But then Peter said, ‘Here we are. OK, what would you like to drink?’ and Tess realized they were standing outside a tiny little bar, with a few tables in the front, and peering inside, she made out a long, low, orange-lit room whose walls were crammed with black-and-white photos. Above the door it said, ‘ENOTECA DI GIORGIA‘. There were a couple of people outside, smoking, and a few more inside.
‘Shall we go in?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Tess, who was from a country where any outside eating and drinking was viewed as a luxury rather than a right. ‘Let’s stay outside. It’s a lovely night.’ She looked down the street. ‘Via Bor—Via Borgononola,’ she said, stumbling over the syllables.
‘Via Borgognona,’ Peter said. ‘One of my favourite places, this street.’
‘What’s down there?’ she said, for there was noise and light and milling people in the far distance.
‘The Piazza di Spagna, where the Spanish Steps are,’ Peter said. ‘And the tourists. Didn’t I promise you I’d take you there? Here is a little more…Roman.’ He pulled his hands out of his pockets. ‘What would you like to drink? I’ll go inside.’
Tess thought for a second. ‘Could I have…is it OK if I have a glass of…’ She paused. ‘No. Um…’
‘Hey,’ said Peter. ‘I’ll get it, as long as it’s not heroin. Come on, it can’t be so bad.’
Tess nodded. ‘What I’d really like is a glass of something fizzy. Prosecco.’
‘No problem.’ He disappeared, emerging a few moments later and sitting down next to her. Tess was listening, rapt, to the two men at the next table, both old but rather distinguished-looking businessmen, resplendent in beautifully cut suits, who were smoking incessantly and talking rapidly in low, smooth voices. They looked up suspiciously at Tess, one of them appraising her coolly, arrogantly. The other flicked the ash from his cigarette into a foil ashtray, and dispatched the rest of the treacly liquid in his glass.
‘You OK?’ Peter said, pushing a small paper coaster towards her.
Tess shook her head and smiled. ‘I was just thinking how Italians aren’t how they seem to be. Back home, if you’re Italian that means you must be a kind-hearted, apron-wearing, gesticulating person. You know? It’s so clichéd. That all you do is make pasta and sing opera. Not—’ she raised her eyebrows a fraction—‘be like that.’
The two men got up to leave, throwing some money on the table. ‘Buona sera,’ the first said to Tess, emotionless, and they walked off.
‘My father-in-law,’ Peter said, ‘was a local councillor in Naples.’ Tess raised her eyebrows again. ‘I know,’ he said, smiling. ‘Quite a job. Quite a job. And even in this crazy city, when the refuse strike was happening and no one knew what was going on, and the traffic was getting worse and worse and the tourism had all but dried up, every day, he’d come back to Chiara’s mother for lunch—pasta, meat, coffee—and a siesta. Every day. And you know what?’ He smiled. ‘He was one of the sanest men I’ve ever met. Had his priorities straight.’
‘Chiara—that was your ex-wife, right?’
Peter nodded. ‘We’re not divorced actually.’
‘Oh.’ Tess didn’t know how to arrange her face at this information. ‘Right!’ she said breezily. He smiled.
‘Comes through pretty soon though, an annulment from the Church. It pays to have an uncle who’s your local priest, it would seem.’ His smile was twisted, and he looked down at the table.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tess, not knowing what else to say.
‘Hey, that’s OK,’ Peter told her. He drank. ‘So, how about you? Who’s the person who screwed you over?’
‘No one,’ said Tess, alarmed. ‘How did you know that?’
‘I didn’t, though you just told me as much,’ Peter said. ‘I was just making polite conversation. So who is he? Or she. No judging.’
‘He,’ said Tess. ‘He is—oh, I don’t know. He is—’ The drinks arrived at that moment, and she took hers gratefully. ‘Cheers. Thank you. Here’s to you.’
‘To you, and your holiday in Rome,’ said Peter, almost formally. They drank, and Tess felt the chalky, sharp bubbles fizz deliciously in her throat, and she smiled.
‘Oh, it’s lovely to be here,’ she said impulsively.
He laughed. ‘Away from your ladies? Yes, the mysterious holiday, and I still don’t know why you’re here. Who was he?’
‘He was…’ Tess laughed, but then she was silent for a moment. ‘I’m not sure who he was, to be honest.’
‘What does that mean?’ Peter said. ‘You went out with the Phantom of the Opera, is that it?’
Tess took another sip of her drink, feeling the bubbles in her throat. She closed her eyes briefly, listening to the soft chatter from inside the bar, the lovely sound of Italian.
‘He was called…Will,’ Tess said. She shook her head. ‘Gosh. A year ago, I thought we were all set, that we didn’t have a totally perfect relationship, but that—hey—who does? I thought we’d be together for ever, we’d been together for two years or so. And then…’ She narrowed her eyes, trying to remember what it had been like, being with Will. But she couldn’t. It was like she had been another person, her London self who didn’t have any wellies and who always blow-dried her hair. And who felt slightly numb inside all the time.
‘And then…?’
‘Then I moved back home and…and…my oldest friend—he’s called Adam.’ She looked up at Peter, and met his gaze, then she shook her head. ‘This is stupid. You don’t want to hear all this.’
‘Actually, I do,’ he said. ‘I like hearing about other people’s lives, it’s my job. And it means I don’t have to think about my own crappy life for a while. Carry on.’ He waved his drink at her, as though he was conducting, and then waved to the waiter who was standing in the doorway, watching them. ‘Un’altra bottiglia, per piacere.’
Tess put her drink back on the table. ‘The thing is, I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘So maybe just tell me the rough outline.’ His voice was kind. ‘It’s easier to tell a stranger, after all.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And it’s kinda late. My time of day. Tell me.’
She laughed again, her voice low in the darkness. And then she told him about Langford, about the new job, about the holiday, about everyone who was on the holiday. He was a good listener—but he was a journalist, she would tell herself afterwards, he was paid to listen.
Still, she liked him, nonetheless. She liked the way he laughed as she told him about the ladies, the Older and Younger camps, and about Langford. She liked the way he chewed his lip when she told him about Leonora Mortmain and how disquieting she found her. She liked the smile on his face as she told him how much she loved teaching them, being here and seeing all these things. She liked his bitten nails, and the way he drummed his fingers on the rickety metal table, softly, while she talked. She liked his curiosity about her, about why she was here, what she was like, what she liked. It was nice, on the simplest level, to be with someone who wanted to know about you—who you were, what you did, and who was interested in what you say. That, in itself, was enough to make her feel a little sad.
But she shrugged it off, and they fell into a companionable silence, while she stared unseeingly into her glass. She was in Rome, in a caf? with a mysterious stranger. She felt as if she were coming alive again, waking up after a long, long sleep. Tess shivered to herself.
‘Are you cold?’ Peter said.
‘No,’ said Tess. ‘I was just thinking.’ She looked at him. ‘Can I ask you something?’
He nodded.
‘Have you seen your wife since she left?’ He looked a bit surprised, but shook his head. ‘No. Well, once, but she didn’t know it.’
‘When?’
‘I went to Naples last month,’ he said. ‘I had a story to do, I was writing about Berlusconi making his first visit there and promising to sort out the refuse. But I went to her parents’ apartment, to find her.’ He breathed out through his nostrils. ‘Because
—man. She wouldn’t return my calls, my emails, texts, nothing.’
‘You didn’t know where she was?’ Tess said, alarmed.
He said, ‘Yeah, I knew that. I knew she’d left me, gone back to Leon—that’s the guy, she was with him when we first met, two years ago.’
‘Where did you meet?’
‘At a UN thing in New York. She’s a translator.’ He lifted his face to the sky, and moved his head from side to side, so his neck clicked. ‘She was living with him, but we got together and—then we got married, a year after we met.’
‘Wow,’ said Tess. ‘That’s fast.’
‘Too fast, it would seem,’ Peter said grimly.
‘Oh,’ Tess said. ‘But you fell in love. You weren’t to know.’
He laughed. ‘You’re an optimist, aren’t you? I should have known, I think. Someone who’s with a boyfriend already and happily cheats on him with you isn’t someone you should one hundred per cent trust.’
‘And this is Leon?’
‘Yeah. He’s Bosnian.’
‘Right.’
‘He’s an asshole.’
‘He sounds it.’
Peter’s voice grew softer and softer. ‘So I go to her mother’s place. I just want to talk to her, for her to talk to me, you know?’ He shook his head. ‘To treat me like a human being, not a dog, or something you’d kick in the street, like a used Coke can. But I got there, and I stood in the street, it’s right by the music academy there, and there’s some guy playing the violin in the apartment across the street, and I looked up and—there she was. In the window, with Leon.’
‘What—what was she doing?’ Tess said, fear in her voice.
He said slowly, ‘She was laughing.’
‘Oh,’ said Tess.
‘She had her arms round his waist and she was laughing at something he said. And that’s when I knew it was over.’
‘You knew then?’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘You know…you can convince yourself about a whole bunch of crap when you’re in it. It’s going to work out, that thing they do doesn’t matter, relationships are hard. But when you see the woman you love with someone else…and the way she looks at him, she never looked at you like that…well.’ He drained the last of his drink. ‘No one’s going to give you that piece of information. You have to see it for yourself.’ He put the glass down on the table. ‘No matter how much it hurts.’
Impulsively, Tess reached out and lightly touched his hand. His eyes opened, and she blinked, settling back swiftly in her seat. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, genuinely sad for him. ‘I know what you mean, I think.’ She thought of Adam’s hands on her body, of Francesca’s luscious, cool voice in the darkness of the hotel room, the way he drew back from Tess when he heard it. How much that had hurt her, and that was, she told herself, nothing compared to what Peter must have felt.
His dark eyes met hers again, and she was unable to prevent herself saying, ‘She’s mad, your wife, anyway. Leaving you, I mean.’
Peter grinned. ‘Why?’
Perhaps it was the jasmine, or the Prosecco, or Italy in general. Tess said, ‘She just is. I’ve only known you two days. But trust me.’
He turned to her swiftly. He caught her arm, and looked at her, shaking his head, his eyes searching, his face illuminated only by the soft light from the caf?
‘Tess,’ he said. ‘Wow—’ He stared at her curiously, and she back at him, biting the tip of her tongue between her teeth, not knowing what to say now to him, wishing she’d kept quiet. But suddenly the tension cleared; he laughed. ‘You’re hilarious.’ He covered her hand with his. ‘Thank you. Well, the same is true of you.’ He patted her arm. ‘It really is.’
‘Thanks,’ she said softly.
They stared at each other for a few moments, and the dark street seemed to entirely melt away, as if they were the only people around. ‘OK,’ Peter said after a few moments. ‘How about I show you some more of Rome, before I drop you off?’
‘Sure,’ said Tess.
‘What do you have tomorrow on the itinerary?’
‘Pompeii,’ she said. His eyes widened.
‘Really? You guys are packing it in, aren’t you. So we’d better go.’ He took some euros out of his trouser pocket and put them on the table, shaking his head as she made for her bag. ‘This is my treat. Come with me.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
They walked up the road to the Piazza di Spagna, and as they emerged on the square—really more of a long, asymmetrical oblong—Tess gasped. The Spanish Steps were huge, wide, taller than the buildings flanking them, floodlit, leading to a vast church perched high above. Though it was after one a.m., there were still people sitting, chatting, talking.
‘This is proper tourism,’ Peter said. ‘You should see it during the day. Horrible.’
Tess gazed up at the steps and the huge pink Baroque church at the top, at the tourists and the locals chatting, walking gently through the palm trees in the middle of the piazza, at the warmth and humanity gathered together. ‘I like it,’ she said. ‘I’ve always liked it.’
‘You would,’ said Peter. ‘You’re not nearly elitist enough for a Latin teacher. I’ll give you the tour, though you probably know it all.’
‘I haven’t been here for over ten years,’ Tess said. ‘And everything I know about Rome happened in BC time. I don’t know the rest.’
‘OK!’ he said, looking pleased. ‘So it’s called the Spanish Piazza because the Spanish Embassy’s over there—’ he put his hand on her shoulder and pointed—‘and Keats died in that house there—’ he swivelled her round a little, gesturing to a rose-pink house next to the steps. ‘And this is where all the smart nineteenth-century tourists used to stay, around here, before it got taken over by fat people in coach parties who want to go to McDonald’s. Over there,’ he said, pointing to the far corner of the piazza. ‘Mostly Americans. I admit it. Sometimes I hate my countrymen and women.’
‘At least they’ve made the effort to come in the first place,’ said Tess, gazing up at the church. ‘Better than staying at home and having no interest in the world around you.’ Peter’s grip on her shoulder tightened.
‘I know, but why come if you’re just going to blindly follow some crazy lady with an umbrella around like a sheep for a week? What’s the point, when you don’t see anything with your own eyes, because you’re too busy looking at it through a camera, so you’ve got something to take back and show the folks at home?’ She laughed, mostly out of surprise at the anger in his voice, but when she turned round, she realized he really meant it.
‘Sorry,’ Peter said. ‘I guess when you live in another country, you only see the worst of the one you left behind. And you want to be identified with the place you live, not where you’re from. Sounds stupid.’
‘No it doesn’t,’ said Tess. ‘Doesn’t at all. Don’t you miss it, though?’
He jumped a little. ‘What, living in the States? Sometimes. I miss my friends. I miss other stuff about it.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well—I don’t know. Lately—’ He scratched the back of his neck. ‘I’ve been here two years, and I love it. But my editor rang me up yesterday, about a job back home.’
‘Wow,’ said Tess. ‘Where?’
‘San Francisco,’ Peter said. He nodded. ‘Yeah. I always wanted to go there, too. West Coast correspondent. It’s a pretty cool job. I’m going to interview with them over the phone.’
Tess felt slightly betrayed, she didn’t know why. This wasn’t part of her Roman Holiday-esque fantasy, the gorgeous American man hopping on a plane back home. ‘Don’t you like it here?’
‘I love it here,’ he said, and he smiled at her. ‘I’ll probably end up staying here anyway, the job is way out of my league. And I kind of feel like I was meant to live in Rome. But we’ll see.’
They turned and started walking, away from the gentle tide of people walking towards the steps. ‘OK then,’ said Peter. ‘If we’re doing the proper tou
rist trail, let’s tackle the big one. The Mount Everest. The tackiest thing ever built in a town like this—it should be the set for an Elton John concert, not in a sidestreet in Rome. Come on, let’s get on the bike.’
It was only a short ride through the tiny sidestreets of the Centro Storico. Tess was amazed to see so many people still out, despite the hour; Italians, mostly, couples walking arm in arm, elegant women in brown and grey and black, men with jumpers thrown casually over their shoulders, young men in groups, young women talking animatedly, their heels clattering on the pavements, all out for a late-night passeggiata. They stopped in a dark alley, and Peter kicked the stand on the moped out and locked it. Tess stood next to him, shivering slightly in the sudden chill of the night. She raised her arm to look at her watch, then stopped. She didn’t want to know what time it was now, she didn’t care. It was late. Too late. She should have gone to bed ages ago. Tomorrow was—oh, tomorrow was to be worried about tomorrow. She’d feel awful anyway. She had to remember, though, to—
She felt a light hand on her shoulder, and turned around in surprise.
‘We’re here,’ said Peter. And he took her hand, and they walked down a tiny sidestreet, towards a great white light, where the sound of rushing water grew louder as they approached. ‘Keep on walking,’ he said. ‘We have to walk round, so you can see it from the front.’ He put his hand over her eyes, and guided her, slowly. ‘Up these steps. Avoid the stall selling charming plaster casts of the Pope and the Colosseum. Just here, oh, I’m sorry—’
Tess yelped as she stubbed her toe on a marble bollard.
‘OK. It’s time. Behold,’ he said, taking his hand away from her eyes. ‘The Trevi Fountain. Where Vegas comes to Rome.’
I Remember You Page 21
