by Adele Parks
Fiona answers Alison's mobile, which is a little disconcerting. We have one of those friendly but semi-formal chats that two people who have never met one another but know lots about one another have on the phone. She tells me that it was unusually hot in London last weekend and that she and Alison picnicked in Hyde Park.
'I'm going to miss London's summer,' I blurt.
'Traffic, trains, overhead aeroplanes?' she asks doubtfully.
'Yes.'
'Fighting for a square inch of space in the local park?'
'Yes.'
'Ugly, burnt flesh bulging over waistbands and flowing over too-tight bras?'
'Yes,' I say firmly.
'You're mad. You are much better off where you are. I bet you're not choked by traffic fumes.'
'No, cigarette smoke, actually,' I say snippily. I know Fiona is trying to be nice. But, irrationally, her insistence that I can't possibly be missing what she has is annoying.
'Oh. Well. Right. Erm. Alison is in the shower. I'll get her to call you when she gets out, should I?'
'Yes, please.'
I hang up and feel a little guilty. It's not Fiona's fault that her love life is marvellous while mine is – well – totally muddled, terrifying and frustrating. And it's not Fiona's fault that Alison is in the shower (actually, indirectly, it might be) and not available to talk when I need her.
I order a wine instead of a cappuccino and take a moment to look around me. The sun is shining down and has done so consistently for a while now; people stroll about with wide open, sanguine faces. At last I can see hues of the Italy I remembered rather than the one that shocked and chilled me back in January. I see charming, rustic buildings adorned with wrought-iron balconies and wooden shutters painted a serious green. But almost instantly it crosses my mind that there are innumerable shuttered buildings within which I have no idea what goes on and I have a feeling I will never know. I see that there are plenty of men running around with colourful bunches of flowers, just as I saw when I was a teenager, but in a flap of a butterfly's wing I also notice that there are a number of women looking cross and duped. How had I missed them before? I can't help but wonder if the flowers are for mistresses or mothers rather than wives.
Generally, Italy seems less overtly sexual than I remember. I am not consistently ambushed by longing gazes from teenage Romeos as I was when I visited as a girl. Truth is men rarely catch my eye unless I'm asking the server for a bill. Only the tragically obvious men-sluts look my way. As a young girl I remember having to fight them off with a stick. I'm depressed at the lack of horniness. I'm older and clearly perceived as such.
Not that it matters. I'm not on the pull. I have Roberto. Indeed it's probably because of the fact that I am with Roberto that men in Veganze stay a respectable distance and that's how it should be. I should not hanker after lecherous looks from leather-jacketed lotharios. It's just that somehow, I thought the all-pervasive sexual atmosphere might help me conceive. Crazy I know, but then once I seriously considered having sex at Stonehenge because I'd heard it helped fertility and that's hardly the thinking of a rational woman either.
I do still see waiters cooing enthusiastically over the babies of their clients and I'm reassured to see that this at least is true to my teenage memories. I watch a family sitting to my left: a full complement of grandparents, a mother, her toddler and her baby. The toddler is opening packets of sugar and pouring them on to the table then tracing patterns into the small mounds of sweetness. Delighted, the grandmother ohs and ahs at the child's creativity. The mother watches, caught between amusement and bewilderment. I imagine that when the old grandmother was a mother she never indulged her daughter in the same way she does her granddaughter. She'd be too worried about the mess being created. It's a grandparent's privilege to be lenient and carefree about the consequence of mess. The mother absentmindedly caresses her baby's head. She moves her hand a few inches and trails it down his back. The target of tenderness shifts again as she plays with his toes. Contented, he gurgles back at her as she lifts him into the sky and then she brings him safe and close for a kiss; she wraps the pair of them in indescribable bliss. They are safely sealed with just a kiss.
I feel a familiar and vicious blow low in my stomach.
Sometimes I think I'm losing all reason. Even the many arches that adorn most Italian towns put me in mind of women blooming with pregnancy. The question I keep coming back to is, if not that, then what? What is the point of it all? What is the point of me? Of everything? The nasty, spiteful question swells into my consciousness with unrelenting frequency. Occasionally the urgency fades – when I'm with Chuck and I'm distracted by feelings of pure happiness or curiosity or even confusion my longing for a family subsides slightly. But it never goes away. On my worse days I consider that my failure to conceive may not be arbitrary bad luck and I wonder if I am worthy to be a mum. Does someone, somewhere, know something I don't? Am I lacking in some way that is glaringly obvious to the fertility gods but not to me?
Madness, I know. Because I'm consumed with this self-doubt and loathing I order myself another drink. It's thirsty work staying sane.
I think I might cry, but luckily am saved by the bell as my phone vibrates on the table.
'Hi, you rang, my lady,' jokes Alison. 'Hang on a minute. Fi, will you make me one too. Yes, and a biscuit. Ta.' Really, what was the point in her calling me if she wants to continue her conversation with Fiona? I wonder irritably. 'Sorry about that. So how are you? It's great to hear from you, we haven't spoken for –'
'Three weeks.'
'Are you keeping count?'
'No.'
Yes. But I don't want to say so. Alison and I have always said that we think friends who get arsy with one another for not calling are insecure and unfair. Either friend can pick up a phone. It takes two to make a friendship and two to break a friendship. We've never kept tabs on who owes whom a call. At least, that was until Alison stopped calling me.
'We've been so busy,' she says with a giggle.
Alison tells me all about the fantastic things that she and Fiona have been getting up to. I have to confess they seem perfect for one another. They both like cycling, ballet and opera and you don't often come across that level of worthiness. They seem to spend a disproportionate amount of time in galleries and museums and doing 'learny' stuff. I can appreciate that Alison enjoys wandering around Hockney exhibitions way more than she ever enjoyed wandering around Mothercare with me making 'when' lists. Plus they have the whole bed thing; however much I love Alison it has never been in that way. I see that I have to surrender up my role as most important person in Alison's life and I have to surrender with grace.
'Er, look, I was a bit short with Fiona when I rang,' I confess.
'Really?'
'I wonder if she knows and Fiona has already mentioned as much. 'I've got a bit on my mind. Will you say sorry and tell her not to take offence?'
'Don't worry, she's cool,' says Alison, reassuring and forgiving me in only a few syllables, as is her way. I miss her keenly. 'So what's on your mind?'
'Chuck.'
'Your hopeless crush?'
'I'm scared I'm beginning to really care for him.'
'Go on.' Alison sounds serious, which is worrying. I was expecting her to dismiss my confession as crazy, sun-induced rambling.
'We share the closeness, confidence and understanding of lovers.'
'But not body fluids?' she checks.
'No.'
'He's your new best friend,' she says enthusiastically. I can hear her relief as clearly as a foghorn. 'That's all.'
'Maybe. But can a man and a woman be best friends?'
'Well, you're straight and I'm a lesbian and we are best friends.'
'I suppose.' I want to be convinced but I'm not.
'Has he declared undying love?'
'No.'
'Well, that's good.'
Is it? 'Yes, it is.' I mutter.
'Everything is as it should be,' she say
s confidently.
'I shouldn't be wasting so much time thinking about Chuck, I should be thinking about baby-making.'
'Actually, the only good thing I can see in all this is that you are obsessing less about conceiving. This is the first month in years and years when you haven't called me when you got your period.'
Why don't I feel better about her cheery reassurances?
He's exciting and comfortable at the same time. He's transparent and a mystery. I've never come across anything quite like it before. I try to explain as much in a way that's less likely to cause Alison to mock me.
'He listens to me in a way no one else ever has. I have no shyness with him. For example the other week we got talking about how many lovers is an acceptable number to have or at least own up to and I told him the real number.'
'So?' Typical that straightforward Alison would think that is the norm. Maybe women lovers are more forgiving. Men rarely want to know the truth.
'Well, when Roberto and I had that same conversation six and a half years ago I said two.'
'Two?' She nearly chokes.
'Yes. Fourteen less than truthful and two more than he found acceptable.'
' That probably says more about your relationship with Roberto than your relationship with Chuck,' says Alison. 'How's yours and Roberto's sex life currently, by the way?' she asks cheekily.
'My sex life is fine, thank you very much,' I insist, although I know I'm lying so I concede, 'Well, Roberto is still very occupied with the bar most of the time. I don't see that much of him.'
'Have you talked any more about Ana-Maria?'
'No, it's in the past.' I try to sound unconcerned.
'Well, it isn't, is it?' says Alison with a killer tell-it-how-it-is frankness. You have a right to know what they fell out about and when.'
'I'm not interested.' I push the thought away by trying to make a joke. 'I'm worried that I'm all the clichés. I'm lonely and displaced. I have a distracted, busy husband and now there's a new exciting stranger. It's bound to end in an affair.'
'Probably. You are rather fond of a cliché.' Alison doesn't sound as though she's kidding. 'It sounds to me like you're homesick,' she declares.
'Impossible. I've always wanted to live here in Italy. All my life.'
'You do have to be careful what you wish for, hasn't anyone ever told you that? It's difficult to sustain pleasure when faced with realities. It's much easier to love fantasies.'
'That is so depressing.'
I feel cross and disappointed, partly because I recognize that what she's saying might have a ring of truth to it and partly because I think she's undermining the importance of what I feel for Chuck.
'I think this Chuck guy might be just part of your homesickness. You think you are attracted to him because you have things in common.'
'That's impossible. I have nothing in common with him. He's American.'
Alison laughs. 'Your famous prejudice and naivety, I love it.' My irritation with her begins to mount. 'Don't you see, nothing falls into the nice little categories you want them to fall into? If you're homesick you ought to call your folks,' says Alison and then she hangs up.
I ring my mum and dad at 7 p.m. every Sunday night, as regular as clockwork. By calling them on a Friday afternoon I throw them into slight panic. My mother sounds at first fearful and then, after reassurances that I'm fine and Roberto is fine, she sounds expectant. She'd never dream of saying so but I can't help but get the feeling that she thinks I'm ringing with some important news. Why else would I call out of the blue? I have often rehearsed the call that I'll make when I do ring to tell my parents that I'm finally going to give them a grandchild. I imagine I'll be breezy and delightful. I won't mention the years of longing. We'll be happy, happy, happy. If only this was that call. Quickly, I manage their expectations by asking about their neighbours and their garden.
My parents love their garden. Their house is modest but the garden is massive and was the main reason they bought the property a million years ago. The garden boasts a sumptuous blend of creative landscaping, imaginative plantings and fine old trees. As a family we have spent endless joyful hours there playing, chatting, sipping wine, squabbling and putting the world to rights. I suddenly wish I was sitting in their garden right now, glass of Chardonnay in one hand, a novel in the other. As it's nearly May I imagine the various fruit trees will be blossoming and the magnificent wisteria will be cascading down the side of the house.
'It's looking lovely, you should see it. I do hope we don't get another one of those silly hosepipe bans again. Your father has spent the afternoon cutting the grass actually. He's out there raking up the cuttings, even though I've told him to leave them. Max and his family are coming tomorrow, Max could see to it. But your father likes everything neat when you children visit.'
I can almost smell the scent of fresh cut grass drifting towards me. I have a sudden affection for clover, not even the magical four-leaf stuff, just the regular bog-standard three-leaf stuff that grows in abundance in England.
Despite the miles separating us, Mum seems to be following my thought pattern.
'Everything all right, dear?'
'Fine,' I reply cheerily and insincerely.
'Just last night your father and I were discussing whether he is up to a holiday. We'd love to see your new home.'
'That would be nice. You should come before it gets too hot.'
'Yes, or in the autumn.'
I doubt they'll ever come out to see me because they still prefer a holiday in Britain, but it doesn't harm anyone to live with the idea; it's rather comforting all-round. I think my dad could put Raffaella in her place; he abhors bullies.
'You sound a bit down,' says Mum carefully.
I hate being a worry to her. I force myself to sound positive.
'Not at all. I've been teaching for a month today, I'm just debating how best to celebrate.'
'Is Roberto going to take you somewhere special?'
'Probably.' I cross my fingers. It's bad enough that I'm not ringing to tell her I'm pregnant, I can't admit that my celebration dinner is going to be with the hunky American that I have inappropriate feelings for. Sometimes I wish I was totally someone else.
'Your father and I are so pleased that you've found this teaching job, Elizabeth.' She doesn't dare add anything more for fear of offending me or putting me under pressure which I'll resist. We both know I am hideously late in stumbling into a career. I'm grateful that my parents appear to subscribe to the 'better late than never' school of thought. 'Would you like to talk to your dad now, dear?'
'Yes, if he's around.'
'I'll just get him for you.'
I listen to her click-clack through the hall and I imagine her wandering into the garden. My parents only have one telephone, which proudly hangs on the wall in the hallway and has done so for at least thirty years that I can remember. Mum uses a pencil to dial numbers, even though she hasn't got long nails to break; I consider this her only pretension; it's very small and endears her to me, rather than annoys. They refuse to entertain the idea of more phones, or a cordless phone or, God forbid, a mobile. I grin to myself, suddenly feeling irrationally affectionate towards their old-fashioned ways. Parents being constant is a rather marvellous thing.
46
I find Roberto in our bedroom. He's having a lie down.
'Are you feeling OK?' I ask. However rude and neglectful I think Roberto is being right now, I have to admit he's not a lazy man; it's unlike him to be taking a nap in the afternoon.
'I'm fine. Just thinking. I needed to be away from the noise of the bar and Mamma.'
The bar is becoming increasingly popular and it is often busy now, not only in the evening, but during the day too. Roberto is usually very proud of this fact, as it's a clear indication that all his hard work is paying off. Plus I've never, ever heard him hint that he finds his mother's constant, highly-pitched, verbal incontinence annoying -but looking at him now, lying in a darkened room w
ith his arm flung over his eyes – he looks weary. I feel moved.
'Has Raffaella been grumbling about the empty cigarette machine again? I told her the delivery is due today but –'
'No, Mamma has not been grumbling about the empty cigarette machine or anything else for that matter,' he snaps, tossing away any chance of a moment's sympathizing or connection.
I don't believe him for a minute. Raffaella's natural state is moaning. Clearly she's now grating on his nerves too. Would it be so bad to admit as much? We might even be able to laugh about her and ease some of the tension that sits between us like a towering wall.
'It's not disloyal to say to your wife that your mother is naffing you off,' I point out. Roberto stares at me. I shiver. If looks could kill I'd be knocking on those pearly gates right about now. 'I'm just saying—'
I dry up. What am I saying? What's the point? While Roberto won't say or hear a bad word against his mother, I know that the two of them spend many a happy hour chatting over my shortcomings. I can't defend or re-ingratiate myself in a couple of snatched minutes. Why bother trying?
There is one down-side to Chuck visiting Bruno's so frequently; somehow his presence has opened the way for Ana-Maria's recurrent appearances. I have long suspected that Roberto was visiting her somewhere or other but they had the decency to keep their flirtation away from my doorstep; no longer. Now, Ana-Maria pops into the bar almost daily, and while I can't actually object I can't say I'm happy with the situation either.
She is always the epitome of charm with Raffaella and with Roberto's grandpa; they light up like Blackpool when she enters the room. She's confident and friendly with Paolina and perfectly courteous with me. In fact she treats Roberto's family in exactly the same way as Chuck treats them. I can't decide if I find this reassuring or a problem. I know that there is nothing going on between Chuck and me so isn't it reasonable to assume that there's nothing going on between Ana-Maria and Roberto? They are probably just friends – really good friends. Friends that silently have the hots for each other? No, no, no. Not a great line of thought. I push it aside.
