Messy, Wonderful Us

by Catherine Isaac

  ‘How many changes do we have to make on this train?’ I ask.

  ‘Three. Except I thought we could get off early for the final leg, even if it’s not quite as straightforward.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there’s only one real way to arrive in Portofino. By sea.’

  *

  Our boat slices through the cool water of the Ligurian sea, spraying tiny droplets on my sunburnt shoulders. A small pod of dolphins follows in our wake, playing in the bubbling surf, as the rocky coastline glows through a filter of soft pink light.

  Eventually, Ed nudges me and points to our destination. Even from a distance, the sight is breathtaking: a series of painted buildings that cluster like tiny gemstones around a glistening bay. The towering valley that surrounds it is so thick with vegetation that it’s impossible to work out where it starts and finishes.

  As we approach the sun-warmed inlet, the colour of the sea changes to a spectacular shade of turquoise, as clear as any swimming pool. It is lined with brilliant white super-yachts, with gleaming decks built for fashionistas and film stars to lie on while the sun soaks into their skin.

  The lush cliffs above us are dotted with Italianate mansions and villas, towers and steeples, all rising up from amongst the trees, as lemon blossom and sea water mingle to create a sweet-salt breeze. When we pass the narrowest point of the bay, I realise that each of the slender buildings is not simply painted in a different colour, muted shades of red and mustard-yellow, soft pinks and creamy whites. The whole stretch of architecture is a work of art, with trompe l’oeil facades that could fool any eye into believing that their windows are ornately framed with gold.

  We step off the boat onto a quintessential Italian piazzetta, packed with stylish cafes and pretty restaurants with outdoor tables and menus dominated by catch-of-the-day fish.

  ‘Our hotel is just up here,’ Ed says, taking my suitcase. I follow him up a steep street lined with chic boutiques and tiny shops, too narrow to accommodate cars even if they were allowed. He leads me through a series of interconnecting alleyways with the help of the GPS on his phone and eventually, we reach the boutique hotel in which we’ll be staying, a slender building with a seashell exterior and terracotta pots filled with Moroccan daisies.

  ‘I’m already in love with Portofino,’ I tell him. ‘Is it too late to give up my career as an academic research scientist and become an international jet-setter instead?’

  He laughs. ‘Surely you’d be bored stiff lying around on one of those decks all day in your Chanel sunglasses?’

  ‘Probably, but don’t spoil the fantasy. Anyway, my sunglasses are M&S.’

  We check in and arrange to meet later for a drink before dinner, then I’m shown to an elegantly furnished room, every tiny detail of which is designed to enhance a guest’s experience, from the sleek stone bathroom to the Bulgari courtesy kit. I begin unpacking when my phone beeps and a text arrives from Khalid.

  Did you get my email?

  I frown and type a response.

  No. Why is everything okay?

  I don’t wait for him to answer, logging on to the hotel Wi-Fi and clicking on my inbox.

  Khalid’s message is at the top with the heading:

  Nothing to worry about BUT . . .

  I click on the email and begin reading.

  Hi Allie,

  A couple of the experiments yesterday did not show any chloride secretion, so the efficiency data isn’t looking quite as good as it has been. I will be working on more tomorrow and the rest of the week and will get back to you as soon as I’ve analysed the data. Will keep everything crossed that this isn’t significant but thought you’d want to know.

  Khalid.

  I sit back on the bed and take this in. He’s right. The latest results might not be as good as previously, but it could just be a blip. All we’d need is a couple more weeks of positive data to get back on track. Nevertheless, I begin typing:

  Thanks for this. Yep, no panic. We will just keep increasing the N numbers and hope the efficiency improves again. Any other news, do let me know immediately though. Thanks, Allie.

  Chapter 52

  Our evening stroll to the legendary Hotel Splendido is more of a hike, but a leisurely one, along a tiny pathway cut into the cliff, filled with wildflowers and the sound of birdsong. Part of me is glad there were no rooms available here, because I know for sure Ed would have suggested staying and footing the bill, something I cannot in any conscience allow him to do after seeing the nightly rate. But I can live with dinner, especially as I’m paying this time.

  When we arrive, we are directed to the terrace through the building, a sixteenth-century monastery decadently renovated at the turn of the last century. It is a backdrop of pure, old-world glamour, of classic cocktails and luxurious fabrics, with the finest furniture and a collection of monochrome photographs of illustrious past guests, everyone from Ava Gardner to Tom Hanks.

  Outside, there are arches filled with huge potted lemon trees, a stretching saltwater pool and a myriad of sea views, framed by branches of wisteria that cascade from the cliffside gardens. It is a place of abundant flowers and Mediterranean palms that sway in the sea breeze. A place of pure Italian magic.

  We take a seat and order two Bellinis, as Ed begins chatting to the waiter in Italian.

  ‘They have quite a guest list,’ he says, after the waiter has left to fetch our drinks. ‘Apparently, Richard Burton proposed to Elizabeth Taylor – the first time – here, during a break from filming Cleopatra. They came back a few times afterwards. It was a favourite of theirs.’

  ‘I think it would be a favourite of anyone’s,’ I say.

  As night begins to fall and the harbour glitters with life, we dine on food that makes the most of our seaside location: seared scallops, pasta with black truffle and parmesan cream and filetto di San Pietro – John Dory – in a heavenly seafood broth.

  ‘Did you finish your poetry book?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, this evening. You can borrow it if you like?’ he grins.

  ‘Think I’ll pass on that one.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s all culturally important and that I should give it a chance, but poetry of any kind just isn’t me. I like reading material with purpose. A beginning and an end.’

  ‘You don’t think something can be worthwhile simply for being good for the soul? Words that can speak to you or explain what you’re feeling better than you ever could?’

  ‘Sure,’ I shrug. ‘I’d just prefer a thriller.’

  He laughs.

  ‘So . . . what’s next?’ I ask.

  His smile disintegrates. ‘What’s next is . . . I’ve got a call to make.’

  My pulse falters as he realises his misinterpretation. ‘Oh, you just meant, what am I going to read next?’

  ‘I did. But you’re right. You have got a call to make.’

  Ed breathes deeply, as if fortifying himself with sea air, and looks at his phone. Then he nods and pushes himself out of his seat. I watch the contours of his back through his pale shirt as he dials a number and holds the mobile against his ear, slipping his other hand into his pocket as he walks to a more private part of the terrace, out of earshot, out of sight.

  I focus on the tumbling hillside, swirling my drink, suddenly not in the mood to make it last much longer. I drain it quickly, sucking up every last drop of alcohol as I let it warm my chest and spread to the rest of my body. Then I order another one, craving its anaesthetising effects as I wait for Ed to return. He can’t be longer than ten minutes but it feels like forever. The sight of him walking towards me makes my chest contract. The long, striding legs. The broad shoulders. His unreadable expression.

  ‘Well?’ I ask, the croak in my voice betraying me. ‘How did it go?’

  Then he smiles a smile that could have a dozen different meanings and says: ‘I’m going home.’

  *

  My bed that night is one
of the most comfortable I’ve ever slipped into, yet when I look at the clock on my phone, it reads 4.23 a.m. and I haven’t slept for hours. I push off the sheets and pad to the window, pushing away the voile curtains to lift up the heavy frame. A high moon illuminates the sky and the harbour lights have dimmed, leaving silver threads refracting on the water.

  The more I try to stop thinking about Stefano, the more impossible it is. The man in the pictures continues to push his way into my head, as I find myself imagining not only what he will look like in real life, but everything else. What he will sound like. The way he will move. Not just who this man is but the essence of him. And, more importantly, how he would react to me turning up at his house. Of all the unknowns, that is the biggest.

  I find myself comparing him to my father. To Dad: those three letters that, together, make up so much more than a name. Sometimes, when I say it these days, it makes me jolt, as if I’m questioning its legitimacy already, before I have proof of anything.

  I head back to bed and climb under the sheets, pulling them up to my chin. But the vacuum left in my head is only filled by Ed. I imagine him lying in the next room, his lips parted slightly, his eyelids trembling as he dreams, his chest rising and falling. And I think about how soon Julia’s head will lie on it, her cheek pressed against his skin as she listens to the sound of a heart that belongs to her.

  Chapter 53

  Our taxi driver is tapping on his steering wheel and humming along to the song, ‘Horny, Horny, Horny,’ as it crackles through the radio. An elaborate set of beads dangle from the rear-view mirror. The stench of air freshener is making me queasy as I stare out of a window thick with dust, not really looking as we pass fields of tumbling vines and olive groves.

  We both skipped breakfast, unable to manage anything, before I asked the hotel to call us a minicab, stressing that we didn’t need anything fancy like the car that took us to La Cavalletta. Now we are on our way to the address given to us by the receptionist there. Stefano’s home.

  ‘Allie.’ I snap up my head and look at Ed. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know. Not if you don’t want to.’

  I run my tongue along the inside of my cheek and realise I’ve bitten into it. ‘We’ve come this far.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says softly.

  ‘But it does.’

  Too quickly, we are winding up a dusty road that overlooks the cliffs, and the driver is talking in Italian to Ed, who tells me that we’re almost there. Then he pulls in and the taxi purrs in the hot street as I feel the sweat on the back of my legs stick to the seat.

  ‘Will you tell him to wait here, just in case there’s no one in?’

  Ed nods and does as I ask. Then, I click open the door and step outside feeling the sun on my shoulders as I reread the address.

  I can’t see much of the tiny house from the street, only the entrance to a small building with pale walls and faded green shutters. It is clearly not the main aspect of the building, but even the least inspiring side hints to the riches beyond: a view overlooking the azure sea and trails of fragrant oleander from a canopy above the door.

  Ed appears next to me. ‘Lovely place,’ he says under his breath.

  But I can’t answer, because just the thought that Stefano could be behind this door has hampered my power of speech.

  ‘Do you want me to knock?’ Ed asks.

  A bead of sweat trickles down my side. I nod. He steps forward, but glances back and looks at me. Then he rings the bell. Less than half a minute later, a door in the adjacent house opens and a woman dressed in a thin pink dress and flats steps out.

  ‘Buonjourno,’ says Ed. She does not speak English but I listen to the conversation, anxiously trying to work out what is going on before Ed turns to me.

  ‘His neighbour says he’s not in.’ My reaction, a wash of relief and disappointment, takes me by surprise.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘He works a half-day at his boat yard on Wednesday.’

  ‘So should we go there?’

  ‘She says he’ll be back in an hour or so but I’ll get the address. In the meantime, she suggests that you leave him a note.’

  ‘Okay,’ I repeat, but not because I’m agreeing to it. I don’t know what to do. I look up at Ed, helplessly. ‘If I do that, what should I say?’

  ‘Well . . . there’s a lot to cover, isn’t there? Perhaps you should simply say you’re looking for him because you believe he knew your mother.’ A shot of anxiety makes my chest tighten: if he really is my father, this might be all he’d need to put two and two together. But what else can I do?

  The neighbour tells me to wait outside while she goes to find me something to write with. When she emerges, she gestures to a small painted bench in the shade outside the house and I take a seat as Ed sits next to me. I struggle to grip the pen at first, overcome with a sense that whatever I say will be wrong. All I can do is write – and keep things simple.

  Dear Mr McCourt,

  My name is Allie Culpepper and I believe you may have known my mother when she was a young woman. It is very important to me to know about her history because she died when I was six years old, so I am unable to ask her myself. I am on holiday in Portofino until Sunday and it would mean a great deal to me if you did find the time or inclination to speak to me. You can telephone me at the Hotel Villa Castagna or on my mobile number, below. Assuming it’s not too much trouble.

  Yours hopefully,

  Allie Culpepper

  Chapter 54

  Peggy noticed a subtle shift in Christine’s mood, weeks before she admitted she’d met another boy. Her daughter had been distracted. And Peggy soon began to suspect why.

  ‘Not seeing Joe tonight, love?’ she asked one afternoon. Christine’s eyes followed the trail of a goldfinch, as it hopped on the stretch of sill outside the kitchen window. She’d been unable to concentrate on her homework and that really wasn’t like her. She was a clever girl, full of ideals, who wanted to be a journalist for all best reasons: to expose injustices and tell untold stories of people the world ought to know about. She’d been studying hard for the last few months, making sure she’d completed all her revision before Joe came over. At least, she had until recently.

  ‘No, not tonight, Mum.’ Christine looked up and Peggy pretended not to notice when the apples of her cheeks flushed pink. She folded a cotton pyjama top and added it to the pile of laundry, breathing in the scent of newly washed cotton. Then she picked up the stack to take them upstairs, when her daughter spoke up.

  ‘Have you got a minute?’

  ‘Of course.’ She returned the washing to the table and sat down.

  ‘It’s me and Joe,’ she said, pausing while she thought about how to say her next words. ‘Mum, I think the world of him. He’s so sweet and kind and we have such a laugh together. He’s my best friend . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know how to say this.’ She looked ashamed of herself.

  ‘You’ve met someone else.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘How did you know?’

  Peggy shrugged. ‘Just a hunch.’

  Christine’s face crumpled with despair. ‘Oh, Mum. I am the most horrible person in the world.’

  Peggy tutted. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Stefano – that’s his name – he’s completely different from Joe. Perhaps I shouldn’t compare but . . . he’s different from anyone I know.’ Her eyes focused on the blur of light through the window. ‘When I’m with him, it’s as if I can’t know enough about him or where he’s from.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Italy. But it’s not just that I’m being swept off my feet by some handsome foreigner, honestly,’ she added hastily. ‘When I’m around him, I feel this . . . warmth. That’s the only way I can describe it. And when I’m not with him, I can’t stop thinking about him. Yet, I do love Joe. I can’t imagine ever not loving Joe. How is that possible?’

  Peggy wasn’t sure it was. ‘Look, love. I thi
nk the world of Joe. And we’d all be upset if you were to split up. But, you’re very young.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Just that you’ve got to follow your heart.’

  Christine looked up and smiled. ‘Mum, that’s so bloody corny.’

  Peggy laughed. ‘Is it? Corny but true.’

  *

  Christine split from Joe a week later and Peggy was surprised at how sad she felt about it. She worried that she’d given her daughter the wrong advice, encouraged her to do something Peggy suspected she’d regret. Still, if she’d learnt one thing in life it was that people need to make their own mistakes, that it isn’t a parent’s place to interfere. And, even though Christine hadn’t talked much about him, there was no doubt how taken she seemed by this other boy.

  For three weeks, she spent most days after school studying in the library with Stefano; at weekends they’d taken the train to Formby to picnic on the beach. She’d even gone to watch him play cricket once and, given that patience wasn’t one of her daughter’s greatest virtues, this felt like a small miracle.

  Yet things weren’t simple. Peggy supposed they never were. One afternoon when she arrived home from work, she heard a door slam in the kitchen, followed by an explosion of loud and colourful cursing. She walked in to find her daughter tipping a teaspoon of coffee grains into a cup, then reaching out for the kettle – and sending the entire jar clattering to the floor in the process.

  ‘STUPID SODDING THING!’ She threw the teaspoon down.

  ‘Er, young lady,’ Peggy scolded gently. ‘What’s that Nescafé ever done to you?’

  Christine spun round and grimaced. She grabbed a piece of kitchen roll and blew her nose.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Peggy persevered.

  Christine shoulders rose as she drew a breath and went to look for the dustpan and brush under the sink. ‘I bumped into Joe in the corner shop today.’