Tell Me Something (Contemporary Romance)

by Adele Parks

  'The crusty old academic?'

  'I never said he was crusty or old. You said that.'

  'What is he like then?'

  'He's thirty-four and gorgeous. Clever, kind, sexy.'

  'What fun!' says Alison. She's either unwilling or unable to get the seriousness of this situation.

  'Not really. I think I'm actually falling for him.' I hiss-whisper this confession, even though I'm making the call in the middle of the churchyard, miles away from Raffaella's house or the bar.

  'You can't be. He's American, you only ever fancy Italians,' states Alison as a matter of fact.

  I realize that this has always been the case but it seems silly when said back to me.

  I tell Alison about going out with Chuck on Thursday and how much fun we had. I explain that it was a relaxed, honest evening and a marked contrast to any other evening I've had since I arrived here. I tell her about him helping me find a job and suggesting I study for a formal TEFL qualification. I describe in detail our trip to Bassano del Grappa today to meet the director of the language school. Chuck was so supportive. He gave me all sorts of information about the school so that I could impress at the interview.

  'Did you get the job?' interrupts Alison.

  'Yes!' I squeal with excitement. 'It's only part-time but it's a start. Eight hours a week. Two mornings' work. At first the director thought I'd only be needed for one morning but we got on really well and she said we'd try two. The school is in this beautiful building. Marble floors, elevated ceilings. They showed me the room I'll be teaching from and it has a balcony. It's gorgeous. I start next Monday!'

  'That's wonderful. How did the Wicked Witch of the West and Roberto take the news of your new career?'

  'Er, I haven't told them yet.'

  'Why's that?'

  'Well, it's all happened at such a speed. Chuck only mentioned the possibility of a job on Thursday.'

  'Why didn't you discuss it then?'

  'Well, I hadn't actually told Roberto that I was out with Chuck so it would have been a bit difficult.' Whereas now it seems impossible.

  'My God, you're not kidding about this crush, are you?' Alison falls silent for a second and I let her worry on my behalf. I've been worrying alone all day. 'You know, this is probably not much to do with this Chuck guy per se.'

  'You think?'

  'It's probably got more to do with the fact that he's the first person you've talked to in any sort of meaningful way in two months. He's just a symptom of your loneliness. You'd probably have a crush on a gargoyle right now if it could speak English.'

  'Maybe.' I want to believe her. Problem is Chuck is no gargoyle.

  I daren't tell her that on the car journey home today I asked him about his past relationships. She might not believe me when I say that I was only interested in proving he's somehow flawed. I was almost sure that he'd have mercilessly played around or that he'd hopelessly lost his heart to someone years ago and is still pining after her. I was looking for something to prove he's a loser.

  'Two or three serious-ish girlfriends. One of which I lived with for two years,' he told me with a relaxed shrug.

  He's not even secretive. I'm frustrated. His response sounded so normal, so balanced. No sign of axe-wielding tendencies, commitment issues or even good old-fashioned reluctance to communicate.

  'Have you ever cheated on anyone?' I probed.

  'No,' he said firmly.

  'Never?'

  'No.' He sounded a bit insulted. 'Have you?'

  'No. I really believe in fidelity. If not that, then what? What is the point?'

  'Quite.' He sounded frustrated. But it might have been my imagination; he might just have been bewildered about my line of questioning.

  'But I bet you slipped straight from one relationship to the next. Too lazy to cook your own dinner, right?' I asked.

  'No, actually I really believe in having some space between relationships, so you can learn, or feel gutted or whatever. Don't you?'

  'Sounds sensible, but truthfully I've usually lined up the next one before I leave my current.'

  As I said this I wanted to swallow my own tongue. What possessed me? I was trying to dig around in his romantic history to establish that he is a faulty soul but I managed to sound like a frivolous hussy – by telling the truth. As I fought a blush, Chuck eyed me warily.

  'Moving anywhere is difficult,' says Alison, sensibly bringing me back to the here and now. 'There's always a period of adjustment, give it time. Everyone has crushes now and again.' I don't and we both know I don't. I've never looked at another man since I met Roberto. 'It's not like you have any intention of acting on this.'

  I'm pleased that Alison states this as a fact. She's not asking me. She knows me well enough to be sure that I am a one-man woman and I'd never think of having a bit of extra-curricular.

  OK, so I'm thinking about him all the time and I love his accent and his eyes and I think that absolutely everything he says is spot-on accurate, meaningful and kind, but we can be just good friends, can't we? Of course we can. We have to be. But is it possible for a man and a woman to be just friends? Suddenly I find myself slapped up against the eternal question that has been reflected upon over many a dining table and under many a duvet for centuries.

  'The most worrying thing is that this Chuck bloke is the one you are turning to because you are lonely. Where's Roberto in all of this?' asks Alison.

  'In the bar. Or at a supplier's. Or at the cash and carry. Or at least somewhere other than with me,' I admit. 'Maybe with Ana-Maria. I mean, I'm trying not to give in to silly, jealous suspicions that have no grounding in any sort of fact but –'

  'That's the problem. You guys need a bit of time together. Alone,' she adds meaningfully. 'Time to tell Roberto you feel really hurt that he's never talked about Ana-Maria and that you are concerned that your savings are being sunk in the bar and –'

  I cut her off; she's turned into a regular Jiminy Cricket. 'I see what you are saying.'

  'Maybe you could go away for a weekend.'

  'He wouldn't hear of it. He lives and breathes the bar. He won't take time off.'

  'You'll be OK. You two have come through much worse times before. They've always made you stronger.'

  'Right,' I mutter.

  But in fact she's wrong. Yes, we have come through tough times. Our childless state has been a hideous challenge but can I honestly say that we're stronger because of our troubles? I'm not sure I can. I think our troubles have taken their toll. I know couples who are stronger because they've suffered. I do. And I admire and envy those couples but we're not like that. We're damaged and raw. I'm sure we'd have been a stronger couple if we'd had a bunch of kids snapping at our ankles. Alison is just trying to comfort us both by throwing out such a convenient platitude.

  'Look on the bright side – you can be like ordinary couples now and spend your time arguing about Ana-Maria and Chuck. Past loves and present infatuations are very normal things to row about rather than . . .' She breaks off.

  'Unlike tearing at each other for lack of a baby,' I finish helpfully.

  'Sorry,' she mumbles.

  'No, you're right,' I admit. 'Who'd have thought fancying someone other than your spouse would turn out to be a blessing,' I joke.

  'That's the spirit. You have to laugh, don't you?'

  'Or else you'd cry.'

  38

  I know that I have zero chance of persuading Roberto to take time off and take me out for dinner. I wish he would. I believe that telling Roberto my news about my imminent employment in a charming rustic trattoria would maximize my chances of the news being received favourably. Besides, since we've arrived here in Italy we've never eaten out alone. In London we had an active social life, we both enjoyed visiting new restaurants. But on the rare occasion we visit a restaurant here, Raffaella always joins us. Alison is right, we do need to spend some time together, alone. The only reason I am entertaining silly thoughts about Chuck is that I'm missing Roberto. I'm l
onely.

  I wonder if I can persuade Roberto to spend Sunday sightseeing. Maybe, if we had a whole day together, we could talk through some of the big issues that we haven't addressed yet. Chuck asked me what our long-term plans for living arrangements are; I was embarrassed to admit that Roberto and I haven't discussed it properly. I'm beginning to think Roberto would be content if we lived with his mother forever. I understand that's not unusual in Italy but it's not my intention. Obviously I need to talk to Roberto about the teaching post but I'll also have to reintroduce the subject of a fair wage at Bruno's. The TEFL course will cost quite a bit and I have to pay Signor Castoro tuition fees; my savings will dwindle to nothing in no time at all. I know we can sort all this out if only we have a little time together.

  As luck would have it, the bar is the busiest I've ever seen it and I only have a chance to yell at Roberto over the sticky glasses on the counter as I'm clearing tables.

  'Do you think Laurana or one of the other girls could open the bar on Sunday so that we could spend the day together? Maybe go to Verona?' I ask. Roberto shrugs and looks doubtful. 'Well, we could go somewhere closer then. We don't open until six in the evening – we could make sure we were back for opening.'

  'But I use Sundays to do all the other things necessary in the bar.'

  'Such as?'

  He looks impatient. 'Redecorating, accounts, stocktaking.'

  'My God, how much stock do we have? You are always stocktaking.'

  I can't hang around to grumble as I have to take an order to a table. When I return to the bar Roberto is on the phone. It's another fifteen minutes before we can pick up the conversation.

  'I really need to talk to you,' I insist. 'I have news.'

  'About your job at the language school?' he asks.

  I'm taken aback and suddenly feel uncomfortably hot. 'Yes, actually.' I don't want to sound guilty or meek. It's not as though I've done anything wrong by applying for a job. Yet the way Roberto is looking at me makes me feel as though I've misbehaved.

  'I know all about it.' He wipes his hands on a thin cotton towel and turns to me. Aaghh, now I have his full attention; the novelty alone is enough to floor me. I feel I'm liquefying under his intense stare.

  'How?'

  'Mamma came into the bar this morning and found Gina all alone.'

  'Well, I–I can explain that.'

  Roberto holds up his hand. 'It's no problem; she is a very capable staff.'

  'Exactly.' I've said as much on many an occasion and Roberto is agreeing with me, so why do I feel uneasy?

  'Mamma was worried about you.' I bet she was. 'She thought you must be ill but Gina assured her you were quite well and that you had gone to the school in Bassano del Grappa with that American man.'

  I'm blushing. Which is as irrational as it is unhelpful. I can imagine the scene now. Raffaella will have interrogated poor Gina, pulled out her fingernails and such. I look around for Gina so that I can give her a sympathetic nod but I notice that she's keeping herself busy and refusing to catch my eye. I don't blame her, she needn't worry, it's not as though she's landed me in trouble. I can't be in trouble, I've done nothing wrong.

  'Mamma called the school to find out what is going on.'

  'She did what?' A white-hot fury bubbles up inside me. I can't believe what I am hearing. I'm not a child that needs checking up on. How dare Raffaella interfere with my life in such a way? 'You are kidding?' I ask, but I know he's not.

  'Mamma has a friend who works in the office at the school. She just wanted to know that you were safe.'

  'Bullshit.' I explode. 'Of course I was Safe. She was just stirring and interfering. What did she think? That I'd been abducted?'

  'She didn't know what to think.' Roberto shrugs and then turns to the optics.

  The ginger and clear liquids twinkle in their gleaming bottles. I could do with a double myself. He calmly pours a couple of drinks and stacks them on a tray, then he asks Gina to take them over to the table in the corner. Finally he turns his attention back to me. In the meantime I'm almost hyperventilating with the effort of controlling a killer rage that is slicing its way through every inch of my body.

  'She thought there was something –' I stumble for the most appropriate word. I want to remain dignified – 'she thought there was something untoward going on between Chuck and me and she was checking up on us by ringing his place of employment?'

  Roberto stares at me. Is he waiting for a declaration of my innocence?

  'Well, there's nothing going on between us.' As I say the words my anger starts to subside and guilt starts to creep in. In some small way I can see this from Raffaella's point of view. My own actions have put me in a dim light. I take a deep breath and try to see the humour in the situation. 'Mind you, if there was, poor Chuck. Imagine his boss taking a call from Raffaella demanding to know if her son was being cuckolded.'

  Roberto doesn't grab my offer to laugh at the situation. Instead he states, 'Mamma is an old friend with the secretary. So we know that all Chuck Andrews was doing was taking you for an interview.'

  'Well, yes.' I don't like the implication but for some reason I can't defend myself.

  'I hear congratulations are in order.'

  'Yes.' I smile, hoping he's being sincere. Why can't I read him? 'It's just two mornings a week.'

  'And you have your lessons with Signor Castoro.'

  'Yes.'

  'And I understand the school want you to study for some sort of teaching qualification.'

  'It won't take long. It's not a degree. Just a certificate in teaching English as a foreign language.'

  'Are you planning on working here at all?'

  'In the evenings. That's when we are busiest.'

  Suddenly, I'm aware of Raffaella. She's right by my side like a brutal and burly executioner; she's just waiting to be given the nod so she can swing the axe. Her eyes are darting from Roberto to me and back again. She spits out a torrent of complaint and anger. I don't need lessons with Signor Castoro to understand the gist of it. Roberto stares at his shoes throughout her outburst and says 'Si, Mamma' more frequently than any self-respecting man should say yes to his mother in a lifetime. I wait until the storm passes and Roberto can translate.

  'Mamma says you are often more of a hindrance than a help at lunchtime because of the perpetual mix-up you make.' I really wish I could refute this. 'She says she doesn't object to you getting a job and that it's fine for you just to work evenings. Besides, there's no school in the summer and that's when trade will really pick up. She says you will be useful when the tourist trade starts, an English speaker will be an advantage then. So I guess the job at the language school is OK. From her point it's allowed.'

  Roberto shrugs and offers me a weak smile as though he's just given me a royal pardon, yet we both know he's just been unspeakably rude and unforgivably disloyal.

  'Well, that's a relief,' I snap sarcastically. 'I'm thrilled to have your mamma's blessing.' If Roberto can hear the irritation in my voice he chooses to ignore it. We both pick up trays and set off in separate directions to clear the bar.

  At 3 a.m. I am still awake. Sleep is eluding me, partly because I am excited about the idea of working away from Bruno's and more pertinently away from Raffaella and partly because I'm hurt and angry. I dash to and fro between the two conflicting emotions. I lie awake staring at the ceiling. Although we live in the town centre, the darkness and stillness are complete because of the heavy shutters that keep out modern intrusions such as street lights or car headlights and it's as though I've been flung back in time by a hundred, or even a thousand, years. The only sounds to lull me are the occasional cat meowing and my husband's breathing. Not that his regular breathing is offering me any respite. The contentment he seems to be exuding through his deep slumber is actively irritating me and I believe it to be directly responsible for the throbbing pain in my lower back. I always get backache when I'm stressed. How dare he sleep so soundly when I feel so restless and alone?
<
br />   It occurs to me that I'm relieved Raffaella hasn't objected to me taking a job at the language school and simultaneously I'm furious with myself for caring about her reaction at all. Where is my independence?

  When I was a little girl and I couldn't sleep due to nightmares about being lost in the maze in Hampton Court or being hauled away by the child-catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, my mother would crawl into my skinny bed and wrap me in her warmth. She'd tell me to think about nice things instead of the things that worried or scared me. Such simple, effective advice. Thinking nice thoughts always worked and I'd fall asleep thinking about pink tutu skirts and Cadbury's chocolate. I wish I could be wrapped in my mum's warmth right now. How pathetic is that? I'm thirty-two and I'm lying in bed next to my husband of six years and all I want is to be cuddled like a five-year-old. I try to think pleasant thoughts. If I follow Mum's advice it will be a little like her being with me.

  Images of the beautiful language school in Bassano del Grappa flash into my mind. The stunning building was strangely peaceful despite being rammed full with garrulous Italian students. I loved the towering ceilings, the walls painted in warm terracotta and the sunny balconies. I try to imagine holding conversational classes with the advanced pupils but suddenly I'm gripped with panic. It seizes me with a Darth Vader-like clasp around my throat. What if I can't think of anything to discuss? What if I can't do this teaching lark and I end up back in the bar with Raffaella? What if I can't get a place on a TEFL course, or worse, I get a place but then fail? I've never had a career, as such. I've never been tested in any form since I was at school. What if I'm not up to being a teacher of any sort? What makes me think I'm up to it? Or anything else for that matter?

  I sit up and feel in the dark for the glass of water that's next to my bed. I take small sips and try to breathe slowly. Maybe that nice thought was a little too ambitious. The elegant building is a beautiful thing but the possibility of making a fool of myself professionally isn't so comforting. I should think about something that presents no threat at all, something where there's no possibility of my mind wandering off to the dark side.