I Remember You (21 page)

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.’

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 tourist 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.’

Tess gasped, she couldn’t help it. She had been to Rome several times, starting with when she was a teenager on a school trip, and she must have come to the Trevi Fountain then, and other times since. Yet she had no personal memory of it, more a composite, and she didn’t know if that was real or based on
La Dolce Vita
. Not until now.

‘It’s hilarious,’ Peter said.

‘It’s wonderful,’ she retorted. He looked at her, surprised.

‘You really think so? I think it’s awful.’

Vast, alarmed-looking horses and athletic but slightly indolent-looking gods stood over them, as the floodlit bright blue water crashed against the huge white marble edifice, which was carved as if it were rock and stone, with botanical accessories. Tess laughed with delight. ‘How can you say that. It’s brilliant. Look—’ she grabbed his hand. ‘Look at that seagull, looking really confused, next to that marble plant. It doesn’t know if it’s real or not.’

Peter smiled and squeezed her hand, not releasing it. ‘Maybe you’re right. It’s pretty nasty in the day, though.’

‘But we’re here at night,’ Tess said, turning to him, smiling happily. ‘And it’s lovely.’

There was a silence; a comfortable silence, and Tess thought again how easy it was to be with him, this virtual stranger. He held onto her hand, as they stood at the side of the fountain, watching a few teenagers play at its edge, a couple talking seriously, an old man walking steadily past, eyes
averted, as if its very gaudiness offended his eyes. One of the teenagers screamed in outrage, as another took something off him and ran away, laughing. Tess turned to Peter, curiously.

‘You never asked me any questions,’ she said, suddenly. ‘I thought you wanted to ask me some questions, about the mugging.’

‘I did,’ he said. ‘Oh—yes, that’s totally right.’ He looked a little chastened; she wished she hadn’t said anything. ‘We should do that.’ He released her hand, and ran his fingers through his hair. The moment was gone, she realized, cursing herself. She’d ruined it. ‘So—what are you doing tomorrow night?’

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Hey, no!’ Peter said. ‘What are you up to, maybe we could have a quick conversation about it, or maybe—’

‘Well, we get back from Pompeii late afternoon, I think, and we’re just doing our own thing tomorrow evening, I didn’t want them to worry about having to get back and change for supper so we’ll just have something casual.’ She paused. ‘So, I’m kind of free.’

‘Right.’ He was rummaging in his pockets, and didn’t look up. Tess swallowed, and put her hand on his arm.

‘And then Friday’s free too. All day. I’m by myself all day.’

‘A free day,’ said Peter. ‘That is interesting. So—it’s a free day.’

‘Yes,’ said Tess.

‘Meaning—’

‘We can do whatever we want.’ Her eyes met his.

‘Can we?’

‘Not necessarily you and me,’ she said, tapping him on the chest. ‘But—’

He caught her hand and held it. ‘I’m serious,’ Peter said. She looked at him, curious.

‘What do you mean?’

‘This,’ he said, and he bent his head and kissed her.

Usually, there is some sign that the hero and heroine of the scene are about to start kissing, Tess thought. But here, none—well, he was a boy, she was a girl, they were in Rome, it was a late night in summer…but other than that…Oh. She really was out of practice at recognizing the signs.

She closed her eyes briefly, and Peter put his hand on the back of her neck and drew her towards him. It was late, and quiet, and the only sound was the crashing water from the fountain, and the only movement the water falling against the floodlit white carved rocks of marble. His chin scraped hers; she could feel his tongue, gently pushing into her mouth. His lips pressed on hers, and he pulled her towards him, fervently, his hands on her hips.

‘It shouldn’t happen here,’ he said, after a while, pulling away from her and breathing deeply. His fingers touched her shoulder bone, moving the strap of her dress off a little so he could kiss her skin. ‘This place isn’t the place where it should happen.’

She smiled. ‘I don’t mind. I like it.’

‘You are such a lil’ tourist.’ He was kissing her collar bone now, moving up to her neck, his lips tickling her, his stubble scratching her. She sighed, catching him to her. ‘So I’ll see you tomorrow night, then?’ he murmured, the pads of his fingers stroking her skin.

‘Yes,’ she said happily. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘You’re not going right now, are you?’

She looked at her watch. It was just after two. She looked back at him, at his dark eyes, glittering in the light from the fountain, his wicked, kind smile that she knew so well, she felt, yet which was so full of promise, so exciting.

‘No,’ she said, grinning. ‘Not
right
now.’

‘How long have I got?’ he said, running his hands through her hair, over the back of her neck.

‘Oh…about five minutes. Max,’ she said, smiling. And
she kissed him back, pulling his head towards her, wrapping her arms around him and, for the first time since she’d got to Rome, Tess Tennant started feeling less like an old schoolteacher and more like a young woman.