by Adele Parks
'Italy has infertile couples too and gay people and broken marriages and hopeful women and resistant men and all the things you find in your England. It is real, not an ideal,' she says carefully.
'Maybe I just need to give it more time,' I say with a shrug.
'Maybe,' says Paolina, but she doesn't sound convinced or convincing.
50
Paolina and I drive back to Veganze. As we approach the piazza she says, 'I throw a coin with you for who is to work at Bruno's today.'
I weigh it up. My hangover is ferocious and all I really want to do is crawl back under the covers but I realize the chances of doing this are slim; I'm pretty sure that Raffaella wouldn't allow me such an indulgence.
'I'll work the shift, keeping busy will be good for me,' I offer. Whereas I get the feeling Paolina requires a little more thinking time, away from here.
'That would be kind. I am going to drive to the hills.' She giggles self-consciously at the element of desperation she is betraying.
I smile sympathetically. 'Everyone needs to do that from time to time. Good luck.'
'You too.' Paolina stretches towards me, places her hand on top of mine and gently squeezes.
I do not know what to expect when I open the door to the bar. I don't think it would be too dramatic to say that I feel I'm knocking on the gates of hell, especially as Beelzebub greets me.
'I no expect you today,' says Raffaella.
'Well, we're made of pretty tough stuff, us Blighty folk,' I murmur. 'It will take more than a public humiliation and a stinking hangover to keep me away.'
'Che cosa? she demands. I knew that she wouldn't understand my mutterings in English, it's one of the few secret pleasures I can indulge in. I turn to her with a bright but entirely false smile and ask in Italian, 'So what do you need me to do?'
Raffaella's face contracts with irritation and cruelty. Clearly she was hoping that I wouldn't have the guts to face her or anyone else today. In fact, I bet she hoped that I was at home packing my suitcase and planning to hotfoot it back to the UK pronto. Part of me wishes I could do that. Right now I'd love to be sitting in my mum and dad's front room talking about the weather or the garden and sipping Earl Grey tea, or I'd love to be in a noisy bar with Alison and her new lady sipping cocktails and slipping into oblivion. But each root of comfort would only sustain me until the teapot was drained or the hangover set in. I know Mum and Dad would remind me that I'm married to Roberto and I therefore have a responsibility to be at his side and try to work things out with him. They wouldn't approve of me throwing in the towel. Even Alison would remind me that up until these last few months I've always firmly believed Roberto was my dream man.
Truthfully, I would like to be at the side of my dream man too, only he's vanished. And I don't just mean that he's not in the bar. The Roberto I met in the street this morning was a stranger. Even when we are standing side by side we are entirely separate.
'where's Roberto?' I ask.
'I don't know. Probably, my son with Ana-Maria,' replies Raffaella. Sadly my Italian has improved enough to know I'm not misunderstanding her. I sigh at this latest low in our relationship. Even my mother-in-law no longer sees the necessity to hide the details of Roberto's situation from me. This is my moment to tell her that she can't say Ana-Maria's name to me. This is my moment to spin into a crimson fury and demand that she and her rat son treat me with a little respect. I'm mute.
'You must clean the bathrooms. We have no cleaner today,' she says.
I pick up the bucket, mop and bleach and give in to the inevitability that I'm going to be cleaning loos again. Whatever happened to my self-esteem?
When Roberto arrives an hour later he treats me with polite but cool indifference. He comments that I've made a good job of the bathrooms and that it's decent of me to take Paolina's shift. We move around one another as though we are new acquaintances – and not too fond at that. We are careful not to offend or insult one another. Roberto helps me understand the customers' orders but I realize his efforts to clear up any potential ambivalence are to protect the customer from receiving an unwanted meal, rather than from any real concern for my confusion or embarrassment. We are careful to avoid accidental contact such as grazing fingers when passing a wineglass or physically bumping into one another as we squeeze behind the bar. It crosses my mind that I'll have to increase the physical contact somewhat if I'm hoping to conceive with this man. It would be easy to despair of my plan to stay with Roberto and make our marriage work when his phone beeps to signal incoming texts three times. On the third occasion he takes himself outside to make a call. He doesn't even have the decency to look subdued; he practically skips away.
'Is Ana-Maria coming in today?' I ask when he returns.
'That is a provocative question. A stupid question,' he hisses. The cool cover that he's maintained all morning is blown away in a single puff.
'Not at all, it was a totally straightforward question.' I play dumb.
'No, of course she is not coming into the bar,' he snaps, and then he turns on his heel and strides into the kitchen.
Should I take that as proof positive that they are actually having an affair now? If their situation really was above board then why wouldn't she come into the bar? She normally does. I piece the jigsaw together. My best guess is that they have been craving one another for quite some time now. In the beginning they might have told themselves that their relationship was innocent – just good friends – but as they have spent more and more time with one another they have fallen back in love. Last night they gave in to the inevitability and did the deed; in many ways I'm surprised it's taken them so long. I recall Roberto lying in our darkened bedroom. I assumed he was fed up with his mother or stressed out over the bar, but was he battling with his conscience? Could I have pulled him back from the brink if I hadn't been thinking about negotiating my night out with Chuck?
I wander outside the bar and plonk myself on to the nearest chair I can find. It's metal and uncomfortable – I haven't had a chance to put out the cushions yet. My inadequacies are stacking up. Panicked, I consider that I must be a terrible wife; my husband is shagging his ex and I've forgotten to make the outside eating area chairs comfy and welcoming. The irrational parallel I am drawing between these shortcomings suggests that I am indeed in shock.
My husband has slept with someone else.
No, no, it's impossible. I won't believe it of him. I can't believe it of him. But then am I really so naive that I can believe otherwise? It's clear he adores her company and they have history. It's not impossible that they're having an affair; it is entirely probable. Yet saying the words in my head is an isolated act, quite distinct and alone from feeling it in my heart or believing it in my being. My Roberto. Would he? Could he? Before we came here I'd have sworn that he was one hundred per cent faithful and happy, but —
But since coming here I don't think either of us has been particularly happy. I pause and try to pursue that thought with some conviction. One thing at a time. Think of one thing at a time.
Perhaps we weren't that happy in London either. The only difference being that there we both had other and sufficient distractions so that it was possible to ignore our growing gulf. I had Alison and the worldwide web with its endless hocus-pocus cures and remedies for my childlessness. I had workmates and my family, I had hope. And Roberto had his career and – oh, I don't know. Thinking about it now, other than work Roberto didn't have much that was independent of me when we were in England. He liked visiting my brothers and my parents and he liked to come along to the pub with my mates. Anyway, I always said he should consider them 'our' mates and I'm sure he did, didn't he? When we met he had a number of Italian pals living in London but slowly, one by one, they drifted back to their mammas and fresh pasta. He used to play football in the park on a Sunday morning, but thinking back, those kickabouts fell away a couple of years ago. I hadn't really noticed; to be honest I was quite glad to have him returned to me on a Sunday mo
rning. It's a great day for brunch or shopping.
Did Roberto ever feel lonely in London the way I do in Veganze? He never said so. But then there were other things we didn't talk about too.
I remember that day when he came home from work and he'd been fired. He had literature from estate agents stuffed in his laptop bag, yet we'd never discussed moving. Obviously his plans were aborted, but if they hadn't been, when was he planning to include me in that scheme? I'd have wanted some say in where we lived next. Was his secret search for a new home a wonderful, thoughtful surprise or was it a desperate attempt to change the dynamics in our home life? And before then, long before then, the day he stopped talking about trying for a baby. He shagged me within an inch of my life, he forced every sinew and nerve and seemed to be truly willing a baby into being but when a baby didn't emerge we never even offered one another a conciliatory pat on the back. I hit the web in search of other routes to life and he – well, he gave up.
I feel sick and I don't think it's anything to do with the hangover. I'd thought that as our marriage had been perfectly happy, and had just recently run into turbulent water, we'd get to dry land if we steered straight and carefully. I was planning on sticking a band-aid over the graze known as Ana-Maria.
But if there's even more to it than that, if there are longer-lying concerns, then I'm not so sure a band-aid will cover it.
What to do? What to do? I want a baby. I yearn, hanker, need, require a baby. I don't have time or energy or nerve to start again with someone else. I don't have the luxury of calling my marriage what it is; a squalid, cluttered sham. I have no choice. I have to pretend that I haven't yet reached the obvious conclusion. I have to feign blissful ignorance or the whole paper house collapses around my ears. At least Ana-Maria has the decency to stay away today. If they don't rub my nose in it, if they are discreet, perhaps I can live with it – at least for as long as it takes for it to go away, and it would go away if we had a baby. I know it would. Roberto wouldn't be unfaithful if he was a father – would he? No, he wouldn't; I'm almost certain. Everything would be better then. I don't have to dignify it by acknowledging it. I turn towards the bar. Raffaella is standing in the doorway, arms folded across her enormous chest (quite a feat), and she's staring at me. I turn away instantly; I will not catch her eye. She's been watching me all morning and is waiting for me to crack. The witch.
My nose is tingling as I fight tears. Is my plan to stay here and put up with whatever Roberto doles out to me realistic? How much humiliation can I bear? What if his infatuation with Ana-Maria is more than that? What if he is in love with her and he doesn't love me any more? It's not a bizarre thought. There hasn't been much show of affection, let alone love, since I arrived here. But he's my husband.
And what of Chuck? So far I have managed to operate in Veganze like a human being because of his tenderness and his interest. Will I manage without him? I have to. I cannot think of Chuck. I am married. It's not right to feel the way I do about him.
'Dime for them.'
'Sorry?' I look up and am face to face with Chuck.
'A dime for your thoughts. Isn't that what you Brits say, a penny for your thoughts?'
'Yes, we do.'
'Maybe I should have offered a euro.'
'Chuck, about last night. I wanted to apologize –'
He puts up his hand and shakes his head slowly from side to side. His mannerisms aren't patronizing; he looks amused and warm. 'No need, Elizabeth. Every friendship has to be cemented by the regurgitated contents of an abused stomach at some point. I take it as a compliment that you are so relaxed with me. Although, don't make a habit of it.'
I blush, he's being so nice. It's a stark contrast to how I've been treated all morning and suddenly I fear that I might not be able to subdue my tears any longer. It's ironic that Raffaella's witchy snarls and cross looks and Roberto's indifference haven't been able to move me as much as Chuck's concern.
'I didn't think you were working today.'
'No, I wasn't supposed to be, I'm covering a shift for Paolina. She has some stuff going on.'
'Don't we all.'
'Do you want a coke?'
'That would be good.'
I make him stay put. I like being outside even though I've forgotten my sunglasses and the sun is blazing brightly now. I fetch us a coke each and slide his towards him with an unexpected amount of flair.
'It's on the house,' I say loudly.
Raffaella tuts and pointedly huffs and puffs as she retreats back inside; she has yet to acknowledge Chuck even though he's thrown several cheery comments her way. I'm grateful that he's shown his face today. Of course it is fantastic to see him because he always makes me feel relaxed and cheerful, but by coming in and continuing our friendship as normal he's telling the whole world we have nothing to hide. I'm not expecting the relaxed and cheerful thing today, not under the circumstances, but if he makes me feel more valued than dog faeces on the bottom of a shoe, then that's progress.
'So what are your plans for the day?' I ask.
'Well, I was coming in to try to persuade you to come out with me. I was figuring you'd need to clear your head, but as you're working I see that won't be happening.'
'Sorry,' I shrug.
There's nothing I'd like more than to go out with Chuck today but I know that it would be a mistake. I'm feeling emotional and vulnerable. My husband is all but having sex on the bar in front of me. He's treating me with disdain and disrespect, whereas Chuck is . . . well, Chuck is hot. He's sitting in front of me and treating me with nothing but sympathy and kindness. Plus, he's hot, did I mention that? I realize that every day that I have spent with Chuck has been a risk, a gamble. There was always a thinly veiled possibility that I'd finally admit to myself what has been obvious for three months: I like him more than I like my husband right now. I am falling in love with him. Yes, he's hot, but he's also generous with his time and his thoughts. He's interesting, clever, new, honest, unknown, exciting. However, Roberto is my husband. Roberto is the man I am going to make babies with. We are going through a rough patch, that's all. We can get through it, I'm pretty sure. We just need to spend some serious time together and get back on track.
The worst thing I could do right now is spend more time with Chuck.
'I can't come out with you today, Chuck. In fact, I don't think I can see you again.' I force myself to meet his eyes. Smack, how can they surprise me every time? I watch as Chuck's eyes cloud. Normally so wide and hopeful, they darken in front of me; he looks confused and hurt.
'Have I done something wrong? Was the penne con gamberi e carciofi that bad? Look, I can cook other dishes, or we can go to restaurants.' He's like me; he uses humour to deflect.
I smile. 'Not at all – well, actually it was a little dry but that's not it.'
'Are you embarrassed because of the sick-up thing?'
'No, well, yes again, but that's not it either.' Chuck opens his arms wide and then lets them drop to his side in a gesture which clearly conveys he's stumped and waiting for a response. I guess I owe him that much. He's been a great friend, my best here in Italy. I can't just cut loose without offering any sort of explanation.
'Roberto stayed out with Ana-Maria last night.'
'Oh.'
'I guess my marriage is in more trouble than I thought. I mean I'm not saying they are actually having sex –' I pause, I hope he doesn't call me on that. 'I guess I'm just saying that I shouldn't be spending so much time with you and he shouldn't be spending so much time with her and we just need some time together. I want to make it work with him. I want his babies. I
Chuck cuts across me. For the first time ever he doesn't seem to want to hear what I have to say.
'Absolutely. I totally understand. You are husband and wife and I've never wanted to come between that,' he says earnestly.
I stare at him and try to ignore the throb of disappointment that is swelling in my gut. Never?
'I am so sorry if I've been in the way. Co
nsider me gone.'
And with that he stands up and walks away without so much as throwing a regretful look over his shoulder.
51
19 May
It hurts. Getting used to the fact that Chuck is not going to be in my life any more hurts. I've only known him a few months. Yet I'm floored to discover it's pretty tricky getting up in the mornings now I don't have him to look forward to. I'm surprised when I realize that he's my first thought, every day. In fact, as he also makes regular appearances in my dreams too, it's becoming problematic distinguishing between the two conditions. They blur into one another, leaving me feeling fragile and confused.
I catch the bus to work now. It's always crowded, and the driver speeds as though he's a contestant in a Grand Prix, so I don't enjoy the journeys in the slightest and invariably feel quite nervous by the time I arrive at school. I've tried buying my own brown paper bag of fruit, in case it's the breakfasts I miss, but I rarely have an appetite. Invariably I forget about my purchase and it over-ripens, swells and splits in my school bag; the sickly sweet smell alerts me and I remember to throw it in the bin. I always claim a window seat and I make an effort to concentrate on the beautiful countryside. Indeed, the blazes of bougainvillea that cling to the teal mountainside are stunning. The scarlet flashes catch my eye as the bus speeds past. I try to ponder what goes on in both the tiny and the rather grand dusty terracotta or peach-coloured buildings, but I've found I'm much more drawn to looking at the cars sharing the road. I strain for a fleeting glimpse of Chuck's car. It's a reasonable assumption that the bus will pass him at some point; we are going in the same direction. In fact, on about a dozen occasions I swear I see him, but on second glance it never turns out to be Chuck. A similar car perhaps but a man with darker hair is driving, or a chubbier man, or a smaller man, or even a handsome man but not the handsome man I'm looking for.
I do glimpse him for real from time to time at school. His blond head rises above the sea of darker crowns even on the busiest stairwell. I once waved at him but I don't think he saw me. At least, he didn't wave back. When I'm working in the bar my neck becomes sore because I jerk my head towards the door hundreds of times per evening just in case he chooses that moment to throw caution to the wind, ignore my relationship embargo and pop by anyway. The excitement of hearing the door creak is tremendous as I enjoy an infinitesimal moment of hope that I might see him. The disappointment, because it never is him, is crushing.