The Love of My Life (11 page)

I greeted Carlo and Sheila and their teenage children. Carlo is the conservative brother. He is completely different from the others, in looks and personality. He is the same height as Stefano, but heavier and fleshier. He doesn’t have the same bone structure as the others, his eyes rest on pillows of flesh, there is no clear demarcation between the end of his chin and the beginning of his neck, and his body is corpulent and flabby. Carlo works for the police in an administrative capacity. Luca used to say he was the man who sent tickets to people unfairly flashed driving at just over the speed limit on stretches of road where going just over the speed limit was the only sensible thing to do. Luca used to get a lot of speeding tickets. Carlo is a complete conformist. It is quite incredible that he, and the equally self-contained and repressed Sheila, a small, mousy woman who is a primary-school teacher and an unbridled disciplinarian, ever managed to conceive two children. The children have been, to date, models of good behaviour. Luca used to be convinced this would not last for ever.

‘Lauren might look like butter wouldn’t melt but she probably sells blow-jobs behind the bike sheds and when Andrew gets hormonal they’re going to know all about it!’ he had said at Christmas. I had reproached him, for the children are sweet and kind and much nicer than their parents.

‘Yeah, but come on, Liv, it’s unnatural for teenagers to be sweet and kind, they are supposed to be permanently pissed off and selfish,’ Luca said.

‘A bit like you?’ I said and squealed as he lunged at me. We were in the guest bedroom at Angela and Maurizio’s house in Watersford at the time. We were changing our clothes after the traditional family Boxing Day hike up to the cathedral. It was only four months ago. That was the last time, not counting the funeral, that the family was together.

‘Olivia?’ It was Fabio, standing before me wearing his normal, hard-to-read expression.

I gave my head a tiny shake to dislodge the memory of Luca, and smiled at Fabio, although I didn’t touch him. Fabio has some kind of disorder which makes it difficult for him to interact with other people. He doesn’t like to be touched except on his own terms.

‘Hello, Fabio, how are you?’ I said.

‘Oh, huh, well, you know, um . . .’ said Fabio.

‘Am I sitting next to you?’ I asked.

‘Mama has made a seating plan.’

‘Of course.’

As if on cue, Angela clapped her hands. ‘Come on, everybody, find your places, hurry up now.’

There was fond laughter at Angela’s legendary organizational skills. Maurizio, at the end of the table, put on a Marlon Brando voice and complained that he felt like the Godfather. It was an old joke and it made things feel more normal.

I was placed at Maurizio’s right hand, and beside me was Stefano. Lauren was directly opposite with Nathalie to her left. Marc was on my side of the table but at the other end. I couldn’t even see him.

We said a quick grace, and were invited to pass round great platters of bruschetta, hand-made by Fabio. This large, lovely boy had been taken out of school at the age of seven because his teachers had classified him as ‘subnormal’, yet he was a genius in the kitchen. The senior features writer from the
Watersford Evening Echo
had once called and asked if she could come and do an interview with the man she had dubbed the ‘Rick Stein of Portiston’, and Maurizio had had to keep putting her off because he didn’t want her to find out the truth about Fabio. You could just imagine the headlines. Sometimes – often – I hated myself for all the little cruelties I’d inflicted on Fabio when I was a child.

I bit into a mozzarella-and-chilli bruschetta and tasted happiness. For a second I forgot myself and just enjoyed being part of the noisy family group around the table. Then Maurizio touched my wrist and I jumped back into my skin.

‘Sorry, Olivia, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wondered if you would prefer red, or white?’

I looked up. From the other side of the table, Nathalie was watching me.

‘I’d rather just have water, Maurizio, if that’s OK.’

He shook his head. ‘No, today it’s not OK. I’m requesting the pleasure of a drink with one of my four favourite daughters-in-law. If you’re worried about driving home, you can stay here tonight.’

Nathalie pulled an expression which signified this would only happen over her dead body.

Maurizio had a bottle in either hand and was waving them in front of me.

‘Red, then, please.’

‘Good choice, darling. Good choice.’ Maurizio took my glass and filled it. ‘And may I say, Olivia, that you are looking particularly lovely today.’

I raised my glass to him. ‘And you, Maurizio, are as full of shit as ever.’ Nathalie heard that all right. I saw her wince but Maurizio chuckled and gave me a little hug.

I leaned round Stefano to raise my glass to Fabio, who was soaking up the gallons of praise being thrown his way from every corner of the table. At the other end sat Angela, composed and clearly pleased that the whole family had made the not inconsiderable effort to be there. She must have decided to ignore the fly in the ointment that was me.

The children soon forgot that this was a happy-but-sad occasion on account of poor Uncle Luca not being there, and as the wine flowed and the food was eaten, so the babble and chatter of voices around the table became louder, and everyone, even Nathalie, relaxed.

I was glad to be next to Stefano. He’s the intellectual brother, a tall, thin man with a big nose, a big smile and a big heart – definitely the most like his father. Stefano has a doctorate from the University of London, and due to our geographical proximity, Luca and I used to spend a lot of time with him, Bridget and the children. Bridget’s lovely too. Now a bit of a dreamer with short bleached hair and a nose stud, she used to be quite radical. She has pictures of herself as a student at Greenham Common protesting against the cruise missiles, and was arrested on numerous occasions for trying to protect trees from being chopped down, illegal immigrants from being deported, calves from being transported live, and so on. Stefano adores her, and she him, and the kids are lovely too. As wine was poured, and the waiting staff brought out little bowls of pasta in the lightest, most delicious sauce, Stefano and Maurizio paid me almost undivided attention, and in the enjoyable circle of their dual spotlights, I had no opportunity to remember, or to feel lonely.

By the time the meat was brought out, I was too full to even look at it, and just picked at the communal salad, dark green leaves polished with olive oil and jewelled with pomegranate seeds and slivers of orange; it was such a pretty meal. Then Stefano pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and asked me when I was coming back to London.

‘We miss you, Liv. You should come home,’ he said. Across the table I sensed Nathalie stiffen and prick up her ears.

I twirled a leaf around the prongs of my fork. ‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘Anyway, the agency called this week. They’ve found tenants for the house. I’ve nowhere to go back to.’

‘So?’ Stefano shrugged. ‘Come and live with us. We’ll abuse you and treat you like an unpaid
au pair
, and you know how vile our kids are, and nobody ever cleans the toilet, ever, but we’d love to have you.’

‘You make it sound so appealing.’

‘Ah, come on, Liv. It’s a big house. You could have your own space. Your own share of the filth and squalor.’

‘Thanks, Stefano. I appreciate it, I really do. But I need to be up here for now.’

Nathalie was pretending to listen to something Lauren was saying but I could tell from the angle of her head that she was more interested in our conversation.

‘Sure.’ Stefano pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Sure, I understand. But at some point, Liv, you’ll have to draw a line under this.’

I looked down at my plate and nodded.

‘We understand that you have to grieve,’ said Stefano, ‘but there comes a point where living in the past becomes unhealthy.’

I drained my glass and helped myself to a top-up.

‘There are no happy endings for you in the past. You have to move forward, Liv. You have to look away from here. Get away from here.’

Nathalie’s eyes were like little fish darting this way and that.

Stefano leaned closer to me and spoke into my ear. ‘Come back to us, Liv. We’ll look after you. If you stay here, if you do what you’re doing now . . . well, it’s not helping anyone. Least of all Marc.’

My heart plunged. My mouth was dry. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing. I’m just . . . we’re just worried. Marc’s not coping. He keeps disappearing. He won’t talk to anyone. You remind him of Luca, he’s told us that. Having you so nearby is just making it worse for him. And you’re not coping either, baby. We’re worried about you both.’

Stupidly, embarrassingly, my eyes filled up with tears and overflowed at once. I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand. I shook my head and teardrops fell on the tablecloth.

Stefano put his cool hand on mine.

‘I tried to let go of Luca, but I couldn’t, I can’t,’ I said.

‘Perhaps you should try again.’

I nodded. I was beginning to feel claustrophobic. It was hot in the room, and somebody had turned the lights down and set up the karaoke machine and the disco lights at the far end of the room, next to the fireplace. Two of the grandchildren were sharing the microphone, doing exaggerated actions and belting out ‘Anyone Who Had a Heart’, to the considerable delight of their cousins.

‘Sorry,’ whispered Stefano, covering my other hand with his. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

I shook my head. ‘No, no, you haven’t. Really.’

I heard Nathalie, clear as anything, say in an exaggerated whisper, ‘There she goes again – the dipso drama queen.’

Lauren, to whom this remark was addressed, flushed and examined her napkin.

I felt Stefano tense beside me. He leaned over the table and said quietly but distinctly, ‘Enough now, Nathalie. Leave her be.’

Later, as we cleared the table, Marc asked me what Stefano had said.

‘He thinks I should go back to London,’ I said. ‘Everybody does.’

‘No,’ said Marc. ‘You shouldn’t, you can’t, not now.’

‘He thinks that me being in Watersford is making it harder for you.’

Marc held my eyes. ‘You being in Watersford is the only thing that’s keeping me sane,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t leave me.’

‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I won’t.’

sixteen

The professor’s office was on the ground floor of the history department. It was a large, high-ceilinged room that had probably once been a drawing room. There was ornate cornicing where the ceiling met the walls, and a chandelier caught and threw the sunlight beneath a huge ceiling rose. On the walls were pictures of Watersford throughout the ages. My eye was particularly attracted by a landscape which had been painted when the city was still undeveloped and sheep were grazing where Angela and Maurizio’s house now stands.

The professor, once he had shown me in, sat down beside a large, old-fashioned desk which was satisfyingly piled with papers and books. The floor was covered with papers and books too. There was a cork board propped against the desk, and that was pinned three-deep in messages and notes and to-do lists.

There was a second, smaller desk in the far corner of the room, next to one of three tall sash windows. A pile of faded cardboard files stood beside a dusty and bulky old computer.

I sat down, as invited, on a worn, squashy and immensely comfortable cracked-leather settee. There were unwashed mugs on the carpet, which hadn’t seen a vacuum cleaner in a good many months if the motes that danced in the light were anything to go by.

The professor coughed, rubbed his cheek and said, ‘Yes, well, um . . .’

I smiled, my hands clasped on my knees. I was trying my best to look like a real research assistant. The effect I was aiming for was intelligent and demure with hidden depths.

‘Are you interested in history?’ asked the professor. He was a tall, dark-skinned, good-looking man some years older than me and he spoke with an American accent.

‘Yes,’ I said, and then could think of no way of qualifying that statement.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Well, that’s a good start. Would you care for a coffee, er, Miss . . .’

‘Felicone,’ I said. ‘It’s Mrs, actually. Coffee would be lovely. Black, please, no sugar.’

‘You take it neat, Mrs Felicone,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

I looked at my hands.

The professor stood up and walked round me to the door. He put his head round and asked the girl at the desk to make some coffee. Then he resumed his position. He seemed to have no idea of what he should be asking me.

‘What sort of research do you do?’ I asked, by means of encouragement.

‘Ahh,’ said the professor. ‘Good question. I’m writing a biography of Marian Rutherford. Have you heard of her?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said, on firm ground now. ‘The American author. I grew up in Portiston. I know the house where she lived and all the landmarks. We used to have coachloads of tourists turning up every summer to follow the literary trail. They probably still do.’

The professor was leaning back in his chair looking at me, the tips of his fingers touching each other, making a church with his hands.

‘So you know the story?’

‘I know she came to Portiston at the invitation of her publisher and fell in love with the place and that she set her most famous book,
Emily Campbell
, in the town. I even know the spot where Emily is supposed to have thrown herself off the cliff.’

The professor nodded. ‘The eponymous heroine,’ he said.

I nodded and made a mental note to look up ‘eponymous’ in the dictionary.

‘Have you read the book?’ he asked.

‘Of course. And the others. But
Emily Campbell
’s my favourite.’

‘Mine too. And can you type?’

‘Oh yes, I can type.’

‘And do you like to have the radio on when you’re typing?’

I hesitated a moment, and then answered truthfully, ‘No.’

‘Good. Because I don’t like any distractions while I’m working.’