Tell Me Something (Contemporary Romance)

by Adele Parks

  ADELE PARKS

  TELL ME SOMETHING

  Copyright © 2008, Adele Parks

  The right of Adele Parks to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For Bob Shevlin, Wilbert Das and Massimo Bianchi

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Epilogue

  1

  I fell in love with Roberto twice.

  The first time was twelve years before I met him.

  I was on holiday with my parents in Padova, north Italy. I was fourteen, sulky, brooding and romantic. The second time was twelve years later, in a pub, in south-west London. He was watching a football match on the large screen. I was pulling pints. By then I was more gregarious and thoughtless but still astonishingly romantic.

  Before Padova, holidays with my parents (and there was no other kind) had been limited to the British Isles. I grew up accepting that foreign holidays were something that everyone else did but, for me, they were out of the question.

  My parents were a traditional pair and they were careful with their money. Both facts can be quickly explained and possibly excused if I tell you that my mother and father were forty-four and forty-nine respectively when the stork dropped me on their doorstep. Today they would not be considered horribly geriatric parents but back then they were regarded as such. Some of my mum's friends were grandmothers. Besides, they'd previously had two stork visits, nineteen and seventeen years earlier. My father always joked that the bird assigned to our family had no sense of direction or urgency and it had been late by about fifteen years. He maintained that he and my mother had always wanted three children and a little girl was especially welcome; which was very kind of him although unlikely to be strictly accurate.

  No one in my family can have been particularly overjoyed by my tardy arrival. My brothers, Max and Thomas, must have felt vaguely uncomfortable with this obvious proof that their parents still indulged in sex. No doubt both of them were happy to rush off to university as soon as feasibly possible in order to put distance between themselves and the whole messy business. It would have been quite reasonable for my parents to have assumed that the broken nights' sleep and soiled nappies part of their lives was well and truly behind them, at least until grandchildren arrived. My father had just made partner at his accountancy firm and he was the captain of the golf club that year; both time-consuming, demanding roles. My mother had her bridge and now she had me.

  Still, they made the best of it. I was healthy and my mother found pleasure in dressing me up in party frocks, something that had not been available to her while parenting Max and Thomas, obviously.

  But family legend suggests I was not so much a bundle of joy, rather a bundle of trouble; a poor sleeper, picky eater and angry while teething. It wasn't a picnic. I grew up believing resentment silently slept with us all. I believed that their ideas were out-dated and overly fussy in comparison to other parents. My father played the oboe and called boys chaps. He often corrected my friends' use of the auxiliary verbs 'can' and 'may'. My mother was more embarrassing still, just because her exposure to my classmates was more regular.

  She was not as pretty as all the other mothers who clustered at the school gate. Her clothes, shoes and complete ignorance about who Paul Young was set her a generation apart. Looking back I can see that she was a careful and concerned mother but at the time I gave her no credit for this, only grief. She regularly invited my friends around for tea but refused to serve fish fingers or Angel Delight, as the other mums would. Instead she made huge stews and persisted in serving sprouts or cabbage. She had no idea. She also insisted on collecting me from the school gate even when I was at senior school. Sometimes, if I thought I could get away with it, I pretended she was my batty grandmother (a batty grandmother being infinitely more acceptable than an interfering mother) and I would join the other children in laughing at her sensible shoes and practical mackintosh before I was in her hearing range.

  I was always vaguely embarrassed by my parents and I was ashamed of myself for being so, which in turn made me even angrier at them for being the source of my ugly emotion in the first place. They weren't draconian; they were just wrong. While the pocket money they gave me was slightly below class average, they (theoretically at least) allowed me to spend it on whatever I chose. But their obvious disappointment if I chose a Jackie comic and a stack of sweets rather than an edifying classic novel always diminished the pleasure of those treats. Clothes were an issue. I was twelve before I was allowed to own a pair of jeans, fifteen before I was allowed mascara (although I secretly applied it at school long before that), seventeen before I was allowed to have my ears pierced. OK, I'm looking back at these grievances from a wiser age (just thirty-two) and I admit that my parents didn't exactly commit war crimes but, at the time, in my view, they might as well have done.

  The main focus of contention was holidays. Other parents took their kids to Costa del somewhere or other or even (the pinnacle of cool) Disney in America. My classmates tried sticky liqueurs on holiday and spent their money on stuffed toy donkeys and jars full of coloured sand. Their sunbathing was injudicious and they often returned home with sore sunburnt limbs but exciting stories about flirtations with foreign boys to make up for the pain.

  My parents were more interested in National Trust buildings than busy beaches. Their idea of a superb holiday was to hitch up the caravan to a site along the southern coast (preferably near a castle and a decent tea shop that sold a light sponge cake). I endured countless wet weeks watching my parents struggle with an Ordnance Survey map in an attempt to find the f
ootpath that took us to yet another dull relic.

  When I was fourteen it was my parents' thirty-fifth wedding anniversary, and Max and Thomas (who were already enjoying successful careers as a journalist and a doctor, respectively) thought that the anniversary was excuse enough to treat our parents to their first holiday abroad. My father had been to Germany to complete his National Service but my mother had only ever crossed the Channel to go to the Isle of Wight (terrific bird-watching, apparently).

  My parents' reaction was guarded. Max spent hours drawing attention to the numerous places of historical and archaeological interest and Thomas calmed their fears about drinking tap water or attacks from mosquitoes, and slowly my parents started to accept – and then finally enjoy – the idea. I was to be included in my parents' anniversary trip, as they would never have allowed me to stay at home under the supervision of my big brothers, let alone by myself. My reaction was one of unequivocal joy.

  I got a paper round and began regularly babysitting for neighbours' kids, as I longed for a wardrobe boasting bikinis and shorts. I was thrilled at the idea of owning a passport. I pored over maps and guidebooks. I became silly with excitement when my father and I finally visited the bank to exchange our currency. I marvelled at the strange money and couldn't resist sniffing it. It felt warm and peppery; somehow promising and mysterious. Obviously, I had less interest in churches or art galleries than my parents and I was more focused on getting a tan, eating ice-cream and making eye contact with Italian boys. My targets were modest – I wasn't even expecting to speak to anyone other than the hotel receptionist – and still I was fizzing with the excitement of the adventure.

  By some miracle our holiday managed to surpass even my lofty expectations. I delighted in everything strange, new and foreign. The duty-free shops at the airport seemed glamorous beyond compare and I coveted the enormous Toblerone bars that were not so freely available in UK supermarkets in those days. I was disproportionately pleased with the wet paper towels that the friendly air hostess doled out with free (free!) drinks of cola on the flight. From the moment the aeroplane doors swung open when we touched down and the sun slammed into the plane and cocooned me, I was in love.

  2

  I wasn't in love with the guy ushering us down the plane steps and towards the airport bus, or anything prosaic like that (although he was cute). I was in love with Italy. A wall of thick heat slapped on to my pale, gangly limbs and I wanted to sing because suddenly I felt at home.

  I lived in a clean, functional house which groaned with healthy food, music practice and educational games. We were comfortably off. We had everything we could ever have needed but nothing that I wanted. We had fitted carpets, a microwave, hot water bottles, silver cutlery (that had been handed down to my parents from my mother's grandmother), but we did not have a TV in the sitting room (just a very tiny one tucked away in the spare bedroom, pulled out on special occasions); we had a piano, we had net curtains, for goodness sake; the very epitome of a middle-class British existence in all its insipid glory.

  Suddenly I felt warm, colourful and impassioned. I'd never got excited about anything in my life until that point. Without a TV I had no idea who Duran Duran really were, and had faked a crush on 'the drummer' to blend in at school, but I couldn't have picked him out in a line-up of Thai lady boys. I did not excel at a particular sport or a subject. I was not the type of child to have found solace in books. My few friends were equally dull and ill-defined. We didn't even choose to be one another's friends – we were sort of the left-over kids that no one really wanted to be pals with. I'd never had a boyfriend or even been kissed.

  And suddenly there was Italy.

  A country of warmth. A country that smelt of sweet, strong coffee. A country full of noise, chaos, chat and energetic and constant hand gestures. I was heartened by the abundance of flowers, festivals and flowing ribbons pinned to doors to announce the birth of a baby. It seemed to me that the Italians knew how to squeeze every ounce of juice out of life. And best yet – even better than the squeals of delight expelled from the kids chasing pigeons in the piazza – it seemed that every boy and man looked at me in a way that suggested I was interesting, appreciated and alive. In England my curly hair, fair skin and splattering of freckles were tragically unfashionable. But Italian men didn't seem to mind that I didn't sport a sleek, dark bob; quite the opposite.

  My infatuation grew deeper and more serious with every espresso I gulped. For ten days as I wandered around the narrow medieval streets of Padova I did not feel the ghosts of Giotto, Dante or Petrarch, as my parents did; I felt the weight of appreciative glances from the city's Giovannis, Davidos and Paulos. While my parents discussed the beatific smiles great artists had given the Virgin and Jesus, I wallowed in the much more salacious smiles secretly bestowed on me by waiters and boys lounging outside souvenir shops. I was too shy to actually talk to anyone else, tourist or local, so for hours I licked ice-creams or drank coke and stared.

  I watched the girls who giggled in gaggles yet managed to attain a level of sophistication that even the sixth-formers I knew could only long for. Was it their high heels? Or the tight belts? Their thin wrists or mascara? I did not know. All I knew was that I wanted to be one of them. I wanted to join an enormous, noisy family for the passeg giata parade at five o'clock; it was marvellous that even something as simple as an evening stroll seemed to be a celebration. I wanted to buy cakes as a Sunday morning gift for my friends; cakes that were presented in a cardboard box, wrapped with cheerful ribbons. I wanted to live among ancient history and serious style. I wanted their sociability to be mine. I wanted to eat their food and to bask in their civic pride and cultural interests. I wanted to live in Italy. I wanted to be Italian. It was obvious what I needed to do. I would marry an Italian.

  I came back to England with bagfuls of Oggi, the Italian equivalent of Hello! magazine. I vowed to teach myself Italian from those glossy pages; it would do – at least until I could find a formal tutor. But, as my tan wore off, so did my keenness to self-teach. While I continued to nurture my passion for all things Italian in terms of food, style and coffee, I'm afraid I did nothing about actually learning to speak the language. I pushed the Oggi under my bed and they stayed there gathering dust for several years.

  I did intend to study Italian at university, but my grade C at French GCSE didn't convince the necessary academic authorities that I had a talent for languages. The university admissions tutors were not in the least impressed when I tried to explain my motivation; apparently 'desire to marry an Italian' is not a compelling enough reason to be accepted on to a degree course. I considered moving to Italy to teach English. I'd heard about a course where the teacher doesn't even have to know the native tongue but instead can teach students through full immersion; but then I discovered that getting this TEFL qualification would cost thousands, so I decided that my best bet was to work for a year or so and save up. Mum and Dad were devastated when I told them I planned to move to London. My father said he feared I'd drift. He repeatedly pointed out that my brothers had always been terrifically motivated and decisive and had never presented him or Mum with a moment's worry. I was also motivated and decisive, but it was impossible to explain as much to my father. I was certain that he, like the university admissions tutors, would not accept my ambition to marry an Italian as a legitimate career plan. Luckily, that year Max's wife, Sophie, presented Mum and Dad with another grandchild and Thomas got married to a scary paediatrician, Eileen MacKinnan, who impressed and bossed my parents in equal measures. They had plenty to keep them occupied.

  When I got off the National Express coach I immediately headed to Covent Garden, where I knew there were enough authentic Italian bars and restaurants to allow me to pretend I was in the country that flew the tricolour. I told myself that it would do until I'd saved up enough money to actually go there. I quickly found work waiting tables and pulling pints, yet somehow I never managed to gather together the money necessary for the teaching course.
One year drifted into the next and then merged into another, almost without my noticing. My father got to say 'I told you so' on an indecent amount of occasions. If I ever gave any thought to my just-out-of-grasp TEFL qualification I reasoned that there was no particular hurry; there would always be Italians needing to learn English. I was happy as long as I earned enough money to buy fashionable shoes and handbags and pay the rent on a scruffy bed-sit in Earls Court which I shared with my friend Alison, a girl I met through one of the waitressing jobs.

  Despite the ordinary jobs and the tiny, scruffy flat I remember my early twenties as marvellous years; it's criminal to do anything other. I may not have been committed to earning a TEFL qualification but I was still resolute in my vow to marry an Italian, and I soon discovered that there were plenty of Italian guys to date here in the UK; I didn't really have to have the upheaval and inconvenience of going abroad alone. I dated a series of Giancarlos, Massimos and Angelos. They did not disappoint. They flattered and were attentive; they fed me pasta and enormous compliments and I had a ball. Admittedly, sooner or later, they inevitably returned to Italy or the intensity burned out after only a few short weeks. This wasn't much of a problem; while I had a tendency to instantly fall in love with every one of these guys, I fell out of love relatively quickly too. I never allowed myself to be heartbroken for anything longer than a week. Alison called me shallow but I liked to think of myself as adjusted. I was aware that my youth was to be enjoyed and I saw so many girls wasting night after night crying into their pillows because of some guy or other. Ridiculous! There were always plenty more pesce in the mare.

  Alison suggested that I try to date men who were more likely to stay in the country but she was missing the point. I was spoilt for life and found it disappointing to date anyone other than Italians. I didn't even want to. I did try, once or twice, but what came after was always after. English men simply didn't know about intense stares. They became tongue-tied when issuing compliments. By comparison, their dress sense was poor. Tailored shirts versus saggy football tops, reciting poetry or the words of some dated Monty Python sketch, drinking champagne out of my shoe or necking lager out of pint glasses; there was no competition.