I Remember You (20 page)

Almost exactly twenty-four hours later, Tess’s leather thong sandals slapped quietly on the oily black cobbles, her heart beating a tattoo in time with her feet, as she crossed the dark Piazza Farnese, heading towards a side street off the square. Her responsibilities were over, another day was over. They had seen the Pantheon, the Ara Pacis, some more ruins. They had wandered round Rome in the heat till their feet begged for mercy, till Tess was sick of the sound of her own voice, of being the leader, in charge, the focus. At last she was alone, carefree, with the cooling air of a Roman evening on her bare skin.

She stood in the centre of the piazza, and turned slowly around, breathing in, her eyes closed, and when she breathed out again, she was no longer Tess, the sensible Classics teacher who shepherded people around all day, who was muffled up in a scarf and tank top against the chill of a late spring and draughty English buildings, who watched someone like Francesca with awe. She was a girl in a black jersey dress with a coral-coloured shawl and the glow of a few glasses of wine and a limoncello inside her, hurrying across a darkened square to—what? What was waiting for her?

She breathed in again, the now-familiar smell of jasmine filling her lungs. She turned off the square, into the Via del
Mascherone, the dark bulk of the Palazzo Farnese towering over the narrow street. A couple were kissing passionately in an alcove of the palazzo; they ignored her as she hurried past, the man reaching behind the woman to pull her closer towards him. When she reached Peter’s flat—a stone building three storeys high, with a dark green front door visible in the light from the street lamp and a blue moped parked outside—she rang the doorbell. There was a jangling sound, far inthe distance, then silence. A moped zoomed past her and she turned, as if embarrassed to be caught doing this. It was another couple, their dark hair fanning out behind them. The woman was driving, the man clinging onto her, one hand round her waist, the other on the back of her neck at the top of her spine in an oddly proprietorial hold.

Tess rang the bell again, flicking the card from the flowers Peter had given her—which had the address on it—against her fingertips. It made a scraping sound in the sudden quiet of the street.

Still nothing.

Perhaps the address was wrong? Perhaps he’d meant another day…Perhaps…And she realized, then, how silly she’d been, building her hopes up all day, getting excited about something as ephemeral as this. It wasn’t real life, it was a fantasy!

One more try: Tess rang the bell, feeling foolish now. If this was the life she wanted to be living he would appear now, apologizing, he was on the phone, in the shower, wherever.

Outside the beam of the street lamp it was oddly dark on the street, no light from the palazzo or the black wall of the garden behind it, and Tess was glad, because she thought she was probably blushing as she finally turned and walked slowly towards the river. She might as well go back to the hotel now; no point in rejoining the others over drinks. She’d felt stupid enough about her exit from dinner anyway; her responsi bilities were over for the day, but as she rose from the table in
the restaurant, clutching her napkin, she had told what she knew sounded like a vastly over-concocted half-truth about a friend who lived in Rome with whom she wanted to catch up. She’d tried to make them believe the friend was a she…She wasn’t sure how many of them had believed this.

Tess walked along the cobbled street towards the Ponte Sisto, her heart heavy at the thought of crossing the bridge back to the hotel. It was becoming clearer to her how completely, stupidly ridiculous she’d been. She looked at her watch; it was a quarter to twelve and perhaps it was for the best. They were going to Pompeii the next day. It was going to be a long day. She needed to look out her guide books—oh, and her socks, to wear with her walking sandals, which were starting to rub. No, she didn’t care how stupid it made her look—who was going to notice, anyway?

‘Tess!’

Wearily, Tess started to list things in her head she ought to check again before the morning, and so she almost missed the voice that called again, ‘Tess! Hey, honey!
Tess!
’

She looked back in amazement. There, standing at the edge of the bridge, one leg resting on the very same bright blue moped she’d just seen, was Peter. He waved frantically, gesturing to her to come over to him. She turned and walked towards him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, as she approached. ‘I can’t take this thing on the bridge.’ He was panting. ‘God, I’m sorry. A minute later, and I’d have missed you.’

‘Yes,’ she said, parting her lips and smiling at him. ‘I—hi!’ She’d forgotten how good-looking he was, his almost black hair shining in the moonlight. ‘I went to your flat—I must have got the wrong—’

She sounded really prim, she knew it, apologizing like an idiot.

‘No, it’s my fault,’ he said earnestly. ‘That’s where I was going. To your hotel to write you a note. I don’t even have
your cell.’ She shook her head. ‘I got caught up on a story. Embassy reception for the Queen of Norway.’ She blinked. ‘It’s true,’ he said gravely, but he was smiling. He ran his hands through his hair and then rubbed them together. ‘So. You still want to do something?’ She nodded. ‘I promised you I’d show you Rome, didn’t I?’

‘Yes,’ said Tess. ‘You did.’

He patted the seat, and handed her a helmet. ‘Put this on, then,’ he said. ‘We’re going for a ride.’

She shook her head, and started laughing. ‘I—I barely know you!’ she said.

‘Don’t be so British.’ He held out his hand, smiling. ‘I’m Peter.’ They shook hands. ‘You’re Tess. I’m your host, now jump on and let’s go have some fun.’

The night was young—well, actually it wasn’t, but she was in Rome, after all, the air was fresh and suddenly, Tess Tennant was sick of thinking things through, wondering about everyone else except her, chewing her nails over an embittered old woman, struggling to keep the peace, trying not to think about Adam, about back home, about everything. This was the bridge. She could choose to cross over to the other side if she wanted, or she could stay, and try being the person she wished she was. She looked into his treacly black eyes, and smiled.

‘Deal.’ She took the helmet from him. ‘What do I do with this?’ she asked, holding it awkwardly. He looked astonished. ‘I mean, is there a strap or a trick or—’

‘You put it on,’ Peter said. He jammed the helmet over her hair. ‘You don’t need to overthink it. Just put it on and let’s—’ he swung one leg over the Vespa—‘let’s go.’

Don’t overthink it.
He was right. As he revved up the engine and they started to move off, Tess caught hold of him, wrapping her arms round his waist and holding on for dear life; wasn’t there a system, an easier way of doing this, she thought? There must be…But no. You just clung on to this almost
complete stranger for dear life as everything became a blur, and streets whizzed by, terrifically fast, and then gradually, as the desire to scream loudly receded, you looked up and the blur started to take shape. Now they were zooming down a long straight road, with narrow pavements that occasionally gave out onto small piazzas with tables and chairs, caféwith laurel bushes dividing them from the street…Shops with elegant elaborate old black frontages with gold lettering, white marble Baroque churches crammed in amongst the ochre buildings, all whizzed past in a flash and she looked around her, then looked up between the buildings at the inky night sky, wondering how she got here, until they turned into a side street and Peter gradually slowed down to a halt.

‘Here we are,’ he said, helping her down. ‘You OK?’

Tess shook out her hair and looked around her. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, smiling. ‘First time.’

‘I’m glad it was me,’ he said, mock-serious. ‘C’mon, let’s go get a drink.’

‘Where are we?’ Tess said.

‘Right by the Spanish Steps,’ Peter said. ‘But we’re going to a bar nearby first, is that OK?’

She didn’t know where they were and, for the first time in days, she wasn’t in charge. ‘That sounds absolutely great.’

They walked through a grid of thin, narrow streets. Off the main street through Via Condotti, with its designer boutiques all shuttered up, lifeless dummies in the windows, in minimalist blacks, blues and greys, expensive handbags laid out on glass plinths like holy icons to be worshipped during the daytime. They cut one block down and an uneasy silence settled upon them. It was quiet, no cars, few people, and Tess started to wonder if she’d made a mistake, if being a free spirit was so great or whether it was better to be tucked up in bed back at the hotel with the Barbara Pym she had just started.

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.
’