AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘Really, there’s nothing,’ I say, and force myself to smile. ‘Nothing at all to report.’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘But, look, you know you can tell me if you’re stressed about anything. Right?’
‘Of course I know that.’
‘Good,’ he says, and smiles back. I turn my attention back to my steak, but there’s something in his tone – something in his look, in the fact he even asked – that makes me feel… I don’t know, mulish, somehow. Resentful. It isn’t fair of me, I know. It doesn’t make any sense, but the more I try to push that mutinous feeling down the stronger it becomes, until I feel like I’m going to cry or throw something if I don’t get out. I have to get out.
I put my knife and fork down and push my chair back. ‘Sorry,’ I say in the calmest voice I can muster. ‘I need to go home.’
‘What’s wrong? Aren’t you feeling well? I can walk you back, or call you a taxi—’
‘It’s fine. I want to go alone.’ I take out my purse, but Marco frowns at me and shakes his head.
‘Don’t you dare,’ he says. ‘I’m getting this.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’ My jaw’s so tight I can scarcely get the words out. As I squeeze past him, he puts a hand on my arm.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’
I can only nod. I slip away from him and out into the warm, still air. The street is full of couples, lingering and talking and laughing in the fading light. My throat’s burning and there are tears in my eyes, but I can’t cry now. This is Italy – if I broke down in public, people wouldn’t ignore me politely and hope I’d go away. They’d crowd round and want to look after me, and I can’t bear that. I march on, head down and jaw clenched, up via dei Serragli and along the embankment towards the Ponte Santa Trinità. Just as I’m about to turn and cross the bridge, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I’m sorry I upset you. Can we talk? M
PS: I won’t ask any stupid questions.
The tears start to spill over. I wipe them away and carry on, across the bridge – lined, as always, with Florentine youths taking selfies and snogging – towards piazza Santa Trinità with its huge phallic column. I’m starting to feel a bit wobbly now, a bit Bambi-legged and short of breath. I sit down on the wide plinth at the base of the column and plant both my hands on the warm marble, trying to ground myself.
I could call Marco. I could ask him to come and find me and he would. He’d hold me and let me cry – really, properly cry. It’s what I want to do. It’s what I want, right now, more than anything.
But if I did that, I’d have to explain myself. I can’t break down on himagainand refuse to tell him what’s going on. And if I tell him… The mutinous feeling rises again and I spread my fingers, pressing down as if I could drive my nails into the marble of the plinth. And then I see Marco.
He’s walking from the bridge towards me. His head is down and his hands are shoved in his pockets and I don’t think he sees me. I don’t think he sees anyone. I expect him to turn right – his right – and head towards the Santa Croce quarter, where he lives in a flat twice the size of mine, with a better sofa and more hair products. But he doesn’t turn; he stops and takes out his phone, and his shoulders slump.
‘Marco,’ I call before I can stop myself. ‘Marco!’
He looks up. ‘Tori,’ he says, and he sounds so pleased that my heart gives a painful squeeze. ‘There you are.’
I pat the plinth next to me and he comes over and sits down. I’m oddly nervous, like I used to be in the days when he was just my lawyer. I can’t look at him, so I look towards the river and hold out my hand. He takes it and laces his fingers between mine.
‘So,’ he says.
‘So.’ His skin against mine, his warmth, the scent of limes. I breathe in and feel my heart slow just a little. ‘I’m stressed,’ I say.
‘I gathered that.’
‘It’s really got nothing to do with you.’
‘Except that you can’t bring yourself to tell me about it.’ He’s hurt, I realise. He’s trying not to sound it, but he’s really hurt.
‘Believe me, you wouldn’t want to know.’
‘Try me,’ he says.
‘Marco…’
‘Really. Try me.’ His fingers tighten on mine. ‘Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than having you push me away every time something’s wrong.’
‘Okay.’ I swallow and try to compose myself, to line up the words in my mind. ‘Okay. Well, you know I’m getting a divorce.’
