by Adele Parks
'But while we are on the subject, there is something I need to tell you.' Chuck puts his arm around me and draws me closer. Oddly, despite the warm temperature and his closeness, I feel a chill. 'I don't want you to panic or freak out when I tell you this.'
'You're scaring me,' I say with a grin that doesn't make any real impression on my face or psyche. I don't want to hear anything other than words of love from this man and somehow I don't think he's about to whisper sweet nothings.
'You asked me if I've done this before and by this I assume you mean –' he falters.
'Had a relationship with a married woman,' I say bluntly. I don't want any room for error.
Chuck nods stiffly. 'When I first arrived in Veganze, I did have a fling with a married woman.'
'You what?' I wiggle out from under his arm.
'It isn't as bad as it sounds,' he says quickly, as his empty arms drop to his side.
'It sounds terrible,' I yell, scaring a pigeon; it takes off in a fluster of flapping wings. I'm tempted to do the same. Chuck must sense my instinct to flee because he grabs my wrists and holds them tightly. He pulls me close to him and looks me in the eye.
'Sweetheart, you have every right to be pissed off and scared, but hear me out. I really want to be honest with you. I arrived in Italy and I knew no one. I guess I was lonely. She was gorgeous.' Hearing him describe another woman as gorgeous causes me to shudder. 'First off, I didn't even know she was married and by the time I found out I was too far in.'
'You said it was a fling. How deep were you flung?' I demand angrily.
Chuck lets go of my wrists and runs his hands through his hair. Once again he turns to look out over the bridge and away from me as he confesses, 'We were seeing each other for about six months, I suppose, in total.'
'Six months!' All thoughts of Chuck being a kind and wonderful man flood from my head. He's a vile home-wrecker. A serial vile home-wrecker? I stare at him with something that must be approaching disgust, because he rushes on to justify his immorality.
'When I did find out that she was married she insisted that her marriage was dead and that she was only staying with him for the sake of her family.'
'She had children!' I want to punch him. Maybe I am over-reacting but I really don't think I can stand any more shocks. I thought Chuck was so decent and straightforward. My confidence in our relationship, so recently towering, begins to topple. I need him to be decent and straightforward; I'm not strong enough yet to deal with any more duplicity – not after Roberto.
'No, no.' Chuck looks pained and panicked. 'I'm not explaining this at all well. When I mentioned family I meant her parents. Her father was a judge and her husband was a local politician. She said that her family wouldn't be able to rise above the scandal of her divorcing even though it was what both she and her husband wanted. It sounded plausible at the time.'
He must have been in love with her. Only love makes us blind to such clichés and lies. Chuck is a good-looking, intelligent man in his thirties – of course I should expect him to have been in love before; it would be weirder if he hadn't, but hearing about it is miserable.
'She told me that she and her husband had come to some arrangement. She fed me a load of lies. I believed her for a time and I cared for her for a time, then I stopped believing her and stopped caring for her so I finished it.'
I look warily at Chuck. I want to believe him but my faith in constancy has taken such a massive bruising of late. I'm not sure if I can. I'm not sure if I have that sort of trust left.
'Why did you wait until now to tell me about this woman?' I ask suspiciously.
'I wanted to tell you before, but I felt such a fool and I thought you'd think less of me. I know you worked so hard to keep your marriage going under terrible conditions. I know you place enormous store on the institution. So do I, come to that. Whatever you might be thinking now.'
I want to believe him but a smidgen of doubt has snook into my consciousness. I can't help but wonder if Chuck genuinely respected my vows or whether he was scared of making the same mistake twice. I look at him hoping to see the glow that surrounded him just ten minutes ago when I believed he was unique and noble. He looks nervous and mortal.
'I thought if you knew about Ornella you'd despise me.'
I despise her. I don't even want to hear her name. The ferocity of my jealousy is stunning. Roberto was as good as shagging Ana-Maria in front of me and yet I feel more resentment and envy towards this awful Ornella – not much more than a foolish indiscretion in Chuck's past – than I ever felt towards Ana-Maria.
'So why tell me now? Why not leave me in blissful ignorance?'
'For one thing there's always a risk of someone else telling you. I really don't want you to think I'm some sort of weirdo with a thing for married women, but more important than the risk of gossip I believe that there shouldn't be any secrets between us; there shouldn't be any taboo subjects. We're better than that.'
He's right of course, although it's exhausting that honesty always seems to involve a certain risk or backlash. I want to demand reassurances off Chuck. I want him to promise that he will tie himself to my side forever and never hurt and expose me but, instead, love and protect me. Forever and then some. But I can't demand that. It's not fair. Chuck must not end up paying for Roberto's mistakes. I rally. I take a deep breath and scramble to muster every last ounce of dignity and trust.
'OK, it was a long time ago. Thanks for telling me. It doesn't matter.'
I bury my head on his chest to give myself a moment to comprehend what's been said and a moment to calm myself. He closes his large hands around me and strokes my hair.
'You're not worried, are you?' he asks with concern.
'No.' A little.
'There's no reason,' he says confidently. 'I'm yours. This is all about you. This is not some sort of game to me.'
We go back to the hotel and make love with a level of intensity that I had no idea existed. With every caress and kiss and thrust and fall Chuck seems to be trying to reassure me that what's past is past. I shove Ornella out of my head and allow myself to sink into his lavish attentions. After hours of love I find that all I am concerned with is becoming familiar with the exact quality of his full, warm lips, the soft cushions of his fingertips and the coarse, dense hairs on his legs. I want to envelop everything. I want to hold tight. I want to gobble him up.
58
We lie in the darkened bedroom, lit only by the moonlight that cascades through the window. My eyes sting and my lids droop but I don't want to fall asleep yet. All my life I've fallen into deep slumber after orgasm; like some sort of bloke. This orgasm sleep pattern is only a problem now that I want to talk throughout the night.
'It's funny, isn't it, that lovers even on different sides of the world look at the moon and they say they see the same moon and feel some sort of connection,' I muse.
I really ought to be more self-conscious over these amateur attempts at discussing the questions that occupied the metaphysical poets centuries ago, but I'm not. I feel free to chatter about anything from Victoria Beckham's new hair length to the moon. It surprises me that I even know who the metaphysical poets are and what they discussed. It goes to show that some of my mum and dad's force-fed knowledge is lodged in the dark nooks and crannies of my brain, after all. They'd be chuffed that I'm thinking in the abstract. To be fair, they are chuffed if I think of anything.
'Why is that funny?' he asks.
'Because it's true. It is the same moon and yet the sun is different everywhere. No one ever swears their undying love on the sun or looks at the sun and wonders whether their lover is staring at the same sun.'
The Italian sun is more ferocious than I remembered, and sometimes I find myself longing for the insipid British rays. I nuzzle into his shoulder, smudging my existence into his. He pulls me a fraction closer still.
'You are such a hopeless romantic,' he teases.
'In fact, I am a very hopeful romantic,' I reply seriousl
y.
'I suppose so.' He coughs, and instinctively I know that he's not about to suggest we order more champagne. I hope this isn't going to be another 'I slept with another married woman' confession – another, other married woman. I'm just coming to terms with this afternoon's confession. He starts tentatively, 'Elizabeth, the hotel manager says that this room is booked from tomorrow.'
'Oh, will we have to change rooms?' I ask.
'There are no other rooms.'
I freeze, and although I know he's not going to agree I suggest, 'So we should try to find a new hotel.'
Chuck sighs, kisses my forehead and says, 'It's time to go back, Elizabeth. We have to face the music. You've rested from the shock of Roberto and Ana-Maria's affair and Raffaella's bullying. You have even had enough time to make quite a complication of your own.' He pauses to kiss me and then continues, 'We need to get back and start to sort things out.' I try to shake my head but he insists. 'If nothing else we need to go back to work. We left the school in the lurch.'
I know he's right but I can't risk a reply. I'll howl if I do, and snot and saliva and stuff just aren't attractive. I force myself to nod tightly, then I roll away from him and try to feign sleep. I'm so angry with him for bringing our idyll to an end. Why can't we just continue as we are? As I ask myself the question I already know the answer. We would run out of money, we'd die of exhaustion (hey, but what a way to go, shagged to death), we'd lose our jobs, Alison and my parents would send out a search party. Obviously I haven't rung them in the past week. I left my mobile at Veganze but I couldn't call even from a public box; I haven't been able to find the words. I'm a coward and don't want to deal with any of this.
I can't imagine standing face to face with Roberto. What am I going to say to him? What has he to say to me? We are over, completely so, I realize that, but splitting up is enormous. We've been together for six years, my family think of him as one of theirs. Obviously his mother will be throwing a party, but even so, it's complicated. And what next for me? Staying in Italy seems ludicrous if I am not here with my Italian husband. But what is there to go back to in England other than a cramped flat where you can touch all four walls in the bathroom when sitting on the loo?
And Chuck? Where does Chuck fit into all of this? If I go back to England then we have no future together. Not that either of us has talked about a future.
I roll over and face Chuck. He's staring at me but he doesn't say a word. He's like that; he says his piece and then leaves it up to me to make what I will of his opinions. I like it that he doesn't go in for macho posturing and angry insistent decrees. I consider that it's probable he has kissed every inch of my body in the last five days; I know for certain that he's touched me in ways I hadn't thought possible. Maybe some women would have acted with more thought and restraint than I have. Some women would have held back their bodies and their hearts and calmly discussed the consequences of starting a relationship at this point. But I am not a prudent or discreet person. I never have been, and there are some tricks you just can't teach an old dog.
But what of babies?
The thought pops into my head and thumps me in the gut. It's lucky that I am lying down because I genuinely believe that I might collapse under the weight of that thought. I have betrayed my unborn babies. How could I have forgotten about them? What sort of mother am I? Well, one without kids obviously. It must be some sort of record, because almost a week has gone by without my longing for a baby. In the past six years I'm not sure a day has gone by without my brain and heart being seized with imaginings of having a child. But the longing for a family, while subdued by a week of incomparable passion, has not disappeared. I know myself well enough to understand that no matter what, my future must have a child in it. But Chuck doesn't want children. What did he say to me that day when we had lunch together in Bassano del Grappa? I've never wanted babies. It's just not my thing at all.
How can I reconcile these polar-opposite essentials?
Chuck trails his index finger up and down my arm and at some point I must fall asleep, too weary to chew it over any longer. I only realize as much when I wake with a violent jolt.
'Something made you jump. Something frightened you when you were sleeping,' he murmurs. He kisses my eyelids and I wonder if he's been awake and watching me all night.
'Myself,' I mutter.
'You're afraid of yourself?'
'Terrified.' I pause. The blackness of the room gives me the cloak I require. 'I married the wrong one,' I confess. 'There isn't just one. There are countless opportunities.'
'That's horrible.'
'No, it's wonderful.'
'So you and I?'
'Just another combination.'
'I feel his smile move the air between us. It's possible
he finds that thought comforting. I'm petrified.
59
29 May
We pack, pay, leave and travel home without drifting into any emotional depths; in fact we're awkward and reticent with one another. I guess it's to be expected; we're both, in our own way, terrified. But the distance between us is upsetting. I want us to ride above the expected. I want us to be stronger, more enormous and resilient than that.
Chuck tries to play the blues ladies' CD in the car but I switch it off.
'It's too sad,' I mutter.
He nods briefly.
When we arrive in Veganze I ask Chuck to drop me off at the bar because that's where I'm most likely to find Roberto.
'Would you like me to come in with you?' he offers.
'No, I have to do this on my own.'
'I'll call you later this evening,' offers Chuck.
'I'd better call you. I'll be able to choose the moment. It would be awful if you called in the middle of-' I trail off. He nods tightly. We both know that the entire situation is awful.
'But if you need me. If it turns ugly,' Chuck says.
I nod my understanding. My plan is to go in and tell Roberto it's over, call him a few names, tell him a couple of home truths about his mother and then pack some clean knickers, grab some toiletries and leave. My mouth feels like I've swallowed a bucket full of sand. As much as I want to make light of this I realize it's a hideous situation.
Roberto's car is parked outside the bar so neither Chuck nor I make a move to kiss one another. I'd like to. I want to. I almost need to. Kissing him would give me the requisite strength to burn the bridges with bravado but it would be appalling to be caught snogging him outside the bar. I have visions of Raffaella banging her walking-stick on his car window, not that she actually carries a walking-stick – other than in my mind, where it occasionally morphs into a broomstick. Hastily I pull away from Chuck to stop myself giving into the urge. He looks hurt but I'm sure he understands. I scramble for the door handle and hop out of the car as quickly as I can.
'I'll call you,' I assure him.
The regular oldies are sat in convivial huddles outside the bar. One or two touch their caps and smile by way of greeting. I'm relieved that no one has thrown rotting fruit or demanded that I'm branded with a scarlet letter A for adulterer. I had imagined that Raffaella would have pounced on my unexpected and sudden absence as opportunity to tell the town that she'd been right about me all along – unsuitable, flighty. I notice that there are some groups of younger patrons too; they sit in noisy gangs enjoying a mid-morning brioche. I'm glad trade is good for Roberto. Oddly, now I have Chuck I am less resentful of the bar. Having Chuck's – what? Love? We never talked about the Big L word. Let's just say having Chuck's affection and support makes me able to be a bigger person.
It's so bright outside that the bar seems pitch black. As I enter I take a moment to let my eyes become accustomed to the darkness. I can make out a few shadowy groups and couples sat at the corner tables and on the comfy couches. Gina and Laurana are behind the bar. Laurana rushes towards me and gives me a big hug.
'Hey, you. We've been worried, where have you been?' The concern is apparent in her eyes and voice. I
feel an unexpected twinge of guilt. I suppose I should have called someone to say I was OK.
I smile and squeeze her hand. 'I'll explain later. Is Roberto here?'
'He's in the kitchen.'
Without further ado I walk determinedly towards the kitchen and Roberto.
'Hello.'
'Elizabeth, where in hell have you been? We had no way of getting hold of you. You did not take your bag or your phone. The school did not know where you are.'
Roberto's eyes are flashing with frustration that other people might have taken for concern, but I know that his heart is throbbing with insincerity and I'm not moved.
'You are having an affair with Ana-Maria. I don't want to hide from it any more.'
'We cannot talk about that now.'
'There's never a good time for you, is there? Are you in love?' I pause; he hangs his head. 'What was your plan? Did you think you'd run us both in parallel for decades? Or did you plant the condom where I'd find it because you are too much of a coward to tell me how you feel about another woman?'
'Elizabeth!' Roberto's eyes appear to be pleading but I'm now immune to his Latin charm. I no longer want to fall under that spell. I just want answers. I just want our relationship to be given an honest and dignified burial.
'Oh sod it, Roberto, just admit it. We're an infertile couple who've been trying for babies for six years; you don't need to wear a condom when you are having sex with me.' A bolt of injustice darts through me. 'In fact, how dare you deny me IVF saying it's up to the big guy but then use contraception with your mistress? That's hardly very Catholic, is it?' He stares at me with eyes that beseech me to shut up but I have no intention of doing so. 'I need to know when it started? Was it that first night that you stayed out or was that just the most insolent?' I glare at him but he stays mute. 'Have you been sleeping with her since we arrived here?' My tone is mock patient but he knows me well enough to know that I am boiling. Then a disturbing thought creeps into my mind. 'Did you give her the flowers on Valentine's day? The ones Paolina saw you buy? The ones you said were for your mother?' My tone is once again angry and I can't or won't hide my fury.
