The Love of My Life (5 page)

Marc shrugged, patted his pockets, located his tobacco and started to make a roll-up.

‘I don’t like the thought of him being up here on his own.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘Actually that’s why I’ve moved up here.’

‘You’ve moved to Watersford?’

‘To be close to Luca.’

‘You’re back in Watersford! I can’t believe it.’

‘I didn’t realize how much I would miss him.’

‘But you were so happy in London. All your friends . . .’

‘Everything’s changed. I need to be here now. I can see the cemetery from the back window of my flat and it’s better than . . . than nothing.’

Marc nodded and offered me a drag of his cigarette. I shook my head.

‘Do you want to see the flat?’ I asked. ‘It’s not far. I could make coffee.’

‘I’d rather have a proper drink.’

‘OK,’ I said.

Marc’s car was parked at the side of the main ceremonial garden at the entrance to the cemetery. We left it there, turned right out of the gates, and walked along the main road for half a mile or so, before turning left into a road that lay parallel to Fore Street. There was a good, old-fashioned pub built into the bottom half of one of the buildings, the Horse and Plume. Marc pushed open the door for me, and I walked out of the cold into a pleasant cushion of warmth, the friendly pub micro-climate of woodsmoke, alcohol, exhaled breath and vinegary chips. The afternoon clientele was already ensconced, a mix of regulars who leaned on the bar with one elbow while they discussed the rugby, which was showing on the television in the corner, and tourists, gradually shedding layers of clothing as the warmth of the pub permeated.

‘What do you want?’ Marc asked.

‘Red wine, please.’

‘A large one?’

I nodded.

I found a table by the window and sat on the red plush bench by the frosted glass, picking apart a beermat while I waited. Marc returned with the wine and a pint. I’d noticed him knock back a chaser at the bar.

I took a big mouthful of the wine.

‘You’re looking tired,’ said Marc.

‘So are you.’

‘I never thought anything like this ever happened in real life,’ said Marc. ‘Not to me. I just assumed – no, I didn’t even assume, I just knew – Luca would always be here. With me. For me.’ A big, fat tear rolled down his cheek and flattened itself in a starburst on the polished tabletop. ‘Fucking hell,’ he said. ‘I’ve cried so many tears you’d think I’d be all cried out by now.’

I gave a little smile. ‘I know.’

‘Do people keep telling you it’ll get easier?’

‘I don’t talk to people,’ I said.

‘That’s a sensible approach. I’ve heard enough well-meaning but totally bloody inane condolences to fill a book.’

He was
so
like Luca.

He pulled a bitter face and said, ‘Time’s a great healer and life goes on and these things happen for a reason and one day we’ll understand how Luca’s dying fits into the great scheme of things. I just wish somebody would tell me how to fix the fucking great hole in my heart.’

Marc was not speaking quietly. A couple at the neighbouring table were giving us disapproving looks. I scowled back, almost willing them to make something of it.

‘It doesn’t help,’ said Marc, ‘being in Marinella’s all the time. Every inch of that place is full of Luca. Every spoon I polish reflects a memory.’

‘It’s harder being away,’ I said. ‘That’s why I’ve come back.’

‘I’m glad you’ve come back.’

‘I haven’t told anyone I’m here yet. Angela doesn’t know.’

‘I’d worked that out for myself, considering she hasn’t mentioned it.’

‘She knew I was thinking of it. She wasn’t very happy about it.’

‘Well, she wouldn’t be, would she?’

‘She even said I could stay with her and Maurizio for a few days.’

‘Blimey, she must be worried. And you declined?’

‘I didn’t want anyone interfering with how I feel.’

‘What? The Felicone family interfere? Oh please, Liv, I think you’re confusing us with somebody else.’

I almost laughed.

‘How are Nathalie and the kids?’

‘They were perfectly fine last time I looked. We don’t talk much about Luca. Nathalie is of the “Least said, soonest mended” school of cliché.’

‘You can’t really blame her, Marc.’

‘I know,’ he said, tipping back his pint and swallowing the last few ounces of beer. ‘But let’s not go there. Come on, Liv, drink up. You’re going way too slow.’

We had three or four more drinks each, I don’t remember. We did some reminiscing. We laughed like monkeys at the memory of the eight-year-old Luca getting stuck up a lamppost on the seafront which he’d climbed for a dare. Eventually, panicked, I’d run to fetch Angela, who called the fire brigade. In the meantime Luca managed to climb down safely. So worried was Angela about the indignity and humiliation she would feel were she to be given a lecture about wasting the firemen’s time that she made Luca climb the lamppost again in order to be properly rescued.

We talked about our friendship. Marc told me that, as children, he and Luca used to argue about which of them was going to marry me. They decided the matter, he told me, by tossing a coin.

‘So how did you feel when Luca won?’ I asked.

‘Actually, Luca lost,’ replied Marc, and I snorted.

Some time later, when it was dark outside, Marc stood up and pulled his hat down over his ears. ‘Perhaps we should make a move,’ he said. ‘Before it gets too late.’

We went out into the bitter evening air. I was drunk, but not so drunk I wasn’t aware of the crossroads at which we stood. Marc pulled up the collar on my coat and buttoned it round my chin, just as Luca used to do. I linked my arm through his.

‘Would you mind walking me home?’ I asked, choosing the path we were to take. Marc came with me.

Marc was almost the same size and shape as Luca, he smelled like Luca, he swore like Luca, he tipped his head back to laugh like Luca, he was the closest thing in the world to Luca, and I was longing for Luca like a moth longs for the moon.

A few hundred yards from the pub, in the deep cold black of the Watersford night, we collided as if by accident, and kissed. This time it was a different kind of kiss from the one at the funeral. Marc’s hands cupped my head and pushed me back against the wall and this time I kissed back with a passion I didn’t know I still felt. And then we were groping and kissing and stumbling all the way back to number 12 Fore Street, through the lobby and the front door, up the party stairs, into the flat, and as we kissed we undid the buttons on each other’s coats. I hopped as I pulled off my boots while he tugged at the waist of my jeans, our mouths still together, our bodies sliding against one another. I wanted the comfort of being as close as it’s possible to be with another human being. This was nothing to do with death and everything to do with life. It was the only thing we could do given our grief. It was the only possible way to exorcise the terrible loneliness. Marc pulled down my jeans and I helped with the buckle on his as we backed on to the sofa, and then it was just a tangle of breathless, rough sex and God when he came it was such a wave of emotion, such a catharsis, and I stroked his head as he cried and told him that we would be OK.

We fell asleep on the settee in each other’s arms and for the first time in weeks the black dog left me.

I had forgotten how it felt not to be lonely.

It was his mobile phone that woke me, that and the weight of him on top of me. Marc was deeply asleep, his snores, like Luca’s, trusting as a baby’s. His head was still on my shoulder; my shirt, beneath it, was still damp. The phone meant trouble, I knew. Yet I didn’t feel guilty, or worried, or anything really. All I knew was that I was reluctant for the moment to end. I smoothed the hair from his dear face, and whispered: ‘Marc, wake up, your phone’s ringing.’

Marc moved and grunted slightly.

‘Marc . . .’

He opened his eyes, looked completely confused and then said, ‘Oh
Christ
! Oh Jesus Christ. What time is it?’

I didn’t have a clue. I had no need of a clock in my unstructured life. Marc found the phone in the pocket of his jeans and answered.

‘Nat? I’m fine, I’m fine. I just had a bit too much to drink and fell asleep in the car . . . No, I’m OK to drive . . . I . . .’

I shook my head at him. The car was in the cemetery. The gates would be locked by now.

‘I think I’m locked in the cemetery . . . I don’t know . . .’

Nathalie, thank goodness, couldn’t leave the children to come and fetch him.

‘No, I’ll be fine. I’ll get a taxi. I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry. ’

He put the phone down and put his head in his hands. ‘God, oh God.’

‘I’ll make a cup of tea,’ I said. ‘Then I’ll drive you home. It’s OK, Marc, honestly it’s OK.’

Marc looked like a different person from the mad-eyed man who had tumbled into the flat with me a few hours earlier. Now he just looked tired and worried and haggard. He sat on the settee, his boxers round his ankles, his head in his hands.

I wriggled out from behind him and went into the kitchenette to put the kettle on. I smelled of sex, a reminder of Luca. I felt exhausted. I felt alive.

Marc and I sat together on the settee and drank our tea. I leaned my head on his shoulder and he kissed my hair softly.

‘Do we need to talk about this?’ he whispered.

‘I’d rather not.’

‘Thank God it’s you,’ he said. I knew what he meant.

My old Clio had been abandoned at the side of the road for several days. The engine was cold and complaining, but it eventually obliged us by coughing into life. I drove Marc the twelve miles to Portiston and dropped him off at the end of the main street with a whispered goodbye and a squeeze of his warm hand. Then, for old times’ sake, and because nobody was awake to see me, I drove slowly along the seafront. The lights of Seal Island across the channel reflected into the sea. I wound down the window and inhaled the familiar cold, damp air, heard the shushing sound of the tide rolling the pebbles up and down the beach. I passed a spot that reminded me of a winter’s night when Luca and I had sat together in his father’s van and watched snow falling over the sea and the memory cheered me. But I must have left the window open too long, for on the road back to Watersford I noticed the dog curled up in the passenger seat, drawing attention to the fact that nobody else was there.

I was alone again.

eight

The Felicone family are in all of my best early memories.

When I was little, my mother used to take Lynnette and me to Marinella’s every Saturday afternoon. It was our treat and we looked forward to it all week. Before we went to the restaurant, Mum would put lipstick on her pale, dry lips and roll them into her mouth to make sure the colour was even. She would fluff up her hair, which was sparse and flat, put on her good shoes and check her appearance in shop windows
en route
. We sisters associated visits to Marinella’s with Mum being almost cheerful.

Angela was always working in the restaurant or the office, Maurizio would divide himself between his customers and his kitchen, and the twins would be playing with their toy cars or their Action Men, either in the restaurant itself or on the steps outside. Fabio, the quiet, serious little boy, would sit and watch his brothers, but never joined in their games.

Maurizio, perhaps out of sympathy for us fatherless girls, always made a big fuss of us. He told us we were beautiful and exotic creatures. He gave us little gifts and treated us like princesses. Lynnette and I lapped up his attention. He was the same with Mum. He was the only man I ever saw make her blush. He used to kiss her hand, and ask after her health, and if there was any bad news he would clasp his hands together in front of his chest and exclaim, ‘
Dio mio!
’ Then he would come up with some speciality of the house which he assured Mum would remedy whatever it was that ailed her. He would serve it to her himself. After she’d eaten, Mum would pat her lips with her napkin, leaving a dark pink imprint on the white linen, and assure Maurizio that she was, indeed, healed. Maurizio would cross himself theatrically and say a little prayer. Lynnette and the twins would exchange glances. I watched Mum’s face move through various degrees of pleasure. Behind the counter, Angela looked on. Her lips were smiling but the skin round her eyes didn’t move.

Music would be playing in the restaurant, usually a man who sounded like Tom Jones but who was singing in Italian. Marinella’s was busy and bright and smelled delicious, and there was laughter and conversation. People came and went. The grown-ups talked to us and smoothed our cheeks with their knuckles. It was the opposite of our quiet, cold house with its dark corners and washing-up-water smells. Even Mum was different at Marinella’s. She had more colour. She smiled. I used to imagine what it would be like to be a Felicone. I imagined being tucked up in bed at night by Maurizio, and the scenario made me squirm in my seat with pleasure. I imagined meals with all those boys. It would be so noisy, so much fun. I imagined shopping trips with Angela. Almost all my clothes were Lynnette’s hand-me-downs, but Angela, I was sure, would take me on the bus into Watersford and buy me new things all for me. I imagined what it would be like to be part of a real family, with grandparents and cousins and so many brothers that there would always be somebody on my side. I imagined the Felicone Christmas tree, covered in fairy lights and almost dwarfed by the pile of presents that would be necessary to service that great family. I imagined living above the restaurant. I thought the Felicone boys were the luckiest children on the planet.

On summer Saturdays at Marinella’s, if we had been good girls, Lynnette and I ate strawberry- or cherry-flavour
gelati
served in quail’s-egg-sized scoops in frosted-steel dishes, each one placed on its own paper doily on an elegant little china saucer, and served with a quarter-circle of the finest butter wafer and an ice-cold spoon. On winter days we drank hot chocolate from slim glasses slotted into metal holders. There were two inches of whipped cream floating on top of the chocolate and on top of the cream were slivers of real chocolate. It was the most delicious thing I have ever tasted to this day.