Tell Me Something (Contemporary Romance)

by Adele Parks

  Of course I have spent hours carefully examining the relationship between Ana-Maria and my husband, nearly as many hours as I have spent examining my relationship with Chuck. It's impossible not to notice that when Roberto beams at her his whole being is behind the smile. He's attentive towards her. He chats with her. He laughs with her. As I do with Chuck. As we used to with one another – a long time ago. But I have never seen or heard a single action or word that would suggest they are anything more than friends, so how can I possibly resent her? It would be unreasonable.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and pull off my trainers and then I fall flat on my back and lie next to Roberto. I scratch my head and wonder what I'll wear tonight, assuming I do manage to make a run for it.

  'Who is working tonight?' I try to sound casual.

  'Everyone, I'm expecting it to be very busy.'

  'Oh.' Nervously, I scratch my shin.

  'Why do you keep itching?' Roberto asks.

  'Scratching,' I correct. He tuts, and I guess I have to accept that my days of correcting his English are probably at an end. I have no right now that I am in Italy because, despite my lessons, I'd still struggle to master such linguistic nuances as scratch and itch.

  'I've been bitten,' I tell him. He looks at me with an impatience that's almost cruel. I realize that my leg has not fallen off and a mozzie bite is not life-threatening but it is very irritating and unsightly; a bit of sympathy wouldn't go amiss. I can't help it if insects find me tasty. 'I'm never normally bitten,' I mumble apologetically.

  'You have never been anywhere to be bitten,' he says coolly.

  We don't seem to have anything else to say to one another. I'm pondering how best to bring up the subject of my appointment with Chuck when Roberto rolls on to his side to face me.

  He puts his hand on my left breast and starts to knead it like a piece of dough.

  'Awch, get off.' I push him away impatiently. 'They are sore, I've got my period.' This is actually not true. I'm not even due for a while, but we are past my most fertile time of the month so why bother? I can't find the required energy. I breathe very lightly, nervous that Roberto will notice that I'm lying about my cycle and call me on my lie. Will he remember that I said the same just two weeks ago? Roberto dramatically pulls away from me and sighs.

  'Great timing,' he mutters.

  His unspoken blame and resentment falls down on me; I think I might buckle under the avalanche of disenchantment. I don't think Roberto is grieving. He's grouchy and horny.

  'Well, you can still sort me out,' he adds.

  Roberto roughly pulls my hand towards his groin. With his other hand he's undoing his fly buttons. Does this blatant need for sex suggest I have nothing to fear from Ana-Maria? I doubt that men who are playing away bother to pester their wives for a hand job. I should feel relieved.

  'No,' I snatch back my hand and fling him a look of disgust and reproach. 'I'm too tired.'

  Working as a teacher only demands that I am in a classroom for eight hours every week, but add on another couple of hours travelling and a couple more for lesson planning and marking homework, then two more with Signor Castoro trying to learn the lingo plus a further four or five hours on his homework, take into account that I average six shifts in the bar, sometimes more, I'm doing a sixty-hour week, so saying I'm too tired is not unreasonable. I've used the same excuse quite a lot recently. Thinking about it, it's no surprise that my period came as regular as ever. Night after night I've told him that I'm tired and I've allowed my eyelids to droop. I fall asleep not especially caring what the consequences (or lack of them) might be.

  Besides, I just don't see the sense in what he's asking for. I have no moral objection to hand or blow jobs. I accept that many people think they are sexy and exciting but I just can't see the use. It won't lead to a baby, will it? Not that anything else we've ever done has led to a baby either, obviously, but at least there's a chance, however slim.

  'There's no point to it,' I insist.

  'To make me happy, Elizabeth. To give me pleasure, that is the point.'

  'I'm not in the mood.'

  'I am,' he says stubbornly.

  He really thinks that he can boss me into 'sorting him out', as he so delicately puts it. He really thinks I'll hop on board or just manically wank because it's my wifely duty. The problem is if you think about sex for any amount of time it is impossible not to notice that it's ridiculous. Really, all that up and down, and in and out, and licking. It doesn't bear close inspection and yet infertile couples do nothing other than closely inspect their sex life and the sex act. I can't fail to have noticed its ludicrous aspect. I fume for a moment and then a terrible thought creeps into my head. If I do what he wants he's more likely to agree to my going out tonight.

  I gasp at the implication of that mental equation and, momentarily, I'm appalled at myself. I have never traded sex. Some women do all the time, I know they do, and I'm not talking about terrible deviant women. I'm talking normal, smiley, friendly women. Women who shop in the high street, go to public swimming baths and work in ordinary jobs; women like my friends. Females tell each other a lot and so I know that women agree to sex because it's the quickest way to get to sleep. Or because their husband has finally put up the shelf in the kids' bedroom and sex is the reward. Or as a thank-you for an unexpected act of thoughtfulness. Or to make her man say he loves her. Or to stop him leaving. Or to comfort him because he's lost his job. Or to congratulate him because he's got a promotion. Or sometimes, for hard cash.

  There are myriad reasons why people have sex, but not me. To date, I've been pretty straightforward in my motivation. I've only ever had sex with Roberto because I love him or because I want to make a baby. Sorry, I mean and because I want to make a baby. Now I am thinking of having sex, albeit a non-invasive sort, so that he'll agree I can go out to meet my friend. Another man, to be exact.

  The thought is chilling. Yet I sit up and finish undoing his fly buttons.

  'Let's see how much pleasure I can give you then, shall we?' I ask, and I flash a seductive smile which isn't my own. I think I once saw it worn by some femme fatale actress in a B movie, or maybe a soap opera.

  47

  I arrive at Chuck's at 8 p.m. on the dot. He swings open the door and greets me with a massive grin.

  'Come in, go through to the kitchen. I'm mid preparations.'

  The front door opens into the living room and Chuck gestures towards a door in the right-hand corner which clearly leads through to the kitchen; the billowing steam, music and lights signpost as much.

  His flat is what can only be described as compact, yet while there's not much space, there's lots and lots of stuff; it's brimming with life and seems to ask as many questions as it answers about his personality. There are rackets and sports boots casually tossed aside as I might have expected – he always looks as though he's just been throwing a ball around a court. There are artworks from different local cultures hung on every wall; a deep mahogany African mask, some eastern calligraphy on a bamboo scroll, water-colours depicting red, autumnal trees – I'd guess they originated from Canada or New England. There are photos scattered on shelves and on top of the tiny TV. The photos show groups of smiley faces, alien and yet familiar; everyone has similar photos but of a different group of friends. There are photos of far-flung places and of Chuck sky-diving, hang-gliding, mountaineering and other 007 pursuits. I'm exhausted just looking at them. I follow him through to the kitchen, trying not to trip up on his brimming life, and gratefully accept the glass of wine he hands me.

  I watch as Chuck efficiently pulls together some pre-supper nibbles. He puts olives, roasted almonds, focaccia, oil and balsamic vinegar on to the table. He lights some candles. The window is open a couple of inches, allowing fresh, warm air to ebb into the flat and bring with it the aroma of basil and thyme, which are growing in pots on the window-sill. The sky is purple and ginger now as the sun is sinking behind the mountains, so the streets are swathed in orange light. It
aly may be a very Catholic country but it always puts me in mind of a cheerful bunch of Hari Krishna guys in their orange robes; happily clapping and shaking tambourines.

  'I love your flat.'

  'It's small but it works for me. It has a great –'

  'Feel to it,' I finish his sentence. He nods. 'It feels welcoming. The minute I walked in I could sense that. It feels like a home should feel,' I tell him.

  'You're bummed out at being at Raffaella's, aren't you?' asks Chuck.

  I'm grateful that he hasn't resorted to bullshit small talk. A true friend meets these things head on.

  'Miserable as sin, frankly.'

  I think of the cold, austere rooms crammed full of heavy wooden furniture. It's a house full of unwritten rules that are inadvertently broken all too easily. Calling my parents hasn't made me feel less homesick; it's made me feel more. They were both so friendly and forthcoming. They too have lots of rules in their home but they are logical, reasonable rules, like not leaving damp towels on the floor.

  'Do you know, every morning I get up and walk into the dining room and feel exactly like a kid joining a new school mid-term,' I say.

  'Oh, you mean, like all the other kids have already made best friends –'

  'Yes, and they know which teachers shout and give out the most homework.'

  'And you think you'll never catch up or fit in?'

  'Precisely.'

  'Why don't you and Roberto get a place of your own together?'

  'I don't think Roberto's ready to cut that umbilical cord yet. Still, give him time; he's only thirty-four,' I add sarcastically.

  Chuck looks at the floor; he seems sad. I've embarrassed him. I stare at my wineglass. It's empty already. Well, at least that explains why I've been so indiscreet. Normally I try not to articulate the shadows that lurk in my mind and heart but alcohol has a way of making shadows gather and thicken; they become harder to cold-shoulder. Usually, however frustrated I feel with Roberto, I bite my tongue. My reserve is not motivated by anything noble. I am not being loyal. The reason I haven't hinted at my frustrations with Roberto is that I dare not let the floodgates open. Even in the privacy of my own head I am reluctant to look closely at our increasingly silent and sullen relationship. Besides, it's far better that I use the time I have with Chuck to just forget about the miserable time I'm having when I'm not with him. I must keep my finger in the dam.

  'I can't wait to taste this famous penne con gamberi e carciofi,' I say, trying to change the subject and atmosphere.

  'I hope you like it. I really do.'

  The evening passes in a blaze of delicious tastes and smells, clinking glasses and cheerful chatter. The shrimp was a bit dry to be honest, not quite as good as it was billed, but I didn't care. Chuck, however, did care and insists he's never let it overcook before.

  'It's your fault, you're so distracting,' he complains.

  I think we both know he's paying me a compliment. I am thrilled that I distract him. I want to drive him wild with distraction. Which isn't an especially reasonable or practical thought but then I've had a fair bit to drink.

  He's distracting too. He seems taller every time I'm with him. His hair is scruffy and longish, it occasionally brushes his chin and I've started to envy it – I'd like to touch his chin, or any part of him come to that. Our brief moments of physical contact are always totally appropriate to my marital status. They're limited to a hug if he hasn't seen me for a while or the mwah-mwah double kiss that the Italians shower on everyone, when we say goodbye or goodnight. We do not touch any more or less than a couple of old guys who play bowls in the piazza might. Yet every time he touches me a sense of shock and excitement darts up and down my body and when he lets me go I miss him. I have to stop my body from arching after his as he pulls away. I can't imagine the same can be said for the old guys in the piazza.

  Tonight, I watch as he impatiently rakes his hair back from his face and I want him to run his fingers over me in the same fast, determined way. I know that this is a terrible thought and as ever I try my best to ignore it. I swear I'll never utter it out loud to anyone, not even Alison, because once a thing is said it's real and can't be taken back. Anyway, I know what Alison would say; she thinks Chuck is simply a distraction because I'm not pregnant and I'm not even –

  Happy.

  And she might be right, but sometimes I wonder if it's the other way round. Am I unhappy with Roberto because I'm losing my mind and heart to Chuck? I stare at my glass, empty again – it must have a leak and that's why I'm suddenly debating the modern-day equivalent dilemma of chicken or egg. I've been much more disciplined up to now.

  It doesn't matter what I think. It's what I do that is important, I remind myself. You can't be unfaithful in thought. What am I thinking? Unfaithful? Who mentioned anything about being unfaithful?

  I did.

  I take another sip and rest back on the wooden chair. The sky is blue-black now but the air drifting in from the open window is still warm; the music drifting out is mellow piano and horns with the unmistakable voice of Ma Rainey. I am not developing real or deep feelings for Chuck. I can't be. He has long hair. I don't normally go for the gypsy look.

  But his unstudied, natural beauty is so attractive. I can't guess at how many hours Roberto spends in front of the mirror, I really can't. Roberto manicures his nails and plucks his eyebrows. Chuck has broad shoulders that taper to slim hips and the sexiest, most adorable bum you could imagine. Tonight, he is wearing a tight T-shirt and some battered Diesel jeans. He's made just the right amount of effort without suggesting he is vain or thinks that he's on a promise. Which he's not. Obviously. He can't be because I wouldn't, couldn't, do anything like that. I'm just saying it's nice he doesn't think he's on a promise.

  'I didn't have you down as a blues fan.'

  'I'm not, especially. But you said you were and I saw this CD with Bessie Smith, Ida Cox, Victoria Spivey.' He raises his tone at the end of each name, waiting for my face to flicker with recognition. 'I thought I'd buy it just to find out what it is that you like about it.'

  'Really?' It's impossible to take that as anything other than a compliment. 'And do you like it?' I ask.

  'Yes, though they were a sad bunch these blues ladies, weren't they? You don't get many laughs.'

  'The clue is in "blues".'

  'I realize that. But why do you like them so much?'

  'I don't know. My parents hooked me in. It got me through my melodramatic teen years,' I explain.

  'That's so cool. Imagine listening to this stuff when everyone else was listening to George Michael. I bet you were the coolest chick at college.'

  'Er, no.'

  'You must have been. I mean you didn't have to develop any faux sophistication. You really knew who Bessie Smith, Ida Cox, etc. were.'

  'I've never thought of it like that. I always thought I was a little odd.'

  'The only thing odd about you is that you don't know how seriously great you are.' And without pausing to let either of us digest that, he adds, 'More wine?'

  'Yes please.'

  'I'll open another bottle.'

  'Good idea.'

  He keeps flashing his fabulous smile. It's sincere, it involves his entire face, his eyes, his cheeks, his laugh lines. He's gorgeous.

  'Damn it, we've no more wine left, a sorry state of affairs. How are you with spirits?'

  One tequila, two tequila, three tequila. Floor.

  'Fine,' I lie. Actually I know I should avoid spirits, I don't have the required resilience. I'm usually sick as a dog the day after indulging but I don't want to stop drinking.

  As he pours the drinks Chuck says, 'Can I ask you something really personal?'

  Yes, yes, I'll have your babies! Obviously that's just the drink talking and thank God it's just the drink talking in my head. 'Go on,' I say more cautiously.

  'Can you explain the baby-wanting to me?'

  I didn't see that one coming. I stare at him with what is no doubt a mixture of bewi
lderment and amazement because he feels compelled to add, 'What I mean is, how do you know that a baby will make everything OK?'

  I have heard the question asked before. In an unguarded moment, Alison has asked it with weary exasperation, recently Roberto has asked me as a frustrated challenge, other friends – and even acquaintances – have asked me as a conversation starter. Doctors have asked me with calm and neutral tones just before they tell me it isn't going to happen anyway. I find it almost impossible to thoroughly explain the overwhelming instinct that' drives this desire – this need – of mine. In truth I've almost stopped trying to explain the undeviating, enduring gut feeling that rules my life.

  Chuck's tone is not confrontational but more heartfelt and earnest than I have ever heard before.

  'Why do you want to know?' I ask hesitantly.

  Chuck comes around to my side of the table; we've been anchored to opposite sides all evening. He places his chair up close to mine. I can see a light sheen on his skin. The kitchen is hot from candles and cooking. He doesn't look yukky and sweaty, more iridescent and dreamlike. 'Make me understand,' he urges quietly.

  Can I? 'It's hard,' I stutter.

  'Try, for me,' he presses. His eyes are glinting with something beyond curiosity; his eyes are glinting with compassion. He carefully takes hold of my hand. I look at my ringed fingers lying in his tapered and nude ones and I know I should draw back. I should pull away from this daunting intimacy. But I don't want to. It's been forever since anyone invited me to talk like this. In fact has anyone ever invited me with the same tenderness and seriousness? I don't think so.

  'OK.' I take a deep breath. 'I want a family so much because – at the most simple level – I love babies and I love children. I love everything about them; their cute hair slides and ribbons, their chubby legs, squeaky voices, their honesty, their cheekiness,' I add with a rueful grin. 'And I always thought it would be, you know. I've always, always thought that would be my lot in life, since I was not much more than a child myself. I was always the kid trailing neighbours' tiny children around and when they weren't available I played endlessly with dolls. I didn't like being on my own but because of the age gap between me and my brothers I often was. I want lots of kids, close in age so that none of them are ever lonely. Besides, I have all the right skills to be a mum. I'm patient, I'm good at teaching and I love a cuddle. I even have big boobs and big hips. Why do I have those if I'm not going to pop out babies?' I flash Chuck a smirk but I notice that it won't stay on my face. It's as forced as strawberries in December.