The Apartment In Rome Part 17

'Gina, you have to believe me...'

'Why should I?' Why listen to him defend himself over a cappuccino? What did it achieve or change, if he'd already fallen for someone else? She was appalled that they could have misled and misread each other so. And then she thought: the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, what right has he got to know anything now? I can solve my own problem. It's none of his business.

He sighed and looked as though he might approach her for a farewell embrace. She held out her palms to ward him off, so instead he moved in his solid unhurried way to the door. Grasping the handle he said, 'Look after yourself, won't you?'

Gina watched him go and counted to twenty. Then she let her feelings fly. She flung whatever was in convenient reach at the door's blank expanse: books, shoes, heavy bra.s.s table lamp and, ultimately, the stool she'd been sitting on. The door withstood the a.s.sault, but for weeks afterwards she continued to discover new chips and nicks in its paintwork.

Mitch.e.l.l, retreating down the stairs, heard the thumps. Part of him wanted to go back but he had to confront the truth that he and Gina were going nowhere. Her f.e.c.klessness could be charming but she had less sense of responsibility than a kitten. Once, her ability to recompose herself had been part of her attraction: her hair constantly changing colour from creamy blonde to foxy red; her eyes green or gold or bronze depending on the light. Often his colleagues didn't even realise he was meeting the same person. But now he found this chameleon aspect exasperating; it was like grappling with water. You never knew what you were dealing with. Tonight, for example, she'd behaved like a petulant, needy kid.

Meeting Corinne, who was attentive and serene and all that Gina was not, had alerted him. He hadn't set out to find a new partner. Corinne had entered his life at a particular moment just as he was beginning to look for stability, to appreciate the appeal of coming back to a well-kept house, a warm bed, a loving woman. Maybe even a child. He had considered the contrast between the two women, as he considered everything, and come to his decision. He didn't doubt it was the right one, that it would bring him the future he wanted.

PART THREE.

APRIL 2011.

18.

It was afternoon by the time Mitch.e.l.l left the airport. He drove through country lanes where tight whorls of green were beading the hawthorn hedges and daffodils cl.u.s.tered on the banks as if to welcome him home. He turned through the open gate and crunched to a standstill on the gravel behind Corinne's Toyota. She was in, then.

He pulled his case from the car boot and stood leaning for a moment against the warm metal. He often experienced a slight sense of dislocation after being away, especially on a long-haul trip. Sometimes he insulated himself by keeping within the confines of his bland international hotel with its fitness centre, restaurant and casino: places where the air was continually recycled. At others he was more than ready for the full-on a.s.sault course of colour, sound and smell that was Hong Kong or Mumbai or Nairobi. Immersing himself in exotic culture was as good a distraction as any.

Coming home had generally provided an interlude of calm apart from the dog, who'd been p.r.o.ne to over-excitement. They hadn't replaced him, so there was no barking at the sound of his car, no frantic sc.r.a.ping at the door. Nor had he yet got used to the gap in the garden left by the pear tree, which had fallen in a winter storm. Although it rarely fruited, the blossom had been joyous. The new, open aspect gave him clear sight of his wall, finally finished. He'd laid the last stone shortly before the snow came. It was too low to keep anyone out, but when the snow melted he lost interest in making adjustments. There was a limit to tinkering.

It had been a hard winter in more ways than one; the atmosphere in the house as chilly as the temperature outside. Only Sasha, bless her, to provide a leavening. She was the cog that kept their family life ticking over, but not, he knew, for much longer. Within eighteen months she'd be off to university and he and Corinne would be left with, possibly, nothing to say to each other. The bright sun on the daffodils was misleading, he thought, as he wheeled his case to the door. There was no warmth in it.

Had they heard him come in? Music drifted from the radio in the kitchen, along with the fragrance of vanilla and melted chocolate and the interplay of their voices Sasha's sentences had the choppy rhythm affected by her generation; Corinne's were low-pitched and melodious. He observed them from the doorway, their chairs drawn close together at the table, their heads almost touching as they focused on the screen of Corinne's laptop. Sasha noticed him first. Sensing his presence, she peered over her shoulder and jumped up. 'Dad, you're home!'

'You were expecting me?' This addressed wryly to Corinne.

Corinne shut the laptop with a snap. She was wearing a blue-grey angora sweater that matched the colour of her irises. She looked as soft and strokable as a rabbit, but they'd hardly touched each other in months. She rose, allowed him to kiss her cheek and went to fill the kettle. A mixing bowl and baking tin lay soaking in suds in the sink.

'Are you jet-lagged?' said Sasha. 'Only if you are...'

'No, I'm fine.' Why could they never remember his itinerary, even though each month's was pinned up on the corkboard along with postcards, invitations, appointments and other messages? 'Cape Town's in the same time zone.'

'Oh good, then you'll want to try my brownies with your tea. They're really squidgy.' She handed him one on a plate.

'Mmm, excellent.' As he took a second bite of the warm moist brownie, he became aware of a tension in the two of them. Sasha, in particular, was prowling around him like a hungry cat. Lately she had sprung from the coc.o.o.n of adolescence into fully formed womanhood. She used to shroud herself in baggy sweats.h.i.+rts, but now there were at least two inches of bare flesh between the hem of her clinging top and the belt of her skin-tight jeans. No wonder he was always being asked to turn the heating up. Her feet, however, were well encased in thick sheepskin boots.

'Is there something you're trying to tell me?' he said, half curious, half amused.

'Go on, Mum. Ask him.'

'Ask me what?'

Corinne poured three mugs of tea. 'Sash is planning an Easter break.'

'Oh?'

'Me and Ruby,' she said, and stopped.

'You and Ruby, what?'

She danced up to him as well as she could manage in her furry boots and put her arms around his waist. Her face was close to his and pleading. 'We want to go to Rome.'

'What?' he bellowed.

'Dad, don't shout.' She put her hands over her ears. 'I'm not at the other end of the house.'

'No,' he said.

'What d'you mean, no?'

'What do you think I mean?'

'How about if you came as well? You could take us to places. That'd be cool.'

He glanced over at Corinne. As if she were no longer involved, she started to deal with the was.h.i.+ng-up. He had to move away from the draining board to give her s.p.a.ce. Five minutes I've been home, he thought. And now this.

'It will be good for us,' Sasha insisted. 'Because Ruby couldn't make it before and we both need to get conversation practice. This will be our only chance before the exams.'

'I think you burned your boats after last time,' said Mitch.e.l.l.

'That is so unfair! I only got back a few days late.'

'With a black eye.'

'So? It could happen to anyone! I told you at the time, those Italian beaches get so crowded and there was this volley ball game going on as well. It wasn't anybody's fault. It was an accident. And anyway, we won't be going to the beach at Easter. I'll be showing Ruby around the ruins and churches and such. It's supposed to be really amazing when everyone gathers in front of St Peter's to see the Pope. It was tough on her missing out last summer, so this will, like, be a good chance for us both.'

'It wasn't just the business of your black eye,' he said, 'though G.o.d knows why that family you were staying with didn't take better care of you.' He wasn't likely to forget the shock of seeing his daughter stumbling through customs with her listing suitcase, battered and dishevelled beneath an absurd baseball cap. He'd thought at first she'd been in a fight. 'It was the casual way you treated us to information. You took advantage and it's made us feel we can't trust you. I wouldn't be happy about you going again.'

'Look, I could go anyway. Without you. I've got my pa.s.sport and the money I've been earning from the waitressing. I mean, this is a study-related trip, you know.'

Corinne was drying knives and spoons and filing them in the cutlery drawer. She didn't look up, but she coughed reprovingly and Mitch.e.l.l latched on to this hint of reservation.

'Don't push your luck, Sash.'

He had to clarify it in his own mind. Were his misgivings connected to the suspicion that she'd lied last summer? Or the fact that while she was in Rome, she'd apparently met Gina Stanhope? He'd no idea whether she'd kept in touch or whether they would meet again, but the prospect made him uneasy.

'We really want you to take us, Dad,' said Sasha, holding his gaze with her round innocent eyes. 'We'll be, like, eternally grateful.'

'No,' he said again.

Her bottom lip pushed forward and trembled, exactly the way it used to when she was small. It didn't belong on the nubile body with its exposed navel. See, he thought inwardly, she's not grown-up at all. She was a child still, bewailing the death of a pet or a horse gone lame. She needed taking care of, she wasn't yet ready to make her own decisions.

'You are so mean!' she said in a fierce whisper, presenting him with an eloquent back and stomping out of the room.

'Christ,' he said to Corinne. 'Why'd she have to be so impatient? I'd hardly got through the door...'

'It's her age, isn't it? Teenagers don't understand deferred gratification. She was trying to make an effort. She was really anxious to get you on side.' She waved at the forlorn plate of brownies and he began to feel churlish. Then she added, 'Mind you, I don't know why you bother.'

'Bother with what?'

'Pretending to make a stand, when you know she'll win you round eventually.'

'It might be more effective if you backed me up,' he said mildly.

'Yes, but I'm not going to.'

'Why not?'

'Because I don't see the harm.'

'Corinne! After last time?'

'I don't see why there should be any problems if you go along with them.'

'Okay, she needs a chaperone, but why does it all hinge on me? Why are you staying out of this? Won't you come too?' They hadn't holidayed together for over a year, she'd been so swamped with case studies and data collection, but now the research was concluded; she had her doctorate. He allowed himself a mild dig at her Quality of Life questionnaires: 'Where, on a scale of 1-10 do you see yourself on the Ladder of Life? Are you very satisfied? Quite satisfied? A bit satisfied? Not satisfied at all?' She didn't even smile. 'Don't you feel the need for a break?'

'Yes, actually. I have been thinking about it.'

'We could all go together then. Rent an apartment. You've never been to Rome, have you? I could show you around.'

She didn't pause to consider the offer. 'As it happens, I have other plans.'

'Other plans? What the f.u.c.k does that mean?'

She c.o.c.ked her head as if listening to the vibrations on the floor above. Sasha would be playing music, talking on the phone, messaging on the computer, or possibly all three at once. Until recently she'd been going out with a boy called Liam and was now absorbed in deconstructing every stage of the relations.h.i.+p with her girlfriends. Although Mitch.e.l.l had welcomed its end, for some reason he couldn't help feeling sorry for the boy.

Corinne said, 'I'd rather not have a showdown while Sasha's in the house.'

'Why does there have to be a showdown?'

'Because you won't like what I'm going to say.'

'Try me.'

'All right. Don't pace up and down though. Come and sit at the table.'

He pulled out the chair opposite her. The afternoon light fell in shafts between them. In her natural element, Corinne could spread calm like b.u.t.ter. It was one of the reasons she was so good with disturbed patients. Mitch.e.l.l, too, considered himself tolerant. The two of them didn't argue, they didn't even have rows, but they'd been going their separate ways for longer than he cared to calculate.

She rested her arms on the cover of her silver laptop. 'I have to think about my next step,' she said. 'I've spent too long putting other people first.'

'Other people?' he said, trying to suppress annoyance. 'You mean your father?'

It seemed to him that his father-in-law's Alzheimer's had dominated the first ten years of their marriage. Corinne had claimed his needs meant she had no energy for any more children. Mitch.e.l.l stifled the notion that he had been cheated of a son, but from time to time her sacrifice rankled. After her father had died, she devoted herself to the cause, n.o.bly determined to improve the lot of dementia patients.

'And you. And Sash.'

'Me? I don't think so.'

'I'm not going to bicker about it,' she said, as if this were an act of great generosity. 'You asked me a question and I'm trying to answer it. I feel that I've moved onto a different stage and '

' Now that you're Dr Mitch.e.l.l.'

'Don't mock, Paul.'

'I'm proud of you,' he said. 'You've worked incredibly hard and done incredibly well. I'm not trying to put you down. I'm trying to understand why your success should have negative implications for our marriage.' He was pleased with the way he sounded fair and reasonable, even though his fist was clenching and unclenching under the table.

Corinne matched his equable tone, but she was twisting a lock of hair and avoiding eye contact. 'I'm finally at the point where I can advance my career. It's different for you, you made it a long time ago, but I can have ambitions too.'

'So you think Sash and I are holding you back?'

'No, of course not. She's grown up, for goodness' sake and you've always been self-contained.'

'Self-contained? What's that supposed to mean?' He dug his nails into his palm. 'That I don't easily lose my temper?'

'You absent yourself,' she said. 'You're never here.'

'It's my job,' he said, bewildered. 'I fly.' He used to marvel that it only took four letters of the alphabet to spell out the exhilaration, the power, the unbelievable thrill of finding yourself airborne. Twenty years on, the process had become familiar, not quite so dizzying, but the lift was still there, it hadn't dulled.

She shrugged. 'Even when you're on leave you're off doing something else, at the gym or some endless cricket match.'

'But your father enjoyed the cricket! You used to encourage me to take him.'

'Or building that d.a.m.n wall.'

'You wanted me out of the house, Corinne. Out of your way.'

'The point is,' she said coolly, 'that I've a lot to think about. Future-wise. I might be applying for jobs in other parts of the country. And you might not want to come with me.'

This was the scenario he'd feared, the three of them scattering in different directions. It had been a constant he'd never underestimated: the pleasure of touching base, coming home to his family.

'I'm thinking of booking a walking holiday, which is why I don't want to go to Rome with you and Sash. I wouldn't be able to get to grips with any decisions on a sightseeing trip.'

'We've talked about this before,' he said. 'You could take a walking holiday with me.'

'But it wouldn't work. I need to get away.'