I Remember You

by Harriet Evans

  ‘That’s pathetic.’

  ‘I know,’ said Tess. She shook her head, looking at him, and took a deep breath. ‘Yeah, it is. You’re right. And—hey! They’ll be OK if I don’t go back, they’re not babies, are they.’ She paused. ‘But still.’

  ‘You’re worried you don’t know me.’

  ‘No, it’s just I’m tired,’ she said, laughing. ‘Honestly.’

  ‘How can I prove to you that I’m a good guy,’ said Peter. His hand rested on the bare skin of her thigh, and she shivered. He clapped his hands. ‘Let’s play a game, shall we?’

  ‘OK,’ said Tess, uncertain.

  ‘OK.’ Peter stroked the collar of his beautifully pressed shirt—he was always immaculately dressed, Tess noticed, like a true Italian—and held up the index finger on his right hand. ‘So I tell you one thing about myself. You—’ he held up the index finger on his left hand—‘you tell me one thing about yourself.’

  ‘Right,’ said Tess. ‘That’s easy.’

  ‘Only rule is,’ said Peter, ‘you can’t have said it to anyone else before. Doesn’t matter how stupid it is. You just can’t have told anyone else before. OK?’

  Wow. ‘OK,’ Tess said.

  It was warm up on the side of the hill, as the evening grew later and the lights of the city dimmed one by one. Tess was still bone tired, but she was totally comfortable, sitting here as a soft evening breeze, like a gentle spirit, played around her hair, her shoulders, in the trees of the park behind them. ‘You go first,’ said Peter, nodding at her.

  ‘Well—’ Tess wasn’t sure of the parameters. This was hard, like writing a message on a colleague’s leaving card hard. You had to be pithy, but interesting. Reveal something, but not too much. ‘All right,’ she said eventually. ‘One of the worst dreams I’ve ever had is when I dreamt I had a band of thick black pubic hair around my neck.’

  ‘That is really horrible,’ said Peter, in admiration. ‘Disgusting.’

  ‘I know,’ said Tess, pleased that he was horrified. ‘I don’t know why it’s so horrible. It just is.’

  ‘That’s a good start.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So my one is, when I was ten I peed just a little bit in my dad’s beer when he wasn’t looking and he drank it.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ said Tess.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you ever tell him?’

  ‘No,’ Peter said quietly. ‘He died four months later, of a heart attack. I thought it was my fault. For years.’

  ‘And you couldn’t tell anyone?’ He shook his head. ‘You poor thing.’

  ‘Yeah. It wasn’t good.’ Peter rubbed his hands together. ‘So—your turn.’

  Tess took a sip of her drink. ‘One of my pupils cheated in an exam and I didn’t say anything. Because she’d been ill and I really liked her and she had a tough life.’

  ‘How did she cheat?’

  ‘We had one half of the GCSE students—that’s the name of the exams—sitting the test in the morning and the second half in the afternoon, and she saw what the set text was in the morning over someone else’s shoulder when she was sitting a different exam.’ Tess blinked. ‘So she could go and look up the text in her lunch break and learn it properly and then ace it.’

  ‘What could have happened to you? If they’d found out?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Tess looked down at her hands. ‘Sacked, probably. They closed down the department the next year anyway. The funny thing is, I still think it was the right thing to do.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Tess said. ‘She did A levels, she’s from a rough estate and her family’s completely messed up. She’s going to university. She might not have done without it.’

  ‘But she cheated.’

  ‘But she’d been ill with a tummy bug and she hadn’t revised properly.’ Tess’s voice trembled. ‘So—yeah. I don’t tell anyone that.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s got to be your turn now.’

  ‘OK.’ Peter nodded, looking out over the city. He looked down, picked up the bottle, poured the remaining liquid into their glasses. ‘Man. OK. When I moved to Rome, I—’ He shook his head. ‘Wow. I knew she was having an affair, soon after we got married. I just had this feeling. So I followed her. I followed her for about two weeks.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  He nodded. ‘Seriously. And I was right.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘And it made me feel so pathetic. Scurrying around like a rat, watching out for her all the time, hiding behind corners—that’s why sometimes I think I have to leave, go back to the States—Rome’s good for that, hiding behind things, dashing down sidestreets.’ He smiled bitterly.

  Tess hated watching him like this. ‘Did you see her?’

  ‘I saw her. I heard her—’ he broke off. ‘That’s when I stopped.’

  ‘You heard her?’ Tess was incredulous. ‘With him?’

  ‘I followed her to a hotel, some place out by the Borghese Gardens. I wasn’t sure what room, I walked along the corridors.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Then I heard her.’

  ‘What was she doing?’

  He stared at her impatiently. ‘Tess, I know what sounds my wife makes when she’s having sex, even if it’s not with me.’

  ‘My God.’ My wife. He still called her his wife.

  ‘It’s pathetic.’ He drained the glass and dropped it into the ice bucket. ‘It’s so—pathetic. You hate yourself, more than anything. I just went home and sat on the edge of my bed for hours. I didn’t say anything when she got back. Didn’t say anything for another two months.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘It was pathetic,’ he said again, and then frowned. ‘Shit, I can’t even think of words to describe it, and I’m a journalist. That’s what it did.’

  She patted his hand, holding it on her leg, stroking it. ‘That’s not you. That’s her. That’s awful, Peter. You don’t deserve someone like that.’

  ‘Oh, is that right.’ He was morose. ‘I deserve someone worse than me. Someone who secretly films people having sex and then watches it back.’

  ‘No, someone better than that!’ Tess said. ‘Much better than that. Someone who makes you behave like that, who drives you to that—they’re not worth it.’

  The skies over the city absorbed the light, so that the clouds above them were almost purple. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Whatever you say. Your turn.’

  ‘Well,’ Tess said. ‘We’re certainly racing through the issues, aren’t we? OK.’ She swallowed. ‘I put—oh, man, this is bad.’

  ‘What?!’ Peter looked up, interested.

  ‘Well—’ Tess explained. ‘My big sister Stephanie, she was always friends with me and Adam, my best friend. And when we were teenagers, she told me she liked him. But I didn’t want them to—do anything. I wanted him to myself. As friends, you know.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Well, Stephanie said she was going to go over and ask him out.’ Tess could still remember the day, as clearly as if it were yesterday. Stephanie, two years older than her and supremely confident, thin and unconcerned with what other people thought, blithely standing up after breakfast one day in the summer holidays. ‘I’m going to ask Adam out, now,’ she’d said. As if it was nothing. No big deal.

  ‘Come on!’ Peter slapped the bench. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I—oh, my God.’ Tess buried her face in her hands. ‘I picked my nose, really casually, and I put a bogey on her hair. I sort of patted her head, like, “Good luck!” so it was at the front of her hair. And then she left—he lived across the road. And she came back about five minutes later and she never mentioned it again.’

  Peter was staring at her. ‘You are evil.’

  ‘I know.’ Tess shook her head. ‘I know, there’s nothing I can do about it.’ She took a deep breath.

  ‘You must have really liked him.’

  ‘Oh,’ Tess scratched her neck. ‘It’s just he was my best friend, you know? In my awful selfish teenager mind I didn’t want it getting in the way.�
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  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He’s still there,’ said Tess. ‘Yeah, still there. We’re still friends.’

  ‘That’s cool.’

  ‘Yes, really cool.’ She looked at him. ‘So, your turn.’

  ‘I’m not sure we should be uncovering any more. OK though,’ he said. He looked at her, as if appraising her. ‘OK. Whew.’ He took a deep breath; it was quieter now, later, it felt as if they were the only people in the park. ‘I wrote my mom letters, from a handsome suitor. When I was like sixteen. Telling her she was beautiful.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She was just really sad all the time. And crying. She was really lonely.’ He wrapped his arms tightly around himself. ‘I can’t believe I did it. I wrote her like, four, five times.’ He said it as if he were reciting a lesson. ‘I can remember it totally clearly. I said I was someone in the neighbourhood, that I thought she was a very pretty lady, that I really liked her but I couldn’t tell her who I was.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ Tess said. ‘That’s—that’s amazing.’

  ‘Well, it’s weird.’ Peter drummed his fingers on the bench. ‘I think it made her happy, that’s the crazy part. I really think she fell for it.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘She started dating, taking us to the beach in the summer. She married my stepdad like, three years later. Like that had anything to do with it—’ He put his hand out. ‘But sometimes I think people need to hear someone likes them, even if it’s not true. It’s good for the soul. Carry yourself differently.’

  Tess nodded. ‘It’s true,’ she said fervently, amazed by him. She put her hand on his. ‘It is good for the soul.’

  ‘I think it’s weird,’ said Peter. ‘When I look back on it. But remember—’ he smiled—‘I thought I killed my dad, too. It’s very Oedipal. So that’s it. That’s the biggest secret of my teenage years. Phew.’ He breathed out. ‘What’s yours? Or is the thing in the hair or the weird dream, is that it?’

  There was silence. Below them, the sound of ambulance sirens rose up from the roads along the Tiber, and a church bell rang somewhere; she could hear, very faintly, music floating up from a piazza, at the bottom of the hill. It was polka music, a violin, a piano, a tambourine.

  She heard herself saying, ‘I had an abortion. When I was eighteen. I didn’t tell anyone. Apart from the—him, the boy.’

  The music grew a little louder. ‘OK,’ said Peter.

  Tess nodded. ‘It’s a long time ago, now.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ he said. He rested his hand gently on the back of her neck, his fingers stroking her hair. ‘Do you still see him?’

  ‘Like I said—’ Tess took a deep breath—‘we’re still friends.’

  ‘Ah.’ Peter lowered his head slowly. ‘Oh, man. Right.’

  ‘And it was a long time ago,’ she said. ‘Very long.’

  ‘I’m glad you told me,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  She breathed out, and drank the rest of the liquid in her glass.

  ‘It’s not a big deal,’ she said. ‘It was. It’s not any more. It was years ago.’

  He moved his hand so it was on her shoulder, and pulled her towards him.

  ‘It’s great up here, isn’t it?’ he said, as if he knew the subject was closed. ‘Just the two of us.’ He kissed the top of her head gently. ‘You must be really tired.’

  It was so long since someone had cossetted her, cared about her like that, it brought a lump to her throat. She was tired. She snuggled her head closer into his shoulder and stared out over the city. ‘I am,’ she said. ‘But I’m glad I’m here.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, his fingers squeezing her shoulder. She cried out a little. ‘Oh, shit, is that the bad shoulder?’

  ‘It’s much better now,’ she said. ‘Honestly.’

  ‘Look at you, in the wars, going to Pompeii and back, baring your soul to me, on less than four hours’ sleep.’ He stood up and pulled her to her feet.

  ‘I had a couple of hours this evening,’ Tess pointed out. ‘Before you woke me up by throwing a wet ball of loo roll in my face.’

  ‘Loo roll—God, I love your accent,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I’ll only say it once, but it is adorable. You are adorable.’ He kissed her, running his hands gently over her back, touching her shoulder soothingly. She relaxed into his embrace, feeling her hair blowing slightly in the wind. They stood on the hilltop, not caring if anyone could see them. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this comfortable, this content. Perhaps it was fatigue. Perhaps it was Rome. But she loved it.

  They walked hand in hand back down towards her hotel, stopping to kiss every now and then, and when they reached the bottom of the treacherous steps that led down to her street, Peter took her hand.

  ‘I’m going to give you an invitation,’ he said. He kissed the inside of her palm. ‘Come to my apartment tomorrow, for breakfast. Go in and get a good night’s sleep.’ His hand was on her collar bone, moving down to the cotton of her T-shirt. He pushed it aside just a little, and kissed the soft exposed mound of the side of her breast. She gasped, in pleasure and shock.

  ‘How does that sound to you?’ Peter said eventually.

  She stared at him, her eyes searching his face, looking for why this didn’t make sense, but she couldn’t see it. ‘It sounds wonderful.’

  ‘It will be.’ He smiled wolfishly at her. ‘Tonight was wonderful. Now go inside. And sleep, beautiful girl. A domani.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ she said almost shyly, kissing him on the lips and opening the door to the hotel, as if such an assignment was totally normal for her. He waited outside, watching, until the door closed, his face disappearing as it did so.

  Pompeo was on reception. He cast her a polite but cursory smile. Tess wanted to hug him. Her heart was beating so fast, like a crazed battery-powered monkey beating a drum, it almost hurt. I’ve had the most wonderful fantastic evening, Pompeo, she wanted to yell. I think I’m falling in—

  No. No. Get a grip, she told herself.

  ‘Lovely evening,’ she told Pompeo gaily as she gripped the bannister, swaying slightly with excitement. ‘Perfect for drinking Prosecco and sitting outside.’

  ‘OK,’ said Pompeo, his handsome fleshy face a study of disinterest. ‘That’s so good. Goodnight.’

  Disappointed, but still humming with excitement, Tess ran up the stairs. Never mind what Peter said—she doubted she would sleep well, now. She didn’t care, though. She would take off her clothes and put on her pyjamas, and she would lie in bed and time would pass and then morning would come and then—then she would see him again. It was almost too good to be true.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I’m going to see him, she told herself. I’m going to feel his hands on me. He’s going to kiss me, we’re going to have sex, I’m going to watch him on top of me, me on top of him, our bodies together…he’s going to do these dreadful things to me and I can’t wait.

  Tess hurried across the bridge, hugging herself, her weary, blistered feet reinvigorated after a surprisingly good night’s sleep. A choppy, playful breeze whirled her shirt up into an umbrella around her bra; she slapped it down, embarrassed. It was another glorious day in this glorious city, and she was full of love for the world, because not only was it a glorious day and she was on her way to see Peter, but it was also a free day.

  Free! It said so, on the itinerary, in black and white, she was free today, they all were, to do what on earth they liked. Jan and Diana were going to the Botanical Gardens: Carolyn was going to ‘read’ (which Tess thought meant she would probably stay in her room with the door locked, terrified to venture out unless accompanied by a joint SAS/Mossad crack team); Jacquetta was going to ‘see how she felt’ and go where the mood took her. And Claire and Liz were putting on their nicest dresses and going to the ultra-glamorous Hotel Russie, for a cocktail and possibly some lunch. Ron and Andrea had both mysteriously said, separately, that they were going ‘out for the day’. Leonora Mortmain had only said that she was goin
g to walk across the bridge to find a painting of which she was particularly fond, in a church near the Pantheon. Tess had said, ‘Are you sure, Mrs Mortmain? You look a little pale—’

  ‘I’m very well, thank you,’ Leonora Mortmain snapped. ‘Please. I know what I’m doing.’

  But she, Tess, was going to an apartment over the river, to have breakfast with a gorgeous, funny, mysterious American man, and hopefully spend the whole day having sex. Perhaps she should be visiting the Ara Pacis, or some out-of-the-way church, but she wasn’t. Perhaps she should be…oh, she didn’t care. It was a beautiful, bright day, in the world’s most beautiful, friendly, intoxicating, gorgeous city, and it felt, as she crossed the bridge, her sea-green sundress rustling around her, as if it was all there for her, as if anything was possible, as if life could never be any other way than this.

  She rang the bell next to the large green wooden door, strangely nervous though she didn’t know why. Perhaps it reminded her that she’d only met Peter a few days ago. How strange to think of it, for it seemed like ages, and she felt completely different. She knew him now, too. There was lots still to learn about him, but she knew him. And every time she learned something new about him, she liked him even more.

  He’s like the jasmine on the wall here, she thought. Completely intoxicating. Through her mind extremely briefly flashed the thought of what Jane Austen’s expression on the wall back at Easter Cottage would be if she could hear Tess thinking things like that, but she pushed it to the back of her mind.

  ‘Hey, Tess. It’s the third floor. Come on up,’ Peter’s voice said, crackling static over the intercom, and she jumped a little, then pushed half of the great door open eagerly.

  The dark passageway was cool after the heat outside. It gave onto a small white courtyard, full of plants. She bounded up the stairs, her hand running over the smooth wooden rail. The interior was old and beautiful, white and black tiles on the floors, the staircase black wrought iron. Third floor, come on, don’t lose your breath, she told herself, and slowed down a little. Just as she got to the second floor, another huge oak door opened and a voice said, ‘Hey!’