by Adele Parks
I tell Raffaella I'm tired and that I'm going home. Even she can't accuse me of being lazy today, I've held the fort.
As I crawl between the sheets my phone beeps to let me know I have a text. It's from Roberto. He says he's just arrived at the bar and he's going to stay there until closing time. He tells me not to bother trying to stay awake for him. I don't send a reply. Instead I close my eyes, sure that I'll be asleep in moments.
I do sleep but it's not peaceful. I dream that I'm lost in the maze in Hampton Court (I did once get lost in this maze when I was about six and therefore variations of this dream often plague me). This time I am running through the green shrubbery shouting for Roberto. Suddenly a man with large forearms covered in blond hairs sweeps me over the hedge and puts me safely down in front of an ice-cream van. The ice-cream van is branded 'Ana-Maria, the finest in all of Italy'?
29
8 March
I wake up grateful not to have to deal with any more dreams. The nightmare I'm living is enough. I roll over and am relieved to see that Roberto is still in bed with me. I didn't want to have missed him because he is dashing to some appointment or other. It's Saturday, and Saturdays are busy in the bar but, even so, I'm hoping to persuade him to take the day off. Maybe Paolina can run things without us or Raffaella can pull her finger out for once; they managed well enough before we arrived, surely they can soldier on for one day? My plan is to persuade Roberto to go to Venice. Everyone knows that Venice is the most romantic place in the world. Even before we arrived here I spent hours imagining strolling around the Doge's Palace, the Piazza San Marco and the Accademia. I can see it now: there will be sun on our backs and the sound of cooing pigeons and cafe orchestras will accompany our stroll; it will be wonderful.
A great setting to grill him about exactly who Ana-Maria is and why he's never mentioned her to me. The bastard.
No, no, wrong attitude. I'm jumping to conclusions. I have to allow Roberto time to tell me who this woman is.
I watch Roberto lying next to me. He is quite delicious to look at. I've always known as much. OK, maybe in the last year or so my appreciation of the aesthetics has taken a back seat compared to my desire to have a baby. But it's not that I don't still appreciate him, I do. Really, I do. I wonder what another woman would think if she came across Roberto for the first time or, worse, for the first time in a long time. I imagine any other woman would notice his olive skin, his lean stomach, his beautiful dark eyes, and she'd appreciate him. It's not a comforting thought.
I kiss his brown shoulder and I resist biting it (and I mean out of frustration, not passion). I vow to go softly, softly. I will not jump to conclusions. I do not need to scream and accuse like a shrill, jealous fishwife.
Roberto blinks and rubs his eyes.
'What time is it?' he asks as he stifles a yawn.
'Nearly nine.'
'Christ, I need to get moving, I should be in the bar.' He sits up, suddenly alert, all signs of sleepiness banished.
'Relax.' I try to gently push him back down to the horizontal. 'You only came to bed after three, you need to rest. In fact I thought we might take the day off. Let's go to Venice. I'm dying to see it.'
Despite my best efforts, Roberto is now out of bed and has yanked off his PJs. He's hopping as he tries to push his leg into his jeans in record time.
'Not today. I was away from the bar all yesterday. I have to be there today.'
Where is that written? 'Paolina could take care of things,' I point out reasonably.
'No. It is my responsibility. Go to Venice with Paolina if you must go.' He pulls a T-shirt over his head and mutters, 'Neither of you are much help, anyway.'
How unfair. I'm pretty sure he wanted me to hear that. Why is he in such a mood? Aren't I supposed to be the one with the grievance? Guilty conscience? I push the thought aside the moment it blunders into my head. No, Roberto has nothing to feel guilty about, I'm sure. Well, almost sure. I stick to the matter in hand.
'Excuse me, I ran the place on my own yesterday. I did a fourteen-hour shift.'
'Yes, yes, I'm grateful you kept things ticking over.'
'It was very busy. We did not tick over. You did the cash-up – you must know that from the takings,' I defend hotly.
'I know you had customers yesterday but I understand that you needed three staff to help you. Do you know how much that costs? Plus even poor Mamma had to lend her hand. She really is too much old, Elizabeth. We should be protecting her from the strains of the bar.'
'I didn't call in the extra staff. You called Laurana and Raffaella must have called Gina and Alexandra.'
'She thought it was necessary.' Roberto turns to me and pecks me on the forehead. It's a dry, placatory kiss; it lacks depth or any sort of understanding. If I had to label this kiss I'd call it patronizing – a novel breed of kiss for me – well, no one can say we don't try new things.
'I know you are doing your best, Elizabeth, but I can't just take off on a Saturday, without notice and without planning. It's our busiest day. I have a business to run.' He has a bar to run, not a multinational conglomerate, but I bite my tongue. You don't need to come in today though. You take a day off if you want. My friends are coming to see me in the bar this morning, I won't be lonely.' Then, as an afterthought, 'Actually, you would be bored. It's best you go off for the day.'
He doesn't want me around. The thought slams into me like a high-speed heavy goods vehicle. I thought I wasn't gelling with his friends because I hadn't learnt the language sufficiently; what if the root of the issue is that he doesn't want to give me the opportunity to meet his friends?
'Who is coming into the bar today?' I ask through gritted teeth.
'Just friends.'
'Do I know them?'
'I don't think so.'
'Who is Ana-Maria?'
And there it is. Her name is now between us even though I had vowed to keep it to myself, at least until we were somewhere more suitable than our bedroom. I've poured her name across our bed and it's as real as a flashing neon sign in flamingo pink. What was I thinking? It would have been so much more dignified to have subdued my suspicions and persuaded him to have a fun day in Venice instead. Perhaps we could have gone to Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari, to see Titian's gloriously uplifting Assumption altar painting. Chuck said it is arguably one of Venice's most sublime religious treasure troves.
And then I could have screamed, 'Who is Ana-Maria?'
For a moment I wonder whether I have imagined my distrustful question because Roberto remains stonily silent. He is sitting on the edge of the bed; he turns away from me and concentrates on putting on his socks. I can't believe he's going to get fully dressed just to walk to the bathroom to take a shower. Maybe he didn't hear me. Maybe I whispered my enquiry in my head. Or maybe he just doesn't want to answer me.
'So, who is she?'
'A friend.'
'What sort of friend? An old girlfriend?'
'I dated her for a while,' he says with a reluctant, sorrowful shrug. He stands up and walks to the dressing table. I file his look and decide to re-examine it later. Exactly why is he sorrowful? Because I have called him on this or because they split in the first place? I inwardly gasp at the hideousness of that thought. As Roberto sits down again he looks in the mirror and pretends to be studying his own reflection, but his eyes stare past his sculptured cheekbones and are covertly watching me. He's gauging my reaction and by doing so he's admitting that a reaction is possible. Necessary? Justified?
'How long did you go out with her for?'
'I forget. A year. Or two.'
'Which was it?'
'Three and a half.'
Three and a half years and I have never heard her name. She must have really hurt him. I swallow this information like the water in a deep well swallows a stone. It looks as though it's vanished but ripples are springing in every direction.
'Were you with her yesterday?' I ask. I'm trying to make my question sound casual but my voice betr
ays me by wobbling. I plaster a broad, enquiring smile on to my face. I hope it convinces him and props me up.
'Yes. She is moving back into town. She has been away at university. I was helping her with her things.'
Italians take a lot longer to get their degrees than we do in Britain. Often they study on a part-time basis for years, as they work at the same time to pay tuition fees. So the fact that she's just finished her degree does not mean that she's a child – although it does mean she's bright and dedicated.
'Oh, where did she study?' Am I convincing him that I'm merely interested or does he know I am drowning in a filthy puddle of insecurity and jealousy?
'Verona.'
'You drove to Verona yesterday?' I lose my battle for a feigned indifference; a child could hear the indignation in my voice.
'Yes. Twice, in fact. She had so much baggage I had to make two round trips.'
Over four hours' driving. I can taste my resentment. 'I could have come with you. I'd like to have seen Verona,' I say testily. Which he knew; I've begged him to take the trip but he's always too busy. I seethe.
'There was not enough room in the car.'
'And I'd have liked to meet your friend.'
It takes every ounce of dignity I have for me to say that. I dig deep into my reserves. Of course, what I really mean is that I need to see her. I have to weigh her up, judge her; I might have to criticize her or be comforted by the fact that she hasn't aged well, maybe she's carrying a bit too much weight or is prematurely balding – is that too much to hope? Obviously, it's of paramount importance that I decide whether she's a threat or not, ASAP.
'You can meet her today. She said she would pop into the bar.'
I see. I get out of bed and walk to where Roberto is sitting at the dressing table. I put my arms around his neck in a subconscious gesture that psychologists would probably identify as territorial. I consider squeezing really tightly, ripping the life out of the rat, right now, but I realize that would be a little premature – some might say an over-reaction. What has my husband done wrong? Nothing. He helped out an old friend. Why shouldn't he? He wouldn't be the man I love if he didn't have such a generous nature. It's Raffaella's comment that is nibbling at my self-esteem.
'Ana-Maria's the girl your mother wanted you to marry, isn't she?' I ask.
Roberto stares right at me, albeit through the mirror. 'Possibly. But you are the girl I married.'
He did! He did and that means something. My God, that means everything. Why am I torturing myself like this? Why am I allowing Raffaella's poisonous little jibes to affect my marriage? Roberto is a good husband. He works hard. Very hard for our family business. So hard that he virtually forgets Valentine's day.
I shudder – not a helpful thought. It's difficult to know what to believe. I can't face asking any more questions on the subject of Ana-Maria just now, I need to digest what I already know. Instead I change my focus.
'Paolina was very upset last night. She's broken up with her boyfriend.' Roberto doesn't comment. I push on. 'Why didn't you tell me your sister had a married lover?'
'I hinted. I thought you'd have guessed. She never brings boys here. She stays out many nights. She's good-looking, I suppose, for a sister. If she was a friend of yours in London, you would have made guess.'
'Are you saying I'm patronizing towards Italians?'
'Not patronizing. It's just you do have rose-coloured sunglasses to see us. Maybe you only see what you want.'
I heard more or less the same from Paolina yesterday so I feel unsettled and defenceless.
'Do you think I'm naive?' I ask.
'There are worse things to be than innocent, Elizabeth.' Then he turns and lowers me back on to the bed, only pausing to drag his T-shirt over his head in one, quick, fluid movement.
'Maybe we can be a little late this morning,' he mumbles into my ear.
30
Paolina said she could manage the bar on her own. She seemed lack-lustre – hungover and heartbroken. I felt a touch mean that she was being lumbered on a Saturday but as she said herself, she had nothing better to do today. Besides, I was so thrilled that Roberto (in the glow of post-coital activity) had agreed to take the day off (our first day alone together since we'd arrived here!) that I didn't want to ruin things; I accepted her word when she said she was OK.
'Will we park the car and then get a water taxi?' I ask Roberto.
I am already sitting in the car and waiting for him. He is carefully checking oil and water, tyre pressure and that sort of thing. I've always found his slightly boy-scout always-be-prepared approach to life vaguely dull and quite at odds with my image of fiery, impetuous Italians, although I admit he's often got me out of a hole because he does think about things such as having enough pound coins for the meters when we drive into central London, or carrying a foldaway umbrella in his laptop bag.
I'm staring at the guidebook and already imagining us stepping on to a beautiful mahogany boat, slipping through the sea, the sun shining down and everything glittering. There'll be a breeze lifting my hair and —
'No, it is too expensive. We'll drive and park in the Tronchetto car park, it's only eighteen euros a day. Besides, Ana-Maria gets seasick on the ocean.'
It takes me a moment. 'Ana-Maria does? What has she to do with our plans?'
'Well, you said you wanted to meet her and it is her first day back in Veganze. She thought we would meet in the bar; I could not let her down so I invited her to join us. She is delighted.'
I bet she is.
The glow of my orgasm, which Roberto had gently and carefully pulled out of me, still sits like a rich secret between my legs. It's almost impossible to be angry with him. Almost. I sigh and resign myself to the fact that we are not going to have a romantic day for two. Still, the fact that he's so keen to introduce us must mean that their relationship is totally innocent. We might even become friends.
'Have you invited her boyfriend too?' I'm not hopeful there is one but it's worth a shot.
'She hasn't got a boyfriend at the moment.'
'Shame. For her I mean.' And me. 'Can she speak English?' I ask. I don't fancy a day struggling with verbs and flicking through my phrase book.
'Oh yes. She's fluent. She's an extremely brilliant linguist.'
'That's nice. Did she study languages at university?'
'No. Her English and French are self-taught. Hobbies almost. She read politics and economics. She graduated with the most distinguished honour available.'
I love her already.
We drive to Ana-Maria's house although it turns out that she only lives a few minutes from the bar. Roberto leaves me in the car and goes to collect her on his own. I hear the family's laughter and salutations as he enters (he goes around the back door and does not knock but walks straight in). Then the house swallows him for at least fifteen minutes. I wait impatiently. I sit on my hands so that I don't stretch across the driving seat and hoot on the horn. I know Italians aren't famed for their punctuality and I've got used to the fact that whenever a group of Italian mates are making plans for the evening a debate can be batted back and forth for several hours, but really! It's simply rude to leave me sitting here.
Be patient, be patient, be reasonable, be reasonable, I repeat to myself. Eventually I hear the back door bang, a woman's chatter and Roberto's laughter; Ana-Maria and Roberto emerge.
She's breathtaking. Held from the lower back, she's ramrod straight and her stance suggests that she is confident and able in all matters vegetable, animal or mineral. I can see that her legs are muscled and defined, yet, disconcertingly, she seems to glide rather than walk, moving as though she's liquid below her waist. I imagine she's very good in bed. Her silky black hair is tied neatly in a jaunty pony-tail but she doesn't appear in the least austere; I imagine her loosening her hair and allowing it to fall in mesmerizing cascades around her shoulders. Her smile is generous, her skin is flawless. She is a vision of loveliness and therefore my worst nightmare. I stare at
her as though I am in love with her myself. I fight an urge to wind down the window and beg her to be my friend. If she is my friend, she won't hurt me. Right? I want her to like me and I almost fall out of the car as I scramble to be introduced. Her hand is cool and tiny but her handshake is firm. She beams, and if she hates me for marrying her ex, I can't detect it.
31
'The best approach is from the west end of the piazza. Ideally we should have arrived early, before the queues built up – as it is we'll have to be prepared to wait but it will be worth it.'
Ana-Maria is talking about our seeing the Basilica di San Marco but I've found she's equally enthusiastic, knowledgeable and strident about pretty much everything. Her comprehension of all things agricultural, architectural and geographical was verified on our journey here. I wonder where she gets the energy to be so interested in so many things?
'There's a fixed route around the interior of the basilica. You'll have to allow your eyes to become accustomed to the low light levels, and take your time; it is an overwhelming building,' she says.
I try to smile and respond positively to her high-intensity keenness but I'm beginning to run out of cheery 'ohs' and 'ahs'.
On the journey here I sat in the back of the car, like some kid, and Ana-Maria sat in the front because she's a 'splendid map reader' – Roberto's words – and so that I could see clearly the places of interest she pointed out; Ana-Maria has an 'astounding knowledge of local history' – her words. She also has a really grating know-it-all attitude – my words.
