Tell Me Something (Contemporary Romance)

by Adele Parks

  'I think we should talk about something else now,' I say quietly.

  Chuck nods. 'So, tell me all about this morning.'

  And I do. Throughout lunch and for the entire afternoon I talk to Chuck about my lessons. I demonstrate how I made one of the Pirelli execs laugh by imitating different regional accents in the UK. My impersonations are really pretty good. Chuck insists on hearing them and nearly snorts water on to the table as he's chortling so hard at my Geordie impression. I say how surprisingly relaxing I find the small classroom I've been assigned; the light tumbles through the windows in thick bands, creating an impression of great space. It was just what I needed today.

  The afternoon passes in a heartbeat. Despite, or perhaps even because of, my weepy confession Chuck is easy company and I feel a strange calm when I'm with him – sometimes I'm even joyful, despite the huge disappointment gnawing at my soul. We leisurely wander, exploring a little bit of the town. The sun is doing its best to join the fun. It darts behind a cloud and then reappears again every few minutes, rather like a child playing peek-a-boo. We sit in happy silences and watch the mobile-wielding gangs of Italians chat merrily to one another. Their sociability is delightful.

  Undeterred by his insistence that I over-generalize, I sigh and comment, 'You've got to love the Italians.'

  'Yes, I've made great friends here. People are very welcoming.'

  'And so elegant.' My eyes are drawn to another crowd of tiny-limbed women wearing high boots, carrying oversized bags and adorned with chunky belts. 'I seriously doubt my ability to ever ape that level of sophistication, which is quite a depressing thought.'

  'Come on, we'll go and eat cake. That-we can do in our own inimitable style.'

  The cake will do nothing by way of helping me towards the oh-so-thin limbs that I admire, but I can't resist. The cake-shop window is lit up like a Christmas display. I can't decide on just one so we buy three between us. Chuck forks moist cake into my mouth and I allow myself a moment of undiluted pleasure.

  I ask Chuck to drop me off at Bruno's because I've asked Roberto to meet me there rather than at Raffaella's. I want to tell him about my first day's teaching away from Raffaella's censorious gaze. When I'd made the arrangement I'd been unsure as to whether I'd be arriving home triumphant or hanging my head in shame; either way I didn't want to be greeted by Raffaella.

  'Oh damn, I can't see his car,' I grumble as we approach the bar.

  'Do you want me to take you home? He might be there,' offers Chuck.

  'No, he always parks here, there's no space at Raffaella's and I told him to meet me here.'

  'Something must have cropped up unexpectedly.'

  'Something always does,' I mutter ominously.

  'I'm sure he'd have wanted to greet you after your first day of work if he could have. We are quite late. It's my fault.'

  Chuck means well but we're both embarrassed by his statement. His thoughtfulness exposes Roberto's lack of it.

  I rally. 'No problem, Laurana is probably about. She'll want to hear all about the school. I'll see you Friday, hey?'

  'Yeah, I'll run you to and from school, no worries. And if you want to hook up before, call me any time.'

  He passes me a piece of paper with his mobile number and his home number written out. I like the way he writes his sevens. His fingers brush against mine and I'm scorched. I'm sure I'm branded like an animal.

  I nod, scramble out the car and wave. As I watch his car fade into the haze of the afternoon sun it crosses my mind that the problem is I don't have his number. Not at all. Not in the real sense. Is Chuck just the nicest guy you could ever hope to meet, a truly sympathetic friend and gent? Or, does he fancy the very flesh off me and is he therefore likely to jump any moment? It's confusing. And the most confusing thing of all is that I don't know which one I want it to be.

  42

  There's no sign of Roberto until it's time to cash up. When he finally arrives he looks distracted and apologetic. In front of Laurana I resist the temptation to demand where he's been, because I don't want to let on that I need to keep tabs on him yet can't; both situations are embarrassing.

  He makes quite an entrance. 'Girls, how can I thank you enough?' he asks. Flinging his arms wide, he offers up a sheepish smile. He looks every inch the delinquent but repentant teenager facing up to his granny.

  'A pay rise,' replies Laurana as quick as a flash. I grin at her. I admire her style. I wish I'd thought of that.

  Roberto ignores her comment but instead says, You go home now. Are you in the car or do you need a lift?'

  'A lift would be nice. Tonight has been quiet, as it is Monday, but sometimes the quiet nights are the longest, wouldn't you agree, Elizabeth?'

  I nod and smile. 'Run her home, Roberto. I'll lock up and see you back at the house.'

  By the time Roberto returns I've showered and I'm in bed. He pushes open the door with stealth but I sit up and flick on the bedside light.

  'I didn't want to wake you,' he says as he unbuttons his shirt.

  'I wasn't asleep.'

  I hug my knees and wait. I'm not sure what I'm waiting for most. I can't decide what I want from him first; an interested inquiry about my morning at school or an explanation as to where he's been all afternoon and evening. He clearly can't decide what to say either, so he stays silent while he peels off all his clothes, folds them, puts on pyjamas and finally slips between the sheets.

  Eventually he says, 'The nights are getting warmer, aren't they? Soon we will need a fan in here.' Then he rolls on to his side and away from me.

  I tell myself to breathe deeply. Without the reminder I might forget to breathe at all, as the dangerous, hot fury bubbling up inside me might suffocate me.

  'Are you going to turn your light out?' he asks.

  'No.'

  'It's late. You should get some sleep. Are you reading?'

  'No.' I hear him sigh. He turns his body towards me a fraction but doesn't look at me; instead he stares at the ceiling. 'Do you want us to have sex?'

  'NO!' I yell. The fury is unable to be suppressed for a moment longer. Now I have his attention. He sits bolt upright.

  'Elizabeth, shush. You'll wake the family. What is the matter?'

  'Where have you been today?'

  'I've been busy. I had business to attend to. People to see.'

  I want to ask him which people he's seen. Has he seen Ana-Maria today? Has he spent all afternoon with her family, reminiscing about old times and laughing over tattered photos? Or worse.

  'Laurana said you managed fine in the bar. She said you weren't busy. I knew you'd be OK.'

  'We were but that's not the point. I didn't know you were OK. I didn't even know where you were.'

  'We can't live in one each other's pockets, Elizabeth. We'll go crazy. I didn't realize you needed a minute-by-minute account of my where beings.'

  'It's one another's or each other's and it's whereabouts,' I correct automatically.

  But put like that I seem weirdly irrational and I begin to lose the certainty of my right to be furious. Of course I don't need a minute-by-minute account but a day-by-day one might be nice. I don't allow myself to say as much because it seems petty. Is it respect for personal space that has led to Roberto forgetting to ask me how my very first day of teaching went? I stubbornly refuse to furnish him with the detail until he makes a polite enquiry, so I swallow all the excited chatter I'd stored throughout the day. I will keep the funny anecdotes and charming details to myself; but swallowing my own happiness tastes disgusting.

  'Now can we please get some sleep? I, for one, am very tired.'

  'No. Why are you so tired? What have you been doing all day?'

  Suddenly an image of Roberto and Ana-Maria's tanned limbs entwined in each other and in crisp white sheets forces its way into my head. I see, with frightening clarity, his lips moving towards hers, his hand skimming across her back, down to her pert bottom. I can even see tiny beads of sweat resting on his top lip; a faint glo
w, betraying his exertion. I shake my head and try to shift the vile images but they stubbornly cling to my subconscious. Whatever I do, I must not bring up Ana-Maria's name. I'll look jealous and insecure (not a great look). I have no evidence that anything untoward is going on. I shouldn't be thinking this about him. I should trust him. No man wants a suspicious and irrational wife. I bite my tongue and try to think of something, anything, to say other than her name. I must trust him. I must remain calm and logical. I must not jump to conclusions.

  'Have you been with Ana-Maria today?' I demand, somewhat buggering up Plan A to keep my cool.

  'Why do you ask such a thing?'

  'Why don't you answer such a thing?'

  'You are being foolish.'

  'No, I'm not. I didn't ask you if you had sex with Ana-Maria today. Now that would be foolish.' I realize that I sound screechy and breathless. I've slipped into sarcasm. I often do when I'm upset. I always think sarcasm is just a bitter spinster sister of humour. I sometimes use humour to avoid talking directly with my husband too; right now, I can't be that disciplined.

  'I'm simply taking an interest. You know, like couples do. You, for instance, could have asked how my day went at school. I wouldn't have thought you foolish, just interested.'

  Roberto hates it when I am sarcastic because sometimes it's hard for him to appreciate all the shades and nuances of my irritation, although I think he gets the gist tonight.

  He groans and hits his forehead with the flat of his palm. 'The school, I forgot to ask.'

  'Yes, you did.' I wait. Surely he knows that this is his chance. An enquiry, even at this late stage, would be appreciated.

  'Come on, there's no point in us rowing,' he mutters.

  'Au contraire. There is every point in us rowing. For a start I can feel better that I've got this off my chest. Why should I be the only one to have a sleepless night?'

  He looks confused; the mix of French sarcasm and English idiom has left him behind. This sometimes happens when we row because I speed up my speech pattern and become more colloquial and high-pitched. He finds me difficult to understand. Right now I find him difficult to understand too, but I fear it's more to do with his Y chromosome than his accent. I used to find his inability to follow me charming and the affection his bemused looks inspired was always enough to stop me mid-rant. I'd patiently explain the bizarre idiosyncrasies of the English language and invariably we'd end up laughing and loving. In the past I used to find it impossible to remain angry with him when we were in bed. Now, I stare at his confused face and think he's either being dumb or betraying me.

  'OK, I'm sorry I forgot about school. Did you have a good time?'

  'Yes, thank you. Excellent.'

  'Good. Can we sleep now?' He yawns. His lazy, glazed eyes irritate me; odd, because I've always thought they were like soothing chocolate pools which I could dive into for reassurance or pleasure whenever I needed to. Some faces become contemptible with intimacy.

  I stare at him and hope I'm communicating my frustration. It seems unlikely when he rolls over and I'm left glaring at his back. I fully expect my fury to scorch holes in his shoulderblades. How can he be so insensitive? He must know I need more from him than that. I hope the gap in understanding is to do with his language but secretly I question his integrity.

  'Do you realize, Elizabeth, if you had checked with the bar diary you would have known where my appointments of today were,' he says to the wall.

  I'm not aware there is a bar diary, but feel admitting as much would put me on the back foot and I shouldn't be on the back foot. It's him who forgot to take a polite interest in my new job, it's him that's been out all day (God knows where) and it's him who is harbouring a crush on his adorable ex-girlfriend. Probably.

  'If only you took as much interest in the bar as you do in your menstruating cycle, your suntan or even Chuck Andrews,' mutters Roberto. Then he falls asleep or at least pretends to and I'm left well and truly on the back foot.

  43

  25 March

  There are some things in life that are just true. Princess Diana was good with kids, chocolate gives you spots, sale clothes are never available in the right size and I'll never have an affair. Really. I'm not the type. I value loyalty and I actively fantasize about my fortieth wedding anniversary. Plus I love Roberto; he's very lovable.

  Except right now of course, when I'm positively furious with him. At the moment Roberto is being bossy, secretive, selfish and cold; which isn't ideal. But relationships, real relationships, do have ups and downs. It's unrealistic to expect everything to be sweetness and light absolutely all the time. We are big enough to deal with rough patches. As Alison pointed out, we've had years of rough patches while we've been trying for a baby and we always manage; we struggle through it. It would be pathetic to be frightened or threatened by my silly, inexplicable feelings for Chuck. Even if they are growing like credit card bills in the run-up to Christmas. It would be massively undervaluing my marriage if I imagined that Chuck could ever be a genuine menace. I'm never going to have an affair, as I said, I'm not the type and nor is Chuck come to that. He's honourable and respectful and would never suggest such a thing.

  So, I reason, even if Roberto is being a total tosser at the moment and I'm feeling neglected and lonely, I am still not putting myself at any sort of serious risk by sending Chuck a text and suggesting I catch the bus into Bassano del Grappa to meet him for lunch. I'm just being friendly. My throat is dry and tight and my hands become sticky as I wait to see if he texts me back. After the longest seven minutes of my life, he sends 'Great x.' The inclusion of a kiss sends me dizzy with excitement.

  As I wait in the sunshine outside the school, anticipation glides up and down my spine. I haven't mentioned my plan to have lunch with Chuck to anyone at the bar. Roberto and I barely spoke this morning beyond 'Pass the butter', and as usual he had business that took him away from the bar. This morning I worked with Gina; I spent an hour searching for the elusive bar diary but couldn't find it. Gina did say that she was pretty sure she'd seen one hanging around somewhere; she also told me that Roberto had called to say that he is looking at tiles for the bathrooms as per my suggestion. Maybe he is.

  I excused myself at eleven, claiming I had homework to complete as a matter of urgency. As Gina doesn't know me too well she didn't realize how improbable this would be and she said she admired my efforts. In fact, I spent the time wandering around the market and selecting picnic food for lunch for Chuck and me. I bought an oily ciabatta, spicy, sunny-coloured couscous, an assortment of cheeses, black and green olives (dripping in oil), some fat ripe nectarines and a couple of small bottles of mineral water (I don't think we are at the bottle-sharing stage). I wanted to buy wine but didn't because Chuck has to teach in the afternoon and it's not fair to tempt him into a woozy head. I considered packing a travel rug but I didn't want to ask Raffaella if I could borrow one, it would lead to too many awkward questions; it's better we find a bench. I am incredibly keyed up about surprising Chuck with the picnic. Picnics are so intimate and romantic. Not that this picnic is romantic. This picnic is a thank-you for yesterday's lunch, for helping me find my job in the first place and for listening to me. This picnic is a friendly picnic, nothing more. I'm just saying some picnics can be romantic.

  The bell, to signal morning classes are finally over, trills through the cerulean sky. I simmer with expectancy as I watch students flood through the doors and pour haphazardly on to the street. I'm already addicted to the energy that the students exude; it's intoxicating. Like all students throughout the world they look earnest, exuberant, hopeful and horny; it's a great look. I can't think when I last wore it. Eventually I spot Chuck. I only just resist jumping up and down and instead I wave to him from across the street. He beams back and bounds towards me, barely checking for traffic.

  'You didn't look for cars,' I scold as he nears me.

  'Nice to see you care,' he teases.

  I blush. 'Of course I care – I'd have to
teach your classes if something happened to you so it's in my interest to keep you safe,' I joke.

  It's better not to allow so much as a nod and a wink to the affection that seems to flow between us. If we are going to remain just friends, and we have to remain just friends, then there is no room for flirtation or nuance. I can only reconcile my conscience if I'm outstandingly scrupulous about how I behave when I'm with him. Sometimes it doesn't even matter what you are thinking, it's what you do that counts and I'm not going to do anything. Besides, who is to say he even likes me that way.

  As a serial monogamist with a reasonable history I am not one of those dippy women who either profess to know – or maybe genuinely doesn't know – when a man is interested in her in that way. I've always known. They usually want you to know so it's hardly a brainteaser. Plus, as a faithful serial monogamist I have never encouraged a guy who I'm not interested in. I'm no saint. If I was ever with a Franco and a Garlo came along who grabbed my attention more, I'd swiftly move on, but I don't overlap and I don't prick-tease. So where is Chuck in all of this?

  'What do you want to eat?' he asks. 'I'm starving. I've had a very full timetable this morning, not even time for elevenses.'

  'I brought a picnic.' I can't keep the childish pleasure out of my voice. I dangle my rucksack in front of him.

  'No way.'

  'Way.'

  'That's so cool. I love picnics.'

  'Me too.' I stare at him and grin like an idiot. He smiles back and his eyes crinkle in a way that makes my stomach (and a bit lower) complete a gymnastic routine worthy of the Olympics. Embarrassed and fearing that somehow he can sense the attraction I feel, I hurry on. 'So where shall we eat?' I swizzle my head from left to right like some sort of frenzied cartoon character – anything's better than catching his eye again.

  He's sexy, handsome and bright, which I've come across before; I'm married to a man who can be described in those exact terms, for goodness sake. But more than that, he's also gentle, reasonable and straightforward, which is somehow soothing to be around. And while I continually remind myself that he's a blond American, not a dark Italian, and therefore a million miles away from anything I ever thought would make me happy, I can't help but notice that I am happy when I'm with him. Sometimes I think I'm only ever happy when I'm with him. Oh, I don't know.