Tell Me Something (Contemporary Romance)

by Adele Parks

  'Chuck and I really are just friends and if you've thought otherwise and it's hurt you, then I'm sorry. And if you've done anything, anything at all, in response to believing Chuck and I are more than just friends, then I'm sorry for that too.'

  Roberto looks devastated. 'Look, Elizabeth, the issue is –'

  'Shush,' I put my fingers to his lips. 'Don't say anything you might regret. Just give yourself a moment.'

  We sit in silence. My hangover has returned and I feel as though someone is trying to turn me inside out. I can't focus either literally or metaphorically. Nothing makes sense. I can't work out if I'm being amazingly mature about my husband's infidelity or a big, pathetic wuss. Am I in shock? I concentrate on the facts that have sustained me through adulthood. I search for the certainty that has been my raison d'etre. I want a baby. I need Roberto to make a baby. This thing with Ana-Maria is a blip. I have to find a way of believing that the feelings I have for Chuck are pimples on a blip. It is not important. We can work it out. We can sort everything out. I must have a baby.

  I repeat these short sentences over and over in my head, like some sort of prayer. The effect is hypnotic, I begin to feel calm. Roberto looks pale and tired.

  'The best thing is to put all this silliness behind us,' I say with a bright smile that is unlikely to fool either of us.

  I consider kissing his forehead. He'd understand that I was offering him some sign of forgiveness. Of course I don't want this to happen again but I think we can get over it. It's important that he hasn't actually said he slept with Ana-Maria; maybe I'm jumping to conclusions. He's my husband. Mine. He will be the father of my children.

  'I think we should talk about IVF again,' I add.

  'Elizabeth –,' Roberto doesn't finish the sentence but he sounds weary and concerned. He takes hold of my hand. 'I will not consider IVF. We have discussed this.'

  'Ages ago.'

  'What's changed?'

  'Back then I still hoped it would happen naturally, we had time on our side. Now I am desperate. We're desperate. We need a baby.'

  'That is the worse time to try. I will not do it.'

  I stand up and I feel my legs tremble beneath me. I wonder if he can see me shaking. I put my fingers on the table in an attempt to steady myself.

  'You owe me, Roberto. I am your wife.'

  49

  The problem with my dramatic exit is that I have nowhere to go. The thought is hideously depressing. I rule out the idea of visiting Chuck. I need to be stronger before I can do that. Last night was completely innocent, or at least it was as far as he is concerned. He had no idea that while he was (no doubt) staring at my snot and smudged eye make-up, I was staring into his eyes and imagining kissing him. He was unaware that when I was sobbing about my lack of babies I was simultaneously imagining ravishing him and making an entire Walton family with him. While drinking copious amounts of alcohol made me indiscreet, weepy and finally sick, I can at least take some comfort in the fact that I didn't actually try to snog him. Even so, since he witnessed me bringing up his carefully prepared (although slightly dry) penne con gamberi e carciofi over his bathroom tiles I don't think I can call him right now and land this latest drama at his door. He's lovely but I might be pushing my luck.

  The school is closed so I can't use it as a bolt-hole. Going back to Raffaella's is out of the question. I consider getting on a bus and visiting another local village. It doesn't matter which one, anywhere other than here. Yet I know that I'll be alone and taking my problems with me. I really need someone to talk to. I can't ring Alison. Alison will probably get on a plane and come and chop off Roberto's bollocks if I tell her what's gone on in the last twenty-four hours. Who to turn to? I stand on the kerb and kick up dust.

  'Did you find my brother?' Paolina's voice falls down on me like a sobering slap.

  'Yes.'

  Paolina has drawn up beside me. She is sitting bolt upright in her tiny but tidy Fiat 500. She seems to have appeared out of thin air. I wonder if she's just chanced upon me or if she's been following me. Could she have seen and heard what's just passed between Roberto and me? Oh God, I hope not. I'd die at the thought of anyone witnessing that.

  'Would you like a coffee?' she asks.

  'Not really, I've just had one.'

  She sighs as though she finds me frustratingly dense. 'I'm offering to take you for a drive.'

  'Oh, right, well yes. Where shall we go?'

  'Anywhere away from here,' says Paolina. Which is surely my line.

  I hop into Paolina's car and for the first ten minutes of the drive we don't exchange a word. We both appear to be entirely focused on our own worlds and I begin to doubt they overlap, which is a relief. It dawns on me that Paolina didn't want to take a drive with me, especially – she simply wanted to escape. I guess she was just passing and stumbled upon me. I understand perfectly and feel closer to her than I've ever felt before. It's weird that self-absorption is what we have in common. I wonder what she's running from, and I think that it's sad that she's also running even though this is her home.

  We drive into the country for at least fifteen minutes. I have no idea which direction we've headed in or which village we might end up in. We pull up at an enormous furniture shop. It's fairly typical of furniture shops you find all over the world on random out-of-town roads. It's stuffed full of tables, chairs, beds, sideboards and such, all of which are stacked without rhyme or reason, none of which are especially beautiful or notable. The shop sells the sort of furniture everyone buys saying, 'It will do for now.' As fully functional furniture it never has the courtesy to collapse and demand to be replaced, therefore this furniture stays in homes much longer than it deserves to.

  There are one or two other cars already parked up, belonging to early morning shoppers who need a mattress or a dining room table but don't have much cash to splash. Despite the dullness of the furniture available, I envy those families ensconced in their ordinary domestic chores. I'd love to be in a position where the only challenge of the day is choosing firm over soft, walnut over pine. The families each have a couple of kids who are bouncing around the showroom – hiding behind sofas, testing out beds, putting their feet up on chairs and such. I smile at them fondly; Paolina seems not to notice them but walks through the shop straight into a surprising courtyard where there is a coffee shop.

  Wow, I'd never have expected to find a coffee shop here; it's a bit off the beaten track, isn't it?'

  'I know a lot of discreet places,' says Paolina, who is hidden behind enormous sunglasses.

  'Oh yes, I suppose you do.' Suddenly I feel uncomfortable, I am very aware of her mistress status. Mistresses have never been my favourite people but I feel especially disgruntled by them as a breed this morning. How much does she know? More than me, no doubt. I wonder if she is Ana-Maria's confidante; it seems they might have a lot in common. And yet Paolina has always been fair and fond with me, so maybe I am unfairly judging her.

  We take a seat and choose from the menu. I haven't eaten breakfast and now I'm starving. I select a slice of gooey torta di natale and a caffe latte. When my cake arrives Paolina eyes the delicate coils of pastry which cradle plump raisins and walnuts.

  'That looks good,' she comments. 'It's a Calabrian cake originally, you know.'

  'Really,' I murmur. What makes her think I care? Even at times like this food is vital and absorbing to Italians. Maybe especially at times like this. The strangeness of the events of the last twenty-four hours allows me to ask, 'Did you come here with your lover?'

  'Sometimes.'

  It seems an odd place to carry out a clandestine affair. There are plenty of beds, admittedly, but not much chance of using them. As though Paolina is reading my mind she comments, 'We'd come here to talk for ten or fifteen minutes.'

  While I don't sympathize with her plight, I admit it's a sad and gritty image. When I imagine anyone having an affair I think of them grabbing frantically at one another's clothes as they swing from crystal chandeliers
or I think of them romping in purple silk sheets feeding one another grapes from mouth to mouth. I do not think of them snatching ten minutes' chat at the local furniture emporium.

  'Roberto stayed at Ana-Maria's last night.'

  I have no idea why I've shared this with Paolina. The chances are she knew already, but even if she didn't, then what is she supposed to say? He's her brother and anyway she doesn't have any moral objections to infidelity – obviously. Still, I had to tell someone.

  Paolina nods cautiously and then asks, 'What do you make of that?'

  'He said he was comforting her because some old aunt died. I have no reason to disbelieve him.'

  'Her aunt did die,' she confirms.

  I take a large bite out of my torta di natale. I'm relieved that much of Roberto's story is true. If I have to accept what he has to say it would be an added bonus if I could believe him too.

  'Well, clearly, it's an innocent relationship. They're old friends, that's all.' I pause, hoping she'll agree with me; she doesn't. 'I'm sure there will be talk; there's always gossip.' I pause again, hoping she'll contradict me; she doesn't. 'I mean, people always assume the worst but I have no reason to think anything improper is going on.' I wonder how I stumbled upon the word improper. It went out with the ark and seems unreal. I guess my situation is pretty unreal. Here I am sitting with my husband's sister discussing his infidelity. What's the etiquette?

  'Did you ask him if the situation is innocent?'

  'There has to be trust, Paolina, I can't go accusing him.' I lie because I need as many people to buy into this charade as possible. If other people accept and believe my version of events maybe I will be able to as well.

  Paolina raises an eyebrow so high that I can see it above her sunglasses. I wish she would remove them, then I might have some chance at reading her; as it is I haven't a clue what she's thinking, implying or insinuating.

  'My boyfriend has left his wife,' says Paolina, matter-of-factly.

  I'm grateful that the conversation has moved away from Roberto and me but I don't know what the required response is. Would it be rude to scream, 'Home wrecker!'?

  'When?'

  'Last week, six weeks after we last broke it up. He said he could not live without me. He's moved into a tiny, rather scruffy apartment in Marostica. He wants me to move in with him.'

  'You must be pleased.'

  She sighs dramatically, 'Not especially. The problem is that during that time he decided he couldn't live without me, I decided I could live without him.'

  'Oh.'

  'I had just started to see my friends again, which I haven't done for years. It's difficult to stay in touch with friends if you are having an affair. If you can't talk about your love life there's distrust; women expect to gossip about such things. Plus recently, I was focusing better in the office and I found I don't even mind working in the bar now that Roberto has made the place fun. None of these things I did when I was with my lover. But now he keeps telling me we have to be together. He keeps reminding me of the sacrifices he has made for me. I want to tell him that the sacrifices came too late.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'Nor do I.' Paolina finally takes off her sunglasses; she massages the bridge of her nose. She looks bewildered.

  'Perhaps now you can be like an ordinary couple. You can see your friends and work in the bar, etc. but still see him,' I suggest.

  'No, I can't. He demands more. The nature of our experience together is so intense. I can't imagine that ordinary couple life you describe.'

  'With time, perhaps.'

  'I don't even want to settle into an ordinary relationship. I discover that the thing I liked about my lover was the drama, the inconvenience, the tragic excitement. You see?'

  'Not really.' The thing is I've always liked things to be uncomplicated. I'm a straightforward kind of girl. Paolina looks at me with faint despair, perhaps even disgust. I've never felt so prosaic. 'What will you do?'

  'I fear I will have to stay with him. Mamma will be sad that he was once married but better that than still married, I suppose. My problem is recently I got to wondering, do you think there might have been other men I'd be happy with?' she asks.

  'What do you mean?' It must be the hangover or the language barrier but I really can't keep up with this conversation. Where is it going?

  'Do you believe in the One?' Paolina stares at me with a scary absorption, as though it is the first time she has ever seen me or even seen anyone at all. She looks desperate and confused. My answer matters to her more than it should.

  I try to say yes, I want to say yes, but I find that I can't. Do I still believe in the One? To have been vaguely in love with as many men as I have defies belief. It's a modern phenomenon. It's a modern problem. This one is stunning but unreliable. This one cooks but has no conversation. This one is tight but professes to adore me. This one is gorgeous but not as clever as I'd like him to be. I thought Roberto was the One but it's very confusing, or at least inconvenient, to have been in love with more than one man in a lifetime – let alone acknowledge falling in love with a man other than your husband while still being married. While planning on staying married. It becomes impossible to believe in the One. My mind aches with my inability or inadequacy in answering this question, so instead I ask, 'Do you believe in the One?'

  'I did. I thought I had to have Gian Carlo despite an array of the most amazing and wonderful offers that stumbled into my spotlight. I thought it had to be him. But what if I was wrong?'

  'And?'

  'And I broke up his marriage unnecessarily. What if someone else could have made me happy too? Happier.'

  We both fall silent and consider the horribleness of that thought. We could have dwelt upon the question indefinitely, only something else, something more terrible, arrests her attention.

  'What if no one could? Can?'

  'What?'

  'What if no one can make me happy? And what if it is some ghastly overrated plot?'

  'You've lost me.'

  'Love. Being in love. It might not be.'

  'Oh, it is. You know it is,' I say encouragingly.

  'Jesus, Elizabeth, you still have a healthy respect for Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny. You are not what anyone would describe as a rational being.'

  I decide to ignore Paolina's sarcasm; she's overwrought.

  'So you're not happy that he's left his wife.'

  'I feel so guilty. He's so needy.'

  'I expect it will work itself out for the best,' I say, although I can't see what the best would be and I fear my platitude is miserably inadequate.

  Paolina shrugs. I have a sense that ultimately she's deeply self-sufficient, not a bad thing to be considering who her mother is. I don't imagine Raffaella was the kind of mother who encouraged confidences and moochy, ethereal 'what if' chats. Paolina has had to learn to stand on her own two feet. I have a feeling I'm a sounding board but nothing I can say will influence her in the end.

  'So where were you last night when Roberto was doing this comforting of Ana-Maria?' she asks.

  I shift on my seat, take a sip of latte and consider my answer. I have nothing to be ashamed of, I remind myself. I was with Chuck but Roberto knew that and I came home. I did not sleep over, I did nothing worse than get pissed and slag off my husband; oh yes, and have fantasies about getting naked with my host. I blush. Naturally, Paolina assumes the worst.

  'Ah. You were with your American friend' She manages to make the word friend sound especially shady.

  'My American friend? He's not a friend. Not in the way you mean.'

  'What is he then?'

  'He's–he's–he's just someone to talk to.'

  'About the weather?' she asks with a cheeky but not censorious grin.

  'Sometimes.'

  'And other times?'

  'About other things. His home town. Our experiences here. How to shop like a local. My fertility.'

  'I see.'

  'I guess he is a friend. He's n
othing more.' Again I blush.

  Paolina must have noticed but she just says, 'It's none of my business. I'm sure you are a little homesick. It must be nice talking with a person in your language.'

  'It is. I adore Italy. I couldn't wait to be here but I find it doesn't like me.'

  'It's a country, Elizabeth, not your aunt. It cannot embrace you. It is a home, like England. And, like England, it has its frustrations and its joys.'

  I think of England and have to admit to sometimes loathing the ugly materialism that seems to dominate the south and the chippy depression of the north. The wet weather is dreary. The lack of plumbers and the expensive petrol are annoying. The jealousy and the laziness which seem to be increasingly prevalent are sickening. But at the same time I think of a warm English summer day that gifts a breeze which will carry the smell of freshly cut summer grass and I miss England.

  'In what way does Italy let you down?'

  It's a good question; I think about it for a moment or two. I am sometimes disappointed that the waiters are rude or that my food arrives at a different time from whoever I am eating with. The loos are shocking. My mother-in-law is a horror. The winters are colder than I expected. The voluble, vivacious, va-va-voom gangs of Italians are harder to penetrate than I had imagined. But on the other hand the delicious smell of strong coffee, sweetened to a treacle sickliness, drifts on the air and I would lick it if I could. The language has been easier to learn than I expected. Paolina and Laurana are brilliantly interesting and honest women who I feel I could call friends, the light is spectacular, the food sublime.

  The truth is, mostly I'm disappointed because I haven't had a baby here. The enormity of that precise thought surges through my body. I realize that isn't the country's fault. It isn't a fault that can be pegged on to anything animate or inanimate. I'm so sad that all I can do is shrug.