Messy, Wonderful Us

by Catherine Isaac

  Chapter 15

  As Julia stands at the doorway of their house, painted tastefully in a Farrow and Ball shade of blue, she somehow looks smaller than usual. The magnolia tree that dominates the front garden was in spectacular bloom last month, but now its silky raspberry-ripple petals are brown and wilting.

  ‘I suppose, if this is what it takes to get him thinking straight again, perhaps it’s a good idea,’ she says.

  Ed discussed the trip with her at length on the phone before I left Jeremy’s flat and went to collect his passport. He assured me that she understood and agreed. I don’t know if that’s true, or how it can be true. And while my primary concern in this situation is for my oldest friend, I can’t help looking at Julia and imagining how I’d feel in her shoes. Completely broken.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right about this, Julia?’

  She sighs. ‘Obviously, if it was up to me, he wouldn’t be going anywhere. But he’s clearly made his mind up that this is something he needs to do. And who knows, perhaps if he feels the sun on his skin again, clears his head a little, it could make the difference.’ She’s saying the words as if trying to convince herself, to find a positive in a sea of negatives. Perhaps it’s even her way of proving to herself she has some control over what’s happening. But it feels as though she’s chasing a kite in the wind, its ribbons just out of reach.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind him tagging along?’

  I feel uneasy at the question, unsure of the right answer. ‘It’s absolutely fine.’

  ‘I’d understand if you did. He’s hardly great company at the moment.’

  ‘Well, hopefully he’ll be a bit more like the old Ed by the time he returns.’ I smile and she tries to return it but falters.

  ‘He’s very lucky to have a friend like you, Allie. Look after him for me, won’t you?’

  *

  The first leg of the flight, which disembarks in Amsterdam, is full, noisy and we are surrounded by women in neon pink T-shirts, with ‘Mandy’s Hen Party’ emblazoned across the front. Ed is quiet, almost sullen, in contrast to his neighbour, who doesn’t allow the 7.30 a.m. departure to deter her from downing two miniature bottles of red wine with a vodka and Pringles chaser.

  Part of me is glad of the circus around us, that it temporarily absolves me from having to address the issues that are clearly burning Ed up. But this recognition is followed by a stab of frustration, a reminder that that’s precisely why he’s here. To talk about his problems. To open up. Not just to anyone, but to me. A shiver makes its way down my spine.

  ‘Did I tell you about what happened last time I was on a plane, when I was going to that conference in Berlin a few months ago?’ I say, flicking open my in-flight magazine.

  Ed glances at me sideways. ‘No?’

  ‘Someone passed out. When the flight attendant saw my name on the passenger list, she assumed that the word ‘doctor’ in my title qualified me to provide medical assistance. I had to confess that the last first-aid training I had was when I was in the Brownies.’

  The hint of a smile appears briefly on his lips, but his mind isn’t on my small talk. I flick over the page onto a retail section, glancing through endless blingy watches, lip gloss collections and other whimsy.

  ‘Were they okay?’ Ed asks.

  I look up. ‘Who?’

  ‘The person who passed out.’

  ‘No idea. But there was a cardiothoracic surgeon on board, so they would’ve stood a better chance with him than me trying to copy something I’d seen on Call the Midwife.’

  When we reach Verona airport, I wait at the carousel, watching everyone else collect their luggage with an augmenting sense of dread until, half an hour after landing, only a pushchair and a suitcase in the shape of R2-D2 are left. After a lengthy wait at the baggage enquiries counter, I am greeted by a young man with a bun, beard and yellow knitted tie, which hangs begrudgingly from his neck. I fill him in on my predicament while he taps silently on his computer and finally looks up at me.

  ‘Good news. We have located your baggage. Fill this in please.’ He pushes a pink form across the desk.

  ‘Oh, that’s great,’ I say, relieved. ‘So where is it?’

  ‘On its way to Budapest.’

  Chapter 16

  As the first weeks passed, her nausea subsided but isolation began to consume her. The father of her child, who’d captivated her first with his self-assured smile and then his sheer persistence, was now gone – away from Liverpool, from her, from their baby.

  When she’d first tried writing to him, she couldn’t find the right words. Every version of her letters felt surreal, as if it were a stranger speaking, a girl other than herself. But after a few attempts, she was finally able to put one vaguely lucid word in front of the other.

  I hope things are going well over there and that life is rewarding you with all you deserve. I think about you often, about all those dreams of yours, and wonder how close you are to fulfilling them. You opened my eyes in that sense. Until we met, I hadn’t given much thought to anything beyond my own doorstep. You reminded me that there’s a whole wide world out there.

  Now, when I think of you, it’s under a canopy of bright sunshine. Which probably has something to do with the fact that it’s been raining here in the UK for what feels like weeks! I can’t imagine what it must be like to be living in a place where it’s never really cold, that horrible, biting cold that gets into your bones.

  Still, it brightened up at lunchtime and I went for a walk by myself in Sefton Park. The problem was, everywhere I looked, there were young mothers pushing prams or holding hands with their toddler. I got a bit upset, which is silly because I don’t need to see that to be reminded of the mess I’m in. I know it can’t go on, all this deceit. But I just can’t think of a way of telling everyone without ruining everything.

  Part of me doesn’t even know why I’m writing to you. I suppose I’m hoping a solution might come to me, though so far I’ve singularly failed to find one. I don’t blame you for any of this, by the way. I want to make that absolutely clear. I knew that you wouldn’t be in England forever, you’d told me that on the first day we’d met.

  I wonder sometimes if that had anything to do with what happened between us – why I did it, I mean. It is surprisingly easy to be reckless with someone you know won’t be around forever. That sounds dramatic, doesn’t it? I don’t mean it to, but I’m sitting here crying again like a total sap. In truth, I have nowhere to turn. I am entirely lost.

  He never responded. She’d never expected him to. Yet, her dispatches started to become strangely comforting, an invisible thread that ran between the tiny heart beating inside her and the man who, with her, had put it there. Because, for all her despair, something else had started happening to her, frequently and at random.

  It would often occur in the mornings, just before she fully woke, when she placed her hands on her belly and felt the first sign of a lump that protruded when she lay flat on her back. Or when she’d dress in the morning and her zip would snag, her disappearing waist preventing further movement.

  The reminder that there was a baby secretly growing inside her prompted an unexpected rush of joy that filled her up from her shoes to her chest, warming her insides. It was fleeting at first, a thunderclap of light in the darkness, but when it happened it was so powerful that she started to believe, or at least hope, that there was some supernatural force at work that could somehow get her out of this mess.

  Her secret was a blade with a double edge. On the one hand, she was unable to see a way out. On the other, she marvelled at how blood rushed through her body like a waterfall after a storm, how she alone was capable of supporting another life. It was an unequalled kind of elation – a clean, dizzying warmth that, each time she stopped and thought about it, could keep her going for hours afterwards.

  The day after she wrote that letter, she was sitting on the bus, half-listening to a conversation the two women were having about Ken Barlo
w’s new woman in Coronation Street, when she felt the flutter of tiny limbs inside her. She’d thought she’d imagined it at first. But then she slid her hand inside her coat and waited until another one came. Her neck inflamed with heat as she sat, astonished by how distinct it was.

  When the bus reached the end of her road, she scrambled down the steps and raced home, letting herself into the house before pounding up the stairs to the mirror in her mum’s bedroom. She drew the curtains and took off her coat, peeling away each item of clothing until she was down to her knickers and blouse. She turned sideways, lifted up her top, and examined herself. She hadn’t really looked at the mound between her hips before; she’d only glanced at it as she wrestled on her tights each morning. Now she was mesmerised by it. She smoothed her hand over the skin and felt another kick, this time so sharp it that it made her splutter with laughter.

  ‘You’ll leave me black and blue,’ she whispered.

  The creak of the door made her head snap up and a bolt of adrenalin coursed through her body, nearly making her legs give way. There was her dad, staring at her naked, swollen belly, his face drained of colour.

  Chapter 17

  Allie

  Ed has always been the type of person who refuses to acknowledge that a problem is insurmountable and the fact that my luggage is currently en route to another country has clearly not altered this.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ he says, dismissively. ‘I’ve got shower gel and toothpaste you can use.’

  ‘I presume you’re not carrying any spare mascara?’ I reply. ‘Or moisturiser? Or knickers?’

  ‘Left those at home,’ he deadpans. ‘Look honestly, we’ll find you some shops as soon as we get to Sirmione.’

  I do hope so, because my entire worldly belongings now consist of a passport, half a bottle of Evian, a copy of The Quiet American and a pot of lip balm. From the airport, we head to the station in Verona and from there we’ll go on to Peschiera del Garda, a short taxi ride from our final destination. I sit opposite Ed on the train and drink in the view, as the industrialised buildings and freight containers unfold into resplendent countryside.

  There’s something soothing about the thrumming rhythm of wheels against track, as we pass green olive groves and vineyards moulded into the landscape. Dry-stone walls are tinged pink in the sun, like a blush, and the cherry trees and cypresses, all canopied by a luminous blue sky, hint at the riches that await us at the shores of Lake Garda.

  I warned Ed before we arrived that the accommodation I’d chosen was fairly basic and away from Sirmione Old Town, the famously beautiful peninsula that inspired the ancient poetry of Catullus. The place I’d booked for the first couple of nights – but no more in case I need to move on – is close, but nowhere near as expensive. I refuse to splash out as if I’m here for a holiday, something this trip resolutely is not.

  If Ed is disappointed when we pull up in front of a B&B on the main road, with sausage-pink walls and a two and a half star TripAdvisor rating, he is gracious enough to hide it. We step out of the taxi into fierce sunlight and head in to reception, where we’re greeted by an elegant woman in her seventies, wearing high wedge heels and scarlet gloss on her nails.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ she smiles.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ I echo, instantly wishing I knew more of the language. I glance at Ed, who steps forward to check us in, and after filling out various forms, she slides a Yale key towards us. ‘Your husband speak nice Italian,’ she tells me in faltering English.

  ‘Oh, we’re not . . .’ I feel a shot of heat on my neck. ‘We’re just friends. It is a twin room, isn’t it?’

  Ed repeats the question in Italian and she nods. ‘Si, è una doppia. È già pronta. Ti accompagno.’

  As she shows us up to the room, I notice how Ed’s face changes when he makes small talk, how creases appear around his eyes as he smiles. He stops at the door and turns, making me blink, feeling caught out. ‘There are a couple of clothes shops in the old town. She’s not sure if they’re open though because it’s so late on a Sunday.’

  The room is sparsely decorated and functional, with two low, creaky beds pushed against plain painted walls and made up with clean sheets and thin pillows. There is a shared bathroom along the corridor, while the view overlooks the busy road and a faded billboard for a ‘Sexy Shop’ in Desenzano. I can’t see evidence of any air conditioning but decide not to highlight that.

  ‘I think the two and a half stars are a bit harsh personally, don’t you?’ I say.

  He makes a ‘hmmm’ sound. ‘I’m going to get a cold shower. Or do you want to go first?’

  ‘Well, I’ll probably take longer than you, so perhaps I should. Can I borrow that deodorant?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ he says, throwing his leather wash bag onto the bed.

  I pick it up, along with the thin towel folded on top of the mattress, before heading down the sweltering corridor towards a claustrophobic bathroom that smells intensely of mildew. I balance Ed’s wash bag on the toilet cistern and open it up. It contains a handful of basic toiletries, half a bottle of aftershave, and a blister pack of tablets called Fluoxetine, from which only one has been taken.

  The water from the shower makes up for a lack of pressure with its temperature, which remains consistently volcanic. I leap in and out of a scalding trickle, like I’m auditioning for Riverdance, before emerging flushed and light-headed, my skin still sticky. I put my pants on inside out and dress, before letting Ed go next while I text Dad.

  Arrived safely, but sadly my luggage didn’t – it’s lost! Fortunately they tell me that it’ll be sent on asap (not sure when that is though). Still the sun is shining so all’s well. How are things? x

  He responds immediately.

  What a nightmare. Hope it turns up soon. All fine here – off for a pint with your granddad shortly x

  Have fun – but don’t let him have too many. Grandma would not be impressed! x

  I place the phone on the bed next to me and begin attempting to style my hair with my fingers, when Ed returns to the room. I glance up to see the towel hanging low on his waist, his bare chest and muscular arms still damp and glistening.

  ‘I forgot to take my shorts with me,’ he explains, stepping past me to the bag on his bed and beginning to find some clothes. ‘Shall we go and see what Sirmione has to offer when I’m dressed?’

  ‘Why not?’ I reply, fixing my eyes firmly on the bedside lamp.

  *

  Golden light spills upon the pale walls of the thirteenth-century castle at the entrance to Sirmione’s historic centre. A drawbridge leads us across a stretch of clear, turquoise water, its rails dotted with lipstick-red geraniums and climbing lilac. There is a clutch of pretty cafes on the other side, some with creamy, buttermilk walls, others with rough stone that has weathered centuries.

  We enter a labyrinth of narrow streets lined with elegant shops, wine merchants and tiny art galleries, passing several gelaterias, where children and adults struggle to choose between the creamy swirls of ice cream, lined up in colourful rows.

  Sirmione is a place well suited to wandering; there are lots of people but nobody is in a rush to be anywhere other than here. It’s also impossibly stylish, where the women gracefully negotiate cobblestones in skyscraper sandals and the men are effortlessly cool in cotton shades of sand and sky blue.

  The streets open out onto a main square flanked by al fresco restaurants, each of them packed with families and romancing couples. I look down at my own clothes and hastily styled hair and feel as though my shower never even happened.

  ‘Why don’t you go and get a drink somewhere and I’ll go and see if I can buy some clothes?’ I suggest.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘I’m not going to inflict a shopping session on you, Ed. Just make sure your phone is on so I know where to find you.’

  We part under the bell tower of a tiny, ancient church and I head back to one of the boutiques I’d spotted earlier. The shop wind
ow displays only two dresses, but they’re both beautiful, with soft, brightly coloured fabric and just the right amount of va-va-voom. I head inside and, despite the eye-watering price tag, lift up the sleeve of one of the dresses, wondering if I should try it on. Then the door opens and I look up to catch the briefest of glances – of a middle-aged man with dark hair. Something inside my chest jumps.

  It takes me a moment to realise that he’s too old to be Stefano McCourt and another moment to tell myself that of course he isn’t Stefano McCourt. He’s hardly going to be the first person I bump into. But the awareness that I could now be close to him boils inside me, as I quickly open the door and step out into the dry heat.

  Chapter 18

  ‘You didn’t find anything at all?’

  We are seated at a table outside a lively restaurant, as the convivial sounds of laughter and clattering plates rise above the main square. A group of small children make street theatre on the cobblestones as their parents look on, while couples stroll in the direction of the lake as the last drop of sun glows on the horizon. We are sheltered by a canopy of rampaging honeysuckle and, even in the dusky light, the air is warm around my shoulders.

  ‘Well, I got some mascara,’ I reply.

  ‘But no clothes?’ Ed asks.

  ‘All the shops are designer boutiques. They’re ridiculously expensive and far too fancy for an emergency purchase. I’m sure my luggage will arrive tomorrow.’

  ‘I can buy you something,’ he offers.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I reply, my thoughts instantly turning to Julia. It’s bad enough that he’s away with another woman, I don’t want to add insult to injury by accepting gifts from him – even if this is only me we’re talking about. ‘I’ve got all I need for now. I did get some clean underwear.’ In fact, the single pair of lacy Brazilian pants cost more than I was hoping to spend on an entire outfit.