Tell Me Something (Contemporary Romance)

by Adele Parks

  This morning, like every other morning, Roberto and I get up at quarter to seven and are showered, dressed and seated at the dining room table for breakfast by seven thirty. As usual, Raffaella places a plate of cold meats on the table and as usual, I ignore it and reach for the bread and honey.

  When we leave the dining room I dig Roberto in the ribs.

  'You are going to have to say something about her ongoing campaign to get me to eat meat,' I say with some exasperation.

  'I know it's crazy. I will say something. I keep meaning to. I have so much on my mind. I forget all about your problem until every mealtime. Come on, let's walk into the piazza and I'll buy you a coffee and a brioche.'

  I slip my hand in his as we amble the very short distance into the town square. On the jaunt Roberto buys a newspaper and says hello to the folks he knows. I wave and smile shyly in their direction; the younger ones shout 'Ciao', the older ones touch their hats in response, but our conversations can go no further.

  'You must try to learn our language,' Roberto says, not for the first time.

  'I know.'

  'You have to be brave and just risk to say something; it doesn't matter if your pronunciation is not perfect.'

  It mattered to Raffaella. I keep this point to myself. 'How did you learn English?'

  'A little at school, and then mostly on the spot, in England.'

  'With a tutor?'

  'No. I managed by focusing. You have to concentrate, Elizabeth. You have to be aware of the conversations around you and immerse yourself. I know it is not easy, especially for a day-dreamer,' he adds, not unkindly.

  We always take our morning coffee at someone else's bar. Roberto sees this as an opportunity to informally analyse the competition, I see it as time off when I can choose between people-watching (no language skills required) or thinking about baby names (my current favourites are Louisa for a girl and it's still Matthew for a boy). Roberto doesn't have a view on the name Louisa. I'm not sure if he likes it more or less than Lottie, which has been my favourite for a year; he won't say, although I've asked him twice.

  Roberto goes inside to order the coffees (his is an espresso, mine's a cappuccino) and my gaze falls on to the small, already familiar gangs of chatty characters who prefer to take their coffee outside the bars; they did so even in chilly February and now they bathe like fat seals in the weak spring sunlight. It's clear that not only do they enjoy the fresh air but they also have an insatiable curiosity about the comings and goings in Veganze's piazza. Old men sit in convivial silences and watch with interest the progress of audacious pigeons pecking their way through the street. Old women sit in sociable gangs and watch young lovers do the same thing. These oldies behave exactly as I imagined Continental pensioners to behave; they are the epitome of faded elegance. I adore, being near them.

  Roberto puts a cappuccino on the table but does not sit down.

  'Where's yours?' I ask.

  'I can't take coffee with you today. I have to be in the bar right away.'

  'why?'

  'I must be there to receive an order.'

  'I thought you did that yesterday.'

  'No, yesterday was an early start because I had need to talk to Antonella, the cleaner. You say she is skiver and I have to have a talk with her about her hours. You not remember?'

  The cleaner is such a skiver. She's an ancient old friend of Raffaella's and I'm unsure why we bother keeping her on the books at all, as she calls in sick at least once a week and even when she is around she's next to useless. I suggested we fired her and hired someone more responsible and effective, but Raffaella wouldn't hear of it and ranted to me about the importance of loyalty to old friends; she insisted we could cover for Antonella. Lately, I've begun to suspect that this is just one more of Raffaella's assaults. I am the only one who ever does any 'covering' for the cleaner; I spend half my life in rubber gloves.

  'Oh, yes, so you did.' Actually, I had forgotten. 'How did that go?'

  'Fine.'

  I do try and concentrate on every issue involving the bar but because Roberto is continually rushing around it's difficult to keep track.

  'I'll be in the bar by ten or ten thirty, latest,' I tell him.

  He nods briefly and kisses me on the forehead before dashing off, at an almost comical speed, towards Bruno's. I breathe a sigh of relief. As the mornings have brightened and the novelty of scrubbing clean or even serving in the bar has begun to wear off, I've been less inclined to arrive in for 10 a.m. sharp. My cappuccino-drinking in the square occasionally drags on till eleven; yesterday I only managed to lug myself there by noon. Roberto hasn't mentioned my tardiness. Maybe it's another thing he's failed to notice. I can't decide if that's infuriating or a relief. I mean, it's great that he's not grumbling that I need to spend every working minute in the bar, but on the other hand a girl likes to think she's indispensable.

  As I sip the delightfully frothy cappuccino I glance around the piazza hoping to spot the American guy who gave the fag to Forgetful Man. I've found myself doing that a lot. Odd, because it's not that I have anything particular to say to him, or anything particular in common with him, come to that. He's nothing to me. I'm nothing to him. OK, so we are two non-Italians living in a small town, I suppose we have that in common, but that's all. While I have found myself thinking about him quite a lot, I don't imagine he's ever given me another thought.

  And quite right too. I'm a married woman.

  It would be nice to have a chat though, in my mother tongue.

  I've noticed that Forgetful Man still makes his appearance regularly but there's never any sign of his cigarette-benefactor. Every time I don't see him I feel a sting of disappointment spike me, which is really peculiar. It's not as though we even suggested meeting up here again; we didn't make any plans or suggest any firm dates. He hasn't actually let me down by not being about but –

  But I had thought he might drop into the bar. He did say he might do that. And because he said he might I've found that when I am working, every time the door of the bar creaks open my eyes shoot to it. But he hasn't stopped by, and it's only when we are cashing up that I sigh and admit to myself how much I want him to. I realize that he's probably made up with his girlfriend by now and spending his time in Bassano del Grappa again. Well, good for him. That's nice. Another healthy, happy relationship. That's what I like to hear of. Alison and Fiona. The American guy and his beautiful Italian girlfriend. Roberto and me. Lovely.

  'Hi.' I look up and am face to face with the American guy. Irrationally I believe he's been reading my thoughts, and I nearly scald myself as I jump a foot into the air with shock and embarrassment. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you,' he says with a wide, lazy grin that somehow communicates that he's very used to startling women. 'Can I join you?'

  I consider that perhaps I ought to say no. Perhaps I ought to point out that I've just drained my coffee and now must be scurrying back to the bar to support my husband as he regenerates our family business; instead I nod mutely, unable to find my tongue.

  'Are you on your way to work?' he asks.

  I nod again and mutter, 'You?'

  'Yup, bit of a late start for me today. Normally I'm at school by now.'

  'Roberto, my husband, is already at Bruno's.' I'm not quite sure why I feel I have to keep mentioning Roberto in front of this man, but I do. 'I find it hard to pull myself away from the piazza though,' I add with a wistful and appreciative glance around.

  'I love it here too. I often spend my siesta lolling about in the piazza.'

  'Not this one,' I state, 'I've looked for you.' Inwardly I squirm. What possessed me to admit that? I clamp my mouth shut and vow never to utter another word until my deathbed.

  'I mean the piazza in Bassano del Grappa.' He stares at me with a peculiar mix of curiosity and challenge. It's uncomfortable under his gaze, a little like being in too hot sunlight.

  'I prefer the mornings. The afternoons are too quiet for me,' I say.

  I want
to explain my preference for busy, hopeful mornings to the American, without hinting at my exasperation at my husband's demanding timetable.

  When the shutters are open all manner of excitement is promised: pretty frilly knickers, glittering glassware and jewellery, gorgeous cakes and a rainbow choice of icecream flavours all lie in front of me. Tent-like frocks designed for mammas and scanty swimwear, designed for vixens, dress the same windows, proudly demonstrating that Italy is a place of contradictions.

  'Mornings here are chaotic, cluttered and vivacious. But at three o'clock when the shutters on the shop windows are systematically slammed closed, curiosity is defied and possibility, glamour and vibrancy seem to vanish.'

  'Are you saying that the shutters are a pertinent metaphor of your experiences in Italy to date?' asks the American guy, with unexpected insight that rattles me.

  I fidget on my seat. Yes, when the shutters close I am left wondering if, all along, I imagined the possibility, glamour and vibrancy, but I hadn't realized as much until he articulated it.

  'I think I'm just confessing to being a shopaholic,' I joke. 'I better get going now. Roberto will be wondering what's keeping me.'

  I quickly stand up, scraping my heavy metal chair along the cobbles; the uncomfortable clanking sound reverberates around the piazza, announcing my hurried and clumsy exit.

  'It's been good talking to you. Do you think –'

  'Lovely to chat to you too,' I say and then I scuttle away from the American before he has the chance to finish his sentence.

  He might have been about to ask did I think espresso was a preferable drink to latte, or did I think celebrating so many saints' days was a good custom, or did I think we should carry on talking another time, maybe have a drink. Something wouldn't allow me to stay to find out, especially since a big part of me wanted it to be the latter.

  25

  Curled up in bed it occurs to me that I have to have sex with Roberto tonight, even though it is not an especially good time in my cycle. Really, what is this nonsense about wanting some American stranger to chat to me? It's not like I'm that desperate for conversation. Or if it is, Roberto is the one that I should be turning to, not some not-my-type American guy.

  'How were the takings tonight?' I ask, but I don't care. I ask because Roberto cares and I want to sweeten his mood. He's clearly exhausted again tonight, after another long day in the bar.

  'Good. Generally this month is very up on March last year.'

  'Your mamma will be pleased.'

  'We should all be pleased. Mamma thinks the increase in trade is because the weather is more better. I'm hoping it's because the changes I make in the bar have started to have impression and therefore will last whatever the season. You know, things like the new decks and decent sound system. What do you think?'

  I'm not especially interested either way. All I know is that the loud music hampers my already pathetic chance of correctly understanding the customers' orders so the evenings are extremely frustrating and tiring. Tonight I gave one customer cheese when he'd asked for ham, and another eggs when she'd wanted sparkling wine. I struggle to get pecorino and prosciutto the right way round and uovo sounds a little like Lambrusco if you only catch the end of the order.

  'I'm not sure.' I stifle a yawn. 'I do know that Bruno's has a terrific selection of ice-creams. I've sampled every one of the twenty-eight flavours.' Last week I read that eating ice-cream increases chances of conceiving. 'And there's a constant dribble of customers who want to do the same – maybe it's the ice-cream sales that are pushing up the profits.'

  'Our ice-cream is known. In the summer we have to hire extra staff just to serve cones. Mamma has said that this year you can do that job.'

  'Right.' I can't think of an appropriate response. I don't want to admit to being bored or fed up, least of all patronized, and I do want us to have sex tonight, so I add, 'It's nice to be needed.'

  I've found it useful to remind myself of this when I'm asked to clean loos or work on a Sunday. It's in everyone's best interests to accentuate the positive.

  Roberto carefully takes off his clothes and gently lowers them into the wash basket with a tenderness most men reserve for handling their newborn infants.

  I have to admit that there is at least one perk attached to living with his mother; I am no longer responsible for retrieving his shirts, trousers, pants, etc. from the wash basket, washing them, pressing them and returning them to his cupboard in pristine condition. I've never got the hang of folding his T-shirts exactly the way he likes them. I once asked Alison to practise with me but she said I ought to tell Roberto to stuff his T-shirts where the sun don't shine or at least tell him to do his own washing. She didn't understand that I actually enjoyed the challenge of looking after Roberto's laundry and reaching a standard that makes him happy, the way his mother did. Or, at least, I initially enjoyed the challenge, but when it became clear that I was never going to achieve that standard, the whole washing thing became a nightmare and I was sorely tempted to follow Alison's advice.

  To be fair, now I have seen Raffaella's ironing I'm forced to acknowledge it is second to none. Roberto's shirts are returned to him looking as though she buys them fresh every morning. I do my own washing and have found nothing really needs an iron.

  Roberto pulls on pyjama bottoms and slips between the sheets.

  'Why have you started to wear pyjamas?' I ask. 'It's getting warmer, not cooler.' Roberto and I have always slept naked, ever since we met. The pyjamas are white and made from linen, so they do look good against his permanently tanned torso, but even so I don't like fabric coming between us. I miss the feel of his skin when we snuggle at night.

  'We are in my mamma's house.' He turns off the bedside light. 'Goodnight.'

  I stare into the blackness. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. Once I can see the outline of the enormous mahogany dressing table I reply.

  'But we dress before we go down to breakfast and she sleeps on a different floor, so she's not likely to get a glimpse of your tackle if you make a dash to the bathroom in the middle of the night.'

  'But what if she ever came into our room? Many of her clothes are still stored in here.'

  The idea is so disturbing that I lose the trail of my thoughts and find I can't argue effectively.

  'By the way, I don't like Mamma sleeping in the attic rooms. I'm going to make Paolina swap. I don't think Mamma can handle the stairs.'

  I freeze with horror at the very thought. Paolina is often out until quite late, but even so, I'm aware that she sleeps about two feet away from us and all that separates us is a wall. If Paolina moves into the attic and Raffaella moves into the bedroom next door, I might as well take religious orders because there is no way on God's earth that I could orgasm knowing Raffaella could be listening. Besides, I like the attic room. Why can't Raffaella move back into this room; why does she insist on disrupting everybody?

  'We'd never shag again if your mother was in Paolina's room. It's bad enough now, Paolina's proximity has quite an inhibiting effect,' I say.

  'Paolina can't hear a thing. The walls are thick.' Roberto yawns.

  'How can you be sure?'

  'Well, even if she can, Mamma is deaf and would hear nothing,' he mumbles.

  'Your mother is not deaf, her hearing is selective.' And I have a definite feeling she would elect to hear our lovemaking, assuming there ever was any to hear, that is.

  'You are not rational. In London the flat was tiny and the walls so thin that our Chiswick neighbours must have heard every mattress squeak.' He yawns again, somewhat pointedly, I feel.

  'Maybe, but I wasn't related to those guys,' I mutter.

  We lived in the same flat in Chiswick for several years and rarely passed the neighbours on the stairs, let alone found ourselves passing the coffee at breakfast. I decide this isn't the best moment to discuss the sleeping arrangements with Roberto. He's tired and therefore defensive. However, as Paolina is out tonight, we should take advantage. I
need him to slip out of those pyjamas and slip into something more comfortable instead. Me, for example.

  Slowly, I snake my arms around Roberto's body. I love the feel of him. There's nothing I like more than trailing my hands over his warm chest – except perhaps moving my hands a little southwards. I start to gently kiss and caress him.

  Roberto's breathing doesn't quicken, nor does he stiffen. He's asleep. I flop on to my back and breathe out, deeply. I try to expel the disappointment from my body. If it harbours there until morning we are bound to be snappy over the breakfast table. That won't do at all. I can't afford to waste another month.

  I lie on my back and stare into blackness. I'm restless and don't think I'll ever fall asleep. I try to think about some of the ideas for the bar that Roberto has shared with me today. Something about new chandeliers and a live impromptu DJ session once a month, but my mind won't stay on the subject. Before I know it, I'm thinking about the American guy. I wonder what his favourite ice-cream flavour is. I wonder if he'd come to the DJ sessions? I wonder what he's doing right now and who with? I wonder if he's asleep and if so, who with?

  Aaghh. Where did that thought come from? I start to mutter Louisa, Matthew, Louisa, Matthew, and hope this mantra will send me off.

  26

  7 March

  This morning I made Roberto feel guilty about his exhaustion last night, so we managed a quick session before breakfast. It wasn't a full-on pash-sesh, it did have a whiff of duty about it, but I don't care. That sort of thing makes no difference to the end result. Raffaella didn't comment that we were both late for breakfast and Paolina simply waved as she gulped back a coffee and rushed for the door.

  'That girl is always rushing,' says Raffaella. Actually, I translated that she had said, 'That girl is a speed,' but that seems unlikely.

  Paolina didn't get home until the early hours last night, I heard her come in; sadly, even the chant 'Louisa and Matthew' could not send me to sleep. I thought Italians were meant to be relaxed and only English people worked bloody silly hours and stayed chained to their desk for eighteen hours a day.