by Mavis Cheek
He laughed. ‘No – but he showed me some copies of papers with the pomegranate symbol all over them. Part of a cache of sixteenth-century spy-network stuff – about Catherine of Aragon.’
‘What about her?’
‘Details – to the very hour almost – of her menstrual cycle and beddings with Henry. The Italian says they wanted to know when she was likely to conceive. Or when she didn’t. Useful politics.’
‘Good God,’ I said, so loudly that a few heads turned. ‘Was nothing sacred?’
The turned heads looked on with interest.
‘To the Venetians? I shouldn’t think so. But at least they were honest about it. I’m quite sure it’s similar for royals today. Think of Diana. I expect her wedding date was considered very carefully. Sure you can’t get over for tomorrow?’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll give the Italian your love, shall I?’
‘Brando – I miss you, too,’ I said.
And he was gone. The carriage sank back into its torpor and I stared at the passing world. Deathbed regrets? A sultry room in Venice and the scent of lily of the valley? Perhaps. We stopped at a station, I remained in my seat and we sped on.
I still had no idea what I was going to say when I got there. As the April green and the gentle landscape made way for the craggier, broader sweep of the true north. Darkness came a-creeping and cowardly feelings joined it. I could just get off at Waverley, and turn around and go home. After all, I could get another train back easily. I could go back to Venice. Do my job. Brando needed me and I enjoyed what I did. I’d done my time as a diligent student, a good honest worker, a committed and capable mother, and now I could do what I pleased and indulge my friend, the dilettante. Back in Venice. I could. No. Yes. No. I couldn’t do that. I’d never be able to face myself again. Oh yes you would, said the demon on my shoulder. But I banished it. I must see Toni, I must apologise for what I said – yet somehow not retract it. Remain truthful. How to make that balance? Perhaps Toni had a right to her fate just like the rest of us – and whether it was a moral one (judged by me) or not, it was hers. Words would come when I saw her. It was best not to pre-plan. I’d just give her a firm, friendly, warm apology for hurting her and a cool, calm pacific statement saying that I would never overstep the mark again. And that would be that. We would be grown-up, civilised women, dealing with what are now so fondly called issues. And then we would share a pot of tea or something stronger and all would be well and all manner of things would be well. Not quite. The big one to come was with Robert.
I stepped into a taxi, looked to neither right nor left as we sped along, and arrived at the hotel wondering whether it was calm serenity that I felt, or simply frozen fear. If my voice was anything to go by it was the latter. The words came out in a high croak when I asked at reception for Mrs Benedetto. And I was not altogether impressed with the warm relief on hearing that Mrs Benedetto was out at present. I sat in one of the overstuffed chairs amid the extravagantly ugly flower-arranged foyer – where a lorgnette and a floral embonpoint would not have looked out of place – and tried the Mary McCarthy book again. Perfect. I need not move for hours. Perhaps, I thought, Mrs Benedetto is out for the night. Relief wrapped me even more warmly. Yes, that was it. She and Bob the Logistics were out on the tiles … I was saved.
I was just reading around the interesting question of why a state so venal and cruel as Venice – which, among other little quirks, had a penchant for blinding its doges over a hot brazier of coals (my, they could certainly teach us a thing or two about painful truth) – could also be thought of as La Serenissima and so often referred to as beautiful as a dream or a fairy tale … and thinking that a fairy-tale setting did not, necessarily, mean good fairy tales, fairy tales often being full of the darkest and cruellest aspects of inhumanity and evil – when the rotating doors of the hotel rotated, and in came Toni.
I saw her before she saw me. But only fractionally. Then we connected. She stood by the doors as they circled slowly behind her, and stared. Her eyes were wide as a startled marmoset’s – but they were not dark-circled and there was real colour in her cheeks. She wore a smart black trouser suit (oh those non-existent hips), very high heels (only she, only she) and a crisp, white shirt. She looked very businesslike with her even smarter black business bag slung over her shoulder and a neat-looking case for a laptop in her delicate little hand. And if it were not for the way her perfectly roseate mouth hung open, you could be forgiven for thinking you had just stepped out of a boardroom drama.
I stood up. Mary McCarthy slid to the floor. We both looked down at it and then back at each other. I thought: firm, friendly, warm, cool, calm, pacific – and prepared to be all these. Then I looked into those marmoset eyes again – and promptly burst into tears. I’d never heard of the Olympic sport of synchronised crying, but we invented it. Just at the exact moment when I opened my mouth for the first howl, the smart and businesslike Mrs Benedetto hurled herself across the divide, yelling my name, and also bursting into tears. The management looked on in amazement as we fell on each other’s necks and clung to each other and sobbed and laughed. Toni said, as if it were being ripped out of her, ‘Oh God, you were so right. So right … I couldn’t wait to get back to London and tell you.’
And then, very cautiously, up crept a passing member of staff and, bending low, she picked up the McCarthy book most gingerly and placed it on the table in front of us. It lay open at the page that contained the salutary words: ‘I envy you writing about Venice,’ says the newcomer. ‘I pity you,’ says the old hand …’ I reached down and closed the book. Everything contained a paradox. Of course it did.
*
How could I possibly have thought we would settle for a pot of tea? Something considerably stronger was needed to blunt the effect of those floral arrangements and, as I noticed now, the slightly embossed wallpaper in snuffbox yellow. I didn’t know you could buy dark red blooms that looked like blood-soaked spears on the wheels of chariots. So the gin and tonics were ordered. Fingers were wiped under eyes, smudging mascara and streaking foundation. Buttons on jackets and coats were undone and bodies relaxed. We faced each other in those remarkably uncomfortable chairs and, after crying, we had a good laugh. I said I wanted to apologise, Toni held up her mascara-streaked hand and said it was not to be thought of and that it – my stern talking-to – had done her an amazing favour. That was when I undid the last of my jacket buttons and leaned back, sighing. She looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and – yes – happy. I began to feel the teensiest bit afraid. This was not exactly how I expected her to look if she had turned her world upside down and either dumped the chump or decided to tell her husband.
‘So – Edinburgh?’ I managed to ask eventually once we’d done all the cooing and doving and undoubtedly convinced the still pop-eyed management that we batted for the other side. ‘Why here?’
‘I could ask you the same question,’ she said playfully.
‘Well, I came to see you and to put things right.’
And she was off again. More mascara trails. ‘Everything is all right. Thank you, thank you.’ And I nearly went nearly off again too, but the drinks arrived and saved me. ‘Do you mean you came all this way just to see me?’ she said, managing to bring everything to bear in the sentence while getting a solid mouthful of the drink inside her.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, Nina – that is just wonderful of you.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But why are you up here? And you look great, by the way.’
She touched the side of her nose in a gesture of conspiratorial inclusion. Mockingly, I hoped. ‘I’m on a course. A business-management course. Isn’t that wonderful?’
You never – quite – know your friends. I wanted to laugh at the joke but I could see that it was no such thing. So I did the only other possibility and raised my glass. ‘To business-management courses,’ I said. And downed about half of it, which felt considerably better.
She then raised her glass, in all seriousness
, and nodded. ‘Absolutely. Here’s to it.’
Very cautiously I asked her why a business-management course, to which she said, ‘Well, you were absolutely right. Bob and I needed to take the reins if we were ever going to be together – and I needed to be as good as his wife – no – better than his wife – at the business side of things in order to be his true partner in everything.’
I could not think of a single thing to say. Not one. So I just stared at her in what I hoped looked like open admiration. And then I did think of something. A lifeline. ‘Does Bob know you’re here?’
‘Nope,’ she said, happily.
‘Does Bob know about the business-management course?’
‘Nope,’ she said, even more happily.
I found myself nodding at the floor and saying, ‘Good, good,’ and feeling very near to tears again.
‘I want to surprise him.’
You’ll do that all right, I thought.
‘And I was going to ask you – when I got back – what you think about the timeline?’
‘Timeline?’
She rolled her eyes as if to say, Oh what a silly billy for not knowing businesspeak.
‘Timeline, Nina. Timeline means do I tell Bob first, or do I tell Arturo? I can’t make up my mind. Instinct tells me go for the one that will give negative results first –’
‘That’s reasonable,’ I mumbled. I had a feeling that there wouldn’t be very much to choose between the two anyway. But no. I straightened up, looked my friend firmly in the eye and said that I thought she should first tell Bob.
‘Why?’
Oh God. Why? Come on, Nina, think, think.
‘Because he’ll need to be warned before you tell Arturo in case Arturo does something crazy.’
‘Arturo wouldn’t do anything like that.’
‘You don’t know what he might do. You’ve never left him before. And even if he didn’t try to shoot Bob, he might ring Bob’s wife, or go round there and tell all – and what would Bob say then, if he didn’t know?’
A sly look came over Toni’s little kitten face and her dainty mouth pursed with amusement. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘that might not be such a bad thing. His wife? Might it?’ And she raised her little hand with impressive imperiousness and summoned the waiter to order more drinks.
‘Well …’ I said, as if contemplating a seriously tricky dilemma, which it wasn’t because I was absolutely sure I knew what the outcome would be, and dreaded it – should I tell her what I was certain of? Not necessarily. Not if she hadn’t asked me to pronounce on it. But I could steer her. ‘… You know, Arturo is Italian, and they are jealous lovers …’
‘Hrmph,’ she said.
‘You don’t know what fires burn beneath that slightly chubby chest.’
‘I think I do. None.’
My friend had gone extremely hard all of a sudden. Fortunately the drinks arrived and with the bit of business that entailed I was able to pull my thoughts together again. ‘It just wouldn’t be fair on Bob. He ought to know before anyone else.’
‘Why?’
Well, yes, come on, God – why?
‘It’s a monumental decision. It’s your future together. He should be completely in the picture before you tell Arturo. Trust me. I speak the truth.’ And I did. There was no doubt in my mind that Bob should be the first to hear about business management and the new dawn of togetherness. ‘And I think, to be fair to him, you should wait until you’re face-to-face.’ The last thing this situation needed was for Toni to break out – two gin and tonics down – and ring him with the news. There’s something about telephones and being able to dissemble in a conversation that you can’t do when you are eyeball-to-eyeball. I could imagine that Bob the Logistics was a very smooth talker – and when he was confronted with reality – well – Toni had to be there to see his evasiveness for herself.
When she nodded and said that I was absolutely right I felt a wonderful wave of smugness. Eat your heart out, I thought to myself, as I pictured Bob’s face when he finally had to confront reality, eat your rotten heart out. We freshened up in her room and decided to use the restaurant in the hotel. Toni had a double bed and with a little adjustment from the management, it was agreed I would stay with her. Naturally this confirmed the sapphic tendency and there was a certain pinkening of the receptionist’s gills which was enjoyable. I was looking forward to being with Toni while she was so happy. One more night, I thought, suddenly miserable, of her looking like this – so positive and beautiful again – and then … At least she would be back in London when the proverbial hit the rotating thing yet again, at least she would be able to go home, at least Arturo would be there, at least, finally, she would know. And I’d be exonerated from troublemaking. This I thought, feeling very positive.
Downstairs again we ordered one more drink and waited while they got our table ready. Toni suddenly stood up and said, eyes alight with joy, ‘I know exactly how to do it. Won’t be a mo’. I’m just going back to the room to get something.’ And she tottered over to the lift. Up she went. To return a few minutes later with her laptop. ‘A videoconference. I can do it on my laptop. I’ll contact him now. He’ll still be at the office. Never goes home until he has to.’ She looked so happy. I found myself cursing the invention of the wheel.
‘I thought he was away.’
‘Oh no, he’s back.’
‘Let’s eat first,’ I said.
‘No – he might have gone home by then. And I’ve got another two days of this course to go. I’ll do it now.’
And so she did.
Do I draw a veil over what transpired? Or do I describe in minute detail the dreadful moment when Bob’s face appeared on the screen and he said, in his seductive voice, ‘Hi, darling. Checking up on me? To what do I owe the pleasure?’
And she told him.
I watched with fascinated disgust as his face constricted into a rictus of horror. Very plain to see. Undeniable, in fact. His eyes went hard and he licked his lips like any cornered criminal. And no real attempt, no apparent will, to recover and pretend. Did she see it at first? Who knows? Her smile (I was sitting side-on to her) was still in place as he said, ‘Now wait a minute, sweetie. Hold on –’ And she put up her delicate little hand and said, ever so firmly, ‘Don’t even think about worrying. It’s all going to be fine. I’ll take on the business stuff. That’s the surprise in all this. My course tutor says I’m first-rate. We won’t need your wife any more.’
‘Really?’ he said, and now there was a touch of contempt in the rictus. ‘First-rate at what?’
‘Running a business. That’s what I’ve been learning about. This is it, darling,’ she said, bounding onwards until I was near to screaming. ‘This is the moment. I’m going to leave Arturo and you are going to leave your unkind wife, and we are going to be happy together at last. We’ll be a partnership.’
Toni’s voice was louder than usual, much as we tend to talk loudly into our mobiles, I suppose. All around us in the foyer were eyes filled with curiosity. Not only at what seemed, impossibly, to be happening – a lovely woman talking animatedly to a screen which appeared to be replying (you could fairly feel the embonpoints shiver) but also what was being said. All motion seemed to cease. Couples and friends, who had been about to set off into the night, stopped, pretending they had a picture to look at, or something to say to each other. We were at the centre of a drama. The reception staff were also staring, taxi drivers who had called to collect their fares stood motionless by the desk, hotel staff hovered on the periphery – anyone coming through the doors felt a chill of inactivity and looked about them nervously.
Let’s wait until you get home,’ said smooth-talking Bob. ‘I don’t think this is the time or the moment for such a big decision. OK, darling?’
I waited for Toni to back off. But her roseate spectacles had clearly slid down her nose. She saw. In that terrible, blinding moment of inner certainty, she knew. Bob’s OK, darling? gave it away completely. Never had man
sounded so false, I thought. Never had darling sounded more like an insult.
‘You don’t want me,’ she said, ‘Do you?’
‘Now you’re being silly.’
‘You never wanted me, really, did you?’
‘Of course I want you, just not –’
‘Will you tell your wife tonight?’
‘Now, Toni – you know it’s not –’
It was over.
There are pyrrhic victories and there are pyrrhic victories. Suffice it to say that I caught the late train back to London. And so did Toni. But we sat in separate compartments. ‘If you had kept your fucking ideas about truth out of my business,’ she said once the screen went blank, ‘I’d have still been happy. Thanks a bunch. Very sisterly of you.’ I couldn’t even say I was sorry, because I wasn’t. Once you undertake to tell the truth even the most platitudinous conventions are lost. Instead I just sat there. All I could think of to say was that I was sorry I was right, and obviously lead balloons came to mind. So Toni got up, picked up her laptop, and swept off up to her room. We met again on the platform but no words were exchanged.
Back to the rhythm of the train and unbridled ponderings. The old adage of shoot the messenger was alive and well. And its most famous perpetrator, Tiberius, had a point. Thus do we convince ourselves of whatever we need to get ourselves through. I’m sure he felt a great deal better when a messenger arrived at Villa Jovis to tell him of some foul new development back at the centre of his Empire, or that a conspiracy was afoot in Rome, or that tracts about his behaviour were appalling his subjects, throwing said messenger onto the rocks below. Whatever the truth of what he learned, at least he’d enjoyed a moment of hitting back. I expect it did his twisted little heart masses of good to see that body bump its way down into the foaming waters below. It all goes back to love. If they hadn’t made Tiberius give up his beloved Vipsania for Augustus’ daughter Julia, he might never have ended up living such a foul and disgusting life atop Capri. I might not have ended up on the rocks, but I had removed Toni’s great love and from now on I was dead to her. So much for truth.