The Apartment In Rome Part 16

'She might need help getting to the car,' said Felix. 'Are you free for ten minutes?'

'Certo.'

'She'll have to get dressed first.'

Gina insisted on putting on her own T-shirt, wincing as she had to stretch her arms. She refused the shorts: saying she couldn't bear the restriction at her waist. Strong and st.u.r.dy, Fani supported her right-hand side; Felix, her left. 'It's all right, I can walk,' she said crossly. But she didn't disengage herself.

Felix had been obliged to park the car some distance away. He left Stefania and Gina sitting at the parched roadside verge while he went to fetch it. In the stifling heat the air shimmered, refracted like water. A slow stream of cars trawled past, searching for parking s.p.a.ces or companionship. More than once a crop of male heads poked through open windows and called invitations to the two women. Fani responded with a choice array of insults; Gina dropped her head between her knees and retched.

Felix knew he was not much good in a crisis. When, in recent years, friends, ex-lovers and acquaintances had succ.u.mbed to the stealthy onslaught of Aids he had, he freely admitted, avoided dealing with 'the manky bits'. He'd written cheering missives, he'd sent thoughtful gifts, he'd telephoned. But he couldn't cope with the physical reality of sickness: the distortion of features, the wasted limbs, the distressing loss of bodily functions, the smell. He gagged in hospital corridors and recoiled from the sight of blood. He had been brought up to be fastidious by his elderly parents; he pulled on gloves to dispose of household rubbish; he was the most regular customer at the local laundry. He was relieved that, at this stage, Gina was merely a pale doubled-up version of her usual self quieter if anything she hadn't even vomited yet.

He got out of the car and came towards her. She was using Stefania as a mounting block, pushing down on her shoulders so she could stagger to her feet. Stefania, trim and unfazed in her immaculate white bikini, pulled open the pa.s.senger door and helped Gina into the seat. 'You must let me know how she is,' she said to Felix. 'I shall worry all the time she's lying on the table in the operating theatre. I shall worry that the surgeon holds his hand steady, that the cut will not be one millimetre longer than it needs... that she recovers well.'

Gina gave Felix an agonised look, as if to say: is this woman for real?

Felix said, 'Well, um, that's very thoughtful of you. Give me your number and I'll call you.' He leant past Gina and hunted in the glove box for pen and paper, among the neatly labelled ca.s.sette recordings of Monteverdi, William Byrd and Thomas Tallis. Gina sighed and squirmed away so that Fani's goodbye kiss met the clench of her jaw.

'Jesus!' said Felix, starting the engine. 'I know you're feeling rotten, but do you have to be so ungrateful?'

'What?' Another spasm sucked the air from her lungs. Some moments later she said: 'She kept ha.s.sling me. On and on and on. I am not queer, for G.o.d's sake.'

'Well, if you're sunbathing half naked on a gay beach,' said Felix mildly, 'it's an easy mistake to make. Actually, I thought you already knew her, that you two had met before.'

'That was some bulls.h.i.t she invented. Men do it all the time. I mean, why can't they come up with a sa.s.sier pick-up line? Do you know what Mitch first said to me...?' She yelped with pain again, adding, after an interval, 'So I don't want her calling on me. Anywhere.'

'Okay, okay. It's just, you know, I think I told you, I'm not too good in hospitals. I have this recurring nightmare I wake up in a complete sweat about coming round after an operation and finding they've taken the wrong bit of me away.'

'And what bit would that be?'

He laughed. 'My tongue so I can't even complain about it.'

'Actually.' She slid further down in her seat, as if her neck were too brittle to support her head. 'This sort of talk isn't very comforting.'

'Sorry, I'll shut up.'

He fiddled with the controls of the radio ca.s.sette and two opposing voices soared through one of Monteverdi's madrigals. The body of the small stuffy car, smelling of over-heated plastic, was filled with the torment of lovers parting in a heart-rending lament.

'Please, Felix,' Gina whispered as they approached the outskirts of Rome.

At once he switched off the tape. 'Heaven forbid that you should have to listen to any music composed before you were born. My apologies.'

Somewhat feebly, she batted his hand as he changed gear. 'It's not that. You aren't going to take me to a public hospital, are you? Only... I'm scared...'

'Darling, I'll take you to this lovely clinic I know run by nuns. I haven't used it myself, as it happens, but I've heard very good reports. They're perfectly sweet, the food is excellent and all you have to do is pay them.'

'Well, let's hope I don't have to stay in for too long.'

'If it's only an appendix, it shouldn't be more than a week. Lucky you'd already started your packing too.'

She shot him a quick furtive look. 'Ironic, don't you mean?'

'I'll drop you off and go and pick up your suitcase.'

'Listen, Felix. I know you hate these places, but you will stay with me a little while, won't you?'

'Well, of course I will.'

'Also, there's something else I should have told you. I'm not sure it is my appendix actually. I know you'll be cross with me for not saying anything sooner, but...'

He could see her struggling for breath and patted her hand. 'Save your energy,' he said. 'It can wait.'

17.

Six Weeks Earlier: April 1993

Gina replaced the small flat stick in its tube; she returned the tube to its carton, the carton to the paper bag imprinted with the name of the pharmacy. She tied the paper bag inside an anonymous pink striped plastic carrier, let herself out and dumped her bundle in the nearest skip. Now that it was lost, swallowed up amongst so much other refuse, so many other bin bags of rotting waste, she would not be tempted to look at it again, re-examine the little stick as if it could tell her a different story.

On her way back up the stairs she thought of Phoebe. Most of the time she tried to forget she had a mother, just as her mother probably tried to forget her. Since she'd grown up and moved abroad they'd found more common ground and learned to tolerate each other, but tolerance was as far as it went. Empathy, understanding, were not part of the deal. Yet now, unbidden, rose the image of Phoebe as a frightened young woman, her hair teased into a roll of candyfloss, her eyes winged with black pencil, secretly letting out the pleats of her skirt, st.i.tching elastic into the waistband with neat little running threads. Contemplating what to do next.

Gina was alone in the apartment: two lofty rooms with a kitchenette and half a bath, in the San Lorenzo district. Vicki was away for the weekend, which was just as well because she wasn't yet ready to confide in her. Vicki would draw up lists of options and outcomes and Gina balked at that level of detail. Anyway, Mitch ought to be the first person to know, although she'd no idea how he would react to the news.

It must have happened over a month ago, on their ski break in the Dolomites. Snow was melting on the lower slopes so the skiing wasn't particularly good, but the resort had a reckless end-of-season air which was catching. When she proved herself swifter than Mitch on some of their downhill races she was determined to out-do him in other aspects too: drinking, partying, card-playing, acrobatic s.e.x. She was on a newly prescribed progestin-only pill because of her migraines. Could she have been lax in timing her dose? The whole five days had pa.s.sed in a magnificent blur: a contest of speed and stamina, a rush of blood to the head. She'd never be able to pinpoint the moment.

It couldn't have happened at their last meeting, that was for sure: a single night's stopover which had gone badly. Mitch had been argumentative for no good reason she could see. Then, as each restaurant they'd tried had been full, he'd got hungrier and grouchier. They'd snapped at each other relentlessly and ended up with a greasy takeaway. They'd turned their backs in bed and both had slept poorly. Their fall-out had escalated in the morning when he discovered she'd switched off the alarm and he'd nearly missed reporting for duty. (Though they'd made up, after a fashion, on the doorstep.) She'd delayed the pregnancy test till the very last minute, but she couldn't put it off any longer, because Mitch was on his way over again. She returned to her bedroom and opened the double doors of her wardrobe to find something to change into. All these beautiful clothes how much longer would she be able to wear them? How much longer would she be able to work? Head and shoulder shots for jewellery might be a possibility though wasn't the shape of the face and the texture of the hair supposed to change too? Defiantly she dragged a tight pair of trousers off a hanger. This was ridiculous: there was no way she could have a baby. She pulled the trousers over her thighs, drew up the zip and fastened the metal stud without difficulty. See, she told herself, there's time yet to make up your mind. Important decisions shouldn't be taken in a hurry.

Did she want it to stop, she wondered, all the flying about? It was three years since she and Mitch had first met, during a photo-shoot in Egypt. He'd been billeted in the same Cairo hotel and somehow they'd switched drinks at the bar during a brief power cut. She could still recall the shock of the unpalatable single malt on her tongue and the taste of Mitch himself later. Then came the calls: 'Where are you next Thursday? Striking distance of Basel by any chance?'; 'A few days exploring the Great Barrier Reef tempted at all?'

Gina always said yes.

One of the delights of their relationship was the fact that so much of it took place on neutral ground. They didn't have the chance to get bored or bogged down in dreary mundane tasks; everything was an adventure. They came together like dancers, their pa.s.sion fresh and sparkling and newly energised. But lately she'd detected a shift. When he'd hired the van to drive her stuff to Rome, he'd said, 'I hope you're not planning to do this again in a hurry. I want to know where to find you.' And, by degrees, the border hopping, the intercity rendezvous had become less frequent. Usually they met in Rome, occasionally in Manchester. He'd even talked about buying a property, which to Gina had been a step too far. Until now. Until this.

At the bottom of the wardrobe, where it had fallen, she found her favourite crimson shirt. There was no time to iron it but as she fed b.u.t.tons into b.u.t.tonholes the fabric strained a little. Could her b.r.e.a.s.t.s be bigger already? All to the good: she wanted to look desirable. She wanted Mitch on her side; she wanted them both to be in agreement.

She would have to proceed carefully. First, they would go out to eat. She'd booked a table at a place which was reputed to have an Arabic influence because one of the partners was Syrian. Along with bread and olives, a dish of chillies was routinely served as an accompaniment to the meal. Mitch thought Italian food was too predictable, so she was pleased at the find. Afterwards, when he was mellow with food and wine, she would lay her cards on the table.

She went to sit in front of her make-up mirror. Her routine was automatic; she knew exactly how long it should take but he arrived early. She was clamping curlers to her lashes when the doorbell rang. 'Just a minute!' she called blithely through the entry phone. She needed to paint a juicy kissable mouth.

But when she let him in, he ignored her lips and pecked her cheek like someone who could scarcely be bothered. He had a stooped, weary air.

'I bet you're ready for a drink. I've got a nice Pinot Grigio for you in the fridge.'

'No, I'm fine, thanks.'

He must be tired again, she thought, though she should have spotted the clues: he had no bag with him for a start, and he was unshaven usually his fair, square jaw was razored smooth so as not to give her a rash. She shouldn't have been so busy telling him about the restaurant and making a half-hearted apology for the dishevelment of her room. The contents of two handbags were scattered on the bed, an obstacle course of key rings, pens, combs, notebooks and scissors. 'Another ten minutes,' she said, 'and I could have cleared it all away. You'd be able to find somewhere to sit down.'

There was too much jauntiness in her voice, contrasting with his flat delivery. 'Is that a problem? Do you want me to go?'

'Of course not. Vicki's away and we have the place to ourselves.' She returned to the stool by her dressing table, half expecting him to follow, to take her hair in his hands and pull the brush through it in slow sensuous strokes.

Instead, he went to stand on the other side of the room, by the window. He thrust his hands in the pockets of his jeans. 'We need to talk.'

She nodded agreement. 'My thoughts exactly.'

It was that moment of gloom before sudden nightfall, when the swifts spun in black arcs against a copper sky; she hadn't yet switched on the lights. Mitch cleared his throat and said in the same neutral tone: 'Well, that's a relief, I suppose, if we've both come to the same conclusion. And not surprising really, after last time. We always said we'd be absolutely straight with each other, didn't we? So yes, I agree with you, we should call it a day.'

She stared at him. His face was partly in shadow. 'What did you say?' She half rose. 'Oh for goodness sake, Mitch! Stop winding me up.'

'But I'm not... I thought that's what you meant.'

She thudded back down onto her dressing stool, alarmed. Once, in Milan, she'd arrived home to find the television missing. Nothing else was disturbed so she thought her eyes must be deceiving her. She had taken a few moments to register it had been stolen, and then she'd felt like the most naive idiot in the world. Which was exactly how she felt now. She didn't understand how it could have happened. How, one minute they couldn't get enough of each other and the next he was this unrecognisable stranger.

'Is this because of last time? Because if it is '

'Let's just say it didn't help.'

'Meaning?'

Clamour from the street filled the room: a flamboyant exchange of greetings, the buzz of a Lambretta drowned by a wailing siren. Mitch took his hands from his pockets, closed the window and said: 'Christ, Gina! I'm trying to do the right thing here.'

'All the while we've been seeing each other,' she said, 'I thought we had something special, that other people didn't have, that...'

'We did! You know the way I felt. You were the one who refused to commit, who didn't want to be tied down.'

Neither of them had professed love from a combination of pride and a mutual compet.i.tive streak but the emotion had been there, even if the words were lacking. This was all wrong, it shouldn't be happening. It was like tasting a disgusting obscure malt instead of a lovely mellow Armagnac all over again. 'But that was what you liked about me,' she protested. 'Admit it.'

'Gina, we live in different countries. Be practical. It couldn't go on for ever.'

'It wasn't a problem before.'

'Well, logistically, it was a bit easier when you were in Milan...'

'So it's my fault, is it? I'm too inconvenient for you?'

'It's not a question of convenience. Look, you're never going to give up your kind of life...'

'How do you know?'

'Would you move back to England, to the north-west?'

'Would you move here?'

'No, not any more.'

'What d'you mean, "not any more"? Were you thinking about it? Has something made you change your mind?'

Did he flinch or did she imagine it?

'Be honest,' he said. 'We've not really been getting along. But because we have this artificial sort of set-up, when we're not seeing each other, in the gaps in between, we tend to forget...'

'But last month in Cortina...'

'You were completely over the top. It was embarra.s.sing.'

'You're just jealous because you couldn't out-ski me. Because I won nearly every race.'

He ignored this. 'And the other night was a total disaster.'

'Is this all over a stupid alarm clock? I've said sorry a hundred times, haven't I? And I wasn't messing, I was just trying to get some sleep. Talk about overreaction!'

'Gina, it's nothing to do with the alarm clock though it's typical of you not to think of the consequences. They might have been b.l.o.o.d.y serious for me. I could have been disciplined for being late but it kind of brought things into focus.'

She crossed one leg over the other and her shoe swung loosely from the end of her foot like a person clinging to a window ledge several floors above the ground. When her knee juddered and the shoe fell off, she imagined she heard an almighty crash and wondered who would pick up the pieces. 'Oh my G.o.d, you're seeing someone, aren't you?'

He had the grace to look sheepish. 'It's actually not that simple...'

She plucked a cigarette from one of her cartons of duty-free Marlboros and gripped the filter between her teeth. 'Who is it?'

'You don't know her.'

The lighter flame soared to her eyebrows. 'Of course I don't know her! In our "artificial set-up" we don't meet each other's friends, do we? We're self-sufficient.' She took several jerky puffs and with her left hand restored her shoe to her foot.

'This isn't getting us anywhere.'

'No,' she snapped. 'So where do you want to go?'

He jumped at the chance to take her literally. 'Probably back to the hotel.'

Who was this stranger? She itched to throw something at him. If she could smash his sh.e.l.l she might rediscover his core, lay her head on his chest to listen to the thud of his heart. 'Well, don't let me keep you.' She could hear the snarl in her own voice but she couldn't control it. 'It's perfectly clear where your priorities are.'

'Look, it seems we've been at cross purposes. I didn't expect it to come as such a shock but I should have timed it better...' She didn't say anything. He went on, 'Do you want to meet tomorrow for a coffee? It might be easier to have a discussion when you've calmed down. I can't talk to you when you're like this.'

'What would be the point?'

'I didn't want to end on a sour note. I didn't want to hurt you.'

'Hurt! Like I p.r.i.c.ked my finger or something.'