A Place for Us (10 page)

She closed the huge wooden door on the outside world, feeling quite light-headed. She needed coffee, that was it. She wandered into the tiny kitchen. It had a plug-in gas ring, an espresso maker, some dusty packages of pasta and tomato purée, and a vigorous, thickly scented basil plant flourishing, against all odds, on the windowsill. Like the Boccaccio story of Isabella and the pot of basil, which, alas, always reminded her of yet another awful Holman Hunt painting. It was so typical of someone like George. How could you live here, among this great art, and still admire Holman Hunt?

Florence set the battered Bialetti on the gas ring, and flung open the warped doors that led out to the terrace. She breathed in, as the golden evening sun fell on her tired face. She could hear children playing in the street outside.

It was moments like this that she realized how much she loved it here. The sun, the smells, the feeling of being alive, of possibility. When she’d first arrived on a sabbatical, twenty years ago now, she hadn’t intended to stay. But her brain worked here, like being plugged into the right socket. How she longed for Italy when she was back in England, where the damp
and the gray seeped into her bones and made her feel wet, woolly, soggy. She didn’t want to end up like Dad, clawlike hands, pale and gasping for sunshine, or like Ma, shut up, closed off. It was here she had discovered who she was.

Waiting for the coffeemaker to boil, Florence put the books she’d brought home on her desk, staring at the frieze of
The Procession of the Magi
, which she’d Blu-Tacked up there herself many years ago. She shivered suddenly, thinking about her meeting with George. Florence was no good with instant reaction; she needed to go away and sift through the data presented to her.

Think about it later,
she told herself. She’d leave if she had to. Why was she staying here at this second-rate college, humiliated by men who weren’t her intellectual equals? Why did she care so much?

But she knew the answer. Peter. She would always stay while he was here and she thought he might, one day, need her again. Sometimes she wondered if she’d deliberately made him into the engine that kept her pushing along, and now it was too late to admit she was wrong. Florence stared at the pictures she’d pinned up, scanning them for something, some message. Her eye fell upon the only one
in a frame—the reproduction of her father’s favorite painting,
The
Annunciation
by Fra Filippo Lippi, which they’d visited every year for her birthday. She gazed at the angel’s calm, beautiful face. Something important, buried deep in her consciousness, was tapping at the edges of her weary brain. A thought, a memory, something that needed to be salvaged. She looked at the boy again, at the shaft of light on Mary’s womb.

What’s going on?

The coffeepot rattled on the gas ring, the black liquid bursting like oil from the funnel. Florence poured the coffee, and as she took the first scalding sip the doorbell rang, so shrill and unexpected she jumped, and the cup trembled, spilling half the contents onto the floor.

“Bugger,” Florence said under her breath. She went over to the door, frowning; her fairly eccentric landlady had a habit of waiting until Florence had been back for half an hour, then stomping upstairs, demanding a translation of something, an explanation of something else, an argument with someone.

But it wasn’t Giuliana, and as she opened the door her face froze.

“Florence. Hello. I thought you’d be in.”

“Peter?” Florence clutched the door. Had she conjured him up by thinking about him? Was he real? “What are you doing here?” And she smiled, her eyes lighting up.

“I had to see you,” he said. “Can I come inside?”

S
HE KNEW HIM
so well, every inch of him committed to memory for years now through intensive recall and daydreaming. It was often a surprise to her, as now, to note that he was wearing something she didn’t recognize. Florence smiled at him as she held the door open, noting the squeak of his new shoes, the faint scent of aftershave. He had made an effort.

“I was just having some coffee.”

“Of course you were.” He gave a little smile.

She blushed; he knew her better than anyone, she knew it.

Peter cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk to you, Florence. Have you got anything to drink? I mean, some wine?”

“Absolutely.” Florence shoved her hands in her pockets, to stop herself fidgeting, and went into the kitchen. “A lovely Garganega, delicious, just like the one we—”

Just like the bottle we had at Da Gemma
that evening, when you had the lamb and I had veal. We did drink an awful lot, then we argued about Uccello and kissed afterward for the first time, and you were wearing that tie with the tiny fleurs-de-lis on it, and I had the blue sundress on.

“Sounds delicious. Thanks, Flo, old girl. Listen, I’m sorry to burst in on you like this. . . .” Peter followed her into the kitchen. He hesitated. “God, I haven’t been here for a long time. Lovely place you have. As they say.”

He gave a little snort and she did too, almost unable to believe this was happening, that this was real time, instead of some elaborate fantasy she had constructed.
It’s not, is it? Am I completely crackers?

Part of her wasn’t sure she should trust him. But she also knew he
still felt something for her. She was sure of it. And even if he slapped her now, or told her he’d been married for ten years and wanted her to be godparent to his child, even if he urinated on the floor, she could still say that he’d been here, still have some fresh memories to add to that photo album in her head. In fact, she thought wildly as she ushered him out onto the tiny terrace with a soft push on his back, nothing she owned or thought or had meant as much to her as this, this moment right here.

Peter sat down, folding his gangly limbs into the chair. Florence watched him. Though his mind was the most precise she had ever come across, his body, like hers, seemed constantly to take him by surprise. She put the scratched old tumblers down on the rickety table, and handed him a bowl of olives. He took one, chewed it, threw the pit over into the street.

“Bloody tourists,” he said, as the babble of Japanese from below momentarily stopped.

Florence handed him a glass. “
Salute
,” she said.

“
Salute
,” he answered, and he clinked his glass to hers. “To you. Good to see you, Flo.”

“And you, Peter. We’re quite the strangers these days.”

“I looked for you yesterday. I wanted to ask you about an inscription in Santa Maria Novella.”

“Oh? You should have called me.” She wanted to sound beatific, happy, self-contained, a woman with her own life yet who would always, always be waiting for him.

“Yes. Perhaps I should have.”

There was silence then. Florence stuck her finger through the hole in her pocket again, arched her back, and wondered if she could quickly excuse herself to shave her legs.
Always be prepared.
Her brother, Bill the Boy Scout, lived by this motto and had tried to impress it upon his chaotic sisters, to little effect.

The bells from over the way rang out, a loud metallic clamor. The sound of a police car faded away in the distance. She breathed in the warm, petrolic, pine scent of evening.

“I miss you, Peter,” she said eventually. “I’m sorry. I know there’s other things going on, but . . . I do. I wish—”

And she reached out to touch his arm.

It was as though she had flicked a switch. Peter jerked his head up and
swiveled toward her. “This is what I mean, Florence. That’s why I need to talk to you. It’s got to stop.”

“Talk to me . . . about what?”

“You.
You
 . . . and me. This lunatic idea you have that there is something between us.” His jowly face was suddenly taut, and he jabbed a forefinger at her. “The hints, the insinuations you’ve been making to people. I know you told the chap from the Harvard Institute we’d had an affair. Dear God, Florence! And the Renaissance studies seminar group. One of them asked me if it was true. I tell you, I will sue you for slander if this goes on.”

Florence tugged at her hair, hanging on either side of her cheeks. “I—what?”

“Do you deny it?”

“I have never told anyone,
anyone
, about our relationship. Peter, how could you?”

Peter’s voice dripped scorn. “It
wasn’t
a relationship.” He downed the rest of the wine in one gulp. “Florence, it was three nights. Four years ago. Don’t be ridiculous. That’s not a relationship.”

“Four,”
Florence said, her voice shaking. “It was four nights. And you said—you said you loved me.”

“No! I
didn’t
!” Peter stood up, his face red with fury. “When will you give up this pathetic fantasy of yours, Florence? I know what you do. You hint and you nod your head and smile, you say these half sentences, and you make people believe it was something.”

“I have never done that!”

He wiped his mouth, looking at her with disgust. “Florence, you told Angela that you’d seen my bedroom, but that you obviously couldn’t say any more than that. You told Giovanni that we’d discussed getting
married
! But that you weren’t keen and he wasn’t to mention it! I get a phone call from him asking me if it’s true! You
have
to stop this, it’s . . .” He searched around, shaking his head. “It’s—it’s rubbish! We had three—okay, okay,
four
nights. That’s it. Understand?”

There was a terrible silence. “You d-d-
did
say you loved me,” Florence said after a pause, her voice breaking.

Peter leaned over her. A white spot of spittle glistened on his lip. “One sentence said after too much wine against four years of total indifference? You’re building a case against me based on
that
? Doesn’t hold up,
Florence.” He waved his long, thin hands at her. “Don’t you mind how damned tragic
it makes you look?”

Florence stood up, as though she were stretching. She took a deep breath, and patted his arm. “Peter. Don’t be horrible,” she said. She needed to recast herself. Needed to know this was going to be all right when he left. “I’m sorry I’ve made you angry. Obviously some people have . . . got the wrong end of the stick, taken things I’ve said out of context.” She peeked down at him, then pushed her glasses along her nose. “Now. What was it you wanted to discuss? Or was that the nub of it?”

“That—yes. And, well, there was something else. It is linked. It’s all linked, as you will agree,” Peter said rather grandly, but he glanced at her uncertainly and Florence knew she had the power back, if only momentarily. He was scared of females, that indefinite group of humans with breasts and hormones and bleeding.

“Well, have some more wine,” she said, turning back into the kitchen. She picked up the bottle.

“For God’s sake, Florence,” Peter said. His heavy brows suddenly shook with rage. “Are you actually taking any of this in? Don’t twist this all to suit your ideas for once. Just listen.”

“Gosh, Peter, how cross you are,” she said, trying to keep her voice light, but suddenly she was afraid. “Why are you being like this, is it b-because you’re a big star these days? And you don’t want to be reminded of your past mistakes? Mistakes, Peter. You have made mistakes, haven’t you?”

“What does that mean?” He looked up warily.

They’d never discussed what she’d done for him. Florence bit her tongue, but she was too upset now, and she couldn’t stop the words pouring out.

“You know what it means
.
Remind me . . . how many weeks did
The Queen of Beauty
spend at number one?”

“Shut up.”

“How much have your publishers offered you for your next book?” The questions flew out of her, bitterly, eagerly. “What did you tell them when they said they wanted the next book to be
just as good as the last book
? Did you tell them you’d have to ask
me
to write another one? Did you tell them that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hissed, his eyes widening, his face going pale under his tan.

She laughed. She felt quite mad, and really didn’t care anymore.

“Jim asked me if I’d written it, you know. Out of the blue.”

“Jim?”

“Jim Buxton. At the Courtauld.”

“Oh, come off it. The man’s a liar. And an idiot. What Jim Buxton knows about the Renaissance you could write on a matchstick.”

“He knows me. He said he could tell it was my writing, not yours.”

“That’s because he wants to sleep with you, I expect. He’s always been eccentric.” He looked at her with disgust, and she almost laughed; it was cartoonish, his revulsion toward her.

“Jim’s not—” Florence wrapped her long arms around her body. “Nevertheless, he specifically asked me if I’d written any of it. Someone gave it to him for Christmas—he wanted me to understand he hadn’t bought it himself. I thought that was quite funny. He said the writing style is quite obviously mine, if you’re aware of my other work.”

Peter Connolly laughed. “You’re pathetic.”

“No, Peter, I’m not,” Florence told him smartly. She was feeling almost confident again. He couldn’t push her around . . . he had to see how much he meant to her now, that she was willing to subjugate herself totally to his needs, already had done. “You owe me so much, Peter, but you see, I don’t mind.” She walked toward him; had she judged this right? “I like it like that.” She stared up into his face, at the dark, clever eyes, the drooping mouth.

“Oh, God,” he said.

“I know,” Florence replied. “We’re even now, don’t you see? Darling, I’ll do anything for you.”

He pushed her away. Actually shoved her, hard, in the breastbone, repelling her like a force field, and Florence stumbled, catching hold of the rusty railings. “God.” The revulsion on his face was horrible to see. “You don’t understand, do you? You don’t get it.”

“What?” she said.

“What? I’m getting married in a few weeks. Didn’t George tell you? Because before Tally arrives we’ll need to reorganize the department, and you and I need to discuss how best to do that.” His voice took on a beseeching tone. “Listen, we worked well together in the past . . . which is
why I thought a one- or maybe two-term sabbatical might be the answer for you. To get you and Tally both used to the situation.”

“Tally,” Florence said blankly.

“Dr. Talitha Leafe. George said he’d told you.”

“You’re marrying
her
?”

“Yes. Once again.” Peter glanced at her wearily. He jangled his keys in his jacket pocket as if to say,
When will this be dealt with? When can I leave?

“You can’t,” she heard herself say.

“What?”

There was that voice again, pushing her, like a finger jabbing in the back when one is standing on the edge of the precipice. “If you marry her . . . I’ll—I’ll tell everyone I wrote
Queen of Beauty
. I’ll sue you, Peter. And the publishers.”

“You wouldn’t.” He sat back and laughed. As if he was so confident of his position at the top of the tree, and she some grubby little minion in the shadows. “Don’t be silly. Listen, Tally’s at the Sorbonne at the moment. You’ll meet her soon. You just need to get used to the idea, understand that some of your responsibilities will change. . . . After our marriage she’ll move to Florence, and of course George has very kindly done his best to be accommodating, and that means—” He broke off. “Florence? Florence?”

For Florence had walked through the apartment to the huge old door. She turned and looked at him.

She opened the door, Peter staring at her all the while.

“No. You can’t treat me like that,” she said clearly. “Not anymore.”

“Oh, come on, you can’t run off like you always do—” Peter began, getting up, exasperated, but Florence went out, slamming the door behind her so hard that the whole building seemed to shake. She ran downstairs, past old Signor Antonini and his little wife, past Giuliana, wailing loudly in her kitchen to Italian pop. She ran through the old palazzo door, down the street, the balls of her feet bare on the hard old cobbles, her hands deep in her pockets, hair flying behind her. She passed out of the Porta Romana, the ancient gate south of the city. The sun had set now, and the heavens swelled into a deep lavender-blue, clouds above her, gold stars pricking at the velvet sky.

•   •   •

As she ran the old memory resurfaced: the day Daisy had pinned her up against the wall and told her where she’d come from. Whispered this filthy, awful stream of stories into Florence’s small head, lies about their dad, about the Winters, about everything Florence believed in.

Florence had run away then too, through the woods at the front of the house that covered the hill and led down to the village. She’d tripped on the brambles twined into the trees, torn gashes in her spindly legs, but kept on going. She’d ended up at the church and sat in the graveyard, hiding behind one of the angels guarding the grave of a child who’d died years ago. She was nine. She’d never been this far away from home on her own before, and she didn’t know how to get back.

It was Dad who’d found her, much later that evening, feet drawn up under her chin, little voice piping out Gilbert and Sullivan songs to keep her teeth from chattering in the cold spring dusk. He’d crouched down, inky hand leaning on the angel.

“What have we got here, eh? Is that my little Flo?” His voice was light but a bit strained. “Darling, we’ve been looking for you, you know. Mustn’t run off like that.”

Florence had stared at the lichen blooming on the old stone. “Daisy said you’re not my mum and dad.”

David had stopped stroking her hair and looked down at her. “She said what?”

“She said you’re not my mum and dad, that my real mum and dad didn’t want me, and that’s why I’m here, and I’m not like any of the rest of you.”