The Place We Met

by Isabelle Broom

  ‘Come on, Bruno,’ I murmur. ‘Wee-wee time.’

  He does as he’s told, albeit in that begrudging way that chihuahuas tend to do most things you ask them to, then promptly demands to be picked up so he can burrow underneath the cosy folds of my dressing gown. It never fails to amuse me how cross chihuahuas get with things over which they have zero control, such as the weather. From the indignant way in which Bruno is now snuffling and grumbling on my lap, you’d think he was giving the light winter breeze a good telling-off. I admire his strident confidence, though, probably because I’m not that dissimilar. When you’re small like we are, you have to be extra tough.

  I push down the plunger of the cafetière and watch in a half-daze as the coffee grounds dance and spin in the hot water. When did I get to this point? I wonder vaguely. When did I become a person who requires a small vat of caffeine to even function in the mornings? When I was a child, my energy was limitless, but nowadays I feel suffocated with fatigue. I am getting older, but I’m hardly ancient. Maybe the exhaustion is because of what happened, more emotional than physical. Everything always seems to come back to that.

  To distract myself away from venturing down that dark train of thought and breaking the promise I’ve made to myself not to cry on Christmas Day, I pour myself a cup of the good stuff and carry it, and Bruno, around the perimeter of the garden, letting the aroma of pine and the sound of the wind soothe me. Similarly to the Casa Alta Hotel, the house here is painted bright yellow, but unlike its vast cousin, this dwelling is a far more modest size. Set over just one level, with three bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen and a large living-cum-dining room, it has barely changed at all since I was a child, and for that reason alone, it remains one of my favourite places on the planet.

  The sun has been climbing while I’ve been meandering, and the sky is now a rich azure blue, the lake below it a sparkling sapphire puddle. I cradle my hot mug and hold it close to my face, watching as the steam snakes away into the cold air. Now that I’ve been here at Lake Como for a while, I can’t comprehend that my morning view every day used to be the fume-coated sides of buildings, the sky almost always grey and the pavements below littered with grime and dirt. Everything is clean and bright here, as if the whole area is laundered in the night and spread out fresh as the sun comes up. Colours are more vibrant, the air itself sweet and invigorating, and everywhere there is the throb of life, of nature, of living things flourishing. I don’t ever want to go back. I don’t think I could ever go back.

  ‘Taggie!’

  At the sound of his mistress’s voice, Bruno wriggles so violently in my arms that I almost lose what’s left of my coffee.

  ‘Idiot dog,’ I say affectionately, putting him down carefully on to the grass and raising a hand to wave at Elsie. She’s standing by the open back door, Gino and Nico yapping away excitedly by her feet, which are clad in bright green wellies.

  ‘Merry Christmas, darling,’ she says as I approach, wrapping a bony hand around the back of my neck and pulling me forwards. She smells of lavender and talc and I kiss each of her soft, lined cheeks before following her back into the warmth of the kitchen.

  ‘It’s cold enough to freeze an otter’s paws off out there,’ she mutters, glaring through the window in the same disgruntled manner as the dogs and shuffling towards the sink.

  ‘Here, let me,’ I say, taking the kettle out of her hands a moment later and steering her instead towards a chair.

  Elsie sits down without complaint, and the three dogs begin squabbling over which one of them will get to sit on her knee.

  ‘Will you be quiet, boys!’ she commands, and Bruno and Nico immediately fall silent. Gino, however, continues to bark insistently.

  ‘Selective hearing,’ Elsie mutters, scooping the tiny, angry dog up into her arms. ‘Just like his namesake.’

  Elsie named each of her three chihuahuas after her three ex-husbands. Bruno, who is long-haired and beautiful, is the soppy one; Nico, who is short-haired and overweight, is the dim-witted one; and Gino, who is dark brown with overlarge ears, is the naughty one. She has always denied having a favourite, but Bruno and I seem to share a bond that I don’t have with the others. Funnily enough, Bruno was the only one of her ex-husbands that I got on well with, too. He sadly died a long time ago now, but Elsie often talks about him with great affection.

  I put Elsie’s green tea down in front of her and she sniffs at it, pulling a face as she realises that it’s not her beloved coffee.

  ‘Not even on Christmas Day?’ she pleads, and I shake my head.

  ‘You know what the doctor said – it’s not good for you.’

  ‘Blah, blah,’ she says, waving a vague hand in the air. ‘What do doctors know about anything?’

  ‘In this case, I’d say, a lot,’ I tell her gently. ‘Just be a good girl and drink it all up, will you? For me?’

  ‘Pah,’ comes the reply, but I grin as she reaches for the mug.

  Elsie was eighty on her last birthday, and aside from a nasty virus last summer that led her to suffer a mild heart attack, she’s very fit and strong for her age. Tiny like me and with a shock of bright white hair that she keeps covered in a variety of patterned silk scarves, Elsie is and always has been a real character. Once upon a time a very close friend of my grandmother on my father’s side, Elsie and her yellow house here in Bellagio have been an important part of the family Torres since long before I was born. When the idea came to me that I must get away from London – and fast – Elsie was the person I called, and she had welcomed me in with no questions asked. Even now, over five months after I turned up on her doorstep, so obviously in a mess, she still hasn’t pushed me to tell her what happened. I hope she knows how grateful I am to her for that.

  Elsie has been living in Lake Como since the late 1950s, after coming here on holiday with my grandmother and her family and falling in love not only with the area, but with a local fisherman called Gino at the same time. She never had any of her own children, whether out of choice, I’m not sure, but she certainly lives life to the full, wringing every drop of fun out of any given situation like water out of a cloth. Far from being a doddery old lady who needs help crossing the street, she’s a veritable and colourful force to be reckoned with, and there’s barely a local in the whole area who she doesn’t know. It was Elsie who persuaded my boss Sal to give me a trial at the Casa Alta when he was concerned that my Italian wasn’t good enough, and I’m sure he wouldn’t have been allowed to say no even if he’d wanted to. Elsie simply would not have stood for it.

  I prepare us a simple breakfast of toast, eggs and fruit as Elsie potters around watering her plants and swearing cheerfully at the dogs as they get under her feet. It’s a treat for me to be here, as usually I sleep in my allocated room back at the hotel, but there are barely any guests staying over Christmas, and so Sal graciously let me have a few days off. Bellagio is around an hour from Como by road, but only forty minutes if you get one of the high-speed boats from down at the port. Travelling by water is far superior to the bouncy and stuffy buses that trundle hourly along the windy coastal road, and well worth the ten extra euros. It had felt very special indeed to arrive in Bellagio late yesterday afternoon to find Elsie and her pack of boys waiting for me at a café table by the harbour.

  In the absence of my parents, who I convinced to stay at home in the UK, Elsie is the closest I have to a family member, and so I’m determined to make today as fun as it can possibly be. Christmas should be like that, full of joy and love; it shouldn’t serve as a reminder of all the things you don’t have, and of the people you’re missing. It shouldn’t, but it inevitably does – hence the reason I’m making such a big effort. I won’t let today dissolve into misery.

  ‘Shall we call your ma and pa?’ Elsie asks now, scrunching up her face like a stepped-on doll as she chews a particularly tart chunk of breakfast pineapple.

  ‘Later.’ I smile reassuringly. ‘After you’ve opened your presents.’

  ‘But
I haven’t got a cupboard big enough to hide a nice young Italian man in,’ she replies wryly, giving me the benefit of a low chuckle as I widen my eyes.

  ‘Elsie!’

  ‘What?’ She shrugs, all innocent. ‘I’m old, not dead, my dear. The last time I checked, there was still blood running around these old veins of mine, and a girl can still dream.’

  ‘Is a man really what you want?’ I ask, my disbelief glaringly obvious.

  ‘Oh, only for a few hours,’ she quips, grinning wickedly. ‘I’d put him right back on the shelf when I was done.’

  ‘You’re unbelievable,’ I tell her affectionately, rubbing the top of Bruno’s little head as he settles once again on my lap. ‘There’s more to life than men, you know.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she says, getting up and plodding in her wellies to the fridge, before extracting a large bottle from inside and brandishing it in front of me with a flourish. ‘There’s bubbly!’

  I shake my head again, but I’m laughing.

  ‘Come on, Agatha, just one glass. I promise to go back to drinking the vile tea afterwards.’

  For a second I narrow my eyes at her, then let out a big, exasperated sigh.

  ‘Oh, OK then, you win – but just one.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ she replies, tearing off the foil, although we both know full well that I’m anything but.

  8

  Lucy

  I snooped. I know I shouldn’t have, but I did. And now I wish I hadn’t. Why, why, why did I do it?

  I’m now sitting on the edge of Pete’s bath, trying not to cry, chewing on my bottom lip like it’s toffee. If I look up, I’ll be able to see my reflection in the cabinet mirror, but I can’t do it. I can’t even bear to look at myself. Not now I know what she looks like, not now I know just how different she is to me.

  Of course, it was stupid to think that Pete wouldn’t have an ex-girlfriend – that he wouldn’t have many ex-girlfriends, for that matter – but I had managed to convince myself that whoever they were, they’d be unremarkable. I was wrong about that. And now I know just how wrong, and there can be no going back. It’s this Manny business that’s pushed me over the edge and made me revert to the paranoid mess I became when my last relationship disintegrated right in front of me. I’ve tried so hard to forget about the unanswered phone call and the evasive way Pete behaved straight afterwards, but it’s been nibbling away at my confidence like a ladybird on a lettuce leaf. Now, not only do I still have no idea who Manny is, but I have a whole new problem twisting its way around my insides – and this one is way worse.

  Pete will be back soon – he’s only popped to the local takeaway after managing to persuade me that a Chinese on Boxing Day was a good idea, even though I came armed with leftovers – but now I can’t face the idea of food. How can he even stand to be with someone like me after being with her? It doesn’t make sense that he would even fancy me, let alone be proud to be seen with me on his arm. He must still care about her, too, otherwise he would have got rid of all those photos, not hidden them away in a shoebox in the back of his wardrobe.

  The worst thing is, I can’t even say anything. If I do, he’ll know I’ve been going through his things, and I have absolutely no defence. I’m not even sure why I started looking. It just came over me like a compulsion as soon as I heard the front door close behind him, and now I’m convinced that he’ll be able to smell the guilt on me, like petrol on an arsonist, and promptly tell me just where I can stick our relationship.

  In a panic, I fire off a text to Julia, telling her what I’ve done and begging for advice. Her reply, when it arrives, is typically unruffled. She always has been the opposite of me.

  A few photos don’t mean anything. He’s with you now – focus on that.

  She’s right, of course, but it does little to comfort me.

  But she’s GORGEOUS and TINY!

  I press send and tap my fingers impatiently against my thigh as I wait for her response. ‘Typing’, my phone informs me helpfully, and I stare at the trail of dots inside the speech bubble, willing them to transform into words of wisdom.

  You are GORGEOUS with BOOBS.

  I almost laugh. I hadn’t considered the boob factor. Now I can’t remember if the ex-girlfriend has any or not. All I can picture is her beautiful face, her dark hair, the glow of happiness emanating from the photograph of the two of them.

  Another message arrives from Julia.

  Abby’s ex looks like a supermodel, but she’s an evil cow. Looks can be deceiving, and whoever this girl is, she’s in his past. You are the one in his present.

  And future!

  I respond hastily, and she replies with a thumbs-up emoji, which is very gracious of her, given her thoughts on Pete.

  I take a deep breath. Julia’s right, just like she always is. Pete’s ex-girlfriend may be beautiful and slim enough to slide through the gaps in a drain, but she isn’t in his life any more. She’s in a box in the back of his wardrobe, buried underneath his rugby socks and a manky old pillowcase. I’m here in his flat, about to share dinner with him, and tomorrow he’s coming with me to one of my favourite places in the world. I’m overreacting, just like I always do when I like someone – when my feelings have rendered me vulnerable.

  I’ve just repaired my face when Pete arrives back laden with little white carrier bags, and when I step shyly towards him, he pulls me into such a tight embrace that for a second, I find it hard to breathe.

  ‘I missed you,’ he murmurs, and I feel as if my heart has sprouted wings.

  I do my best to eat a plateful of sweet and sour chicken and egg-fried rice, but it tastes like old boots after my dad’s delicious home cooking. The sooner we get to Italy, which is, of course, the food capital of the universe, the better, although finding those photos has reminded me that I could benefit from losing a few pounds. There was a time when I was slim, but that was when I was ill, and as soon as I started to feel like myself again, the weight returned. I have attempted a few diets over the years, but being a nurse means that my eating pattern is atrocious at best and, more often than not, I’m forced to shovel in something high-calorie just to keep myself going. It’s all very well for these health-conscious vloggers to waffle on about ‘clean eating’ while they sip their kale smoothies – they don’t have a job that requires them to be on their feet for eleven hours at a time. Even if I had the energy or the inclination to prepare a packed lunch of quinoa and steamed broccoli, which I don’t, I’d barely have the time to sit down and eat it. Nope, give me a sausage roll and a flapjack any day of the week.

  ‘Shall we do our presents?’ asks Pete, and we both look over towards his half-hearted attempt at a Christmas tree in the corner. Our gifts to each other are underneath it, and he’s been dropping hints about opening them ever since I got here.

  ‘You first,’ I tell him, laughing as he leaps up and claps his hands with excitement. He told me earlier that his own family aren’t hugely into exchanging gifts. Instead, they all put some money into a kitty, which they use for a big dinner later in the year. It’s a nice idea, I suppose, but not a very fun one. My presents are the only ones he’s getting to open, and I’m gripped yet again with nerves. What if he doesn’t like them?

  ‘Oh wow, these are great!’ Pete exclaims, extracting the matching hat and gloves set I bought him and smiling at me with what looks like genuine delight.

  ‘I thought it would be cold in Como,’ I explain, mumbling shyly. ‘I kept the receipt, if you want to change them.’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ He gives me a lopsided look. ‘I love them.’

  He then proceeds to go into ecstasies over the set of travel-sized toiletries I got him, and punches the air when he uncovers the Game of Thrones box set.

  ‘Julia tells me there are lots of tits and dragons,’ I inform him, laughing as he widens his eyes. ‘That’s a direct quote.’

  ‘Can we watch an episode tonight?’

  ‘Of course,’ I assure him. He doesn�
�t need to know that I’ve already seen up to the end of series five.

  ‘Open yours now,’ he instructs, handing me my one and only package. It’s a small rectangular box.

  ‘I hope you like it,’ he blurts as I peel away the Sellotape carefully. I want to keep the paper as a memento, so I make sure I don’t tear it.

  ‘It’s a bit random, I know,’ he says, frowning as I lift the velvet lid to reveal a beautiful brooch. It’s been designed to look like a sprig of blossom, and is made from delicate, twisted gold inlaid with tiny blue and white stones. I love it.

  ‘Oh my God, Pete,’ I manage, my voice choked. ‘It’s gorgeous. I hope you didn’t spend too much on me, though.’

  ‘I know you like flowers,’ he says, as I trail a finger across my new most-favourite thing. ‘The guy at the antique shop told me it’s a one-off, too, just like you.’

  I’m fighting back tears now, and he puts a solid arm around me, telling me not to be silly, and that it makes him happy to treat me. If only he knew the real reason I’m upset. It’s not that he bought me something so exquisitely beautiful and thoughtful; it’s that I absolutely don’t deserve it – especially not since I went rooting through his personal things.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble, biting my lip until my tears stop. ‘I’m not sad. It’s just been a long time since someone bought me something so nice.’

  ‘Well, get used to it,’ he says, lifting my chin so he can kiss me. ‘Because I plan on spoiling you a whole lot more when we get to Italy tomorrow.’

  I make myself look at him, at his scatter of freckles and his bright, kind eyes. At the mess of red curls tangled against his forehead and the faint dimples sitting like inverted commas on his cheeks. This man is the real deal, and he does care about me. I know it, I can feel it, so why do I keep doubting him? And, more to the point, why do I keep doubting myself, too?