by Adele Parks
Chuck suggests we walk across the historic bridge over the Brenta river in the heart of Bassano itself. We settle on the steps. Chuck tells me that this beautiful bridge was designed by Antonio Palladio; he says it in a way that assumes I'll know who he's on about. I don't and I'm a bit ashamed. When my parents used to force-feed me facts about architecture and history I barely bothered to hide my boredom; now I wish I'd listened a little harder. It would be nice to impress Chuck. Not that Chuck seems to care how much I know about Antonio Palladio – he just seems delighted that I appreciate the views upstream toward the mountains. He always gives me the impression that he approves of me. It's a great feeling to be on the receiving end of.
We try to keep out of the way of the pedestrians marching across the bridge and we turn our attention to the delicious food I've brought.
'Do you like gorgonzola? I've also brought Fontina Val d'Aosta. I've just discovered it. It's delicious, sort of dense, but smooth and slightly elastic. It has a delicate nuttiness with a hint of mild honey. I read that on the label.'
'I love it.' He breaks off a large chunk and starts to munch.
I perhaps haven't thought through this picnic as well as I should have. For a start I haven't packed napkins or a knife. Still, we manage, and I'm relieved when he doesn't nit-pick. Roberto would be horrified at the idea of eating cheese with his fingers on the steps of a bridge. He can be quite fussy about the strangest things. I think breaking huge lumps of bread and slabs of cheese is romantic. I mean friendly.
'Is this what you were expecting or were you hoping we'd find a park?' asks Chuck.
I consider. Oddly, I didn't have expectations of how the picnic would pan out. How unlike me. I was so excited about seeing Chuck again and surprising him by doing something nice for him after he's done so much for me but I hadn't thought beyond that.
'This is fine,' I say with a smile and a nod.
'I'd say perfect.'
We sit silently munching. In a way I wish I could describe the silence as uncomfortable but it's actually a pleasant pause. It's like we go back much further than we do.
Eventually Chuck says, 'Do you think you might be interested in discovering more about this city? You know, in your free time or whatever.' He seems less confident than he usually does when we are together, almost tentative. 'The Duomo was built around the year iooo but renovated in 1417. It's interesting. I could show you around it another time.' I don't answer straight away because I'm chewing a huge lump of bread. Chuck assumes my delay is due to reticence and adds hurriedly, 'I'm not suggesting you come to Bassano del Grappa especially or anything; maybe we could just have a look in your lunch hour, after lessons. It doesn't matter if it's not your thing,' he adds, taking away the offer just moments after he's made it.
I swallow quickly. 'No, yes. That would be great. Totally my thing.' I gush, thrilled with the idea that I might be able to spend more time with him. But then I hesitate. I don't know why I feel I can be so entirely myself with him. More, that I have to be entirely myself with him but something compels me to add, 'Actually, churches are not my thing.'
'Well, there's a castle and a museum,' he suggests.
I scrunch up my nose. 'To be honest, I could think of other ways to explore the city.'
'Oh, OK. Well, it doesn't matter.' He looks straight ahead, not at me, and I sense he's embarrassed, perhaps even disappointed. But maybe I'm getting him all wrong, maybe he's looking straight ahead because the views are great.
'But I'd like to do something else with you,' I add quickly. 'There's lots of other stuff. We could shop,' I offer hopefully, then I remember his sex; shopping might not press his buttons. 'Or sunbathe,' I offer. 'Or listen to music, or just talk,' I finish pathetically.
Chuck treats me to a slow grin and all signs of embarrassment and disappointment are banished. 'I like it when we talk,' he says.
'Me too.'
Or even when we are silent. But I force back the words. I am married. And, even if I wasn't, Chuck is not the sort of man who could ever have made me happy. First and foremost he doesn't want kids. Roberto at least wants kids – even if he doesn't believe we'll ever have them. I have no idea why I enjoy Chuck's company as much as I do. Besides – pertinently – I'm married. I've made my choice. OK, so Roberto and I are not in the best place right now but we belong together. Being married trumps comfortable conversations and even comfortable silences with someone else. Those are the rules and there has to be an order to such things.
Yet the air between us is heavy with suggestion, hope and guilt. The air between us knows that given another world, another set of circumstances, there would have been no air between us because I'd be kissing him long and hard and hungrily.
But there isn't a different set of circumstances and there is air between us. I pull back physically and mentally. I start to pack away the debris from the picnic and effeciently brush away the crumbs that have settled on my jeans. We must remain just friends. There is no space for any other sort of relationship. Anything else is wrong and impossible. I search for something to say that will break the tension and maybe even go the extra mile and put him off me. I can't start something, anything, with this man. It's wrong.
'I'm not keen on schlepping around old churches, or museums or anything, because I'm not a self-improver,' I say defiantly.
'Maybe that's because you are fine as you are,' says Chuck. He looks at me from under his fringe and there's no sign that he's put off.
And I must be a terrible person because I want to punch the air and talk about love.
44
25 April
One of the many, many reasons I have always felt that it is unfair that I'm not a mum is that I am a good person. And good people deserve the chance to be mums, obviously. Of course, everyone likes to think they are a good person – no doubt – but I'm pretty sure I am one. I never pass a tin being rattled in the high street; often I scramble to cough up a quid even before I know what charity I'm donating to because I'm certain it must be worthy enough if some poor sod is prepared to stand in the rain collecting. I try to remember birthdays, including all the birthdays of my friends' numerous kids. I never laugh at other people's dancing. I would never dream of parking in one of those places in the supermarket car park that's earmarked for the disabled and I gave all my old videos to a charity shop when I bought DVDs. A good person.
Or, at least, I always have been up to now.
I'm realistic. I know that I'm not an exceptionally good person like Mother Teresa was or Bob Geldof is. I'm not even as good as most of my family members or friends, but I'm absolutely certain that I'm not a bad person so I renew all my efforts to ignore this silly, illogical, inconvenient crush I'm developing on Chuck. Because a married woman having a silly, illogical, inconvenient crush on a sexy blond man means that the woman in question must be a bad person. Adultery is a bad thing. You don't have to be a genius to figure out that much.
I can't banish him from my life. For a start, it's impractical; we now work together and he gives me lifts to and from the school. And anyway I shouldn't need to banish him like I'm some sort of undisciplined, selfish floozy. I can be around him, allow our friendship to deepen and accept it for just that. In time I'm sure he'll reveal himself to be quite ordinary and my silly, inappropriate feelings will doubtless fade. Definitely. Surely. Maybe.
Maybe not.
The problem is the more time I spend with him the more I realize he's far from ordinary. He seems deep. Unexpected. Complex. Real. It's dawning on me that my attraction to Chuck is possibly more than just physical (which would be bad enough); more is bad indeed. The truth is that in some way or other every moment of my day is taken up with Chuck. We see each other every Monday and Friday morning. I look forward to our drives with exactly the same level of anticipation as a four-year-old looks forward to Christmas. He always picks me up at the clock tower in the piazza. I relish those moments when I wait for him and I'm all alone with my expectancy. I guess at what he might
be wearing or how he might greet me. Just thinking about him, without angry interruptions from Raffaella or impatient grunts from Roberto, provides me with private feelings7 of pure joy. Chuck stands out like a flare in a black night. He seems to gleam with health and happiness and the first moment I rest my eyes on him is one of immense, intense pleasure. When I approach the car he usually jumps out, takes my bag off me and briefly kisses me on the cheek. It's comfy. It's scary.
He always pays me a compliment; nothing too full-on or creepy, just 'You look good this morning, very professional' or 'Is that a new dress? Cool.'
Invariably I blush and mutter, 'What, this old thing? No, no, not new, I've had it for years.' Which is, of course, a lie. Getting ready in the morning is no longer a hit or miss affair. I'm starting to understand women who groom. OK, so I'm never going to be mistaken for a WAG but I really like the results of occasionally shaving my legs or slapping on a bit of blusher; making the effort doesn't seem such an effort when Chuck notices even the smallest thing.
The car journeys are a joy. Chuck has got into the habit of always bringing along a bag of fruit for us to munch as breakfast. This way I can duck out of Raffaella's miserably heavy and early salami breakfasts, plus the pears, apples, cherries or mangoes that Chuck offers are fat, ripe and delicious. He buys them from the local market where I bought the olives for our picnic; all the fruit and veg tastes great here, as it's locally produced and organic. Food is a wonderful ice-breaker, it's impossible to be shy after you've seen each other with fruit juice dripping down your chin or a strawberry pip stuck between your front teeth.
Chuck loves his food. His mum bakes cakes but not in a mumsie way. She runs a lucrative business with eight staff producing truly elaborate cakes that sell for a fortune to mums in the posh burbs of San Fran and to dozens of chi-chi patisseries, cafes and restaurants. He can chat for ages about things such as cocoa powder and vanilla pods. He can even avoid sounding boring while doing so. His dad is retired now but he used to be a butcher. He's sensitive to my dislike of meat eating and so doesn't go into the same detail about fresh cuts as he does vanilla pods.
'A butcher, a baker, does that mean your brother is a candlestick maker?' I asked with a laugh.
'Sort of. He's a carpenter, so he makes furniture, not candlesticks exactly but almost. My choices aren't so good if you continue with the rhyme though, are they? Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.'
'No, only twenty-five per cent chance of avoiding benefit or jail. I'm not sure you are the sort of man my mum and dad would approve of,' I joked.
'My mum and dad would love you, I'd really like you to meet one day,' he replied more seriously, and somehow that comment stopped the laughter, although it left me feeling delighted.
We meet after lessons and have lunch together. Sometimes after lunch we take a walk and I've been out with Chuck and his friends on three occasions in the evenings. We text one another five or six times a day. The texts aren't full of flirty, cheeky innuendos, they are totally blameless and yet thoroughly exciting.
Am in Bar Aderente. Caramel ice cream to die for.
Wish I was there. I'm in kitchen, cleaning under oven!
Uh oh. Will buy litre and freeze it for you for another time.
Thanks!
Have you seen the movie Pane e Tulipani? I think you'd like it. It's sweet and hopeful.
No. Have you seen the sunset? It's stunning tonight.
Sometimes he drops by Bruno's, alone or with friends. I'm always pleased to see him. Despite Roberto's coolness and Raffaella's rudeness, Chuck remains the epitome of manners and gives the impression that he is unaware that visiting me runs the risk of a mafia passion killing or, at the very least, Raffaella coughing-up into his drink (I always try to serve him to minimize that risk, plus I've advised him not to take anything from the kitchen). Raffaella has made her dislike of Chuck very obvious. He's never done anything to offend her; in fact I think he's remarkably patient and polite with her. He always talks to her in his impeccable Italian, he asks after her health and the business, he even talks to her old father, but she answers grudgingly and without meeting his eye. I've hinted that maybe Chuck visits so often because he's interested in Laurana or better yet, Paolina, and for this reason alone she tolerates him. She'd rather not have him at the bar at all. Not that she believes he's interested in me in any way beyond friendship, she just dislikes having him around because she's noticed that having him around makes me happy.
He likes reading books about cowboys. He listens to Brit bands and is secretly proud of this small pretension; so he should be when you consider his mates are probably all listening to Bruce Springsteen. He says his favourite movie is Moulin Rouge but he might be having me on. He dislikes the sight of blood and he's scared of snakes. He once got knocked over as a kid and was in hospital for weeks (he still has a scar on his shoulderblade – I haven't seen it). His first love was called Lily-Beth. He kissed her when he was seventh grade. He did go to the school prom (I didn't think those things still happened); he bought his date a bunch of sweet peas (he thought it was cool and individual, she thought it was cheap and wanted an orchid, they rowed and didn't dance together). He was voted the guy in his class 'most likely to travel'.
'At least that's what I was voted in the official yearbook,' he added.
'Was there an unofficial one?'
'Oh yes.'
'And what were you voted in that one?'
'I can't say.'
I looked at him and grinned widely. 'Come on, you can tell me anything.'
'I'm beginning to understand that, but I fear you might like me a little less if you knew,' he teased. 'One day I'll tell you.' I left it at that because I believe him. One day I'll know.
When my period came it was Chuck who cheered me up. When Roberto vanishes for hours on end I search out Chuck. When Raffaella slights or insults me, Chuck consoles and calms. It's unbearably confusing and inconvenient but I can't regret meeting him. I hope I never do.
I try to throw myself into my work. Teaching and studying gives my week structure and meaning. Developing a routine independent of the family – Raffaella, Bruno's and even Roberto – has clear advantages. Days fly past and weeks seamlessly run away too, until I've been teaching for a month.
Driving home from school one lunchtime, I pretend to Chuck that I've just stumbled upon this realization, when in fact I've been aware of my month anniversary looming for about twenty-eight days. A first monthly salary is a big deal, even if the contents of the packet are still quite modest.
'We should celebrate,' I declare, as though the thought has just occurred to me. It's not that I'm being horribly manipulative, it's just that I don't want to seem over-dependent on him, and admitting that I spend the vast majority of my waking thoughts planning and plotting how to secure more time with him might betray that I am over-dependent. Or manipulative.
Damn.
'Won't you be celebrating with Roberto?' I look at Chuck with exasperation. Is he being dense? We've become good enough friends over the last month for him to know that isn't a probable option.
'Pretty unlikely I would have thought, this being a Friday.'
'Equally unlikely that they'll let you have the night off so that you can come over to my place and I can cook a celebratory meal for you before we hit the bars of Veganze,' says Chuck.
'Are you serious? You want to cook for me?'
'All my friends have to taste my attempts at penne con gamberi e carciofi sooner or later. You are lucky you've got away without it for this long.'
'Penne with shrimp and -'
'Artichokes. Are you OK with eating shrimps? I could leave them out.'
'Er, I'm not sure how successful a dish of penne and artichokes will be. Best stick with the shrimps. No worries, I eat fish, now and again.' I pause and consider the offer for a moment. He's just being friendly. 'I'd love to come to your place.'
I try very hard to sound nonchalant. The thing is I haven't seen inside Chuck's apar
tment. There's no logical reason for this. He lives alone so there are no flatmates to accommodate, his place is in the centre of town, we often meet up socially but somehow it's never happened. I'm well aware of why. I wonder if he is. If I visit his home we will be right up against the intimacy that, so far, we've managed to ignore – or at least control.
'Do you think you can swing it?'
I know that Raffaella and Roberto will both strongly object to my bunking off bar duties on a Friday but I don't kid myself that they'll miss my company. I am becoming increasingly invisible to my husband and Raffaella just sees me as slave labour.
'They won't be pleased but sod it. I think I deserve some sort of celebration. What time do you want me?'
Chuck pauses and for a nanosecond the car is full of tension. Chuck seems to be biting his lip. I feel the need to rephrase my question as I fight a blush. 'What time do you want me to come round?'
Cough. 'About eight.'
'Can I bring anything?'
'Just yourself. That will be more than enough.'
Just good friends, I mutter to myself as I close the car door. Just good friends. Liar, liar, knickers on fire. They are. I'm so utterly turned on that I could believe that there's a box of fireworks being let off in my scanties. Truthfully, I fancy the hell out of him. Inconceivably, inconveniently, impossibly, the very hell out of him.
45
I stop off at Bar Aderente to have a cappuccino and to call Alison before I get home. I want her advice on how I ought best to negotiate a night off.
