Tell Me Something (Contemporary Romance)

by Adele Parks

  'Did your mother throw out all my belongings?' I ask.

  'No, she tried, Roberto would not allow it.'

  'Small mercies I suppose.'

  'Yes,' she says awkwardly.

  I'm trying to stay reasonable but my emotions are all over the place. Not surprising, considering the last few months. One moment I'm calm, the next furious, then I'm weepy, then resolute again. I'm exhausting to be with. It's exhausting to be me. Anger is snapping at my heels once again.

  'I'm still furious about the way he allowed me to find out about the affair. He didn't even have the guts to tell me he wanted out.'

  'Would you have heard him?' asks Paolina, calmly.

  'Yes! Is this the Italian way, to deny everything to the end? To still be lying and pretending even when there is nothing left worth lying for? Explain it to me, Paolina. Tell me something that will make sense of this.'

  'It's not the Italian way; it is Roberto's way. You were so busy marrying the Italian you never knew the man. My brother is not a terrible person. He's a good person who has made mistakes. Like you.' She pauses and I try to digest what she is saying. 'Neither of you wanted to talk about how things really were. You prefer instead to believe things were as you hoped them to be or how you hoped they could become.'

  I grip the phone handset so tightly my knuckles turn white. How dare she? What gives her the right to say such things? Just because she's my sister-in-law, and his sister, and she's known me for nearly seven years and I asked her advice doesn't mean –

  – That I wanted to hear it.

  I start to giggle uncontrollably. Isn't that my problem? Hasn't it always been? The anger gurgles out of me. Recognizing the truth of the situation has loosened a tight knot of resentment that sat in my stomach.

  'What is funny?' Paolina asks.

  'I am,' I reply honestly. 'Look, Paolina, I'd really love to talk to you for longer but this is my mum's phone so I'll have to go soon. I wonder could you parcel up some more of my things and send them back to me? I'll pay you of course.'

  'No problem. I'll do that. Maybe you will call me more often, hey?'

  'I'd like that,' I reply firmly.

  'I'd like it too. Really,' she says with sincerity. 'Sometimes you can call me to talk about the meaning of life and others just to tell me the small things that are happening to you.'

  'Yes, I will.' I assure her.

  'Because we are alike, no?'

  'In what way?'

  'OK, so you are the wife and I am the mistress but we both wasted too much time on the wrong man. Chasing the dream, refusing to see the reality. I love my brother but I think you are doing the right thing now, Elizabeth, and I send you love.'

  Then she hangs up before I can reply and I am left in a great big pool of Italian love. It really is quite unlike any other sort.

  70

  31 July

  Mum and I visit the library regularly now; we both love a good read but our tastes, and even our selection methods, vary enormously. I make directly for romantic contemporary fiction; I judge a book by its cover and I can select four novels within ten minutes. Mum browses a different category every time she visits. She drifts around archaeology one week and explores natural science the next.

  Last Wednesday, the day of my phone call with Paolina, Mum and I went to the library together. As she entered she muttered, 'I think I'll have a quick look at the nutrition section today, darling, and then you'll find me in classics.' Then she disappeared for over an hour. I had time to make my choice and read all the notices on the cork pinboard. I was only devoting half of my attention to the familiar and useful but not especially compelling notices (swimming lessons for adults and children, cleaners wanted, cleaners available, cats missing, kittens looking for a good home), the other half was glued on to a baby sleeping in its stroller just a metre or so from me. A boy; so sweet, with Bambi-like eyelashes resting on his cheeks.

  TEFL training throughout the summer, at the local sixth-form college; places still available.

  That notice caused my stomach to hiccup as I was instantly reminded of Chuck handing me a bundle of internet printouts on the very same subject. That was really sweet of him; so many sweet memories – it's not helpful.

  I'm not sure why I jotted down the website address, but I did. That night when I went online I typed in the college address while telling myself I had no serious interest in the qualification. As I filled out an application form and e-mailed it back to the administration tutor I reminded myself that there was no point in doing a TEFL course – I'm not going anywhere. The next day when I got an e-mail confirming my interview date I intended to politely decline, but then I thought it just might be something to do other than wait for Mum to choose books or return from bridge and choir practice. I remembered the amazing buzz I'd got when I did teach for that all too brief month in Bassano del Grappa and decided that it couldn't do any harm to just go for a chat. I probably wouldn't get the place anyway.

  'Mum! Mum! You are not going to believe it, they offered me a place on the spot.'

  Mum dashes towards me and flings her arms around my neck. She pulls me, with surprising strength, into the tightest hug. 'I am so pleased! I knew you'd get it.'

  'Did you? I'm surprised.'

  'Funny girl. They'd have been mad to turn you down. I bet you are a natural teacher.'

  Chuck had said the same thing. 'Do you think?' I feel a blush creep up my cheeks; I'm not great at handling compliments.

  'When do you start?'

  'They had a cancellation for the course that starts on the fourth of August, so next Monday, I guess.' I giggle nervously, suddenly overwhelmed by the looming change.

  'Darling, I am so proud of you.'

  'It's a month-long intensive course, six days a week, and it's expensive. It will finally clear me out of my savings.' All the reasons not to do the course scramble into my mind as my nerves start to wake up.

  'Don't worry about the money, Elizabeth, you can stay here and I'll help out in any way you need,' says Mum generously. 'Besides, qualifications are a fine thing to spend savings on; much better than clothes.'

  Not that I've bought clothes since Moses was a lad. I haven't worn anything pretty or trendy for weeks. As I'm not working I haven't been in a position to flash the cash. To my eternal shame I've found myself wearing Mum's T-shirts and, on cooler days, her cardigans too. I keep telling myself it doesn't matter; I have no one to impress around here, but it's impossible to feel good about yourself when you are wearing a top which belongs to a seventy-six-year-old. Especially one that has little to recommend it other than the fact that it was purchased in a three-pack (one mustard, one beige and one olive). I've worn my mum's trainers in the garden; they must have been bought as a statement against the dictatorship of fashion, because they are so ugly the dog runs away from them. At first I didn't much notice or care what I was wearing, it seemed trivial in the face of losing Dad, but since I spoke to Paolina, I've got to admit, I've started to look forward to my parcel arriving.

  'Oh, speaking of clothes, Paolina called this morning when you were at your interview. She says she's despatched your things but she wanted to check that you are going to be in this afternoon because you have to sign for the crate.'

  'Yes!' I do a little dance around the kitchen. 'I can't wait.'

  Mum smiles patiently and doesn't take offence at my obvious glee at casting off her garments.

  'Things are looking up for you, aren't they?'

  'I suppose.' I freeze and instantly pull my face into a more sober expression.

  'It's OK, you are allowed to be happy,' says Mum, patting my hand. 'Your dad didn't like glum faces. Now what do you fancy for lunch?'

  71

  Mum and I are just clearing away the pots from lunch when the doorbell rings.

  'That might be my delivery,' I yell and dash to answer it. I fling open the door with anticipation.

  'Chuck?'

  He's standing on my mum's doorstep in all his blon
d gloriousness. I wipe my eyes, like a cartoon character. I can't believe this. I'm so shocked that I nearly burst into tears. I fight them back; crying at this moment would only confuse and I, for one, am already totally bewildered.

  'What the hell are you doing here?' I hadn't actually planned to say that aloud.

  'I'm returning your belongings,' he says simply. My gaze drops to the floor where there is a heaving, over-packed suitcase. I recognize it as my own. 'Paolina came round to my apartment and she said that you'd asked for her to return your belongings. I offered to bring them. I came on the first flight I could get. Look, can we talk about this inside?'

  I am literally unable to function. What is a reasonable response to finding your lover on your doorstep after two months of silence? Ex-lover. Ex, I remind myself. The one who was really keen on space. Should I pour scorn in his face and bring my knee up to hurt him in the bollocks? That seems quite restrained to me. Yet I find I'm unable to hurt him.

  Mum bustles down the hallway.

  'Who is it, dear?' I can't find my tongue to even make the necessary introductions.

  'Mrs Gardiner, I presume,' says Chuck, holding out his hand.

  'Yes.' Mum beams at him, no doubt instantly wooed by his sparkling eyes, his height, his accent and his manners. It's not just a family trait. I think most women would fall. Looking at him for the first time after a long time I have to admit he is still pretty wow even if he is a flighty, shallow, commitment-phobic rat.

  'I'm Chuck Andrews.' Mum's face does not flicker with any sign of recognition; of course not, I've never mentioned Chuck's name to her. He studies her and realizes as much. Did I imagine that or did he look disappointed? The egotistical bastard probably hoped that I've been weeping and wailing about him for two months and that my mum would know exactly who he is. Well, I'm glad I've had the restraint to weep and wail in private and deny him that pleasure at least!

  Although he doesn't sound like an egotistical bastard. In fact, he doesn't look much changed at all. He seems just as sincere and sexy as he did in Venice – a little less giddy on happiness perhaps. How is it possible that he's unchanged? Shouldn't there be some sort of external alteration to signpost his cruelty? It's clear that he is the consummate wolf in sheep's clothing, when, totally unperturbed, he confidently continues, 'I'm a colleague of your daughter's. I'm returning her belongings. I –'

  'Oh, come in, come in, Mr Andrews.'

  'Chuck, please.'

  'Come in, Chuck. Goodness, Elizabeth, where are your manners? This lovely young man has just dragged your heavy suitcase all the way from Italy and you are keeping him on the doorstep.' She glares at me.

  Because I can't see an alternative, I step back and let Mum lead him through to the front room. Somehow I manage to resist sticking my foot out to trip him up. The hall wallpaper morphs around me. I think I'm going to pass out. God, my stomach has turned gymnastic. I need the loo. I need the door. What the hell is he doing here? I've heard nothing for two months and then suddenly he's on my doorstep. I thought I was getting used to his absence but his presence is something I doubt I'm strong enough to deal with. Isn't he a little late with his excuses? If indeed he's coming armed with excuses. He seems oddly unapologetic so far. The arrogance!

  I look into the hall mirror and bitterly regret the choice of shirt this morning. It actually belongs to my mother. Could things be worse? Plus, why the hell didn't I put on any make-up today? I was trying to look studious for the interview. Why couldn't I see I just look hideous?

  Mum comes back out of the front room and stares at me.

  'What's the matter, dear?'

  I stay silent. Where to begin? I should have told her about Chuck, then she could have protected me from this; she wouldn't have invited him in and made him cosy in the front room. Now who is going to protect me? I'm not able to look after myself, that much is obvious. I can't even put one foot in front of another.

  I try to remain calm. Just because he's here with my suitcase doesn't necessarily mean anything important. He's probably just passing through and this is just a friendly, I'm-so-not-interested-in-you-in-that-way-I-can-barely-remember-us-ever-being-anything-other-than-colleagues visit. I wish I could be equally disinterested.

  But then I wouldn't give up the memories of him for the world.

  My head is about to explode. I wish it would. If my brain was splattered across Mum's really rather awful floral wallpaper then I wouldn't have to think about any of this.

  'Go and sit with your guest, Elizabeth. I'll make some tea.' She practically pushes me through the door.

  'Hi.' Chuck throws out a weak smile as I stumble into the room.

  'Hi,' I murmur.

  I stand with my back against the door, ensuring a swift exit if need be. It's so disorientating having him sat here on my mum's Dralon sofa. The sofa is a million years old and she should probably get a new one; it's lumpy and springs jut out at weird angles like broken bones pushing out of flesh. It has this way of swallowing anyone who tries to perch tentatively on the edge, which somehow suggests we have a sofa with a mischievous streak. Chuck hasn't tried to perch on the edge; he's flung himself back as though surrendering to it. Smart move. He actually looks quite comfortable. How dare he? It's so disconcerting, especially considering I feel about as comfortable as someone who is wearing a dress two sizes too small on a first date. He looks large in Mum's small room; powerful. I feel hemmed in; weak. We should have gone into the garden. There's nowhere to hide here. Nowhere to run to.

  'I am very sorry about your father.' He coughs. I feel his gaze hammer down on me but I can't meet his eyes.

  'Yes, you said sorry, in your text? I snap. The implication being, of course, that a text is the most gross way to pass on condolences, even if I was a vague acquaintance; it's completely unforgivable considering what we meant to one another – at least, what I thought we meant to one another.

  Chuck seems to catch the anger in my voice and looks at me with confusion but doesn't say anything. What? He expected me to be delighted that he abandoned me in my saddest and most needy time? Mum's mantelpiece clock ticks and adds to the tension. The normally soothing tick-tock sounds as threatening as the sort of drumbeat that escorts a person to the gallows. I decide that polite small talk is out of the question. I'd prefer to fling a few pointed jibes that might lead to some answers.

  'Thanks for the space, Chuck. I've been using it really well,' I mutter sarcastically.

  'Good,' he replies, with an evenness that is irritating. He coughs again. 'So what have you been doing with yourself since Venice?'

  Unfair! Just hearing the word Venice causes me to flush scarlet. For me, the very word conjures vivid images of him riding and writhing on top of me, below me, beside me. Does it do the same for him? I force myself to look up from my feet, where I've been resolutely staring, and I steal a glance in his direction. He's sitting a little further forward on the sofa now; not quite as relaxed. His elbows are resting on his spread knees. He is staring right at me. Our eyes meet for the first time. His gaze slices through me and I'm certain that he can read my mind and soul, making it impossible and quite pointless for me to try to lie.

  'Grieving,' I state plainly.

  His head falls into his hands. 'Of course. I'm sorry and -' he sighs deeply – 'I'm sorry that things didn't work out as you hoped with Roberto.'

  What? I'm lost. What does he mean things didn't work out as I hoped with Roberto? They did – in a way – in the end. Roberto and I don't belong together. I thought that much was clear in Venice. Before I have time to say anything, he continues.

  'I know there's no reason for me to assume you are in the least bit interested in what I've been doing in the last couple of months, but I'll fill you in all the same.'

  His tone sounds both supercilious and indignant. I really resent it. No, I am not interested! Well, actually, I am – very; although I would rather eat sewage than admit as much. But what is it with his sarky, superior attitude? Shouldn't he be humb
le and apologetic? God, how could I have missed the extent of this man's conceit and selfishness?

  'After I got your message from Gina, I moved to Bassano del Grappa and I moved in with Francesca.'

  'Francesca!' I can't keep the hurt and shock out of my voice. 'You did what?

  My God, it's worse than I imagined. I had sometimes worried there might be an unspoken attraction between those two but I never suspected that he'd actually been having an affair with her! But then why the hell not? They are both perfectly amazing: beautiful, accomplished, thrilling. They suit each other. I hate her.

  'I couldn't stay in Veganze and risk bumping into you every day,' he says. Bumping into me in Veganze? Why would he think that was likely or even possible? 'I moved back to Veganze two weeks ago.'

  I can't stop myself sliding into sarcasm. 'Oh, another one of your famously lengthy relationships,' I mutter.

  'Sorry?' asks Chuck in a tone that suggests he's anything but. 'I wasn't having a relationship with Francesca. She was a friend to me.' He stares at me with something approaching disbelief or maybe disgust. 'Just a friend. I'm not the one famed for bouncing from one relationship to the next, am I? You are,' he points out with a cold anger.

  'Yup, that's me. And you are the one with a thing for married women,' I shout back.

  'Well, I hear that you've finally decided that you are no longer that,' he counters, his anger up a notch.

  'I should be safe from your advances then.' I'm a hair's breadth away from full throttle.

  We stare at each other with patent fury. I'm so deep in a pit of frustration and loathing it takes me a moment to digest exactly what he's just said.

  'What do you mean I've finally decided I'm no longer a married woman?' I ask.

  'Sorry, cheap shot.' Chuck seems to be trying to recover some of his poise. He pulls his fingers through his hair in the familiar way that tugs on my innards. Damn, he's sexy. Even now. Even in the throes of a terminal argument, I can't help but notice his qualities. 'Elizabeth, to be straight, I'm fed up with you running backwards and forwards to Roberto. I thought in Venice you'd made your mind up that you wanted to be with me. So when I got your message, I was –' he stops and looks round the room; he's choosing his words carefully. After an age he chooses – 'disappointed.'