want there to be. I wasn’t lying to Pete when I said Lucy was a great person – she is. And I could tell how much she loved him.
Pete stares down at his can. ‘I’m not sure. She told me she needed some time to think, to be by herself, so that’s what I’m giving her.’
‘Time alone can be good,’ I tell him. ‘It sounds to me like she’s trying to do the smart thing.’
‘What about you?’ he asks, and I glance up.
‘What about me what?’
‘You and that guy,’ he says, shifting uncomfortably. ‘What was his name again – Marco?’
‘Marco is just a friend,’ I say, unable to stop myself from smiling as an image of my tall Anglo-Italian comes to mind. ‘A very good friend.’
‘He’s crazy about you, though,’ Pete says then, so matter-of-factly that I try to laugh his comment away.
‘What?’ he says. ‘He is! I know I only met him that one time, but it was obvious even then. The way he looked at me was the same way a tiger might look at a passing herd of buffalo. He wanted to murder me.’
‘He’s just very loyal,’ I protest.
‘Or very besotted,’ Pete points out.
What I don’t share with Pete is the fact that Marco is more than just loyal. He’s also wise, funny and warm, and rapidly becoming the most important person in my life. We are still just friends, it’s true, but I know that what’s developing between us is more than that. It’s deeper and more urgent. I’m just in no hurry to rush into something new quite yet; I need a bit more time to heal.
‘What’s in the box?’ I ask, firmly changing the subject, and Pete opens the lid to show me.
‘Shoes, of course.’
I laugh as I look down at the patent red high heels.
‘I left those on purpose! They cripple me.’
‘Well, they’re hardly going to fit me,’ he replies, lifting one out. The heels are a size three, whereas Pete’s feet are a gigantic size twelve.
‘And they’re not really your style, either,’ I joke. ‘Perhaps thigh-high boots would suit you better. Some of those ones that lace all the way up the front.’
‘Sexy,’ he deadpans, and we both laugh as he reaches into the fridge for a second
beer. I had worried that it would feel sad to be back in the flat with Pete, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s nice to be reminded of the positive memories, and to be able to laugh together again over little things. When we broke up, there was so much animosity and mutual mud-slinging – the two of us ending up buried so far underneath it all that we lost sight of who we were, of what we had once shared. We forgot that we were friends.
‘It’s nice to see you,’ I say then, voicing what I’m thinking, and his eyes seem to light up as he looks at me.
‘It’s nice to see you, too, Tag.’
We share the rest of the beers sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, reminiscing about the parties we had here and all the terrible meals he attempted to cook. Pete asks me about the Casa Alta, and I enquire into his job at the radio station, then we talk about our mutual friends, and our families. It’s amazing how much can happen in just over half a year, and we find that we have plenty to catch up on. We don’t talk about the baby, but that’s OK. I’m dealing with it on my own terms, and raking back over the subject with Pete now feels unnecessary. I know that neither of us will ever forget the little life that we created together, and it will always be with us, but what today is about is the future. It’s about moving forwards with our lives.
‘What are you going to spend your half of the money on?’ Pete asks, as we prepare to leave, and I glance around once again at the bare walls of what was, until a few hours ago, our flat.
‘I’m thinking of investing in a new business,’ I tell him, zipping up my coat.
‘Oh yeah?’ he replies, turning off the hallway light as I open the front door.
‘I’ve always wanted to help build up something from scratch,’ I tell him. ‘I just never knew what it was until recently.’
‘And now you do?’ he asks, closing our door for the final time.
I’m just about to reply when we’re both distracted by the sound of his phone ringing. As he takes it out and looks at the name flashing up on the screen, a smile spreads across his face.
‘Good news?’ I guess, and he nods, holding the phone out so I can see. It’s Lucy.
‘Answer it, you idiot!’ I tell him, touching his arm one final time.
Pete smiles and mouths a thank you, then hurriedly answers his call with a tentative hello.
I pull my handbag further up on my shoulder and rearrange my arms around the edges of my cardboard box. It’s time for me to go, back to where I know there are people waiting for me. As I turn away from the door of the flat and get ready to walk away, I hear Pete take a breath, followed by four little words that make my heart sing for him.
‘I miss you, too.’
Epilogue
The path down to the beach is damp from an earlier shower, and the moon is making the stones gleam a whitish grey in the darkness. Stars are scattered like a dusting of glitter across the vast black sky, and the lake below them ripples and stirs.
When I reach the shore, I unfold the blanket I’ve been clutching to my chest and lay it out flat across the sand. It feels like only yesterday that I was nine years old, and sitting in this very spot for the first time, my future stretching enticingly ahead of me. So much has happened since then to bring me back here, but it feels right that this is the place I keep returning to.
I hear the boat approaching before I see it, a smile of delight tugging up the corners of my mouth. I never fail to feel moved when I see what the two of us have created, our little dream, the one that started with him and grew like a sapling inside me. We have worked so hard and so tirelessly for so long, but it has all been worthwhile. Every blister caused from sanding, every nail broken, every splinter and every chunk of paint-covered hair cut out with scissors. I would do it all over again in a heartbeat.
We named her Speranza – the Italian word for ‘hope’ – because in the beginning that was all we had. Hope that she would transform into Como’s best and boldest floating restaurant, hope that my business plan wouldn’t fail, hope that Marco and I would be able to work together without him being driven mad, and hope that everyone would fall as much in love with our beautiful boat as we had.
She did, we do, and oh how they have.
Just last week, we hosted our tenth big wedding party of the season, and our dinner cruises are already in TripAdvisor’s top ten list of things to do around Lake Como. I’ve learned more about social media marketing in the past year than I ever thought possible, and barely a day goes by where I don’t wake up feeling impatient to get to work – a novelty that I don’t imagine will wear off.
Today is our official one-year anniversary, having bought her last February and spent six months getting her ready, so Marco and I drew a line through our bulging diary of bookings and promised each other that we would celebrate. Now that I can see him coming into view, his smile wide and those mesmeric eyes bright, I feel overwhelmed with love, just as I always am. Love for him, for us, and for the life we have together.
Unable to wait for him to make it as far as the shore, I hoist up my dress, kick off my sandals, and wade out through the water towards him, admiring the flex of his arms as he fastens Speranza’s ropes firmly into place.
‘Ciao, bella,’ he murmurs, cupping my upturned face in his hands and kissing me gently and with a tenderness that makes my knees tremble. He’s grown his hair longer, and I love the way his rich, dark curls complement his eyes. I could gaze at him all night, and sometimes I do just that. I watch him in his sleep, warmed by contentment, and wonder how I ever got lucky enough to find him.
We spread our makeshift picnic out on the blanket, taking advantage of the solitude to behave even more soppily than we usually do. I feed him olives by hand and he breaks up the soft rolls that are still warm from Speranza’s oven, posting the delicious doughy morsels into my mouth and chasing them down with a kiss. If Shelley was here she’d slap a hand over her eyes and tell us to ‘get a room, for God’s sake’, but I imagine Elsie would simply cheer me on. I think, if it’s possible, she and the dogs love my boyfriend even more than I do.
We’ve finished eating and are staring up at the stars when Marco turns to me.
‘I have a surprise,’ he says, looking mischievous.
‘Oooh.’
Picking up the bag that contained all the food, he reaches into the bottom and extracts something large, white and flat.
‘What is tha— Oh!’ I cry, enchanted. ‘A Chinese lantern!’
‘I thought we could light it and make a wish,’ he explains, folding up the sides and readying a lighter.
‘Have I ever told you how much I love you?’ I ask, and he kisses me again as we clamber to our feet. I take the lantern and Marco stands behind me, so tall that he can reach both arms around to light it up.
‘Ready?’ he asks.
I lean back against him, my heart beating hard with emotion.
‘Ready.’
We let go, and the lantern soars upwards into the dark, a luminous throb of colour against the night sky, and we watch in silence as it dips and twirls, higher and higher, eventually becoming just a faint glimmer of golden light amongst the stars.
‘Did you make a wish?’ Marco asks, his breath hot against my ear.
‘I didn’t need to,’ I say softly, taking his hand and moving it down until it’s resting against the small but firm swell of my belly.
‘My wish has already come true.’
Acknowledgements
It doesn’t seem possible that I now have FOUR novels out in the world, but here it is – all shiny and beautiful and very happy to be in your hands. As always, dearest reader, my first thanks must go to you. Thank you for picking up this book and coming on this adventure with me. Please do come and chat to me about it on Twitter @Isabelle_Broom – I’d love to hear from you.
To my agent extraordinaire Hannah Ferguson – thank you for being so wise, warm and wonderful. None of this would be happening if you hadn’t taken a chance on me in the first place, and I will never
ever stop being grateful. Thanks also to the amazing team at Hardman & Swainson and The Marsh Agency – you are all legends.
To my brand-new editor, Eve Hall, thank you for taking over the reins and steering me and this book so expertly over the many hurdles we encountered along the way. You always knew that this novel had the potential to be special – even when I seriously doubted it! – and you helped me more than you will ever know. I’m so excited for all the future books we’ll now get to work on together. To the rest of the Penguins – Maxine, Claire, Sarah H, Maddy, Tilda, Sarah B, Emma and Jess, not to mention the epic Kimberley Atkins – you are the greatest. Thank you for every single thing you do, and for your continued support and enthusiasm.
I’m beginning to sound like a broken record when I say that authors are the best people in the world, but they really are. There are genuinely too many of you to list here, but I do want to say a very special thanks to a few. First of all, to the Book Camp crew – aka Cesca, Katie, Cathy, Katy, Jo, Holly, Kirsty, Gemma, Emily and, of course, Barnaby – whether it was sharing wisdom over wine, sharing bubbly in the hot tub or sharing high-fives when we hit our daily word targets, you all helped me fall back in love with my craft during our week away, and I love you all for it. To Kate Eberlen, Fanny Blake, Cathy Kelly, Victoria Fox, Milly Johnson, Giovanna Fletcher, Miranda Dickinson, Gilly McAllister, Adele Parks, Tasmina Perry, Paige Toon, Rosie Walsh, Claire Frost, Cressida McLaughlin, Amy Rowland, Deirdre O’Brien, Sophie Ransom, Fran Gough, Sara-Jade Virtue, Nina Potell and all the many incredible bloggers who have taken the time to read my books, thank you for your kindness and amazing generosity.
Thanks to my nearest and weirdest (you know it’s true) friends – Sadie, Ian, Tamsin, Ranjit, Gemma, Sarah, Chad, Carrie, Corrie, Jamie, Molly and Vicky Z. I’d be a far sadder and more boring person without you all in my life. Sorry for cancelling plans when I’m on deadline and going into a note-making trance after dragging you to Sri Lanka, and thank you for coming along to watch me get drunk at my launches, making me laugh pretty much daily, and being there with a sympathetic ear when I’m in need of one. Thanks to the heat crew, too, who have never been anything but 100 per cent supportive of my writing career – you are all totes spiffing, yah!
The Place We Met Page 32