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They wander over to the monstrosity.
‘You first,’ she says, nodding towards the waiting mouth.
‘I don’t think I’ll bother.’ He coughs again; his hand flies to his chest.
Samantha waits for him to recover. She wants him to watch her. He looks up finally, and, holding his beautiful brown gaze, she slowly, resolutely slides her hand into the cool marble hole. An involuntary shiver passes through her, a shiver born of the sudden chill of the stone, of ancient legend and something like triumph.
Peter takes a photograph with his phone – if it’s possible to do this sarcastically, then that is how he does it.
‘There,’ she says, withdrawing her hand and wiggling her fingers at him. ‘I’m obviouslyincrediblytruthful. Now you, Mr Grumpy. No getting out of it.’
He glances towards the crowd, back to her. Frowns. Clears his throat.
‘Let’s go.’ His voice is thin, his breathing a little laboured. ‘I need some more water.’
‘Peter. Just put your hand in and let me take a photograph. It’ll take one second and it’s not like it’s really going to bite you, is it?’
‘It’s just not my cup of tea, all right? I don’t like these overt tourist traps. They make me feel used and … a bit grubby.’ He pushes the heel of his hand to his chest and wheezes, looks again towards the entrance. The only way out is through the church. He will have to force his way back through the queue.
‘Get over yourself, will you?’ Her patience is all but at an end. ‘I hardly have any photos of you from our honeymoon.’
‘You don’t need photos of me,’ he snaps, then opens his mouth wide, as if to loosen his jaw. He grips his shoulder, rotates his arm. His face is the colour of red wine. ‘I’m old and ugly.’
‘Don’t be silly. Haven’t you seenRoman Holiday? Come on! I just really wanted to do the Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck thing.’ She takes out her iPhone. ‘Please? Put your hand in.’
‘No.’
The follicles of her hair lift. ‘It’s just a stupid drain cover, for God’s sake. Put your hand in, Peter.’
‘I didn’t get involved in art history to become a dumb sheep.’ He pushes his fingers through his thinning brown hair. Still he doesn’t look at her.
‘Peter.’ Her bottom lip stiffens. From the hovering throng comes a shush of voyeuristic curiosity. ‘Put your hand in. Put your hand in and I’ll take a photo and then we’ll go back to the flat. You’re being … vain and … stuffy and, I have to say, a bit foolish.’
One of the guides calls something to them in Italian.
‘Momento,’ she calls back, holds up her hand.
‘Look.’ Peter takes a deep breath, continues in a stage whisper. ‘I’d feel exactly the same way if you asked me to ride a roller coaster or … or hire a gondola in Venice. It’s no better than putting your head through the slap-and-tickle comedy boards in seaside towns. I just don’t like this stuff. I don’tdothis stuff. They fleece you for the privilege of lining up like a … like a chimp and doing what every single other human being has done before you. And meanwhile … meanwhile they’re laughing all the way to the bank. It’s humiliating. Come on, Sam. You’re an intelligent—’
‘Put your hand in the fucking mouth.’ They’re both stage-whispering now. They are both ridiculous. The people waiting will have heard her swear, but right now, she couldn’t give a—
‘You’re making a scene,’ he hisses. ‘You can’t bully me into it. Sam, this is beneath you. It’s beneath both of us.’
‘No one’s bullying you, Peter. No one’s bullied you in your entire life. I’ve trailed round after you our whole time here. I’ve listened to Caravaggio’s entire life story and your theories about everything from his homosexuality to the availability of paint pigments in the sixteenth bloody century. This is the only thing I’ve asked you to do, and yes, it’s because I saw it inRoman Holiday, and I know you don’t think that’s a valid reason, but it’smyreason. I mean, do you think you’ll actually lose your hand? Or is this because it was my suggestion, not yours?’
From the doorway comes a murmur laced with delight: the honeymooners, having a fight, here, in public.
‘Signora?’ The guard stares at Samantha.
Again, she holds up her hand. And then, glaring at her husband, ‘Peter.’
Peter has taken a handkerchief out of his back pocket and is dabbing at his forehead. ‘For Christ’s sake, Sam, give it a rest. This really is beneath you. You’re an educated woman.’ An eruption of coughing. He holds the handkerchief to his mouth.
She is about to reply with something flippant, an allusion to the fact that much of her education – albeit outside the classroom – has come from him, so many years her senior, but he turns away from her and staggers. Drops forward, hands to his knees, and gives a loud, rasping inhalation. The back of his shirt is soaked.
‘Peter?’
He straightens but almost immediately lurches forward once more.
