‘Are we still friends?’
Michelle set the glass of lemonade on the kitchen table next to Darrell. Darrell did not want lemonade, but Michelle had insisted. Michelle had also insisted that Darrell sit down, so they could have a chat. Darrell could not find the energy to say no, and suspected that if there did happen to be any still clinging to some ledge within her, a chat with Michelle would prise its fingers from its precarious hold in seconds flat.
When Darrell had poked her head round the kitchen door, the house had been so quiet that she’d confidently expected to find the room empty. Anselo (who’d been forced back into their bedroom by Gulliver’s commandeering of the upstairs study) had left while she was feeding Cosmo, and she had spied him not long after, walking out onto the lawn with his sister and her dog. A clatter of feet down the stairs, accompanied by the thump of a hand hitting the wall at the landing, had announced Gulliver’s departure from the study and, moments later, Darrell had heard a clamour of voices, adults and small children, with the usual enquiries about who, truthfully now, had been to the bathroom, and who’d seen the bloody car keys, followed by the slam of the front door and a ringing silence. Darrell had counted two cars starting up, and had assumed — hoped — that everyone else had left.
Her first thought was that now she’d have time to do some real, uninterrupted thinking. The need for this had been pressing on her since yesterday, when her phone had beeped with a text message. Retrieving the mobile from the depths of her bag, Darrell had read: ‘For D: You OK?’ When the blood had stopped thumping in her ears, she’d realised the ‘For D’ was a little odd. Who else could it be for? Instinct had prompted her to check the record of calls and she found one she knew she hadn’t made.
Anselo had phoned Marcus, she’d thought. Yikes. Did he threaten him, too?
Not that Anselo had really threatened me, she’d thought, because I still can’t — won’t — believe he meant it. But he did say it, and he hasn’t apologised — won’t even speak to me. He slept on the floor last night, and I can only imagine he’ll do so until we leave.
The prospect of what might happen after that, when they were finally home, had made Darrell desperate for time to think. She’d considered staying in the bedroom, but she’d had no breakfast, and feeding Cosmo, as usual, had left her ravenous. I’ll slip down and grab some fruit, she’d thought. Cosmo asleep in his cot, Darrell had hurried down the stairs and into the kitchen.
Where she’d found Michelle.
And now I’m sitting here, thought Darrell, drinking lemonade that I don’t want, being forced to waste what is potentially my only available opportunity for serious, vital cogitation because Michelle wants to chat, and I do not have the gumption to say no.
‘Are we?’ said Michelle again. ‘Friends?’
‘Of course,’ said Darrell.
‘It’s just that we’ve spent bugger-all time together since we got here, and I feel bad about it. Not bad enough to blame myself,’ Michelle added, ‘because it takes two to mambo Italiano, doesn’t it? And I’d have to say you’ve been a bit like one of those hermits who posh freaks used to keep in grottoes in seventeen-something, who’d get dragged blinking into the light whenever the host took guests on a perambulation around il giardino.’
Darrell avoided answering by taking a sip of her lemonade.
‘Mind you, I can’t talk,’ said Michelle with a sigh. ‘The prospect of yet another day-trip with the cast of National Lampoon’s Family Vacation made me come over all fragile, like a Southern belle whose Mammy’s pulled her corsets so tight she can’t even pluck the leaves for the mint julep. By golly,’ she added, ‘I am the Mistress of Metaphors this morning!’
Michelle sipped her own lemonade and made a face.
‘By rights, this should be wine,’ she said, ‘but it’s only ten o’clock. At least thirty minutes too early.’ Her expression darkened. ‘That strumpet Aishe said she’d go shopping with me, but she’s been holed up with your husband for eons now. What are they doing? Plotting the downfall of the free world? I wouldn’t put it past her, the spiteful bint.’
‘Have you heard from Clare?’ said Darrell.
The mention of Anselo had filled her with a guilty panic, and she latched onto the first diversion that came to mind. Not the most ideal one, she realised too late. Marital discord was hardly a topic she wished to expand upon.
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Michelle. ‘Pretty sure Patrick hasn’t, either. And Aishe told me that her family, which is obviously Patrick’s family, too — so borderline incestuous — have also not heard a dicky bird. Clare must have gone underground, like a mutant alligator.’
Michelle sat back in her chair and let out the tetchy sigh of the bored.
‘Yes, everyone’s abandoned me,’ she said. ‘My friends, my husband, my children. All right, I might have insisted that the latter did so, might even have closed the door thankfully behind them, but still.’
She gave Darrell an appraising look that made Darrell’s heart sink.
‘Let’s you and I go out!’ said Michelle. ‘We can take the babe. He sleeps more than Rumpelstiltskin, so I can’t imagine he’ll trouble us.’
Cosmo had been Darrell’s best excuse, and now Michelle had trumped it, Darrell was struggling for another.
But Michelle was on her feet.
‘Come on, come on!’ she insisted. ‘You need to get out. You’re acquiring the pallor of uncooked pizza dough. And I need to make a token gesture towards being a better friend. Come on.’
She took hold of Darrell’s arm and hauled her from her chair.
But Darrell had just had a thought, which gave her a faint hope of reprieve. ‘How will we get there with no car?’
‘The campervan, of course!’ said Michelle. ‘Benedict leaves the keys on the hall table. I’m sure he won’t mind.’
‘What about Aishe?’
‘She snoozes, she loses,’ said Michelle. ‘Serve the fickle strumpet right.’
It had been well over ten years since Darrell had driven anywhere with Michelle, but she could not recall any previous experience being this scary. The drive into Como was so terrifying, in fact, that Darrell had to shut down her brain, lest she be lobotomised by the shock. I can’t believe I was worried about taxis and planes and Italian drivers, she thought. It’s like worrying about climate change when there’s a flaming asteroid hurtling towards Earth.
Michelle drove the way she spoke, relentlessly and with total disregard for others.
It was like a car chase in a bad movie, thought Darrell, complete with pedestrians scuttling for cover, trucks swerving and waiters pirouetting on the footpath, as they sought to avoid having their trays clipped by the campervan’s wing mirror, which resembled Dumbo’s ear encased in carbonite. All we need now is a little old lady on a crossing and two guys in the middle of the road carrying an enormous sheet of plate glass. Oh, and Nicholas Cage, because he’s always in that type of movie.
‘Where’s this bloody parking lot?’ said Michelle, leaning over to look at the map on Darrell’s lap. ‘Oh, I see — yes, yes! Grazie, grazie!’ she added, waving at the driver in a red sports car, who had made full use of his ABS brakes when Michelle had cut directly in front of him to take the turn. Darrell caught a glimpse of him leaning against the steering wheel, gasping, as if winded.
‘Right,’ said Michelle as they walked out of the parking lot. ‘We’ve got forty-five minutes before the shops do that stupid Italian thing and close for an eight-hour lunch. No wonder their economy is in the shittio. No one does anything close to a full day’s work!’
Darrell was looking around. The car park was on an unattractive scrubby lot, on the more modern outskirts of the city. But as they walked towards the centro historico, they started to see older buildings whose carvings and frescoes held a promise of more beauty and charm to come.
This is the first time I’ve been here, thought Darrell. I’ve been in Italy for over three weeks, and I’ve barely left the house. Well, apart from a day’s drive to the Stelvio Pass.
Her thoughts now began to ricochet like a pinball between her husband and Marcus, racking up so many guilty panic points that Darrell became convinced she’d be entitled to a free game.
‘Luckily, it doesn’t take long to walk round the shops here,’ Michelle was saying. ‘We can kill time with lunch in the piazza, fending off the feral booksellers. And then, if we’re desperate, I suppose we could look at the duomo. Ha!’ she added. ‘The Como duomo. I wonder if the Italians think that’s funny, or if it’s like that town in Germany called Fucking, whose locals have no clue why it keeps cropping up on the internet.’
Darrell followed Michelle from shop to shop, grateful that her friend’s enthusiasm and patchy grasp of Italian gave her little time to focus any attention on Darrell.
‘What do you think of these boots?’ Michelle held up a pair in patent leather, with stiletto heels and pointed toes. ‘Too fuck-mio?’
‘No, I like them,’ said Darrell automatically.
‘Chad will like them,’ said Michelle smugly. ‘When he gets home at night from the incredibly well-paying job that I know he will get the instant we’re back home, I can greet him in the kitchen, wearing nothing but these and a G-string. Who needs dinner when you’ve got a slutty wife?’
‘Just don’t stand too close to an open flame,’ said Darrell. ‘Unless you’ve had a full bikini wax.’
The sudden buzz of her phone made her leap. Luckily, Michelle was having trouble pulling on the boots, so she did not notice.
Darrell pulled the phone out of her pocket and, turning away from Michelle, checked the screen.
‘D: text now or I surround villa with crack SAS team,’ she read. ‘Not kidding. Have connections.’
‘I’m OK,’ she texted back hastily. ‘In Como with Michelle.’
The screen was blank for what seemed to Darrell to be at least a century and a half. Michelle had given up struggling with the boots, and had summoned a shop assistant to help her. The assistant was now attempting to get a shoehorn under Michelle’s heel. If he’s not careful, thought Darrell, he’ll lose an eye.
Her phone buzzed and, once more, Darrell leapt as if stung.
‘Where in Como?’
‘No fixed location,’ Darrell texted back. ‘Shopping.’
‘Meet me in one hour. Ticket office. Funicolare.’
‘Can’t! With Michelle!’ she texted frantically.
‘You’ll find a way. One hour. XXX.’
Hell, thought Darrell. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t even be thinking about doing this.
You will, though, said the other voice in her head. Because right now, you’re desperate to talk to someone who’ll actually listen, and who’s positive and warm, and who, quite possibly, cares more about you than anyone else does.
But what if he asks me to leave Anselo again? thought Darrell. What if he demands an answer?
You can’t hide forever, said the voice. Grow a spine and make a decision.
Darrell wondered if other people had similar voices in their heads. For their sakes, she sincerely hoped not.
‘Oh, that’s absurd!’ Michelle tossed the boot onto the floor. ‘Loco!’ she said to the assistant, tapping her temple with her forefinger.
‘I think that’s Spanish,’ said Darrell. ‘What’s up?’
‘The boots won’t go over my calves,’ said Michelle. ‘Stupid stunted Italians and their retarded sizes. At this rate,’ she said, folding her arms, huffily, ‘I’ll be greeting Chad in a pair of thigh-high rubber fishing waders.’
Doing her best to look casual, Darrell checked her watch. Cosmo was still asleep in the car seat, so she couldn’t use him as an excuse. But luckily, Italian opening hours provided one for her.
‘It’s after twelve-thirty,’ she said. ‘They’ve been staying open just for us, I think.’
‘Good.’ Michelle gathered up her sandals and pulled them on. ‘See!’ she said to the assistant. ‘American shoes are normal sizes, not like something you get with a stupido Happy Meal!’
Outside, Michelle said, ‘Let’s go and get pizza and gelato. I can comfort-eat to compensate for being made to feel fat.’
Darrell thought, it should take me no more than fifteen minutes to walk to the funicolare; I know where it is, I saw it before on the map, it’s right along the lakefront. That means I need to make an excuse to leave in about forty minutes. True, I didn’t have the gumption to find an excuse not to come into Como, she acknowledged, but I was at a low ebb this morning. Now, she thought, well, I’m not sure what I feel. My feet are tingling, I do know that. Perhaps that’s a sign that I need to move right now?
‘Um,’ she said, ‘call me crazy, but I have a sudden urge to see the lake. I know, I know, I see it every day!’ she added, when Michelle opened her mouth to protest. ‘But not this bit of it. This bit I’ve never seen, and I may never have the chance again. Cosmo will wake up, and I’ll be stuck. It’s now or never.’
‘But pizza and gelato are that way.’ Michelle hooked her thumb over her shoulder.
‘You go,’ said Darrell. ‘I’ll be half an hour max. Order a pizza for me.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Michelle. ‘But if I order one you don’t like, don’t expect me to pick the yucky bits off it.’
‘Thanks.’ Darrell turned, eager to go. ‘I’ll see you soon!’
I’ll be early, she thought, as she walked, but that’s OK. I’ll sit and wait, and with luck, Cosmo will let me do so in peace.
By the funicolare, Darrell was surprised to see that the small post office next door was still open. There seemed to be some sort of commotion occurring inside. Curious, she poked her head in, and saw a crowd of mostly elderly Italians bunched up around the counter, gesticulating and shouting. They all had in their hands the kind of paper numbers that you’d expect to take from a roll in a deli, so that everyone waiting would be served in their proper turn. Those little slips of paper, Darrell observed, seemed to be the source of their discontent, and the focus of their ire a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit, who was alternately wringing his hands and throwing them up in the air.
‘Scusi, signora,’ came a polite voice from behind her. Darrell turned and tried to not to gape. There was a priest, in full-length black robes and dog collar. Darrell made room for him to pass, and noted that in his hand he had what looked like a small silver flask. To Darrell’s astonishment, he walked up to the gang of disgruntled elderly and began to chant and splash each of them with drips from the flask. The man in the bad suit rushed forward, bobbing his head, his smile a rictus of desperate gratitude, and clasped the priest’s hand. For a second, Darrell was convinced the man was about to kiss it, but the priest lifted his hand from the man’s grasp and made a languid circular gesture that brought to mind the Queen waving to the crowd from her Rolls.
The man in the terrible suit is the manager, Darrell guessed, and he’s called in the priest, like a one-man A-team, to come and calm the old folk, enraged by having to take a number and get in line (a new system, obviously), by dispensing good words and a sprinkling of holy water. They should try that in Waitrose at Christmas, Darrell thought, to defuse the brawls over the last ham.
Darrell put her hand over her mouth to stifle a sudden urge to laugh. It’s the first time I’ve felt like laughing in more weeks than I can count, she thought, but I doubt the giggles of a disrespectful foreigner will help the situation. They might all turn on me. Even the priest. It’ll be worse than being hexed by Granny Herne.
She ducked back out of the post office, and laughed out loud into the safety of the open air. And there was Marcus, coming towards her, smiling with both pleasure and relief. Darrell let him take Cosmo and place him in his seat gently on the ground at their feet, and then she let him gather her tightly into his arms.