One Night in Italy (12 page)

During a massive, cathartic clear-out, Catherine had come across some of her old diaries. God, she’d been a feisty thing in her student years. Ballsy and bolshy, not putting up with any shite. Admittedly, Catherine wasn’t exactly
proud
of this behaviour now: throwing alcohol over men, assaulting their privates, dumping them heartlessly as she left the country . . . She hoped Emily wasn’t behaving like this at university – or Matthew, come to that. Mind you, the nothing’s-gonna-stop-me attitude that shone from the pages of her diary was one she kind of admired.

She’d been so sure of herself back then, so confident. But then she’d met Mike and everything had changed.
She
had changed. It was only now he had gone that she was starting to question herself, to re-evaluate their relationship. Had it really been as solid as she’d always assumed? Had she and Mike truly completed one another?

A few weeks earlier, she’d been working at the care home and overheard Nora and Violet, two of her favourite old ladies, reminiscing about their passionate romances in times gone by and giggling naughtily together. Their tales made Catherine feel empty – then envious. How they’d adored their beaus and flings! Could she honestly say she had ever felt that way about Mike?

Then, a week or so ago, when she was doing a shift in the charity shop, a tanned young blonde woman had come in, looking for cheap black trousers and white shirts she could wear for a waitressing job ‘because I’ve been travelling for eight years and all my other clothes are fit for the bin’. Again, it brought Catherine up short, and she couldn’t help feeling a wrench inside for that younger Catherine, who’d travelled around Europe with her friend Zoe, working here and there, then hopping on another train when they felt like it. When was the last time she had done anything adventurous?

The last straw had come a few days ago when one of the pipes had burst at home and flooded the kitchen. Panicking, she’d tried to get hold of Mike at work, only to be told he was on holiday in the Seychelles. ‘Oh,’ said Lindsay the receptionist in confusion, ‘that’s weird. I assumed you were with him, Mrs E?’

‘No,’ she had replied heavily. She was not with him. She was still here in Wetherstone, ankle-deep in dirty water, worrying about her plumbing. How the hell could Mike afford a holiday in the Seychelles anyway?

It occurred to her that maybe, just maybe, she had been getting her priorities wrong all this time. And maybe, just maybe, she should do something about that.

Penny, of course, thoroughly approved of this positive new outlook when Catherine told her about it on the way back from tennis one morning. ‘Yes. Absolutely. Seize the day!’ she said, banging on the steering wheel for emphasis. They were in Penny’s ancient Beamer, which smelled of dogs and was littered with crisp packets and old cigarette boxes. ‘So what are you going to do? What’s the plan of action?’

‘Well . . .’ Catherine quailed at her friend’s bossy tone. ‘I suppose I just want some fun. I don’t want to end up an old lady in a retirement home with nothing to say for myself.’

‘Fun,’ Penny echoed thoughtfully and her eyes gleamed. ‘Darren’s got this lovely friend I could—’

‘Not that kind of fun,’ Catherine said firmly. The idea of dipping a toe back in the dating pool made her feel like throwing up. Or maybe that was just Penny’s driving, she thought, as her friend swerved wildly to overtake a dawdling white Fiesta. ‘I need to get some kind of job,’ she said after a moment.

Penny made a scornful noise. ‘I thought you said fun? Look, why don’t you come along to my line dancing class on Thursday? That’s a total laugh. And there are some real hotties there.’

Line dancing did not appeal, nor did the thought of ‘hotties’ in cowboy boots. ‘Um . . .’ Catherine said politely, ‘I was thinking some other kind of class actually. Maybe.’

‘Brilliant idea, Cath. Agony aunts are always saying that, aren’t they? Take an evening class, cop off with the sexy woodwork tutor, blah blah.’

‘I don’t want to learn woodwork,’ Catherine told her.

‘Derrr,’ Penny said. ‘Woodwork and car maintenance and . . . I don’t know, building – those courses are going to be full of men. FULL.’

‘Woodwork and building do not sound like fun to me,’ Catherine said. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of pottery, or—’

‘Nah.’

‘Jewellery-making.’

‘Too many women.’

‘A language, then. Italian, maybe.’

‘Ooh, now you’re talking. The language of love and all that. I like it, Cath. Do it!’ She braked hard at a roundabout, sending Catherine flying forward in her seat. Being Penny’s passenger was like playing whiplash roulette. ‘By the way, I meant to say, what are you doing for Christmas? Do you and the kids want to come to mine? We’ve got my parents this year, but we can squeeze in a few more. I need to order my turkey soon so just let me know, yeah?’

‘Thanks, but . . .’ Catherine was glad Penny was navigating the roundabout and couldn’t see her expression. ‘We’re actually going to have Christmas at home,’ she said hesitantly. ‘The four of us, and Mike’s parents.’

‘
What?
’ Penny yelped. ‘What are you saying? Are you back together with him? I thought he was in the frigging Seychelles?’

‘No. It’s just . . .’

‘But he’s coming to you for
Christmas
? How’s that going to work? I’m confused. Do the twins know? I feel like I’ve missed a crucial event here.’

‘No, they don’t know. And you mustn’t say anything. It was Mike’s idea. We’re going to . . .’ She coughed, dreading her friend’s reaction. ‘We’re going to kind of pretend everything’s okay.’

Penny almost crashed into the back of a van. ‘You’re going to
what
?’ She veered out of the way and overtook badly, earning herself a beeped horn and a rude hand gesture. ‘You’re going to
pretend
everything’s
okay
?’

Her tone of voice made it blindingly obvious that she thought this was nothing short of madness. She was probably right. ‘I just can’t bring myself to tell them,’ Catherine admitted. ‘And Mike doesn’t want to either.’

‘Jesus, Cath. That’s crazy! That’s totally fucking nuts, pardon my French. So, what, you’re going to be back in the double bed with him, acting like happy old mum and dad? And you think they won’t even
notice
?’

Catherine folded her arms across herself defensively. It hadn’t sounded
that
crazy when Mike had proposed it the other week. In fact, it had seemed like quite good sense, the easiest way all round. She had even wondered, in a moment of weakness, if he was hoping to move back in permanently; if there might yet be a change of heart, kisses under the mistletoe, a Santa-size apology. That was before she knew he’d jetted off abroad on holiday with somebody else, mind.

Penny was like a Jack Russell with a rodent. She would not give it up. ‘What about when other people say stuff?’ she asked. ‘You know that
I’d
take a secret to the grave, but don’t you think gossips like Mrs Archbold will stir things up?
Haven’t seen your dad around here lately. Has he moved back in?
That’s all it’ll take – one little comment and the whole thing will fall apart.’

Penny parked in their street, pulling on the handbrake with unnecessary force, and Catherine glanced at Mrs Archbold’s neat house two doors down from hers with a miserable shrug. Those net curtains of hers had been twitched so often lately, Catherine was surprised the rail hadn’t fallen down. ‘Well . . . we’re going to give it a try,’ she said. ‘If they find out, they find out. But for me, I think it’s worth it. I’d give anything for one last Christmas together, even if it
is
as fake as spray-on snow.’

Penny patted her hand. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to upset you. And I do totally get the family Christmas thing, but . . .’ She unclipped her seatbelt. ‘Well, good luck to you, that’s all. Just remember, there’s a tin of Quality Street and a party hat with your name on it over at my place if it all goes tits-up.’

Catherine tried to ignore Penny’s doom-laden words as she dumped her tennis stuff in the hall, grabbed the pile of post on the mat and wandered through to the kitchen.

She flicked through the letters – all for Mike, as usual – but the last envelope caught her eye as it had a Barclays Bank logo on the front. Her brow furrowed. That was weird. They’d always done their banking through the Co-op. Why were Barclays writing to him?

It was probably junk mail, she thought, putting it with the other letters that had arrived for him. Mike had asked her to drop his post off at the surgery every now and then, but she’d been posting it all in a big envelope rather than go along in person and undergo the humiliation of the receptionists’ sympathetic looks and hushed silence. Just imagining it made her cringe.
Here she is. You know he’s left her, don’t you? Poor cow, look at the state of her. Not sure what he saw in her anyway, to be honest. And you know that holiday he went on recently? He only went and took someone else. I know!

Catherine sighed for a moment, imagining him and Rebecca hand in hand on a white sandy beach together, frolicking in the crystal blue waters. Cocktails. Sun cream. Laughter. It was unbearable.

Oh, sod it. And sod him. He hadn’t wasted any time crying over their broken marriage, had he? It was high time she got on with her own life without him. Time she started channelling the Catherine she’d been all those years ago, who was ballsy and brave, and who grabbed life by the throat.

Without another minute’s hesitation, she switched on the computer and booked herself onto an Italian evening class, beginning in January. There. It was a start. The start of the new go-getting Catherine. She could almost hear her younger self cheering her on.

Chapter Ten

Buon Natale!
– Merry Christmas!

Somehow or other, it was already December and Sophie was still at her parents’ house in Sheffield. This was almost as surprising as the fact that she and her mother hadn’t actually killed each other yet.

Her dad was home now, rattling around with various pills from the GP and convalescing, which so far had meant a lot of moaning at the television and half-hearted jigsaw puzzles, while her mum slaved over vats of home-made soup in her attempt to build him back up. He was a terrible invalid, bored and impatient about staying at home, desperate to get back to work, and insisting on phoning the office every morning for updates. Prior to this he had only ever had two days off sick in his life.

Anything strenuous was strictly forbidden, according to Trish, though. ‘You’re not out of the woods yet, Jim,’ she kept reminding him. ‘You’re meant to be taking it easy, not haring around like you used to. Stay indoors and finish that jigsaw, for heaven’s sake.’

Christmas had evolved since Sophie last spent it with her parents. Back when she was growing up, it had always been just the three of them for the first part of the day, followed by an afternoon visit to her grandma for a slice of Christmas cake and more presents, with a trip to the panto the following week. Now it seemed as if her parents ran the whole show, with her aunt and uncle and grandma over for Christmas dinner, and her cousins Sam and Richard arriving later, children and partners in tow. ‘Whoa,’ she said to her mum when she got wind of the busy schedule ahead. ‘When did Christmas get so hectic around here?’

Her mum was pressing pastry circles into the tray for mince pie bases and didn’t meet her eye. ‘We didn’t want to be alone, just me and Jim, once you went away,’ she confessed. ‘So we invited everyone to us – and they keep coming back every year.’

Sophie didn’t know how to respond. All the far-flung Christmases she’d enjoyed, and she’d never really given a thought to her parents left behind, waking up in a quiet house together and yearning for company. ‘Must be your amazing cooking, Mum,’ she said eventually.

Trish raised an eyebrow. ‘Either that, or they felt sorry for us.’

Ouch. There was an awkward silence. ‘Can I help you with those mince pies?’ Sophie ventured after a moment.

‘Thank you,’ her mum replied. ‘Although they’re not exactly Italian delicacies, like you’re used to, of course.’

‘Oh, Mum, would you give over? I love mince pies, all right? And I haven’t had a decent one in years.’ Her words came out sharper than she intended and Trish flinched.

‘There’s no need to shout,’ she said, looking wounded.

‘I’m not, it’s just . . .’ Sophie gritted her teeth. ‘I feel like you’re angry with me all the time.’

Her mum put down her pastry cutter. ‘I’m not angry,’ she said after a moment. She passed a hand across her face, leaving a streak of flour there. ‘I . . . Oh, it doesn’t matter.’

‘It does matter, clearly. What is it? Let’s just talk about it. Do you want me to go?’

‘No. Of course I don’t. You’re our daughter.’ She sighed. ‘You just make me feel uncomfortable, that’s all. Like you’re criticizing everything here. Like you’re storing it all up to write about in your blog: how boring we are, how suburban, how you can’t wait to go again.’

Sophie guessed she deserved that one. ‘I’m not . . . I don’t think that,’ she protested. ‘I swear!’