Tell Me Something (Contemporary Romance)

by Adele Parks

  I squirm now that he's seen through my clumsy attempt at matchmaking. The odd thing is I should be disappointed. It would be an ideal solution if Ana-Maria got herself a boyfriend and fell in love. New love is always more distracting than old love, at least that's my experience, and yet I'm secretly chuffed to hear that Chuck isn't into her.

  'Look at you, girl – sightseeing, taking Italian lessons; you'll banish that homesickness in a flash. Way to go. I think this calls for a celebration.'

  'Do you want a drink?'

  'Yes, but not now – tonight and not here. I'll take you to a bar in Marostica. It's called Perche No? Which means –'

  'Why Not.'

  'Yes. So, why not? My friend runs it. You'll love the vibe. Roberto is invited as well, of course,' he adds.

  'We can't both bunk off. We have this place to run.'

  'Well, just you then.'

  I hesitate. Officially it is my night off anyway and I really don't fancy a night in with just Roberto's grandpa for company. In England I have a number of guy friends and Roberto never had any problem with me seeing them alone. Why should he? He trusts me. And so he should. I am very trustworthy. So.

  'OK,' I agree before I over-analyse the situation.

  'Great. Don't dress up, it's very casual. I'll pick you up at say eight? Here?'

  'No. I'll wait for you at the clock tower. If I come in here I'll get dragged behind the bar.' It's not even a teeny white lie. I would be dragged behind the bar. But it's also not the 'whole truth and nothing but the truth'. I'm unsure as to whether Raffaella would approve of my friendship with Chuck – however platonic. There's no point in rocking the boat, especially as this particular boat already has one or two major leaks to worry about.

  'OK,' he agrees.

  'OK,' I confirm.

  I am fizzing with excitement. I pick up the duster again. It's best I don't think about it any more, or maybe I should think about it a great deal. I opt for the former and go into the kitchen to help Laurana with the salads. I probably should give serious thought to this unprecedented attraction, but after the salads, I have verbs to practise.

  34

  When Chuck pulls up next to the clock tower at exactly 8 p.m., I thank God for American punctuality. Roberto is always a minimum of half an hour late, sometimes up to two hours. I don't think I could have borne waiting for Chuck a minute longer than necessary. It's not that I am totally desperate and dying to see him or anything (although I have been looking forward to it, I admit); it's more a question of not wanting to be spotted by anyone.

  I had planned to tell Roberto who I was going out with tonight, only the moment never arose as we continue to operate like passing ships. I finished the afternoon shift and went to find him on the offchance we could spend the siesta hours together. He wasn't in the study doing the accounts as I expected, so I called him on his mobile.

  'Where are you?'

  'Out.'

  'Well, I realize that, where out?' I asked.

  'I'm with a supplier. Why all the questions?' he asked tetchily, making it clear that he didn't want to be interrupted. I managed to tell him about my Italian lesson with Signor Castoro.

  'That is wonderful. Well done. Castoro is a magnificent tutor. He helped me through my school exams in literature when I was a kid.'

  'Really? You know him?' I wonder why Roberto never mentioned me having a tutor in all the times he nagged me to learn the language.

  'He was a friend of Papa's.'

  I like knowing that about Signor Castoro. I can see that he might well be the pal of the smiley Bruno in the wedding photo. I like having a context for people and knowing something about their roots and histories. I hadn't realized how much that mattered until I left the UK. It used to annoy me that whenever my parents started a conversation they'd begin with a sentence such as, 'You know Mr Blar Blar; he had a daughter Tom's age.' I'd shake my head. 'His wife used to knit for you when you were a baby,' they'd continue, but I'd be none the wiser. Usually their conversations would culminate in something unspectacular such as, Well, I saw him at the greengrocer's. He was asking after you.'

  Suddenly I realized that someone being interested in me is the nicest thing in the world. I thought of Chuck asking Signor Castoro about me and I brightened.

  'I'm going out tonight, Roberto. There's a bar called Perche No? in Marostica. Do you know it?'

  'Yes, I've heard of it. Keep your eyes open and see if they are doing anything we're not. It's good to keep a watch on the competition. Have fun,' he said and abruptly rang off. It was clear I was tearing him away from something vital. He forgot to ask me who I was going with and because he forgot to ask I didn't think I had to tell him.

  I appreciated Chuck telling me not to dress up and that the bar was very casual, otherwise I'd have been in serious danger of spending absolutely hours deciding what to wear. As it was I only had to try on nine outfits.

  I settle for Diesel jeans and a beige vest top with a reasonable amount of glittering bits. I know he said the gig was casual but the Italians dress so well that I feel duty bound to dab on a bit of lipstick and dig out my heels. I feel as though I'm the British contestant in the Eurovision Sartorial Contest. Britain has no chance of winning but it's a matter of national pride that we at least enter.

  'You look great,' says Chuck the moment he meets me; his casual compliment soothes the blister that I know is already bubbling on my little toe on the right foot. I bought these strappy shoes on the first afternoon I arrived in Italy. Wearing them is a little like balancing on stilts. They are beyond impractical but breathtakingly pretty and as they didn't break the bank I consider them perfect, despite the fact that they don't quite fit. How do other girls do it? This glamour thing takes such effort and commitment.

  I worry that by choosing between nine outfits and wearing sexy, painful shoes the evening is taking on a distinct 'first-date feel', which is of course inappropriate when you consider that I've been married for six years. However, I'm immediately put at ease when Chuck starts chatting about his car, his job and his mate's bar. The conversation flows freely and is entirely devoid of tension. Which, if I remember rightly, is not how conversations are conducted on a first date. Other than Roberto (who was a motor-mouth and spent the entire first date talking and kissing), all my first dates have been punctuated with awkward silences and maladroit hints at whether or not the evening promised any action between the sheets.

  I tell myself that Chuck is just being a nice guy. He knows I'm a bit lonely and he's looking out for me as any fellow ex-pat would do.

  Oddly, only half of me wants this to be true.

  I have always been faithful. And I'm talking about one hundred per cent faithful, not a blurred line type of faithful. I'm not the type to have had a quick tongue sandwich with a colleague in the spice cupboard at a Christmas party but then insist that it didn't mean anything because it's Christmas. I do have vague fantasies about unobtainable men from time to time, the ones that date movie stars and appear in gossip mags. But I don't even bother to hone these fantasies. They are not important to me. Roberto has always been the living embodiment of everything I want. He's tall enough, dark, handsome, and Italian. My detailed fantasies are all anchored around a family life.

  But.

  But Chuck with his lazy drawl and blondness is really stirring me up. Everything I think is inappropriate. Like, I'm impressed with the way he handles a gear stick – duh – and I actually hear myself say, 'Not many Americans can handle a shift stick, where'd you learn that?'

  I want to eat my own tongue and would punch myself except that would draw more attention to my moronicness. For goodness sake! Every man I've ever known can change gears and I've never felt the need to compliment anyone on it before! And why did I feel the need to call the gear stick a shift stick? He'll think I'm some sort of weird American-devotee that can name all the states.

  Chuck is the epitome of good manners; he smiles and says he had to learn to drive using gears when he move
d to Europe. He's used to changing gears now but doesn't get this crap European blokes go on about with regard to 'feeling the road'. I like his honesty.

  When we arrive at the bar it is buzzing. Groups of guys and girls spill on to the pavement. They are all shouting and chatting but I know that none of them will be drunk. Amazingly Italians manage to reach a state of uninhibited joyfulness without sinking twelve pints.

  The bar is full, smoky and noisy. I look around for something obvious that is responsible for attracting such a substantial crowd. It would be good to have something to report back to Roberto. Unfortunately I can't see anything that is visibly drawing the crowds. There isn't a live band, an Elvis impersonator or a DJ. The food looks nice, but then where doesn't the food look nice in Italy? The bar is full of nothing other than high spirits. I wonder if Roberto can emulate that with Raffaella perpetually sitting in the corner doing a convincing impression of the Grim Reaper's more miserable older sister.

  Chuck knows loads of people and even while we weave our way to the bar he's stopped two or three times. He introduces me to everyone and no one comments on my curls or my freckles, nor does anyone recommend something I should eat. They ask where I met Chuck, how long I've been in Italy and how I find living with my mother-in-law. Chuck's mates seem genuinely interested in me. I tell Chuck that I'll get the drinks. I buy mineral water because he's driving and I try not to drink during the last two weeks of my cycle. I find Chuck standing near the retro jukebox.

  I wonder whether I ought to tell him that my blister is really nasty now. It's the sort of thing Alison and I do tell one another and I'm desperately trying to pigeonhole my relationship with this gorgeous-looking man as platonic. Mates would be fine.

  'Thanks for introducing me to your friends.'

  It's always such a generous thing to do. I can't help but wonder why Roberto hasn't made much of an effort to get me to mix with his pals. Shouldn't he have engineered a social occasion to give me a chance to get to know his mates properly?

  'Despite my inadequate Italian we managed to cut past the small talk and say something real. That hasn't happened much since I arrived.'

  ' To be fair, you are only seeing Italians across the bar. I don't suppose you get much chance to say anything beyond, "Here's your order."'

  'Not even that, as I get the order wrong so often.'

  Chuck grins. 'The women that work in the bar are great though, aren't they?'

  I wonder if he fancies one of them. Or all of them?

  'Yes, particularly Laurana, we're becoming a bit closer. We chat about soap stars and Hollywood and stuff. Don't you think she's pretty?'

  'Yes. A beauty.' Chuck doesn't elaborate and I wished I hadn't asked the question. The teeniest, tiniest spark of jealousy flickers inside me, which is hardly very friendly. I douse it immediately.

  'She's single at the moment, maybe you should think about asking her out.'

  'Right,' says Chuck, but he's looking at me with amusement rather than with excitement at the prospect.

  'That is, if you are still single.'

  'I am.'

  'Well, perfect then,' I say with a forced enthusiasm.

  Chuck grins. 'You are quite the little matchmaker, aren't you?'

  'Happily married women often are,' I bluster, embarrassed by my clumsiness. 'We want our friends to have what we have.'

  'Well, I'll take it that's a compliment because it means you consider me a friend but I don't think I will ask Laurana out at the moment, if it's all the same to you.'

  'Oh, fine,' I say breezily. Crap. Why am I making such a pig's ear out of being his mate? Everything I say sounds dull, pushy or plain weird. My tongue fails to engage my brain again when I add, 'Look, I really need to sit down. I have a blister the size of an egg on my foot. Can we find a table?'

  We find a snug little booth tucked at the back of the bar. Clearly the booth has been designed for smoochy couples and for a brief moment I feel really bad about handicapping a budding romance but hell, do my feet hurt.

  'I've never seen you smoke since that first day we met in the piazza,' I say to Chuck.

  'Correction, you've never seen me smoke. I don't.'

  'But you gave the Forgetful Guy cigarettes.'

  'I buy them for him. Do you think that's morally wrong?'

  'No.' I think it's kind.

  'I just sort of feel bad for him, you know? He doesn't seem to have many pleasures in life.' I consider whether I'm another pity case – probably. We fall silent for some moments, then eventually Chuck asks, Was Roberto cool with you coming out tonight?'

  His question betrays the fact that he must also see that two people of the opposite sex, of a certain age, might attract some notice by coming out alone together.

  'Yes. Laurana and Gina are in tonight, he doesn't need me around. He just told me to look out for any edge the competition have here. You might think I'm here just for fun but actually I'm planning on a bit of industrial espionage.'

  'I'm glad you are having fun.'

  'Yes.' I smile.

  'Roberto is really serious about turning Bruno's around, isn't he? Up until you guys arrived it was generally agreed that the place was on its last legs. The decor was dated, the stock limited, the only people that ever went near were Raffaella and Bruno's friends.'

  'Most of whom are dead,' I wisecrack.

  'I like what Roberto has done with the decor,' adds Chuck.

  I briefly consider the possibility that he's gay. On the one hand it would explain a lot (his good manners, his wit, his high level of personal grooming and cleanliness and his willingness to spend time with me – truly, all my best friends are gay). On the other hand I'd be a bit fed up. Why? If he's gay we can openly spend time together without anyone raising so much as an eyebrow and I'd really like to spend time with Chuck because besides all the good manners, wit, high level of personal grooming slash cleanliness stuff, he's the person I feel most comfortable with in all of Italy. I park that thought as it's far too messy to face right now. Isn't my husband supposed to be that person? The memory that Chuck has recently split from his girlfriend flings itself to the front of my mind. One thing at a time. He's not gay.

  I think about Chuck's observation. When we arrived Bruno's was very dated. However much I tried to tell myself that it was rustic and charming, I knew it was just ugly and empty. Not that I gave the decor much thought at all in the first week or so. I was too busy, up to my elbows in soapy water; just trying to see the decor through the dust mites was an achievement. Plus I was more than a little taken aback with the whole family business being a shoddy bar, rather than a beatific vineyard, thing.

  Thinking about it now, I suppose there have been quite some changes since we arrived. While Roberto hasn't changed anything structurally, he has got rid of the hideous mismatched bar stools. I remember the first time I sat on one it actually cracked. We have funky Kartell transparent ones now. Plus I cleared out a large end room that Raffaella had stored God knows what in, and by doing so we've doubled the space available for punters. He's created enough room for a snug area which he's filled with a squashy leather settee and a low square coffee table. He pulled up the dirty carpets, stained by slopped drinks and muddy shoes, and exposed beautiful wooden floors. Paolina, Laurana and I spent a long weekend scrubbing, sanding and varnishing them. I have been following the revamp of the bar enough to express concern that a fair amount of our personal savings has been spent on fake zebra skin beanbags and bamboo plants.

  'Yes, I suppose he's making a good job of it,' I admit.

  'It must be amazing having a project like this to work on together,' says Chuck.

  I stare at him for some moments. I could politely agree with Chuck – effectively bringing that line of small talk to a close (although raising the need for me to introduce another topic) – and would at least leave him with the impression that all is well on the home front. Or I could just blurt out the truth.

  'I'm not much interested in the bar. I wish I could
be but I'm just not.' I need to be honest with Chuck. Isn't that the base of all relationships? Friendships, I mean. 'Oh.'

  'Exactly. Oh, indeed. It's Raffaella's bar and no matter how many pot plants we introduce or how much we change the interior or even how many hours we slave in there, it's still her bar. She's made it very clear I'm not welcome at all, and besides, I didn't think I was coming to Italy to work in bars. I've done that for years in the UK. I thought the family business was a vineyard.'

  'What?' asks Chuck. He's clearly dazed and confused.

  I take a deep breath and tell him about my mistake. I'm only about a third of a way through my very serious account of the miscommunication when Chuck starts to rock backwards and forwards with hysteria.

  'It's not funny!' I insist.

  'I think you'll find it is,' he asserts, and all at once I stop seeing the lack of vineyard as a terrible embarrassment and heartrending disappointment and I begin to see the entire mix-up as Chuck must be seeing it. Pretty hilarious.

  I start to laugh and I manage to keep laughing even when I'm describing Raffaella's coldness and Roberto's neglect. I even make a joke about the secrecy that has shrouded Ana-Maria. Chuck laughs right along with me but he's not insensitive. He tells me that everyone in Veganze finds Raffaella scary and he assures me that Roberto is simply busy and is undoubtedly devoted. He dismisses my fears about Ana-Maria with a brief wave of the hand and a comment, 'She's no competition.'

  He starts to tell me a little about his world. He's travelled for the last twelve years. He's visited Russia, India and many European countries. He's a crazy risk-taker and never happier than when he's climbing up a mountain or diving into a sea. His ambition is to buy a language school and be his own boss. He's been saving like crazy for four years. He's so attractive that I feel he is out of my orbit and so I don't even try to be attractive for him; I mean, that would be inappropriate anyway, given the circumstances. I am not trying to pull him. Instead I try to sponge up his knowledge and sit in the warm glow of his confidence; he is confident about himself, life, me, everything in fact. I don't worry about what might be the right thing to say. As a result, everything I say seems to be something he wants to hear. I wish I'd learnt that trick when I was a teenager.