‘I’m going to pay my share.’
‘Don’t start that again,’ she groaned. ‘You’re a poor single father.
This is my treat, I told you.’
Matt squeezed her fingers again. ‘Last time I came to Italy it rained, every day.’
‘Yeah, you said.’
‘I mean, I still thought it was lovely,’ he continued dreamily. ‘Who wouldn’t think Venice was lovely, for God’s sake, but to see this’ – he gestured at their surroundings – ‘to be here, and with this weather …’ His voice cracked with exultation. He looked at Beth, yearning as he had all day for a response that showed that the level of her pleasure matched his. ‘Hey, you, let’s swim.’
‘No way. It’s too cold.’
‘Cold? Don’t be daft. It’s wonderful. Look.’ He reached over and plucked off her sunglasses.
‘Believe me,’ she said, squinting at him, one hand at her eyebrows to ward off the sunlight, ‘after summers in Washington, DC, this is chicken- feed. I swim to cool off, which means I need to be hot. Looks like I’m not the only one either,’ she added, nodding at their fellow guests, all stretched on sunbeds with books and magazines.
‘Silly, isn’t it,’ murmured Matt, staring longingly at the pool, thinking of how Joshua would have loved it, how he would have been squealing with impatience to get his armbands on and do one of his flying leaps from the side. ‘It’s like grown-ups don’t know how to have fun any more.’
‘I assure you I’m having fun,’ she retorted with a laugh, sliding back into a horizontal position, her glasses safely back over her eyes.
After hesitating for a few more minutes, Matt approached the poolside on his own, a little self-conscious in the trunks the hotel had lent him, which were of the nylon stretch variety as opposed to the baggy Bermuda style he preferred. Aware that several sun-bathers were watching him, he dived straight in, working off the shock of the water with a couple of lengths of crawl before turning over for some more leisurely backstroke. When he got out the air felt much more chilly on his wet skin. Hugging himself, he scampered back to his sunbed. As he picked up his towel he deliberately flung an arm in the direction of Beth, who had turned on to her stomach, scattering a few drops of water on to her bare back.
‘Oh, you brute. Cold, horrible water. Get off – Oh, you are so cruel.’
Detecting genuine irritation in her tone, Matt backed off and pulled his towel round his shoulders. She rolled on to her back, lit a cigarette and picked up her novel, a thriller by an American author he had never heard of.
‘Can we go into Florence now?’
‘Oh, Matt, it’s far too late – everything closes round lunch-time. We’ve got all tomorrow – and half the next day.’
‘A walk, then.’
‘Oh, honey, in a little while, okay? I’m just so comfortable right now.’
‘I’m not very good at doing nothing,’ he confessed, noting with some dismay a few minutes later that she had finished her chapter and still not put her book down.
‘That’s because you haven’t had enough practice, poor sweetheart.’ She puckered her lips and blew him a kiss. ‘You go on a walkabout if you want to. I don’t mind.’
Matt pulled on his loafers as protection against the coarse grass and strolled round the hotel grounds, drinking in the magnificent setting but wondering if a seedy pension might in fact have made him feel rather more absorbed, more of a participant than a spectator.
Later that evening they took their seats in the marble-floored dining room. Matt would have preferred to have sat at one of the tables outside, but Beth, dressed for the evening in a small silk black dress, said she would be too cold. When Matt offered to fetch her a jumper from the room she insisted that she preferred eating inside anyway, so vehemently that he suspected that she was in fact enjoying wearing the dress and didn’t want it covered up with anything that might undermine its elegance. And it was a hell of an elegant place, he reasoned, surveying the dressy costumes of their fellow diners, feeling suddenly rather shabby in his chinos and loafers. The meal was elegant too, comprising small, intricately constructed portions, each one a work of art in its own right. Beth chose slivers of veal while Matt opted for pasta, a soft, melting version that melted on his tongue. He talked about Joshua, while she listened, a little politely he felt; and then she talked about her ex-husband, delivering a string of hilarious anecdotes about the worst incidents in their marriage. During the course of these exchanges they drank not only an entire bottle of red wine but also two glasses of nectary sweet white to accompany their desserts, with the result that Matt left the dining room feeling not only replete but also rather sleepy. Which wouldn’t do at all, he scolded himself, turning aside to hide a yawn as Beth took his hand for the walk back towards their bedroom.
‘You undress me,’ she whispered, the moment they were inside.
Taking hold of his hands, she steered them towards the zipper on her dress. Beneath the dress there was a thong of lacy black silk, its waistband studded with pink roses. Lying on the bed while she got ready to go out, Matt had had plenty of time to admire it already. So much time in fact, that he had found his thoughts straying to the contrasting simplicity of Sophie Contini’s underwear: three small triangles hanging on a rail, white as new hankies.
The zipper caught at the bottom and took a few moments to ease free.
The dress fell at last into a pool of black silk round her ankles. ‘Take me,’ Beth whispered, before grasping him with a force that suggested she had no intention of the invitation being interpreted literally.
It was fine, of course. Sex was always fine, reflected Matt, frowning to himself as he lay in the dark afterwards, wondering when, if ever, he would feel close enough to his new girlfriend to confess that some of her embraces felt uncomfortably close to manhandling. It was nice to be mauled by a female occasionally – bloody nice – but not every time.
‘What are you thinking?’ She nestled closer to him, all gentle tenderness now.
‘About us,’ he replied quickly. ‘About how brilliant it is to get away, to spend an entire night together. No distractions, no Joshua.’
‘He’s with your wife’s friend, right?’
‘Louise. That’s right.’
‘Do you miss him?’ she continued softly, beginning to stroke Matt’s forearm with her fingertips.
‘Oh, no, not at all. He knows Louise really well, and she’s good with him. She’d even hired this indoor tent as a treat for the weekend – they’d put it up in this big games room they’ve got on the top floor. You should have seen Joshua’s face …’ Matt stopped, feeling the usual pang of guilt that Louise’s relentless kindness did nothing to increase his inclination to like her.
‘It’s just that … there is something I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ Beth continued.
‘Go on,’ said Matt carefully, aware suddenly that she had not been listening to him. He watched the varnished red fingernails still stroking his forearm, feeling a sudden, inexplicable frisson of distrust.
‘Do you – would you ever, do you think, want more kids?’
‘Christ, I don’t know – I haven’t really thought. I shouldn’t think so. One is quite enough. And why do you ask that?’ He tried to sound teasing, while inside his heart exploded in sudden terror that she was about to announce she was pregnant.
‘Because I’ve had my tubes tied.’
‘Your what?’
‘Fallopian tubes. Those little freeways that carry eggs to the womb. I had them tied, years ago now. Robert didn’t want kids either, thank God. My own folks were such crap parents it kind of put me off. And – before you ask – no, I don’t regret it.’
Matt, who had assumed from various allusions made during the course of the previous few weeks that she was on the pill, could not for a moment think how to respond. ‘Did it hurt?’
‘No, silly.’ She punched him lightly in the chest, before snuggling back down into the crook of his arm. A few minutes later she
was asleep. Though Matt closed his eyes and tried to follow suit, it was hopeless. Her hair, bunched up under his chin, felt ticklish, and his shoulder was stiffening from the weight of her head. Looking round the darkened room, he saw that a circle of silver was falling like a ghostly stage light on to the floor, granted access by a chink in the curtains and three broken slats on one window shutter. Easing himself free, he slid out of bed and crossed the room, clenching his feet as they made contact with the icy stone floor. The slice of night sky was like a piece of a magician’s cape, decorated with winking stars and a silvery moon. Matt stared at it for several seconds, crossing his arms and shivering against the cold. He couldn’t imagine wanting to have another child, with Beth or anyone else. Yet neither could he muster any empathy for the notion of a young woman inviting a doctor to tie her reproductive organs in knots. Which was unreasonable in the extreme, Matt told himself, turning to look at the figure submerged among the bedclothes, groping in his heart for a trigger of something beyond mild affection, for some sense of excitement or anticipation about their future together. Instead, an ugly thought, one which had been pushing for recognition all day, burst into his conscious mind: that they were unmatched and always had been; both on the rebound from things they hadn’t begun to resolve, absorbed by their own needs rather than each other’s.
By the time Matt crept back to bed he was frozen. Sliding between the sheets, willing the creaks of the mattress to fall silent, he clenched his body into a ball until warmth began to seep back into his toes.
30
When Matt woke at nine, Beth was still asleep, curled away from him with one arm thrust up under the pillow and the other tucked against her chest. Grateful for a reprieve, he tiptoed into the bathroom and stepped under the shower in order to contemplate his options. While certain that – for his own part at least – the pleasures of the Uffizi would be all the easier to enjoy if he came clean about the inconvenient sea change in his feelings, he remained less sure that Beth would be able to react so positively. There had been no grand talk of love or lifelong commitments, but neither had she made any reference to the early provisos about no pressure and having fun. And she was paying for the bloody hotel, Matt reminded himself gloomily, ducking his head back under the jet of water and closing his eyes.
He opened them a couple of seconds later to find Beth herself peering round the shower curtain, her faced lined and heavy with sleep.
‘Telephone,’ she shouted, gesturing at him to turn the taps off. ‘From England. Louise, I think.’
Skidding on his wet feet, Matt seized a towel and ran to the bedroom telephone.
‘Joshua’s fine,’ Louise said at once, her voice rising and falling amidst the crackles of a bad line. Relaxing, Matt balanced the phone between his ear and shoulder and knotted the towel round his waist. ‘Thank goodness for that. But you’re breaking up badly, Louise – I can hardly hear you.’
* * *
‘I said … some bad news, I’m afraid … father … massive heart failure … very upset.’
Matt felt his mouth go dry. ‘Jesus – Dad – when, for Christ’s sake?’ He dropped to his knees on the hard floor, remembering the frailty he had observed at King’s Cross, the irrepressible, hateful cough. There followed an adrenalin rush of guilt at the realisation that the strain of looking after Joshua had taken its inevitable toll.
‘Not your father, Matt, no,’ said Louise, her voice and the line suddenly going clear. ‘Kath’s. Lionel has died. Gillian phoned to tell me last night. Found him herself, apparently, all blue in the face and slumped among the rose bushes. An ambulance was there in minutes but it was already too late. She’s distraught about him and about Kath too. Because obviously she wants her at the funeral.’
Riding a rollercoaster of relief and fresh shock, Matt slumped on the floor with his legs stretched out in front of him and his back against the side of the bed.
Beth, emerging from the bathroom in a towelling robe, hurried to his side. ‘Matt, honey? What’s happened?’ She cupped his head in her hands, steering his gaze to meet hers.
Matt made a face, putting his hand over the receiver. ‘Kath’s father has died.’
‘Oh, God.’ She kissed his nose. ‘Poor baby.’ She retreated to the dressing table, sighing sympathetically.
‘I’m really sorry to disturb you over there,’ continued Louise. ‘I just thought you ought to know.’
‘Of course – of course I had to know. Jesus.’ Matt ran his free hand through his wet hair, thinking not of Lionel but of Kath. ‘But how’s Kath going to hear what’s happened when no one knows where the hell she is?’ The situation was so absurd he almost laughed out loud.
‘Exactly. Gillian is desperate about it, slagging her off as an outcast one minute and coming up with international advertising campaigns to get hold of her the next. I think they really believed – as we all did – that after so many months Kath would have let us know where she is … they’ve been so hurt …’
‘Yeah, well, they’re not the only ones,’ muttered Matt darkly. ‘Bloody hell, what a mess.’
‘I think she’s going to put notices in all the main newspapers and hope for the best … Matt, are you still there?’
‘Yes – sorry – I was just thinking … I suppose I ought to go to the funeral.’
‘Will you take Josh?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘And of course I must go. Poor Gillian, I know she’s awful, but I do feel sorry for her.’
Matt sighed. ‘If you give me her number I’ll call now, offer my halfpence worth of condolence. They were horrible to each other most of the time, but I suppose that won’t stop her missing him like hell. The mysteries of human attachment, eh? Thanks for telling me, Louise. Sorry you’re caught up in it all.’
‘I’ve known them longer than you, don’t forget.’
‘Yes, of course you have. Let’s talk when I get back to London tomorrow. If the flight’s on time I’ll be with you by five-ish.’
With such a start to the day it was nearly lunch-time before a taxi deposited Beth and Matt in a lay-by next to a coach-park on the outskirts of Florence. Consulting the clutch of tourist leaflets given to them by the hotel, Beth led the way, exclaiming at everything in a manner that Matt could not help finding immensely grating. The quieter he became the more she seemed to feel the need to make up for it. Nothing, not even the most humdrum architectural feature, escaped exuberant comment. Trailing after her along the wide corridors of the Uffizi, which they tackled first, he felt increasingly as if her words were getting in the way of the spread of beauty around him, blocking the avenues down which his own mind would have chosen to travel if given the space and quiet to do so. As the day progressed, so did his sense of wonderment at how their relationship had staggered so far. It was as if, having dislodged one conviction the night before, everything else had come tumbling down on top of it. All he could feel between them was distance and disconnection. It seemed nothing short of incredible that he had ever imagined anything else.
Beth, he knew, assumed his air of distraction to be related to Louise’s phone call. Thus shielded from the immediate necessity of confessing the true nature of his feelings, Matt tried to close his mind to the idea of disillusioning her. It would, he knew, be both sensible and infinitely easier to wait until the weekend had run its course, to play along until they were safely back in England. But as they climbed the stone steps of Giotto’s campanile, with Beth for once not only lagging behind but pulling on the tails of his shirt, puffing and squealing for physical assistance to get her to the top, Matt felt everything building to a crescendo that could no longer delay expression. A few moments later, as they leaned their elbows on the balustrade, taking in the panoramic acres of domes and spires and tiled roofs, the truth tumbled out of him.
‘Beth, I’m sorry, but I’ve realised that things are not going to work out between us.’ The sentence, rehearsed inside his head scores of times during the course of the morning, soun
ded not nearly as gentle or articulate when voiced out loud. Instead it hung between them for a few long seconds, while Matt thought wildly of how to nudge it towards the reasoned, adult discussion he had anticipated, the weighing up of the pros and cons, admitting to their differences, nothing ventured nothing gained, no harm done, a flutter of fond regret maybe.
‘You’re dumping me,’ she wailed, shattering every last dreg of such hopes. ‘You bastard, you’re dumping me.’
‘Beth, I … for goodness’ sake … I thought …’
‘Thought what?’ She turned on him, putting the view behind her, her voice shrill. ‘That I would invite someone for whom I felt nothing very much on a long weekend to one of the most romantic cities in the world?’
‘I suppose I thought that because it hadn’t been feeling right for me it wouldn’t for you either … I’m sorry, I …’
‘Sorry?’ She spat the word so ferociously that Matt could actually make out three or four flecks of saliva flying from the corners of her mouth.
He was aware of a cluster of students to their right staring with unabashed interest, their curiosity clearly more captivated by a domestic row than by the glories of the Italian Renaissance. To their left several Asian businessmen in dark suits and with cameras dangling from their wrists were posing for a photograph, jostling for position along the balustrade. Spread out round the immediate perimeter of the tower was a rather unattractive mesh of safety wire, clearly designed to preserve the lives of reckless tourists or would-be suicides. Which was probably just as well, reflected Matt grimly, returning his attention to his companion’s crumpled face with a fresh sense of desperation.
‘Sorry?’ she repeated. ‘Oh my, what for? For using me, maybe? For picking me up and wringing me out like a dishcloth and then throwing me away when …’ Rather to Matt’s relief, she was too overcome to complete the sentence. Casting a scowl over his shoulder at the ogling students, he tentatively reached out and touched her arm. ‘Let’s go back down,’ he said gently. ‘This isn’t the place …’
A Family Man Page 23
