Tell Me Something (Contemporary Romance)

by Adele Parks

  'I've had mine but I'll join you in a cup of tea if you are putting the kettle on.'

  'Will do.'

  I've turned a corner since Alison's visit and I'm making a supreme effort to be the model daughter. It's not so tricky, because Mum's relief that I'm no longer languishing in bed and her gratitude when I spend any time with her is transparent and touching.

  We've visited a National Trust house and its attached teashops, we've taken strolls along the side of the golf course towards the river and we regularly potter into town, often spending hours at the local library. We walk, arms linked, chatter ebbing and flowing between us. Mum primarily has two lines of conversation; what should we have to eat for the next meal and Dad. She slips between the banal and the profound with an enviable ease.

  'What do you think, a nice bit of ham? No, you wouldn't want ham, would you dear, being a vegetarian. Your dad liked ham. We've a lovely butcher, Mr Parsons. Dave Parsons. He came to your dad's funeral. Did you see him?'

  'I don't know him, Mum. I wouldn't have recognized him.'

  'No, of course not. Silly me. How about a quiche?'

  I find I have a limit when it comes to her conversations of choice. My father is in my mind, almost all the time, but I don't often think of the old gent who spent hours pontificating on the pros and cons of a light supper versus a big meal. No, I spend time thinking about the man as I remember him best. The man who remained calm and reasonable throughout my countless teenage tantrums, the man who walked me up the aisle whispering to me that – above all – I should enjoy my day, and the man who didn't quite understand broadband.

  It was remembering the last conversation I had with my father that prompted me to introduce my mother to the web. Perhaps my acts of daughterly devotion are too little and too late, but I have an overwhelming urge and need to make some recompense.

  It transpires that Mum is secretly and latently techie and she is delighted when she discovers the internet. She peruses her favourite shops for hours although she insists that she'd never buy clothes without trying them on first, she arranges to have her heavy groceries delivered once a fortnight from the supermarket and she creates her own blog. Eddie, and to a lesser extent Max and Thomas, encourage her remotely by sending her brief but regular notes. Each time she sees the little envelope icon pop on to the screen she squeals with delight and starts to compose.

  As I place the cup of tea down next to Mum, I read over her shoulder.

  Elizabeth and I tried a new cheese at supper yesterday

  it was Fontina Val d'Aosta. She says she discovered it

  in Italy ...

  With Chuck. It's been a month since I called the school and left my phone number but still no word from him.

  I shunt the thought out of my head and ask Mum, 'So what should we do today?'

  'Well, I'm going out in a moment, dear. I'm spending the day with Joan Hawkins. We're having lunch together and then a group of us are going to play a hand of bridge this afternoon.'

  I stop chewing my toast. 'But what about me?'

  'I don't know, dear. What are your plans?'

  'Well, my plans were to look after you. To keep you company.'

  Mum picks up her cup of tea with her old lady hand. Every time I see that thin-skinned, blue-veined hand I'm taken aback.

  'I don't need looking after, darling, and I have friends to keep me company.'

  I stare at her but she refuses to meet my eye. She stands up and walks to the window. I follow her gaze; it rests on Mr Hopper who lives over the road; he's washing his car. My parents live in a quiet cul-de-sac. Most of their neighbours have lived in the same house for twenty or thirty years, like my parents have. Had. What tense do I use when I'm thinking about Mum and Dad? Mum is still present but Dad is past. I sigh but the air all around me is fusty. Mum must be thinking the same thing because she opens the window and waves to Mr Hooper. He calls to her and offers to wash her car. She says that's very kind but there's no need, she'll take it to the garage and have it done there.

  'He's too old to be washing cars,' she quietly mutters to me.

  'What should I do today?' I ask again.

  'Oh, darling,' chuckles Mum, 'that takes me back. That was the anthem of school holidays when you were a child. You had so many lovely toys, and jigsaws and friends, but you never knew what to do with yourself.'

  'That's normal for a kid, though,' I defend. Remembering instantly the exact way I'd groan, 'I'm booooored.'

  'Yes, dear. It's absolutely normal for a child..' With that Mum turns back to her e-mail.

  Mum leaves the house just after ten. I'm at a loss now she has independently struck out. I can see a long day stretching out in front of me and I'm unsure as to how I'll fill it. Panic seizes my throat and my gut. I feel nauseous with terror. Will every day of my life be like this from now on? Will I always wake and face a great big nothing? A huge void where my life should be? I don't understand how everything has unravelled so speedily.

  My days in London weren't considered especially meaningful by lots of people, I know that. People like Roberto, my parents, brothers and Alison thought I should be doing more than waiting on tables and waiting to get pregnant, but I never agreed with them. My life seemed full to me. I think Chuck had it right, not everyone can have or even wants a hot-shot career. But I did want a baby, so much, and focusing on that was everything to me. OK, so all my days in Italy weren't exactly what you'd call happy; but I still believed I was moving towards my life's goal and that was enough to get me up and out of bed in the morning. Then there was Chuck. Aaghh. Mistake. Thinking of those blissful days I spent with Chuck is a mistake.

  I go back upstairs to my bedroom to gather some dirty laundry. OK, I'll give myself three minutes. Three minutes of undiluted pleasure when I remember how it was. I lie down on my unmade bed. I remember how our bodies, sheets, logic and meaning were entwined and perplexed, but when he asked, 'Do you like that?' I felt an unmatched sense of lucidity and conviction. I liked it there, so, so much. I remember lying flat on my back and staring down at my body and his blond head. It bobbed fractionally as he lapped his tongue and sent me into new realms of bliss. I think about his laughter and it rings through my body like pealing church bells. I think of his quick and generous smile and sparks explode just below my stomach.

  OK, enough. I have to stop thinking about him.

  Venice with all its magical, fairytale beauty seems a million miles away from my current world. As I lie in my floral bedroom stuffed with childhood toys and childhood memories I find it increasingly difficult to believe in Venice. Funny, after years and years of being a dreamer I find I can no longer kid myself. Venice was not a Once Upon a Time which would ultimately lead to a Happily Ever After. It was not the start of an amazing romance, but rather a bitter tragedy. Obviously Chuck did not feel as I felt, and the indefinable, exquisite joy that sent me spinning when I was with him was a one-way feeling. I was just another mountain to climb; an experience that he needed to tick off like the bungee-jumping, sky-diving and other boy's-own activities that are recorded in the photos in his flat. It must be so, because how else can I explain his silence? Being here in middle England, with my grieving mum, it's almost impossible to believe that for a time I was brimming with hope and contentment. Now my body aches with sadness.

  It's a beautiful day, and the sun is doing its best to cheer me up although its glare exposes the dust nestling in every corner and on every surface of my room; it's a pig-sty. Since Dad's death I've fought a hideous sluggishness, everything seems to require so much effort. More effort than I can generally muster. I suppose it wouldn't kill me to have a tidy-up. Cleaning became quite therapeutic for me when I was in Italy. You could have eaten off the floor in Bruno's during those lonely early weeks, before I met Chuck.

  Mum arrives home at 6 p.m. on the dot, as I knew she would because that's teatime for my parents. I've prepared a salad but it's not just garden lettuce, slices of tomato and cucumber; I've bought rocket, pine nuts,
balsamic vinegar, walnuts, pears, blue cheese and a crusty loaf. I laid the table carefully with a cloth, mats and napkins, the way Mum likes to see a table set. I even cut some roses from the garden and put them in a vase as a centrepiece. They smell delicious.

  'You've been to the shops,' says Mum, unable to hide the delight and relief in her voice. I get a sense that she was testing me by leaving me on my own and that I've passed.

  'Yes, I picked up one or two things.'

  'Did you get all of this from the corner shop?'

  'No, I got the bus into town.' Mum beams. 'We were out of furniture polish,' I explain.

  'You've tidied up?' The delight and relief up-weights to astonishment.

  'Yup, a bit.'

  In fact I've worked like a frenzied dervish. I hadn't planned to do so much. Initially I thought I might pop on a load of washing, maybe clear the magazines off my bedroom floor. But the work was absorbing and I soon found myself reaching for the vacuum and the rubber gloves. Keeping busy helped shift the feeling of being sick with terror at being alone. I opened all the windows and allowed the summer air to run through the house. It is in fact impossible to be thoroughly miserable when a warm summer breeze catches the ends of your hair and lifts it a little; I know, I've tried and failed.

  'Do you fancy a cup of tea?' asks Mum.

  'No, I fancy a glass of wine.' I produce the bottle I've bought and wave it at her.

  'It's a bit early,' says Mum, looking doubtful. She normally waits until after seven before she allows herself a gin and tonic or a glass of Chardonnay.

  'Come on, Mum,' I tempt.

  'OK, you deserve it,' she grins mischievously.

  Mum tucks into my salad and makes a generous number of appreciative noises. She's blown away by my simple salad dressing and briefly I feel like Nigella Lawson. I like watching my mum eat the food I've prepared. It's a joy to look after someone. My pleasure in this is one of the reasons I've always thought I'd make a good mum. Roberto and I have never had the sort of marriage where I cooked for him. For one thing, he was the better cook and if anyone did the cooking it would be him. Besides, generally, we ate out at the weekends and during the week we kept different hours. He ate his lunch in the office and I ate mine at home. Then I'd have my supper at work and he'd have his at home. I've never considered how little time we actually spent together but it appears to have been very little indeed. I suppose that was why the person who knew me best was Alison, and then when we moved to Italy it was Chuck – those were the people I spent my time with. Of course, in Italy, cooking was Raffaella's domain. Thinking about that causes me to shiver.

  'What's up, love? Someone walk over your grave?' asks Mum.

  'She's probably dancing on it,' I reply with as rueful a grin as I can muster. I notice concern flicker across Mum's face. Up until now we've eaten in companionable silence. But as the sun begins to fade and the day cools, the birds start to noisily shoo one another to bed; their calls can be heard through the open window. Mum and I listen to them but think about each other.

  'You have made such an effort, dear. I really appreciate it,' she says as she slices her fork into the summer pudding.

  'I didn't make this, I bought it,' I confess.

  'Still,' she beams. I smile back. 'I've been worried about you. You've taken your dad's death very hard. Harder than I might have imagined,' says Mum as she dollops more crème fraîche on to her pudding.

  Guiltily, I look at my plate. Suddenly I feel sick again and don't think I can finish the large portion I served up. Is it fair to allow Mum to think all my sadness is to do with my grief for Dad? It seems dishonest. Maybe it's time I told her that Roberto and I have separated. She seems stronger than I could have hoped.

  I start carefully, 'I do feel terrible about Dad.'

  'We all miss him.'

  'I think I wasted a lot of time I had with him.'

  'There's never been enough time. I felt that when I lost my parents and I was older than you are now when I lost them. I feel it with your dad too, even though we had fifty-three married years together. I'm perhaps greedy.' She smiles; her smile is wistful. 'Time seems like the enemy now but time is going to be our friend. Time will eventually take away this pain and we'll be left with the memories. The good memories.'

  But how can she be sure? What if time fades those memories too? I already can't quite remember Dad's face, not unless I'm looking at a photograph of him. It's too soon for him to become hazy. What if I don't have enough memories to sustain me? Icy-fingered fear wraps around my throat and tightens its grip. And what of Chuck, do I have enough memories?

  'You're doing the right thing today,' says Mum, patting my hand. 'Keeping busy helps. It's the only tool we have. Really, dear, you should be thinking about getting back to Italy and getting back into your ordinary routine.'

  'I can't do that.'

  'Yes, you can. I am fine here. You don't have to feel you have to look after me forever. Don't you miss Italy? Wouldn't it be fantastic to be there now?'

  I imagine the sun drilling down on my face and shoulders, I think of the stunning monuments, streets and works of art that I hadn't finished exploring, I think about the colourful, cheerful bars and yes, I miss Italy more than a little. But then I think of Roberto and Raffaella and my blood freezes. I think of the scrunched sheets in the A1 Sole Hotel in Venice and my heart shatters. I say nothing.

  'Don't you miss Roberto?' Mum stares at me for a long time. Up to now she's conducted most of our conversation without making eye contact.

  'Roberto and I have split up,' I splurge.

  Mum gasps and puts her hand to her mouth as people do in Agatha Christie movies when the villain is revealed.

  'Î am so sorry,' she says sincerely.

  'Yeah, me too,' I manage.

  'Why?'

  'There were lots of reasons. Lots of problems. In the end, I suppose it was because we didn't love each other enough to make it work. Isn't that always the final analysis?'

  I want to tell her the details but can't bring myself to land that much on her plate. There might be a time when it's right to spill all the gore, but it's not now over summer pudding and crème fraîche. Yet there is something I can't hold back. Something I've wanted to yell out since Chuck gave me the vast eternity of unwanted space.

  'How will I have a baby on my own, Mum?'

  Tears squeeze out of my eyes. I brush them away impatiently. It was hard enough maintaining hope for a family for the long years when Roberto and I were struggling to conceive. It was a leap to believe I might one day have a child with Chuck, considering his starting point was that he was totally disinterested in having kids, but now it's impossible. I am on my own.

  69

  23 July

  I wake up with an unfair hangover. Unfair because I only had two glasses of wine; surprisingly Mum had the extra one in the bottle but this morning I feel as though I've been on a high-intensity pub crawl. What was the expression Chuck used? Sunk a galleon. That's about right.

  Yet despite the vague queasiness, emotionally I feel better than I've felt for weeks. I feel a ton weight has lifted now my mother knows about Roberto.

  Straight after breakfast, while Mum is pottering in the garden, I call Roberto at the bar. I decide that trying to reach him there is far safer than trying him at Raffaella's. I don't mind if Paolina or Laurana answers but I'd hate it if Raffaella did. In fact I decide that I'll put the phone down if she answers – I don't want to have to talk to that evil witch. I consider it one of the perks of divorcing that I won't ever have to make polite small talk with her again.

  'Pronto.' I instantly recognize Paolina's voice. 'Chi e?' she asks. Her voice is efficient and suggests she's in a hurry.

  'Ciao, Paolina, it's Elizabeth.'

  Instantly, her voice softens, 'Di mi.'

  'I'm OK.'

  'I'm so pleased to hear it.'

  'You?'

  'Getting by. Sorting things out.'

  Suddenly I'm interested in how,
or even if, she has resolved things with her lover. I'm not sure if I have the nerve to ask her outright. I don't want to seem impertinent but I'd like her to know that I'm concerned for her.

  'Where are you living now?' I hedge.

  'Still with Mamma.'

  'Oh.'

  She understands what I'm getting at. 'He went back to his wife,' she states calmly.

  'He did?' I can't keep the surprise out of my voice. The man's a yo-yo. Paolina allows a silence to settle between us and I know the ball is in my court. She's too proud to volunteer more information unprompted. 'Are you sad?'

  'No. It is what I wanted. I am free now.'

  'Oh well, good,' I say hesitantly. 'I'm glad you're happy.'

  'I'm not that yet but I will be.' I smile to myself. Her answer is so Italian. Direct yet winking at the enigmatic. Practical but nodding towards the romantic. After many months of absence I recognize a surge of affection for the nation once again.

  'Actually, I have been away. I went away just after you did. I stayed in Padova with a friend. A real friend, not a fictional friend made up to cover for me. I needed time away from Veganze to think. There was too much drama here. Not my own drama even.'

  'I can imagine.'

  'Mostly you were the cause.'

  'I can imagine.'

  She laughs. 'And you? How are you, sincerely?' she asks.

  'I'm getting there too. I'm calling to talk to Roberto.'

  'Yes, I thought this. He's not here.'

  'Where is he?'

  'On holiday, by the sea.'

  A new wave of fury souses me. 'He's taken time off?' I demand.

  'Yes.'

  'With Ana-Maria, presumably.'

  'You know how things are.'

  I can almost hear her shrug. What can I say? What can she say? Yes, I know my husband is in love with another woman. I know I spent almost a week in Venice making sweet, sweet love to another man and I know I was calling to ask for a divorce, but really, a holiday! He hardly ever took so much as an afternoon off to be with me.