One Night in Italy (21 page)

No. Of course she wouldn’t. Mike was a good man, he wouldn’t throw her out with nowhere to go. Would he?

The front door was still wide open and she closed it with a shaking hand, imagining a different woman standing here soon, closing the same door. Another family would move in, attracted by the generous-sized rooms, the lovely garden, the proximity to a great primary school and local amenities. Meanwhile, what was to become of
her
?

It was then she noticed the document case abandoned in the hall; Mike had forgotten to take it with him. She picked it up, wondering what he’d put inside. All their mortgage statements, no doubt, and other house-related paperwork, so that he could ‘start the ball rolling’. A cannonball, smashing straight through her life.

Her fingers hesitated on the metal catches. Would it be snooping for her to read through them?

No, she decided. They had both lived here for ten years. He might have paid for everything, but this was still her
home.

The catches made loud clicking sounds as she opened the case and lifted the lid. Inside were a number of clear plastic document wallets, neatly labelled MORTGAGE, HOUSE and SP. She frowned. SP? What was SP?

She lifted it out from under the other wallets, but in her haste she dropped it and papers fanned everywhere on the hall carpet. Crouching down to pick them up, she froze as she saw a number of bank statements from Barclays Bank. Weird. A buzzing sense of déjà vu started up inside her as she stared at the papers. Since when did Mike have a separate account? She’d thought everything went through their joint Co-op account. What was going on?

Then she picked up one of the statements for a closer look and her mouth fell open in shock. Breathing hard, she read the figures again, wondering if her brain was deceiving her.

But no. It was all there in black and white. Almost one hundred thousand pounds in a separate account for Mike, with every payment listed as a transfer from CENTAUR.

Catherine’s mouth was dry. She didn’t understand. It didn’t make sense. Who or what was Centaur, and why had they been paying her husband so much money?

Chapter Seventeen

Il foglio di calcolo
– The spreadsheet

‘You don’t mind, do you? It’ll only be for a few weeks.’

Anna did mind. She minded a lot that Pete had taken it upon himself to use her flat as storage space for umpteen boxes of his crap while he negotiated some new living arrangements. ‘No,’ she said through gritted teeth as he dumped a box of lurid-covered fantasy novels on her bed.

‘Great. Put the kettle on, will you, babe? I’m dying of thirst here.’

Can you not try dying a bit quicker?
she felt like snapping, but curbed her tongue at the last second. Clambering over a wobbling tower of boxes and crates – why was a boomerang sticking out of one? Since when had Pete ever been near the southern hemisphere? – she swore under her breath as she entered the kitchen. She’d been trying out different varieties of ginger cake that evening for her next column and had left two dark, sticky beauties cooling fragrantly on a rack, only Pete had now shoved a box marked ‘Kitchen Stuff’ on the worktop, and in doing so had somehow showered dust and God knows what all over the top of them.

This was a terrible mistake. Letting him store his wretched football programmes and sci-fi videos in her flat was the start of the slippery slope. She’d managed to put off co-habiting for the time being at least, but for how long? She really had to put her foot down, make a clean break, get rid of Pete
and
all his stuff. Otherwise, before she knew it, years would go by and she’d wake up an old woman, still here with him. She’d hate herself for it.

‘I’ve got to,’ she muttered.

‘Got to what, love? Give us a flash of your boobs?’ There he was, popping up in the kitchen with that annoying cheeky-chappy smirk. ‘Cor, now you’re talking. And you baked me a cake and all. Two cakes! How’s that cup of tea coming on, then?’

She took a deep breath. Now was as good a time as any. However terrified she was of becoming a lonely, dried-up old spinster, the alternative – this – seemed worse by the minute.

‘Pete,’ she said, trying to keep her voice neutral and calm. She put down the bottle of milk and folded her arms. ‘Listen . . . I’ve been thinking.’

‘Whoa!’ He pretended to fall over in shock. Very funny. ‘Well done and everything, babe, but I was just coming to say, I’ve got to move my car. I double-parked and your neighbour’s just come out and had a go at me.’ He pointed both index fingers at her like a cheesy gameshow host. ‘So hold that thought, babe. Don’t let it go to waste. I’ll be right back.’

Said the man with so few brain cells you could give each one a name, Anna thought as the door slammed. She accidentally-on-purpose sloshed too much milk in his tea, just to annoy him, then gazed at the picture of Rimini she’d stuck on her fridge and sighed, wishing she could be there right now. Far away, feeling the warm sunshine on her bare skin, wearing sunglasses and flip-flops and exchanging life stories with her father. Instead she felt nothing but advancing claustrophobia as Pete’s possessions invaded her space.

Meeting her father in Italy
would
happen, she was determined. The other people in her Italian class had looked at her as if she was some kind of nutter the other night, when she’d admitted her plan to them in the pub. They probably all thought she was barking, haring off on some mad hunt for him, with only a single photograph in her armoury. She wouldn’t give up, though. No way. She’d regret it for the rest of her life if she let this lead go unexplored.

Her phone buzzed.
Might as well pick up a load more stuff now I’m in the car
, read the text from Pete.
Back in an hour or so x

More
stuff? How much stuff did he actually have? It had never looked that much when scattered messily around his place, but overnight he seemed to have turned into the male equivalent of Imelda Marcos with a vast array of possessions. There would be no room left for her to move at this rate.

Scowling at the dust-covered ginger cakes, she cut herself a slice of Christmas cake instead (two weeks into January and it still tasted fabulous) and took it and her mug of tea into the living room, planning to catch up on some emails while Pete was out.

A single step into the living room though, and she saw that he’d managed to completely fence in her PC on the tiny corner table with a blockade of boxes and a suitcase. Anna let out a groan of exasperation. Brilliant. How was she meant to get any work done now?

Cursing ferociously, she squeezed herself into the small space left on the sofa and flicked on the TV instead while she munched her cake. Nothing on. Then her gaze fell on Pete’s laptop bag, balanced on one of the boxes. Sod it, she’d use that instead. She reckoned he owed her a few favours.

Opening it up and guessing at the password (Blades: bingo. Football and sex tended to be uppermost in Pete’s mind; it was always going to be one or the other), she went online and began replying to the most recent comments and emails from her readers. Her latest recipe had been a hearty vegetarian stew to warm even the coldest of evenings. It featured squash, chickpeas, home-made roasted tomato passata, and various other vegetables and herbs, and had been utterly gorgeous, even if she said so herself. From the numerous emails she’d received, her readers seemed to like it just as much, apart from a few diehard carnivores who’d emailed in to say it would have been nicer with some pancetta or diced chicken. There was always someone who thought they could do it better, but Anna didn’t let it bother her. She had never claimed to be anything other than an amateur.

Thanks so much, everyone
, she typed.
Your comments are always welcome, and there are some great suggestions here. Meanwhile, I’ve got a couple of different ginger cakes cooling in my kitchen . . . I’ll give you the recipe of the yummiest one later this week. Keep on cooking!

Time passed so pleasantly that she completely lost track of the evening. When she next glanced up at the mantelpiece clock she realized that a) she had a horrific crick in her neck from peering down at the laptop and b) it was ten o’clock and Pete still hadn’t returned.

As if he was reading her mind, her phone buzzed just then with another text.
Decided to stay at Mum’s after all. See you tomorrow? P x

Okay, see you then. Night x
, she replied. Was it wrong that her first reaction was one of relief that she’d have her bed to herself tonight? Yes, she decided guiltily. Nice girlfriends were not supposed to rejoice at their boyfriend’s absence.

She was about to close Pete’s laptop when she remembered with a shudder of distaste the spreadsheet of doom she’d once stumbled upon – ‘Sex With Anna’
–
and all the marks out of ten he’d ever given her. Did he still keep it up to date? she wondered. It would be easy enough to find out . . .

Spreadsheets. Most Recent. ‘Sex With Anna’. Yep, there she was, between his monthly outgoings document and his catalogued science-fiction and fantasy book collection. The sweet spot indeed. Cringing at what she was doing, she clicked it open to see his latest remarks.

She claimed to have a headache. Again – 5

A wearing granny knickers, nearly lost my stiffy. Definitely put on weight over Xmas – 6

Boring. Had to shut eyes and think about the fit one off Downton – 5

What the hell . . . ? Anna’s eyes widened as she scrolled through the list of complaints: a litany of bad sex and fast-dwindling romance. The best score she’d had in the last three months was a solitary seven back in December. A seven! Meanwhile, he criticized her boobs, the size of her thighs, her kissing . . . It was so out of order.
Everyone
put on weight over Christmas, that was the law! And so what? A few pounds here or there didn’t matter. He was hardly Mr Muscle himself, anyway, with that soft, spongy belly of his. The only six-pack he could claim was the six-pack of Boddingtons he’d left in her kitchen. Who was he to judge?

She closed the laptop, heart thudding, not wanting to read any more. Why hadn’t he dumped her if he thought she was that unattractive? Why bother going through the motions?

She put her head in her hands, knowing how hypocritical she was, that she should ask the same questions of herself. The two of them had been on borrowed time for the last six months; they were a habit, a convenience to each other. Well, not any more. The soonest chance she got, she’d break it off. A mercy killing.

Her phone buzzed again, making her jump. She opened the text to see another message from Pete. This one was more unusual though.

BigBoy is throbbing 4 u. Feeling horny? ;-0

Underneath was a photo of his erect pink penis.

Anna stared at it for a full five seconds, her eyes out on stalks. Oh my God. What the . . . ? Was this his idea of reigniting the spark? Sexting her from his mum’s spare room?

She licked her lips, wondering how to reply. Should she even reply at all? Maybe she should pretend she’d been asleep when the text arrived, make some apology in the morning. But what would he write on the spreadsheet then?
Frigid cow, wouldn’t even indulge me in a bit of phone-wanking.

She stuck her tongue out at the laptop. Oh, so what if he did? Let him write what he wanted, she was going to dump him by the end of the week anyway and he could slag her off to his heart’s content afterwards.

All the same, she couldn’t help feeling a strange frisson of curiosity. She and Pete had never actually had phone sex. Come to think of it, she’d never had phone sex with anyone. What exactly were you supposed to do? Should she spell out some sordid fantasies in a text? Or shove the phone in her knickers and take a photo for him in return? (Better not, actually, it was looking a bit unkempt down there. He might think he was looking at a snap of some jungly undergrowth in Borneo.)

Maybe she should just go along with it as a sort of social experiment. She might even get an anonymous feature out of it for a glossy magazine – they were always printing that kind of muck.

Three minutes had gone by and she still hadn’t replied. He’d either have ‘lost his stiffy’ or he’d be wanking over ‘that fit one from Downton’ by now. Had she missed her moment?

Dripping wet for you
, she typed back, half-thrilled, half-aghast at her own daring.
Give it to me hard, BigBoy.

Her finger hovered on the ‘Send’ key and she hesitated. Oh God, she thought, looking at the words and wrinkling her nose. It was such a cliché, wasn’t it? Straight out of a low-budget porn movie.
Give it to me hard, BigBoy
, indeed. So unoriginal.

Even worse than her unoriginality, she realized in the next moment, was the knowledge that Pete was sure to store any smutty texts on his SIM card and show all his mates. She’d once overheard Pete’s mate Andy Gordon (Flash, as he was known) boasting in the pub about his girlfriend Kirsty ‘taking one up the back alley’, complete with lurid details. There was no way Anna wanted to end up the subject of a similar conversation. She imagined walking in with Pete one evening and seeing the knowing looks and smirks. Ugh, no thanks.