The Love of My Life (9 page)

‘But that’s more than three years away!’

‘Trust me, it’ll pass in a second.’

‘But what if I die before I’m eighteen and I’ve wasted my whole life not having any fun?’

‘You won’t.’

‘I might.’

‘You won’t.’

‘But what if I do?’

‘You won’t!’

‘But I might!’

I imagined myself dead (but not disfigured) from an unspecified illness. I saw myself lying on my own bed, on top of the pink nylon counterpane, wearing my Minnie Mouse nightdress, my ankles together, my toenails painted a pretty, sparkly blue, my arms crossed on my chest, my dark hair fanned about me on the pillow, showing off my new gold studs to their best advantage. The image was so moving it brought tears to my eyes. How sorry my mother would be then that she had listened to that horrible, rat-like Mr Hensley and kept me incarcerated in this sober, charmless house in this boring little town.

I wrote the newspaper obituaries in my head. I planned my funeral as a beautiful, artistic production which would show the mourners exactly what a talent they had lost. I would ask for ‘Desiderata’ to be read aloud by Lynnette and then Anneli could do some ballet. I wanted all my favourite records played, which, at the time, included Culture Club’s ‘Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?’ and ‘Like a Virgin’ by Madonna, both of which I imagined, with a delicious shiver, would give my mourners something to think about. I imagined my mother sobbing into her handkerchief. Mr Hensley mortified, ashamed, grim and ashen-faced. Lynnette dwelling on the words of our final, meaningful conversation: ‘But what if I die before I’m eighteen . . .’ ‘You won’t!’ Hah! That would teach her.

At the time, I thought this was going to be the most boring summer of my whole life. In retrospect it was one of the most charmed.

thirteen

I was watching TV when my phone rang on Thursday afternoon. It was a Watersford number that I didn’t recognize but turned out to belong to the university history department secretary. She wondered if I would be available to come for an interview with the professor the following Wednesday at 3 p.m. I asked her to hold on a minute while I checked my diary. I put the phone down and walked round the flat three times, then picked it up and said, ‘Yes, I’m free on Wednesday, that will be fine.’

After I put the phone down, I picked up a cushion and danced round the flat in my pyjamas. Then I had an urge to tell somebody my good news. I didn’t dare risk calling Marc again, so I called Lynnette. She was still hurt, first because I had moved three hundred miles north without consulting her and second because I had not bothered to let her know that I was all right and not floating face-down in the river.

I put on my brightest voice as I enquired after her and Sean.

‘Well, we’d both be a lot better if you were here with us, Liv,’ said Lynnette. ‘You shouldn’t be in Watersford, it’s not the best place for you.’

‘But . . .’

‘But nothing. The Felicones aren’t your real family, we are. We love you and we miss you and we want you here with us.’

‘No we don’t!’ called Sean in the background, not without affection.

‘But Luca’s here,’ I said quietly.

‘Liv, Luca’s not there. He’s in your heart. He’s with you wherever you are. And he’d want you to be in London, we
all
know that.’

‘Mmmm . . .’ I said, non-committally. ‘But the good news is that I’ve got a job.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, I haven’t actually got it yet, but I have an interview. And it’s the first job I’ve applied for.’

‘What about your real job?’

‘What?’

‘Your real job. Your job at Bluefish Public Relations, Canary Wharf. Your job where everybody knows you and cares about you.’

I didn’t know what to say. I had never resigned as such, I had never had a conversation with anyone at Bluefish (they had tried to contact me but I hadn’t answered the phone or replied to any correspondence). Lynnette, it turned out, had predicted this.

‘I spoke to Amber only last week,’ she said. ‘She told me she’d be happy to have you back whenever you’re ready.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t interfere.’

At the other end of the phone Lynnette exhaled slowly. ‘Liv, it’s not interfering. It’s just that . . .’

‘You know what’s best for me?’

‘No, no . . .’

‘I’m not a baby, Lynnette. Do you know how that makes me feel? You talking to my boss behind my back? Making excuses for me?’

‘No, Liv, it’s not like that, I just . . .’

‘You’ve always thought I was incompetent.’

‘Liv, that’s not fair.’

‘Life isn’t,’ I said. ‘And
I
should know.’

‘Listen to yourself,’ said Lynnette. ‘You sound like—’

But I never found out what I sounded like. I put the phone down.

Angela called me. She sounded strained. She asked if I was all right. I told her I was fine. She asked me, casually, if I had seen Marc lately. I told her not since the time at Marinella’s. It didn’t feel like a lie at all. The man who came to my flat three or four times a week was not the same man who lived with Nathalie in the flat above Marinella’s.

‘Why do you ask?’ I asked.

‘No reason,’ she said, with a tight little laugh.

Marc invited me to Marinella’s for a family dinner on Easter Sunday. I told him I thought it was a very bad idea. He said it would be a worse idea if I didn’t come because people would wonder why I had stayed away. They would wonder if I had something to hide.

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘It’ll be fine,’ said Marc. ‘Stefano and Bridget are flying up from London and they’ll be horrified if you’re not there. Pop told Angela that she would be letting Luca down if you weren’t made welcome. If she can make the effort then so can you. You must come. If not for yourself, then for Luca.’

‘For Luca?’

‘Yes.’

There were only a handful of places to eat out in Portiston, so even though Marinella’s never served traditional roast Sunday lunches, it was a popular venue with locals and tourists alike. Eating there on a Sunday was always a pleasurable experience. The food was relaxed and hearty, the ambience warm and friendly. Easter Sunday always used to be particularly busy – the first big family calendar occasion of the year, and also the date which unofficially marked the beginning of the summer season, and therefore a day to celebrate.

It was a tradition for the Felicone family to all muck in together on bank holidays. Sons, daughters-in-law, even the grandchildren as soon as they were old enough would help out behind the bar, in the kitchen and restaurant. It made for a great atmosphere, and after the lunchtime rush was over and the last guest had left, Maurizio would lock the doors and the family would settle down to enjoy a meal together. These were always wonderful occasions, even for a black sheep like me. Maurizio knew how to throw a party, he was a generous and congenial host, and he adored his family.

But now things were different. Luca wasn’t there. I had never really fitted in and my position was more tenuous than ever. I had been invited to the family party, so I knew that I ought to offer to help out with the lunches. In the end, I decided to call Maurizio to see if he needed an extra pair of hands in the kitchen or the restaurant. I didn’t want to turn up in the evening to find that Nathalie and Angela had been run off their feet all day pausing only to bitch about my thoughtlessness in omitting to offer to help. Despite this, I sincerely hoped he would turn me down.

Maurizio was the epitome of kindness.

‘How sweet of you to offer, Olivia,’ he said. ‘But it’s a while since you’ve done any waitressing for us.’

‘I could wash up,’ I said cheerfully, knowing full well that he wouldn’t let me do that.

Maurizio gave a little cough, and said, ‘Excuse me, Olivia,’ and then I heard a brief exchange in Italian with Angela which I couldn’t follow although I picked out the words ‘
bambini
’, ‘Nathalie’ and ‘
poveretta
’ (poor girl). Angela’s voice was shrill, Maurizio’s deep and calm and reassuring.

Then Maurizio came back on the line. ‘What would help us the most would be if you’d look after the children so that Nathalie could come down and work in the restaurant with Marc,’ he said. ‘Would you mind doing some babysitting?’

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I just don’t know how Nathalie would feel about that.’

‘Leave Nathalie to me,’ said Maurizio.

I put the phone down, wishing I’d never picked it up. The black dog, who had been sitting at my feet listening to my side of the conversation, gave a meaningful sigh and jumped up on to my shoulder. My spine curved, my shoulders collapsed towards one another with the weight of the beast, yet I was soothed by its chin on my clavicle, its deep breathing. Without Luca, I would be the only person at the party who was not linked to the family by parents, siblings, living spouses or children. I didn’t really qualify to be there at all.

Easter Saturday night in the flat proved interminable. The good weather had been replaced by a storm of Atlantic proportions.

I had registered at the Watersford Central Library and taken out a clutch of books as I was so tired of TV, but I had overestimated my capacity for concentration. I should, I realized, have stuck to easy-to-read page-turners. A crime novel perhaps, or a friendly chick-lit romance. But I had shied away from detective novels in case I inadvertently happened upon a forensic description of the kind of injuries Luca had suffered, and didn’t think I could cope with a happy-ever-after-type plot that featured multiple misunderstandings and orgasms.

Instead I had picked up improving, literary books, which I had neither the energy nor the desire to read.

The books were intended to be an alternative to alcohol as well as TV, but by 9.45 p.m. on Saturday, that ‘now or never’ time when I either went to the off-licence or I didn’t, I put on one of Luca’s big old waterproof coats, went out and bought a bottle of Merlot and a litre of gin to replace the one I’d emptied down the sink that very morning in response to a murderous hangover. The woman behind the till recognized me and tried to strike up a conversation. I was appalled that she regarded me as a regular. Surely, surely, part of her training should have been to instil in her a polite blankness when dealing with people who were clearly alcohol-dependent, no matter what their excuses. To shut her up I asked for a bar of mint Aero.

I don’t know what was wrong, but I wasn’t OK. The flat was, as Marc had pointed out, untidy. Because of its size, it didn’t take much to tip it from cosy to claustrophobic. I couldn’t open the windows because of the rain and the wind, yet I felt asthmatic and constricted.

Like Sylvia Plath, I am of the opinion that there are few complaints in life that a hot bath can’t cure, so I lit half a dozen tealights and arranged them in the tiny bathroom, poured a gallon of lavender and camomile oil into the bath and then turned on the hot tap while I searched for a CD of something guaranteed to relax me. I put Sigur Ros into the machine, but when I tested the temperature of the bath it was icy cold. The pilot light in the boiler had blown out.

By now I had finished the wine and was on to my first glass of gin and lemonade. I caught a glimpse of myself in the window and I looked like a madwoman, a ghost, my hair unkempt, my clothes dishevelled, shadows under my eyes so dark that they reflected in the steamy window glass – oh God, I was a mess. I paced the flat. I drank my drink. I could bear my own company no longer.

For the first time, I felt a bitter anger. It was directed at my husband.

There was nothing else for it but to put on my coat and boots and go to the cemetery. Outside, the wind whipped round my legs, and the knees of my jeans were soon soaked from rain running off my coat. My hair stuck to my head and face and all my exposed skin felt icy, but I didn’t care: inside I was burning. I strode through the black streets, yellow streetlamps reflected in puddles rippled by the wind and the wet tarmac reflecting moonlight in explosive fragments. A stream of water ran down the hill from the direction of the cemetery and burbled in overflowing drains which spewed up the water, and as I reached the cemetery boundary the trees were being lashed by the weather, creaking and groaning as if they were being flayed alive.

The gates, of course, were padlocked, bound by a thick metal chain, yet even they rattled and clanged in the wind. I was not deterred. The surrounding wall was six feet high and a little further along the road was a bus shelter, with a bench. It was easy for me, given my anger, to climb on to the back of the bench and from there pull myself up on to the top of the wall like somebody climbing out of a swimming pool. I didn’t even notice the shards of glass concreted into the top of it.

There was a drop on the other side, and then I was in the cemetery. There was a light on in the top floor of the lodge. The superintendent and his wife were preparing for bed. Maybe they were brushing their teeth, maybe about to have sex. I wished them well, and scrambled over the graves in the area between the wall and the main path, then jogged up the hill towards Luca’s grave, shouting and screaming at him, confident that the noise of the storm would drown out my voice.

‘You bastard!’ I yelled. ‘You said you’d never leave me! You promised, Luca! You promised me! You selfish bastard! You said you’d look after me and now look at me! Look what you’ve done to me! Look at me!’

There are no lights in the cemetery. The dead need no lights. Yet I could see where I was going quite clearly. From time to time the wind blew the protective sheathing of clouds away from an icy half-moon illuminating the path. And as I walked up that hill, so I began to lose my anger. The further up the hill I went, the calmer I felt. I swear I could feel the dead around me. I was surrounded by them, the kindly, concerned dead, in the air like whispers I couldn’t quite catch and glimpses I couldn’t quite identify. There are 130,000 people buried in Arcadia Vale and the dear wraiths had been disturbed by my nocturnal ravings and had come to show their solidarity with me. I found it immensely calming.