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He says it neutrally enough, but there’s a hint of satisfaction in his tone. And, just like that, I lose the last of my tolerance. I reach for my purse and slap a ten-euro note on the table, anchoring it with my pastry plate. ‘Your flight’s tomorrow, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘I said, your flight’s tomorrow. Right? You did say you’d booked one?’ I shove my chair back and stand up. Hoisting my bag on my shoulder, I look Duncan straight in the eye. He goggles back at me.
‘Um, yes. Tomorrow morning. I told you, I…’
‘Right. So you need somewhere for tonight. Have you unpacked?’
‘Er…’
‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll go and get your things – you can wait here – and then we’re finding you a hotel. Shouldn’t be difficult around here.’
‘What do you mean, a hotel?’ Duncan frowns. ‘I’m staying at yours.’
‘Duncan, no!’ I’m beyond caution now, beyond diplomacy. ‘I want you out of my flat. I shouldn’t have let you in to start with. I saidwait here,’ I snap as he gets to his feet.
‘Tori, you’re overreacting.’ He doesn’t raise his voice. But all the hurt is gone and there’s that edge to it now, that scornful undertone that always used to make me feel small and ashamed, but it doesn’t any more. Now it just makes me furious. ‘I’m allowed to go where I want. Okay? There’s no need to make a scene.’
‘Of course there’s a fucking need,’ I say. ‘And I’m not making a scene. I just want you to leave me alone.’
‘Tori.’ He steps forward and puts a hand on my shoulder, and I jerk away. I’m aware of the people at the next table talking in whispers; of passers-by on the pavement opposite slowing down to look. Duncan notices too, because he makes a face – a wry, exaggerated face that sayssorry, she’s with me. He takes my arm and I will myself to pull back again, but somehow I’m frozen.
‘You’re being hysterical and you need to calm down.’ His voice is low, almost caressing. ‘Now, I’m prepared to forgive you for fucking me around like this. But first we’re going to go back upstairs together and sort all this out properly, in private, like reasonable people. Right?’
His eyes are locked on mine, his fingers pressing into my flesh. All I can do is stare up at him. And then there’s a yell and Elisa comes rocketing out of the bar, phone held aloft.
‘Let go of her,’ she commands. ‘Let go of her right now or I’ll call the carabinieri.’
Duncan’s brows draw together. ‘What’s she on about?’
‘I call thepolice.’ Elisa brandishes the phone and he lets go of me, backing quickly away.
‘Whoa,’ he says. ‘I think there’s been a misunderstanding. My wife was upset and I was trying to calm her down. That’s all.’
‘Ma che stronzate!’ Elisa spits. Duncan looks puzzled.
‘She says that’s bullshit,’ pipes up a helpful American from the edge of the crowd that’s starting to gather.
Elisa turns to me. ‘You want me to call?’ she says in loud, clear English. ‘If you say, I call.’
I take a long look at Duncan. He’s crimson to the ears, and at least three people are clearly filming this on their phones. ‘No, it’s fine,’ I say. ‘So long as he stays here while I fetch his stuff, and then fucks off quietly and never bothers me again, I think we can leave the carabinieri out of it.’
There’s a ripple of amusement. Duncan looks brilliantly disgruntled. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Obviously that’s fine.’
‘Sit,’ Elisa barks, and he plonks down into the nearest chair and stares mutinously at his feet.
‘I wasn’t doing anything,’ he mutters, to nobody in particular. ‘I don’t know what the problem is.’
*
My nerves hold pretty well until Duncan’s gone – protesting, to the last, that I promised to help him find a hotel – and I’ve drunk a couple of coffees and listened gratefully to Elisa’s reassurances that of course Marco will understand; that any decent man would, and that neither Duncan nor Chiara can possibly do anything to hurt my relationship with him but if by some remote chance they do, well then, good riddance. But my legs start to feel a bit wobbly as I’m climbing the stairs to my flat, and by the time I’ve shut the door behind me, all I can do is slump onto the sofa.
Part of me wants to call Marco right away. Time’s ticking, and Chiara might get to him before I can. And if she does call him up and pour out all her concerns… well, who will he believe? The friend he’s known since childhood, or the newish girlfriend who turned up in Florence a few months ago with a dramatic backstory and nobody to vouch for her? Obviously there’s a real chance he’ll believe Chiara; and it’s pretty clear that, even with the best will in the world, Chiara doesn’t understand about Duncan after all. So if I’m going to have any chance of keeping Marco around, whispers that urgent little voice, then I need to call him now, right now, and get my side in first.
Unless that makes me look even more defensive, of course. Which it might. And if he’d believe Chiara anyway, then what earthly difference does it make if I speak to him first? In a way, this is the acid test of our relationship. I don’t want a man whowouldn’ttrust me implicitly, I remind myself. If I have to beg and plead and defend myself, then he isn’t for me. I had enough of that with Duncan. So the best thing I can do – I know it logically, anyway – is leave the situation alone and see what Marco does when he gets back. He knew there was a chance that Duncan would show up. He must have known, from everything I’ve told him, that there was an equally strong chance he’d try to pull some kind of manipulative trick. If he doubts that for a moment, then that’s his problem, not mine. I’ve only ever told the truth. I have nothing to hide.
I still want to call him, though. I think. I’m staring at my phone when it lights up with a call from an unknown number. I don’t usually answer those – they’re spam ninety-five per cent of the time, but this time I’m so glad of the distraction that I pick up the call.
