The Perfect Couple

by Lexi Landsman

  Questions rush through my mind. How long has this deceit gone on for? Is this woman the first, or have there been many before her?

  My mind traces back to when I was a university student, enthralled by this charismatic and highly intelligent man, this dashing Italian who convinced me that he would always look after me, that he would always be faithful. ‘Sei tutto per me,’ he had said to me lovingly the night he proposed, You’re everything to me. ‘I’ll be yours for our lifetime, Sarah.’

  I should have known then that a man so charming, good-looking and smart, a man whom women chased after, could never belong to one person. Least of all me. I had mistakenly believed that when he became a father he put his own needs second and our children’s first. Now I know that Marco was always the main character in his play.

  When the tears eventually subside, I wipe my eyes with a tissue. I am at a complete loss as to how to move forward from this. Do I wait for him to tell me the truth? Test him to see how long the lies continue? Or do I confront him and tell him to pack up his stuff and leave? I can’t even begin to process how this will impact our children, and what it will mean for our careers.

  I wipe the grey trails of mascara that have run down my cheeks. I rub my face so vigorously that when I look back in the rear-view mirror, there is no trace of his deceit lining my skin. I cannot confront Marco in a state of weakness.

  But then a thought occurs to me. An idea. It starts like a drop of ink on paper and then spreads until it fills the edges of my mind, until it seems like the only option I have. And that’s when I know what I must do.

  By the time I head home, my entire body is depleted of energy. It seems like the longest night of my life. My eyes are heavy and foggy from crying. All I want is to go home to sleep, but how can I?

  I force my eyes wide, and open the window, hoping the breeze rushing in will fortify me for the drive to our apartment. The streets are quiet and I find myself continually gazing down at my phone to scroll through the photos of the necklace. I drive across the bridge to the other side of the Mugnone River. I stare down at my phone once more and this time, though it only feels like a second has passed, when I look up I’m shocked to find that I’ve swerved towards the low barrier wall that protects drivers from the shallow stream below. I swerve to straighten up, but there’s a parked car just ahead. I feel the acrid taste of panic slide up my throat and my heart drop as I try desperately to manoeuvre the wheel the other way. But it’s too late. My car is careening out of control.

  The brakes screech into the dead of night, and something crushes my body. The pain sears through me. Then the airbag hits me in the chest like a boxer’s punch, knocking the breath out of me. I feel like a rag doll, helpless and fragile, as my body is knocked from side to side.

  There’s a loud cracking sound as I crash through the barrier wall. It happens in seconds.

  A palpable fear twists up my spine like a corkscrew. I am going to die. I will never see my children again.

  Then suddenly my car is plummeting through the hedges and down the embankment, heading straight for the river. The smell of burned rubber and metal rises in the air.

  There’s a splash of water and a loud bang. I hit my head hard. For a moment, there is ringing in my ears. Black dots fill my vision. And then there’s silence. Cold, blind silence. I can’t see or feel or hear anything as the world fades away. Until there’s nothing.

  DANIEL

  Daniel Moretti had a secret life. His parents thought he was studying a combined arts and science degree at the University of Florence, but he’d dropped out months ago and instead spent his days writing songs and exploring the sites of Tuscany. His parents would be mortified if they knew the truth. How could he explain to them that he had a sort of fuoco nelle mie vene – fire in his veins – to play music for a living? He was twenty years old, living in one of the most enchanting cities in the world, with no desire to follow their academic path. Instead, he was learning to live by the motto Vivi la tua vita senza rimpianti. In English it meant live your life with no regrets.

  It was that motto that had led him to this moment – in a bar in Santa Croce, building up the courage to play to an audience for the first time. It was open-mic night and he had put his name down last so that by the time he played, the crowd would, he hoped, be too inebriated to notice if he was terrible.

  He was sweating so much that he worried the guitar pick would slip from his fingers. A young woman about his age was up on the stage now, being cheered on loudly by a group of her friends. She had long brown hair and a rich velvety, sultry voice that made him think of Norah Jones. She would be a hard act to follow. Daniel hadn’t told his friends he was playing, so he was probably one of the only singers there without a support network.

  The crowd erupted into applause when she finished. Then it was his turn …

  He walked towards the stage, fearing that when he opened his mouth to sing his vocal cords would freeze and no sound would come out. What if a string broke? What if he forgot the lyrics he had penned? What if he was booed off stage? A musician friend had confided that he would picture everyone in the audience in their underwear to calm his nerves but the technique didn’t seem to be doing Daniel any favours. He plugged the flimsy lead from the amplifier into his guitar, the feedback from the speaker ringing out like a fire alarm in a library. Despite his rising anxiety, he forced himself to walk confidently onto the stage. He sat down on a bar stool and positioned his guitar on his lap. He flicked away his long brown hair and began to play.

  He kept his eyes fixed on the chords and pretended to himself that he was in his room, playing alone so there was no fear of judgement. Thankfully, after his first few bars, he began to relax. His hand strummed the guitar freely and his voice bellowed out confidently from the microphone. Nothing else in that moment mattered. It was just Daniel and his music.

  Losing sense of the audience and his surroundings, he became completely absorbed in the song he had composed about yearning to see the world and yet simultaneously searching for a place to call home. A song that stemmed from his nomadic upbringing of living in different cities across Europe for varying stretches of time – Rome, Sicily, Paris, Provence, Athens, Crete, London – and even a stint in Western Australia. He had gone like luggage wherever his parents’ work took them and, while he loved to travel, he seemed to carry a sort of fear of becoming too comfortable in a place when he knew they were bound to be uprooted again.

  Midway through the song, he felt a gaze heavy on his skin and he looked up to see the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen staring at him, transfixed. Her hair was chestnut and it was cropped bluntly above her shoulders and blow-dried in a bob. She looked like a porcelain doll with her round hazel eyes and pale skin. His hand faltered for a second but he quickly regained his composure and kept playing.

  When the song ended, the crowd clapped enthusiastic ally, more than for the girl who preceded him, but Daniel couldn’t tell if they were merely being supportive or if they were genuinely impressed. When he walked off stage a few men gave him congratulatory taps on the back. He felt exposed, as if he had just opened his diary and read it to strangers, but at the same time, he was euphoric; he had put himself out there. Maybe he could do this for a living. Keep playing gigs, build a name for himself, find an agent or join a band. Who knew what the future held?

  He wanted to reward himself with a drink for taking the first step in chasing his dream so he sat at the bar and ordered a negroni.

  While he watched the barman prepare the cocktail, he looked up to see the girl he’d noticed from the stage sit down beside him. She was wearing a green chequered dress, a pearl necklace and red lipstick, which together made her look like she had walked straight out of a 1950s film. She was tall and slim, with petite features. He waited for her friends or a boyfriend to join her, but instead she swivelled to face him.

  ‘You’re talented,’ she said in English and then grinned. ‘I can tell you don’t know that yet. But you will.’


  Daniel felt his cheeks flush to the same colour as the red wine on the counter. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It was my first time playing to an audience. I have a lot of improving to do,’ he replied in Italian.

  ‘Please, in English. I am trying to get better at speaking the language.’

  How had she picked up so quickly that Italian wasn’t his native tongue?

  ‘You wrote that song yourself?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  Her eyes locked on his as if daring him to look away. ‘You’re shy,’ she said, flirtatiously, as if she’d summed him up already. ‘That’s okay. I like shy guys.’

  She picked up his drink and took a sip. ‘What is this?’ she said, wincing with distaste and sliding it back to him.

  ‘It’s a negroni cocktail. Made with one part sweet vermouth rosso, one part Campari and one part gin,’ he said, somewhat taken aback by her confidence.

  ‘It must be an acquired taste.’ She got the barman’s attention and ordered a prosecco, which Daniel paid for before she had the chance to take out her wallet.

  ‘Salute,’ she said, staring into his eyes. ‘It’s bad luck if you don’t make eye contact. So, what’s your name?’ she asked and smiled, dimples framing her cheeks.

  ‘Daniel Moretti. And yours?’

  She gazed at him quizzically, and he in turn watched her, noting her flawless skin, the kind of freckle- and wrinkle-free complexion seen on models. She leaned her elbows on the bar and rested her chin on her clasped hands. ‘You’re not related to Marco Moretti, are you?’ she said enthusiastically. ‘The archaeologist and television presenter?’

  Daniel looked down, suddenly embarrassed. ‘He’s my father.’

  ‘Wow!’ she exclaimed. ‘That must be where you get your good looks.’

  Daniel wiped his forehead self-consciously and continued to sip his drink. ‘I am very different to my father.’

  ‘You don’t want to be an archaeologist too?’

  ‘I’m focusing on my music, for now,’ Daniel said resolutely. ‘What about you? What do you do for work?’

  ‘I work for a jewellery store on the Ponte Vecchio. I’m studying jewellery design and gemmology. Your father is a bit of a legend to the students in my course. We read in class about his paper on the San Gennaro necklace – about how it has more than seven hundred diamonds and hundreds of other valuable stones. It was worked on by the finest craftsmen of its time. It would be amazing if he found such a remarkable historical jewel.’

  Daniel gazed away from her and over at the crowd now dancing to music played by a DJ. Just like that, he’d lost interest. Anyone who admired his dad was clearly easily fooled. It was all an illusion, shiny glass with hidden imperfections. He felt her watching him, registering his suddenly tense shoulders. ‘Anyway,’ she said, leaning towards him. ‘I’m sure you hear enough about it at home. It was my friend who played before you. She’s good, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, she’s got a beautiful voice.’

  ‘But yours is unique – it’s pensive but uplifting. And your lyrics are heartfelt. Mysterious. You sing about nostalgia and love and wanderlust. I can tell already that like your songs, you hide more than you reveal.’ She picked up her drink and stood up suddenly. ‘I have to get back to my friends,’ she announced. She reached for a napkin, then took a pen from her handbag and used it to write something.

  ‘That’s my name and my number,’ she said. ‘Call me tomorrow.’

  She leaned in and kissed his cheek, resting her hand on his forearm for a moment, the friction catching his breath. Then she walked off to join her friends, who were sitting around a table. Daniel tried to hide his chuffed grin as they looked in his direction and leaned in towards each other to whisper conspiratorially.

  Daniel looked at the napkin. Caterina. He smiled as he memorised her phone number. He had the same feeling he got when lyrics began to flow with such ease that he had to scribble faster than his hand could write to catch them. He told himself to forget about her interest in his father. It wasn’t like he was competing with him for her attention. So, as Daniel left the bar that night, clutching the napkin and buoyed by his onstage success, he felt that Caterina had written the finest lyrics he’d ever held in his hand.

  He couldn’t have been asleep long when he woke to the sound of banging. He stirred awake in the darkness, confused, trying to work out if it was coming from their apartment or the one next door. He rolled over and looked at the time – 3 am. He had never been able to fall asleep easily, so he cursed whoever was behind the noise. He lay in his bed and waited for one of his parents to investigate what the commotion was about, but the hallway remained quiet.

  The banging came again, this time with greater force and urgency. As Daniel became more alert, he realised that it was someone knocking on their front door. And now, a deep, gravelly voice called out his father’s name between knocks.

  When still no one in his family roused, Daniel reluctantly got out of bed and threw a T-shirt on. He fought a prickle of unease – who would be after his dad at this hour? His sister had also woken and she stood in the hallway, her eyes sleepily half-open, a gown wrapped around her. They exchanged a look of puzzlement as they headed to the entranceway.

  Daniel opened the front door and almost lost his footing when he saw two police officers. ‘We need to speak with Marco Moretti,’ the older officer said. He had a long forehead and a salt-and-pepper grey moustache, and deep crease lines on the corners of his mouth. ‘Is your father here?’

  ‘Yes, he’s in his bedroom,’ Daniel said, perplexed.

  ‘Can you go get him?’ the officer said, with a sense of urgency that made Daniel feel tense.

  Daniel made his way to his parents’ room. He knocked and then opened the door to find his father fast asleep, unaware of the banging or the police officers standing in their doorway. Daniel immediately noticed that his mother’s side of the bed was still neatly tucked in.

  Daniel stepped into the room and tapped his father’s shoulder until he woke up. ‘What is it?’ Marco said as he pulled his earplugs out.

  ‘There are two policemen at the front door.’

  Marco was upright in a second. ‘Is your mother talking to them?’

  ‘No,’ Daniel said, panic rising. ‘I thought she was asleep.’

  Marco looked beside him, then back to Daniel. ‘Where is she?’ he asked, now clearly alarmed.

  He shuffled out of bed and followed Daniel to the living room. Emily had invited the officers inside and they stood stiffly, their backs upright. There was a note of panic on his sister’s face. ‘Where’s Mamma?’ she asked.

  ‘Signor Moretti,’ the younger one said with a grim expression, ‘we’re here to inform you that your wife has been in a car accident.’

  The colour drained from Marco’s face until his skin appeared the same colour as the grey couch, which he now gripped tightly.

  Daniel’s throat tightened as shock set in.

  ‘Is she okay? What’s happened?’ Marco asked, his eyes trained on the officers.

  They gestured for him to sit down, and in an instant Daniel could feel the hairs on his arms stand up.

  ‘She’s alive but she’s had a bad accident. Her car crashed through the barrier wall above the Mugnone River and then down the embankment into the stream below.’

  Daniel felt dizzy, as if his heart had been dropped into a bucket of ice. He leaned against the couch to steady himself.

  Emily quickly dissolved into tears. Her father put his arms around her and held her close.

  ‘Is Sarah badly injured?’ Marco asked, his voice low and grim.

  ‘Her car hit the shallowest part of the river, where it is barely more than a stream. If she’d crashed anywhere else … well, let’s just say, she is very lucky. Her car, however, is irreparable.’

  ‘So, she’s okay?’ Daniel asked, barely able to form the words. The thought of the wall and the river and his mother’s car falling down the embankment caught
in his throat.

  The younger officer pulled his collared shirt away from his neck with one finger and then released it as if he were suddenly uncomfortable. He looked only about five years older than Daniel and new to these grave house calls. ‘She was taken to hospital not long ago. A couple in a house nearby heard her car crash into the wall and called an ambulance. They found her unconscious an hour ago.’

  ‘Unconscious,’ Emily repeated in disbelief. ‘Was she hurt?’ She rubbed her runny nose on the edges of her gown.

  ‘We don’t know the extent of her injuries at this point. I’m sure the hospital is running tests as we speak. She’s in the best place she can be now.’

  Marco seemed jumpy. He released his arms from Emily and rubbed his temples. ‘Which hospital?’ he asked.

  ‘Ospedale Careggi,’ the older officer replied.

  ‘Daniel and Emily, can you go and get dressed?’ Marco asked.

  Daniel was reluctant to leave. He wanted to hear firsthand whatever the officers had to say to his father, but Marco gestured for them to move quickly. Daniel did as he was told but he stopped and listened from behind the door of his bedroom as they talked in hushed tones.

  ‘You didn’t notice your wife never came home last night?’ one of the officers asked. He said it lightly, without incrimination, but it was the same thing Daniel had been wondering. How could his father not have realised his mother wasn’t there?

  ‘We’re both archaeologists and we worked late last night at Vincivoli Castle, and came home in separate cars. It was a long day and I was exhausted,’ he said, his tone getting increasingly defensive. ‘I must have fallen asleep, thinking she’d be home any minute.’

  ‘Did you leave work at the same time?’

  Daniel could hear his father hesitate. ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘So surely you would have noticed when she didn’t arrive home?’

  ‘I told you, I was exhausted. I practically passed out when I got home. I’ve had a long day on the excavation site and I had a television interview earlier today.’