‘Very.’ He clinks his beer against mine before taking a long, deep swill.
We ended up watching three episodes of Game of Thrones last night, but apparently, no amount of dragons, beheadings, and scenes of an extremely sexual nature were enough to distract my mind away from the photos I’d discovered in the back of Pete’s wardrobe, so for once I’d been relieved when he’d dropped off to sleep almost immediately. I’m sure he would have been able to tell something was on my mind if we’d been intimate, because there were far too many dark thoughts whirring around in my silly head to allow me to switch off, and I wouldn’t have been able to give myself over to him in the way that I wanted. I did wake up with renewed determination today, though. I know that if I let those photos get to me, then I’ll sour things with Pete for sure, and I’ll only have myself to blame when he dumps me. I ignore the small voice that keeps whispering to me that I should just talk to him about it. Talking is not an option, because talking would mean confessing to the fact that I’ve been rummaging through his things. Not cool, Lucy. Not cool at all.
Pete is wearing the dark-blue hat I bought him for Christmas, his matching gloves on the table top in front of him, and one of his ginger curls has escaped from underneath. The more I look at his face, the more I like it. His lips are pale pink and full, his scatter of stubble slivers of spun gold, and his jaw is firm and square. I have never been with someone that I feel so proud to be seen with before, and I tell him so.
‘Ditto,’ he says easily, giving me a lazy smile, but the one I give him in return doesn’t come from a genuine place. How can I be the girlfriend he’s been most proud of? I’ve seen his ex-girlfriend, and I know how beautiful she is. He must have been so smug when he had her on his arm – whereas plain old me? Since seeing those photos, I consider myself to be a poor second at best.
‘Hey, why do you look so worried all of a sudden?’ Pete asks then, sensing my discomfort and fixing his eye on me. ‘We haven’t missed the train, have we?’
‘Oh no, don’t worry.’ I shake my head and force myself to smile reassuringly. ‘But we should probably start drinking up. We want to make sure we get a seat.’
‘Not a problem,’ he replies, tipping down the remainder of his Peroni.
‘Whoa!’ I joke, picking up my own half-empty bottle as Pete uncurls a ten-euro note and slips it under the empty dish. ‘Give a girl a chance to catch up!’
Pete takes hold of my hand as we leave the bar and doesn’t let go of it again until we’re sitting safely side by side on the train. I offer him the window seat, just as I did on the flight over, but he refuses just as he did then, and we chat easily to each other as the Lombardy landscape begins to roll past. There are the usual outer-city landmarks – industrial warehouses, blocks of grotty-looking flats and a few rather splendid churches – and after half an hour or so, more flashes of countryside start to appear. I had forgotten just how gorgeously green this part of Italy is, and how beautifully blue the sky above. This is alpine country, with snow-covered peaks and mountainsides thick with fir and pine trees. There’s none of the dust of Spain or the dancing heat of Greece – the air here has a clarity that makes you feel more awake, and more alive. That is something I do remember now that I’m back here again, and it makes me wish I hadn’t stayed away for so long.
When I used to holiday here with my family all those years ago, the trains were very different, with creaking wooden seats and windows that you could open all the way down to waist height. Julia and I would split up into different carriages and lean right out until we could see one another, gleefully ignoring the signs warning us of danger. It’s even worse these days: everywhere you turn, there seems to be a sign telling you to be careful, to not enter, to not touch. Being a nurse, I should really be supportive of all these extra security measures, but the rebellious ten-year-old me can still remember how exhilarating it felt to have the wind rushing through my hair as I leant out of that train window.
By the time we trundle into Como amid a jangle of squealing brakes, the few clouds that were dotted around on the journey have dispersed, and the radiant winter sunshine greets us like a warm handshake. We disembark, pulling our suitcases off behind us, and gasp in unison as a gust of cold air blasts past our cheeks. From the Como San Giovanni station, it’s only a short walk down the hill, through the park, and into the town centre. I lead Pete out through the small station and down the long flight of stone steps towards the main road. Pete is fascinated by the massive Two Hands sculpture just inside the main entrance of the park, and insists on stopping so that he can pose for a photo stretched out across the lower of the open palms.
‘See if you can get me high-fiving it in mid-air,’ he says excitedly, handing me his proper camera to use instead of my phone and switching it over to sport mode. I do as I’m told, laughing as an increasing number of people stop to watch what we’re doing. Next, he wants a shot of both of us sitting on the bottom hand, and ropes in a nearby German tourist to take it. I do my best to smile engagingly as I snuggle up against him, but I can’t help but feel haunted by the other photo, the one from the wardrobe. I stubbornly wish that I was the first girl he’d ever had his picture taken with on holiday, but Pete is thirty-three, not thirteen – of course he’s going to have had relationships. He’s probably been in love already, had his heart broken or been responsible for breaking someone else’s. This is the awful thing about getting older, I think wistfully, as the German tourist snaps away – the people you date come to you damaged and worn down by the callousness of others. If only we could all marry our first love, then none of us would ever have to navigate our way through all the confusion and emotional turmoil that go hand-in-hand with break-ups. I know my dad would agree with me.
We leave the sculpture behind and make our way through Como’s wide streets, each of us hushed into silence by the imposing, apricot-coloured buildings stacked tightly together on either side of the road. The sturdy soles of my boots make a pleasant clip-clopping sound against the cobbles, which are stretched like scales across the pavements, and every few yards there is a delicatessen, pizza parlour or grocery store, each one adding a new splash of colour to Como’s ever-expanding palette.
There are tasteful Christmas decorations in the windows of all the shops, and more strung up in neat patterns across the pedestrianized lanes snaking through the town centre. As Pete and I stroll, fingers entwined, I point out to him how clean everything is – especially in comparison to the grubby North London streets we drove past this morning on the way to the airport. There is no litter on the ground, no graffiti sprayed on the alleyway walls, and everything from the neatly clipped shrubs to the elegantly draped fairy lights is pristine. It’s nice to be in a city so obviously cherished by its inhabitants, and with every step we take, I feel my mood lightening.
Como isn’t a sleepy place – far from it – but it does feel a lot quieter than I remember it being in the summer months. There aren’t many people on the streets, and – aside from a distant rumble of traffic and the occasional notes of music trailing out from the open door of a bar – there isn’t much noise, either. It’s only when you leave a big city that you realise how loud they are, and I experience the same awareness every time I go home to Suffolk, too. I’ve always been the type of girl to pick a cosy quiet corner over a stadium full of noise, so I suppose it’s rather strange that I’ve chosen to work in such a chaotic environment and base myself in one of the most hectic cities in the world. I must enjoy the madness more than I think I do.
Pete doesn’t say much, but his eyes are wide as he takes it all in, his escaped curl still plastered against his forehead. It’s becoming increasingly hard to curb the strong urge to tuck it back under his hat, but I clench my fist and resist. Pete doesn’t mind me making a fuss of him sometimes, but I know he prefers to be the one doing the spoiling. We have that in common, the two of us, that need to nurture and protect, and so far, it seems to be working out in our favour. When you’re both keen to show
affection, and receive it in kind, then neither of you ever ends up feeling as if they’re lacking – it’s only when the balance goes askew that you’re in trouble. A fact that I know only too well.
The apartment I’ve booked is only a few streets away from the large Piazza Cavour square, which looks right out over the lake, and I can see the lights from the Christmas Market in the near-distance as we reach our destination. I sent a text to the owner, Cara, just as we got off the train, and she’s waiting for us just inside the building entrance.
‘Ciao, ciao,’ she says, her voice sweetly singsong, and I try not to mind that she gives Pete a kiss of greeting on the cheek as well as me. Being Italian, she’s naturally dark, beautiful and effortlessly chic, with her camel coat buttoned up to the neck and the diamond studs in each of her ears making her literally sparkle. Pete would have to be blind not to be wowed. To his credit, however, my boyfriend is merely courteous and polite, smiling along as Cara explains in broken English how to get the shower working and shows us where the extra bedding is stored. I’m gratified to see that she remembered to leave out the bottle of Prosecco as requested, and before she leaves, she presses a business card into my hand, telling the two of us that we must come to her husband’s cocktail bar by the lake.
‘I thought she was never going to go,’ Pete says, as I shut the door behind our glamorous host and turn to face him. He’s already picked up the bottle from the ice bucket and is now using his teeth to tear through the foil.
‘Me too!’ I’m quick to agree, hurrying across to wrap my arms around his muscular middle. ‘I can’t believe we’re finally here. What do you think so far? Do you like it?’
‘I love it,’ he says, beaming as he struggles with the cork. We both let out a shout of excited delight when it shoots across the room and lands in the kitchen sink.
‘Good shot, sir,’ I appraise, and he takes a small bow.
‘Why thank you, my beloved.’
Beloved? Does he love me? No, he’s just being silly. Or is he?
Pete pours two glasses and toasts me with a flourish before putting his down and disappearing into the bathroom. I take a deep breath. Everything is going well. It’s all going to plan. Pete is happy, I’m happy. We’re going to have the most fun either of us has ever had before; I’m going to make sure of it.
‘Lulu?’
I turn around and immediately gasp with laughter.
Pete is standing in the bedroom doorway, a knowing look on his face and a definite glint in his eye. Oh, and he’s absolutely, completely, unashamedly and totally naked.
‘Wow,’ I say, my attention moving swiftly from his face to another part of his body. ‘You really are happy to be here, aren’t you?’
‘Nurse Dunmore,’ he says, his head on one side. ‘I do believe you’re blushing.’
He’s right, I am. I may have chosen a profession which inevitably includes regular encounters with naked bodies, but there’s still something disarming about seeing the man you’re falling in love with standing to attention, so to speak, right in front of you. No matter how familiar I may be with the male form, I’m still a shy girl at heart – and there is emphatically nothing shy at all about the way Pete is looking at me right at this moment. I’m still fully dressed, but I feel completely undressed by his eyes. He wants me, and I want him – I’m just going to have to put that pesky photo to the back of my mind.
‘Shall we try out the shower?’ he suggests, not taking his eyes off me as I reach for my glass. The Prosecco is cold and tangy, a touch dryer than I usually like, but it does the job, and after a few more sips I feel emboldened enough to remove my cardigan, followed quickly by my knee-high boots. I can feel my cheeks turning pink, and battle to ignore the shyness that has assaulted me. After a few murmurs of encouragement from an increasingly aroused Pete, I roll off my tights and, taking a deep breath, untie my pink wrap dress. I’m too timid to meet his gaze, but a small part of me feels empowered, too, because I know where this is leading, and just how much Pete wants it. When I’m standing still in just my underwear, my undone hair snaking across my bare shoulders and my heart racing with the adrenalin that is coursing through me, Pete moves at last from his position by the door and gathers me into his arms.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ he tells me, his hands roving across my chest and stomach. I instinctively suck in my extra roll of flesh and clench my bottom just as he reaches for it, pulling aside the flimsy material of my knickers as he does so. As he bends his head to kiss me, I slide my own hands across his strong, broad back, all the time stroking, tickling, teasing and squeezing until he’s practically panting into my mouth.
We never make it as far as the shower.
Afterwards, we stretch out together on top of the still-made bed, taking it in turns to swig out of the half-empty bottle of Prosecco as we chat aimlessly away about anything and everything. My hair looks like two hens have had a fight in it and I’m sweating so much that even my upper lip is wet, but I don’t care. The sex we just had was intense and furious, but more than that, it felt passionate and real, as if I was the only thing that mattered in the whole world to Pete. When we’re together in this way, I forget about the wobbles and lumps. Instead, I see myself as he sees me – as he tells me he sees me – which is sexy as hell. The way Pete looked at me had sent shivers of pleasure through me – even more so than what he was doing to me – and I was overwhelmed with wonderful, dizzy and uncomplicated love for him.
This man. My man. The one who is going to be different from all the rest.
11
Taggie
I wake early, before the light, and lie still for a moment in the darkness.
He snuck into my dreams again, in the way that he so often does, and I blink hard to rid myself of his image. It is always the same – he is angry with me and looks at me with disdain, I reach for him and am rebuffed, and then the tears will follow.
Do I miss him? My mum thinks that I’m suffering from emotional trauma. She looked it up, found similar cases, then searched for reassurance that it would eventually cease. When I became convinced that I must remove myself from home, from where triggers lurked at every turn, waiting to send me back to the floor, where I had lain and wailed and thumped for weeks, my parents didn’t try to stop me. Just like me, they were terrified of anything sending me back to that dark place again. Their strong and capable daughter had disintegrated in front of their eyes, and it was devastating for them to watch.
I no longer cling in desperation to the carpet when the memories or the ‘what ifs’ assault me, but simply knowing that I was rendered so utterly broken frightens me. It changed me, that pain, and I’m still trying to work out whether I’m now softer or harder as a result. Last night’s drink with Marco and Shelley was an eye-opener for me, because my reaction to him, and to the thoughts and feelings he stirred up, told me that it was more likely the latter – I’m as brittle as glass, and quite possibly even more fragile. It’s only human nature to protect yourself from being hurt, so it does make sense, but does it also mean that I’m destined to feel closed off and afraid forever? That thought makes me feel very sad indeed.
But this won’t do. There’s no point lying here in the dark, brooding about things over which I have no control. I’ve learnt that the best thing to do when I wake up feeling like this is to get up and get out – do something with my limbs to stop them twisting with impotent rage, and take my mind and senses into a new setting.
Throwing aside the heavy maroon blankets with the gold Casa Alta logo stitched into them, I pad barefoot into my en suite bathroom and switch on the shower, waiting until the steam starts to rise before getting in and sliding the glass doors shut behind me. The water is only a few degrees away from scalding, but it invigorates me and helps me to focus on the day ahead. I’m due in the hotel reception to meet the tour group at ten a.m. sharp, which means I have three hours of playtime to myself first – and I know exactly how I’m going to use them.
The kitche
n staff greet me with enthusiasm as I slip through the door twenty minutes later to beg for some crusts. Luka – head chef and my self-proclaimed nonno – insists that I take the remainder of last night’s rye bread, which is still languishing in the little wicker baskets that we put on the tables for dinner. He also lends me his personal thermos flask and fills it with thick, delicious hot chocolate, telling me in no uncertain terms that without it, I will most likely freeze to death on my walk. He may be overreacting a smidgeon, but then that is the Italian way – and I love him for it.
Despite wrapping myself up in a thick cream jumper, heavy coat, chunky scarf and a hat made from alpaca wool, just like those down in the Christmas market, the cold still causes me to gasp as I step outside, and I stamp my feet on the frosty path in a bid to get my circulation going. The grounds of the Casa Alta Hotel look even prettier than usual coated in frost, and now that the sun is beginning to climb, the gravel driveway I’m walking along is sparkling as if it’s covered in gem dust. The view of the lake never fails to lift my spirits, but this morning it’s part-obscured by a heavy curtain of fog. The bulk of mountains on the opposite shore have all but vanished, but I know that as soon as the morning properly arrives, the sunshine will rapidly burn away any trace of this atmospheric gloom.
Once I reach the pathway that runs alongside the lake, I turn right and head towards Como, enjoying the crunching sound of my boots and the early calls of the gulls that are bobbing on the surface of the water below me. Beauty and nature help, they really do. How can the world be a bad place, when there are sights to behold such as this, and people such as the ones who have taken me in? I think fondly of Elsie, Bruno, Gino and Nico, and irrationally wish that I could reach out across the water and pull them closer to me. Bellagio is just that little bit too far up the coast to make a daily commute worthwhile, but living at the hotel means that I miss the four of them horribly – especially now that it’s the festive season. Luckily, however, one of the tours I’m in charge of over the next few days is one that visits Bellagio, so I’m hoping Elsie and the boys will have time to join us for a few hours.
The Place We Met Page 7
