Tell Me Something (Contemporary Romance)

by Adele Parks

  He doesn't allow me to dispel the tension with humour. He keeps his charged and forceful eyes focused on mine and nods briefly, urging me to continue.

  'But more than that, I want to go on. Do you understand? I want a purpose and a reason to my existence.'

  'And you think a baby can do all that?'

  Workaday, perhaps – even pathetic to some – but yes I do. So do millions and millions of others. I know that there are some people who cure diseases and climb mountains and learn to play musical instruments to give them purpose and that's all really admirable, well done them, good luck them, but that isn't for me. I wish it was. I really do,' I say bitterly. I realize I'm becoming agitated and allowing my painful frustration to spit out like fat from a roast. I reach for my glass and drain it. 'As it is, I feel empty and isolated most of the time.'

  'Most of the time but not all of the time?' asks Chuck.

  'When I'm teaching I feel quite good about myself, it's definitely helped, but at best I see teaching as a honing of skills that I'll use as a mother.' Chuck looks sorrowful. 'I wish a scintillating career could do it for me. I wish I could give up this yearning. I'm becoming a bit of a joke, even to myself, with this relentless longing, but for me a job isn't the answer. Wouldn't it be neat if it was?'

  Chuck has filled my glass again.

  'What are we drinking?'

  'Your last one was ouzo. Another?'

  I nod. He joins me. I realize that if I keep drinking I'm going to lose my ability to make sense. If indeed I've done so up to now. I don't care. It doesn't matter. My entire situation doesn't make sense. There's no sense to the fact that I can't have a baby.

  Suddenly, I realize I'm crying. Tears and, oh God help me, snot are sliding down my face in torrents. Still, I don't stop talking; I gulp my words through my tears with the same commitment as someone making a deathbed confession speech. I tell Chuck that I think Raffaella blames me for the lack of children and that's why she hates me. I tell him that I fear Roberto must regret marrying me and wish he'd married Ana-Maria instead; she'd probably have produced a football team by now. I explain that I think I'll be seen as an eternal child (a.k.a. a worry) to my parents unless I have a child of my own and can prove I've grown up and I hate upsetting them so much.

  My tears flow rapidly throughout this diatribe. He pulls my head on to his shoulder. He doesn't seem to care that my mascara is going to ruin his lovely T-shirt and he isn't the slightest bit squeamish about my running nose or my running commentary. He gently rocks me to and fro and strokes my hair. He doesn't tell me to hush or to calm down.

  He murmurs, 'OK, sweetheart, let it all out. There you go. Let it go.'

  I realize that he's rubbing my back and as his fingers skim my thin shirt I feel at once comforted and aroused. It's confusing. I'm aware that my lips are very close to his lips. If I moved a fraction I could kiss him. Or, if I didn't have the nerve to actually do that, then at least I'd make it easy for him if he wanted to kiss me and then I could kiss him back. Oh yes I could and I would.

  We could run away together and we could have babies. I'm sure my murderous juices wouldn't commit the same crime twice. Chuck and I would be compatible and we could have the big family. Chuck could stop me feeling so sad and alone. He already does. Chuck could give me new hope, a fresh start. The heart-wrenching perfection of how my life could be clouts me and nearly knocks me sideways.

  But then I remember, Chuck doesn't want a family. Chuck has never understood the longing some people have to reproduce. It's just not his thing. Oh God. There goes Plan B. I snap my head away from him and stare at him in shock and sorrow. Clearly, I am not about to run away with Chuck and play happy families with him any time soon. The realization that I've been secretly nurturing this fantasy has only finally dawned on me in the instant that it collapsed. But if I'm not about to run away with Chuck then what is the alternative? Staying with Roberto? Childless? And with Raffaella?

  ' 'Scuse me,' I slur, pushing past Chuck. 'I feel ill.'

  'It's that way to the bathroom.'

  48

  26 April

  My first thought on waking is that Chuck held my hair while I threw up. The shame is enough to make me groan and wiggle back down under the sheets. I can't face the world yet. My head is throbbing, which is as expected as it is unwelcome. My hangover started as I walked home from Chuck's and I'd rather hoped that I would have slept the worst of it off, or at least thrown up enough alcohol to avoid a hideously bad dose of poisoning, but no such luck. The worst thing is, even if my head wasn't throbbing, my soul would still be suffering.

  Last night was a revelation. I realize that I've been burying my head in the sand for far too long. The facts are as follows. Fact, I am falling in love with Chuck. It is impossible to continue to kid myself that all I feel for him is friendship. I want him in every way. I want him thoroughly and without limits.

  But I can't have him.

  This is a completely unacceptable situation and I have to nip it in the bud instantly. Fact. Roberto is my husband. Roberto and I can't have children. Roberto has resigned himself to this; the bar is his baby now but I can't resign myself to it. We were once so hopeful; we used to share a future and view it together expectantly. Ha ha. No pun intended. Now I wonder what will glue us. What will we talk about when we are old? He thinks it will be enough for us to run the family bar. But what is the point of having a successful family business if there is no family? I have to initiate a conversation about other methods of conceiving, beyond crossing fingers and uncrossing legs. Roberto's refusal to discuss IVF is selfish, as Chuck once said.

  And immature, egotistical, arrogant and cruel. Chuck didn't say all that. I added those bits.

  Roberto is my husband but do I still love him? The question squeezes into my consciousness. I hurl it straight out the door. He's my husband. That's enough. It has to be. We have to fix things and think about the future. About a baby.

  I roll over to face Roberto. I must still be full of Dutch courage because I decide that there is no time like the present to tackle this. I'm not getting any younger and I know that even IVF isn't guaranteed, it's time-consuming and complicated and we need to start investigating it instantly. However, my show of guts is in vain; his side of the bed is empty. I check the clock. It's only 7 a.m. He can't be up and out yet, can he? What's the rush, it's Saturday. I stretch out on to his side. The sheets are smooth and cool to touch. For a time, it doesn't make sense; due to my alcoholic fuzz it takes me a few moments to compute the obvious. Roberto hasn't slept in our bed.

  Where is he? I sit bolt upright. The suddenness of the movement forces waves of nausea to slosh over me. I got home just after midnight last night. I wasn't surprised he wasn't in bed then, I assumed he was still in the bar, but what if he's had an accident? What if he's hurt? I leap out of bed and grab my robe. Barefoot I dash downstairs and into the dining room.

  As usual Raffaella and the old grandpa are sat silently chewing their way through their breakfast.

  'Have you seen Roberto this morning?' I ask in Italian.

  Although it's evident that I'm in a hurry and concerned, Raffaella doesn't answer straight away. Instead she slowly masticates a fatty slice of salami, evidence of which sticks to her chin and rests on her heavy bosom. She's not normally averse to speaking with a full mouth, so I can only assume she's trying to frustrate me. My panic as to Roberto's whereabouts, combined with the ridiculous amount I drank last night, means I'm very likely to cry. I bite my lip and squeeze my eyes shut for a moment to avoid that.

  'Why aren't you dressed?' she asks. I peel back my lids and we lock eyes. The air between us seems to freeze. Suddenly, my perfectly respectable robe vanishes and I feel naked. I'm aware that my hair is frizzy on one side and flat on the other. No doubt my mascara is smudged into whorish black patches on my face; I'm guessing this to be the case because I know that there were prints on my pillow. My breath stinks of booze and vomit, I'm barefoot. I'm hardly the epitome of the perfect
daughter-in-law. In fact, I look every inch the disappointment Raffaella has always believed me to be.

  I decide not to answer the question; my Italian isn't up to the necessary explanation. Instead I state. 'I'm looking for Roberto.'

  'He's not here.'

  I breathe deeply and try to draw on some hidden reserve of patience. 'Do you know where he is? Did you see him last night? Were you in the bar?' Thoughts of him dead in a ditch are assaulting my mind. Why isn't Raffaella more concerned? Her precious son is missing.

  Raffaella stares at me and then slowly and carefully, so that I'm sure to understand, she says, 'He took Ana-Maria home at about nine. I didn't see him after that. I locked up the bar.'

  Thoughts of him dead in a ditch vanish in a puff of smoke; although if he has done what I fear he has, I might kill him myself. I don't linger to clock Raffaella's look of triumph, I turn on my heel and run to my bedroom.

  Slamming the door behind me I sink on to the bed. What to do? What to do? My hangover seems to have disappeared; the shock of Raffaella's revelation has seen it off. I almost miss it, because without hideous physical feelings of nausea and my thumping head I have to acknowledge what I'm feeling emotionally. I can identify fear and panic. My husband slept out last night. Raffaella seems pretty clear that he was at Ana-Maria's. I reach for my mobile. There will be a message. He'll have explained. There will be a text to reassure me that he slept on her couch and a simple reason for him not coming home. Things can't have gone this far, can they? I don't want to believe that they have. Maybe Ana-Maria's family is away and she didn't like being in the house alone; unlikely though, because she's not twelve. Maybe he took her home but then they had a nightcap and he didn't want to drive; also unlikely, as he could easily walk back from her place. Maybe he didn't sleep at hers at all; maybe he took her home and then went on somewhere else, but where? And why didn't he let me know? My inbox is empty.

  I decide I have to find him at once and ask these questions directly. For months we have skirted around one another, avoiding discussing anything of consequence, even choosing our small talk carefully. Many days have gone by and I've been unsure as to his whereabouts. I haven't demanded to know what he does with his time because I haven't wanted to know. Haven't I cared enough? Or did I care too much?

  I have known that he had feelings for Ana-Maria but would he actually be unfaithful? People are, I know. But Roberto? Would he? I pulled away from Chuck. I have not done anything Roberto could reproach me with – however much I've longed to – and I do long to. Not now. Not now. I can't think about Chuck. I am married to Roberto. We made vows and we have a history and I want a future.

  I hop into the shower and let water run through my hair and around my body. I don't have time to shampoo though, I just slosh a little body-wash under my pits and bits; all thoughts of wet body-brushing, languishing in luxurious, creamy body-wash and slathering on a post-shower moisturizing cream vanish. Sod grooming; I have a husband to find. I do remember to brush my teeth because the faint smell of vomit is unlikely to help me feel confident when I'm tackling Roberto on his night's conduct.

  I rush out of Raffaella's house, trying to ignore the fact that I know she'll be craning to get a sighting of me, hurt and confused. I run to the bar; his car is parked up but he is nowhere to be seen; the place is still locked up. I guess he walked her home. An image of them strolling, hand-in-hand, through the warm amethyst-skied night flourishes in my imagination. I set off towards Ana-Maria's. It's still very early and the town hasn't come alive yet. Shutters are being dragged back as if the buildings are opening one sleepy eye and then another. I see a couple of delivery people on bikes. They kick up dusty trails in their wake and it's as though the streets are lazily stretching, like people stretching their limbs when they first uncurl from sleep. My dash soon slows to a jog and then I settle into a fast walk. I'm not particularly fit at the best of times and I'm certainly not at my peak on several units of alcohol and only a few hours' sleep. Besides, I need a few moments to gather my thoughts.

  I realize that I am walking round to Ana-Maria's fully expecting to hammer on the door and discover my husband sweaty between her sheets. It's a miserable humiliation to bear and I don't want to be out of breath when I howl like a banshee. Why has he thrust this in my face? I was prepared to –

  What, go on as before? Bury my head? Ignore the patently obvious?

  Yes. Yes I was, if I had to. I might be struggling to make a baby with Roberto but I am damn sure it would be impossible without him.

  The walk to Ana-Maria's house only takes ten minutes. A pebble rattles in my shoe. At first it's a distraction, then a discomfort, and finally the pebble takes on disaster status but somehow I can't spare the time to bend and shake out the shoe. I just want to face Roberto.

  And then suddenly he is standing in front of me.

  And I'm not so sure.

  I haven't yet reached Ana-Maria's house but we're close enough for me to reasonably assume that's where he's just come from. We face each other and, for a second, we don't know what to say to one another. He doesn't look abashed or even defensive. In fact he looks very happy. Happier than I've seen him look for a very long time. His happiness hurts me. I must be really pathetic, or jealous and small-minded or just hideously out of my depth, but I hate knowing she's made him happy. Chuck can't make me happy. Chuck doesn't want babies.

  'Where did you sleep last night?' I ask.

  'Out.' Roberto doesn't stop walking in the direction of Raffaella's. I pull at his arm but he shakes me off with a deft shudder. My touch offends him.

  'I realize that. Out where?'

  'Not in the street, Elizabeth.' Roberto's strides are long and he's quickly some distance away from me. I have to dash to catch up with him. I fall in step, but galloping along next to him is hardly dignified; besides, it's pretty tricky because I'm fighting an instinct to yell and scream abuse at him and I'm fighting an impulse to batter and claw at him, pulling his neatly pressed shirt off his body.

  Within a few minutes we are in Veganze piazza. Roberto stops outside a bar and points to a table.

  'Should we take a coffee?' He's probably banking on the fact that I'm less likely to yell obscenities in the street, or maybe he, like me, can't bear the idea of yet another hiss-whispered fight over the bed in our room. It's one of our problems that we have more privacy in public than in the place that we call a home.

  We stay silent until the waitress has taken our order. Today we both have a double espresso and Roberto also orders a ricotta lemon cake with blueberry topping. I'm disgusted that he can eat something so sweet and delicious under the circumstances.

  'I stayed at Ana-Maria's house last night,' he says as he empties a packet of sugar into his coffee. He seems to need an energy boost. I stare at his wrists. They are elegant; his skin is olive and fine. They have not changed. I've always loved his wrists and hands; now I'm staring at them wondering if last night he laid those hands on Ana-Maria. And how many other days and nights? I want to grab his cake fork and stab his beautiful hands over and over.

  'Why?'

  'She needed me. Her aunt died, she was very upset. Her family were all away at the funeral. She was alone.'

  'She can't have been that upset if she didn't go to the funeral,' I point out.

  Roberto does not react to my comment at all. I try to look him in the eye but he's wearing sunglasses and my reflection slides back at me and seems to slip on to the floor. I can't reach him.

  'Are you having an affair?' I ask. I assume it's me who does the asking, although the voice sounds disjointed and it could be coming from the crazy guy who bums cigarettes; out of the corner of my eye I can see that he's already making his way around the square.

  'Did you have a pleasant evening at Chuck's?' asks Roberto. For a split second I assume that I haven't asked my question out loud at all, then I realize that I did and all Roberto is doing is asking the same one back. He's the master of avoidance. We've both been pretty good at it
in the past.

  'Chuck and I are just friends.'

  'Of course.'

  'I did not sleep over at Chuck's.'

  'No, it would have caused a scandal. Above all a scandal must be avoided.'

  I always believed that if I was ever faced with my husband's infidelity I would react decisively and immediately. Hanging, drawing and quartering was a serious option. Now that I am actually faced with the probability that he is having an affair, I find I am immobile. Do I really want to know? Of course I do. I must. But. If he is and he admits it, we cannot go on as we are. Not that we are in an especially fabulous place right now, we're not, but this morning I'd wanted to talk to him about IVF. As hideous as it is to admit, I realize that a family is still an option if my husband is being secretive, uncommunicative and neglectful but it's not an option if he's in love with someone else. If he leaves me the dark-eyed babies with fat legs and black curls will never exist. I can't let them go. I don't have the time or perhaps even the energy to start all over again. Besides, who would I start again with? Chuck? Not an option. Chuck doesn't want children. He has never understood the longing some people have to reproduce; that whole thing has just passed him by. His words echo around my head with tinny bleakness. At least Roberto wants children and I am married to him. I accept the foul inevitability of what I have to do. I have to get over this. I have to fix us. So do I really want to know if my husband is having an affair? Do I want to remove that last scrap of belief in what we have? I pause, aware that the next sentence out of my mouth is possibly the most important one I've ever uttered in my life.