Chapter 6
6
EMMA
‘Anal shit,’ I mutter.
There’s something really, really, really annoying about someone who in the past repeatedly told you how much he loved you – adored you – but did give the strong impression of wishing you weren’t quite so sensible (I was always the voice of reason when he was doing insane things) telling you that you need to be more careful.
I mean.
I’m sure it’s illegal to drive a long way without working windscreen wipers and back lights but it can’t be illegal to drive for a little bit, just after it’s happened, because then people whose windscreen wipers have literally just broken could end up with criminal records, so clearly there’s a grace period.
And who’s to know when the wipers actually broke?
And obviously I am not stupid enough to drive in the rain with no wipers or in the dark with no lights.
I don’t like driving in the dark at all, if I’m honest, so I just don’t.
And the whole travelling-around-Europe-by-myself thing? It’s the twenty-first century and I have my own vehicle and I am not stupid. It’s fine . I have not had a single dodgy experience the whole way. Well, maybe one or two. But essentially none. Well, close to none.
‘Sorry, what?’ Callum says.
‘I said you’re an anal shit.’ I enunciate very clearly this time.
‘And you are a silly shit,’ he replies immediately.
And there’s something about the way he says it – completely seriously – that’s very, very funny, and suddenly I’m not really irritated with him any more and I start to snigger.
And then I think how the whole situation could be viewed as funny.
We thought we’d be together forever. We thought we’d get married. And then… we didn’t. And that hurt. I know it hurt him too, because he cried like a baby the last time we saw each other. We both did. And then we got on with our separate lives. And I am totally over him and he’s clearly totally over me – I’ve never seen anyone act so uninterested (I park that thought because I wonder whether it’s slightly offensive and I don’t want to be offended because finding things funny is a lot easier emotionally) – and we are both living our own, separate lives.
But here we are now, about to spend a whole evening pretending to be married to each other and then sleeping in the same room before leaving in the morning still pretending to be a happily married couple before quite possibly bickering hard in the van about the wipers and lights before continuing to bicker or just not speaking for the rest of the journey before going our separate ways. (And I do know that we will go our separate ways because I don’t think I can have him in my life as an acquaintance.) And being forced by chance into this ridiculous position is funny.
I snigger some more.
‘Something amusing you?’ Callum’s surface tone is conversational, with an undertone of what the fuck is wrong with you?
‘Just this. You know. The situation.’
He doesn’t speak for a moment, and then he says, ‘Yeah, it is ridiculous.’
I look at his profile and see that he’s definitely thinking about cracking a smile. But still looking pretty serious.
And suddenly I think I’m just going to ask something, because we’re going to be stuck together for a while and I feel like the words are going to burst out of me at some point so it might as well be now.
‘Since when were you this… sensible?’ I ask.
‘Since I grew up. And also got sober.’
That gives rise to a lot more questions in my mind. I’m not sure whether I’m going to ask any of them – whether I should ask any of them – but I don’t get the opportunity, because Callum carries straight on with a question of his own.
‘Since when were you this… not sensible?’
‘I have not changed,’ I tell him. ‘You just never noticed because you were rarely sober in the evenings. And I had no choice but to be the voice of reason.’
There’s a pause, not a comfortable one, and then Callum says, ‘Yeah. I’m sorry. Really sorry.’
And again there’s a lot I could say, including that I’m not totally being straight with him. Part of the reason for this whole trip was that I’ve always had a nagging feeling since I was with Callum that I was too sensible, and maybe I could have seized the day a little more. And then when my ex, Dev, asked me to marry him and I realised that I just couldn’t imagine spending my whole life with him and we then broke up, I thought back to Callum and wondered what he would have done in that precise life situation. Particularly because, during that last conversation with Dev, he told me that I was always super careful about life.
And then I decided to do this trip. The one that I always thought Callum and I would do together.
Also. Again. I’d really like to know why he didn’t come back to me when he’d sorted himself out.
But also, I don’t want to ask that question because I can’t believe the answer won’t hurt.
So I say, ‘Don’t apologise. It was what it was. I’m just pleased you seem… happy now.’ Does he actually seem happy? I can’t tell. He seems rich and successful, going by his clothes and the way he holds himself. He seems really quite annoyed to be with me but that’s mutual, and separate from our real lives. I have no idea whether he’s usually happy or not. And it’s nothing to do with me, although I do of course wish him very well.
And here’s the dining hall. Thank goodness .
‘Let’s go, hubby,’ I say, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere that’s grown between us.
He gives me a look and replies, ‘Certainly, wifey ,’ which makes me smile, before holding the door open for me.
There are more people here for dinner than there were for lunch, with two long tables being used instead of just one.
We’re seated towards the end of one of the tables, with the American women, Laura and Carla, who we met earlier, plus several other guests and a couple of the monks.
‘Oh, hello, again,’ Laura trills before we’ve even sat down properly. ‘How did the honeymoon couple spend their afternoon?’
As I’m imagining saying: Mad sex all afternoon, actually, Laura , Callum says: ‘Unfortunately I had to work. Something urgent came up.’
‘Oh, no!’ Several people around the table echo horror at a honeymooner having to work for an afternoon.
‘It’s a one-off,’ Callum says hurriedly. ‘All dealt with and fine now.’
And then I can’t help it, because I’m curious about whether or not it will make Callum squirm, and I’m fascinated to see what this new, grown-up Callum is really like, I say, looking at him out of the corner of my eye, ‘Obviously he’s going to spend tonight making it up to me very nicely.’
He doesn’t squirm whatsoever. He just turns towards me, leans into me and says, as though for me but quite loudly, ‘You mean… that thing ?’ And then he lowers his voice, except it’s still quite audible, and says, ‘That you’ve been begging me to do.’
Laura squeaks, while Carla says, ‘Ooh, naughty .’
And I say, ‘ If you’re up to it today,’ because apparently I started a fun game and I don’t want to lose.
In response, Callum shifts slightly so that he’s looking right into my eyes, in doting husband fashion. I square my shoulders and look right back at him, my face tilted up to his. And then somehow I forget that I started the silly game that he’s still playing and I’m supposed to be playing too, because now I’m just staring – gazing , in fact – at the deep, deep green of his eyes, and at how thick his lashes are, and I’m remembering things. Under the intensity of his gaze – even though I know it’s fake – I feel my heart start to beat faster and it’s like time has stopped for a moment.
And then he does the tiniest of frowns, which is just cute , and does nothing to slow my now-galloping heart rate, and leans even closer, so that I can almost feel his breath on my skin. He opens his mouth to speak and half of me goes mad and thinks about kissing him and the other half wonders, with ridiculously huge anticipation, what he’s going to say.
And then he speaks, his voice very, very gravelly low: ‘Are we not talking about Scrabble any more?’
I recover my wits and laugh along with everyone else and the moment’s passed. Except not completely, because now I can’t help remembering things.
Like, literally everything he does is now reminding me of the past.
He takes bread from the basket in front of us and I find myself staring at his (objectively) gorgeous hands. They’re strong and firm and oh my God I’m losing my mind because I can’t help thinking that I’d like to feel them on me again, feel his touch one more time.
No, I would not . What is wrong with me?
And then he takes a sip of red wine from his goblet and I can’t help being hyper-focused on everything he does and everything relating to him, and first I think that the goblet is just beautiful – it’s old-looking and made of something that might be a bit metallic, maybe pewter, and is intricately carved – and then I think how beautiful his lips are and think about kissing him.
And then he tears a piece of bread off and puts it in his mouth and chews and, I’m not joking, I just can’t take my eyes off him.
He’s going to notice. I really need to get a grip on myself.
No, it’s okay. He’s just going to think I’m an excellent actress. The married-couple-farce is the perfect cover.
I am an excellent actress, actually. That’s what this is. I’m method acting.
I’m doing it really, really well.
Also, I remind myself, as I drag my gaze away from Callum and look around at our dining companions, I’m not feeling any kind of love , which would be a worry, I’m just feeling a bit of temporary lust, which has almost certainly been brought on by the bizarre situation in which we find ourselves, and from which I will recover very, very quickly.
I’m going to help myself to recover from it by talking to the people around us.
They’re nearly all very sociable and very up for a chat and soon we’re exchanging Italy-travel stories and giving details about where we’re from and our backgrounds.
I’m usually quite free with details about my home life. I’m thirty-three, a special needs teacher, I live in London, I have no pets but I’d love to get a dog, and apart from my fake marriage this evening, I’m single, because I recently split up with my ex-boyfriend Dev, and I’m totally happy to tell those facts to people I meet and like. I’m also happy to share details on my favourite foods, drinks, books, films, plans for the weekend and holidays, all the usual superficial stuff.
This evening, though, even though that stuff is all superficial, I don’t really want to go there if Callum can hear what I say. Something’s making me just not want to tell him anything about my life.
So I go into interrogatory mode, mixing my questions with very specific anecdotes of my own that could actually have happened to anyone.
Callum has his own conversation with the people sitting on his other side, and it’s all good.
At one point I overhear Callum very, very sweetly questioning an elderly man about the holiday he’s taking with his brother following the loss of both their wives last year, then listening very closely to the man’s description first of his holiday and then of his wife and the holidays they used to take together, and if I’m honest my heart melts because it seems that Callum has moulded himself into being just the person the older man needed to talk to, and his patience and kindness are gorgeous .
I’m in the middle of describing an evening in Slovenia that ended in an impromptu night swim across Lake Bled to the island in the middle followed by a little snooze on the island until we got kicked off by an official-looking man when the sun came up, when I realise that Callum has stopped talking to anyone else and is listening to me.
‘Bonkers,’ he says into my ear when I’ve finished, and this time it is only for me.
‘You can talk,’ I tell him.
‘Yep. I can. I am no longer rash.’
‘Do you have fun, though?’ I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth because they sound rude and there is no reason for me to be rude to Callum (or anyone). ‘Sorry, that sounded ridiculously rude. I didn’t mean it in a rude way. I didn’t mean it at all, in fact.’
He blinks and then says, ‘No, fair play; I haven’t exactly been holding back. And, yes, I do have fun.’ He says it very firmly, possibly as though he’s trying to convince himself.
I smile at him and he just kind of looks at me.
I’m the one whose eyes swerve away first.
I clear my throat and focus on my plate of rabbit stew and say, ‘We did so well to find this monastery. This is delicious.’
Callum agrees and so does everyone else – obviously – and we have a mundane conversation about the (genuine) wonderfulness of the monks, and then the chat trundles on from there for the rest of the meal.
It takes quite a long time for dinner to end because the monks have an amazing tiramisu for us plus some home-made fruit sweets and then coffee and then they basically force a truly deadly tasting pistachio liqueur on us (are monks supposed to try to get people drunk?), which first tastes weird and then gets you hard in the back of the throat and then makes you feel boiling hot inside and finally leaves a weird aftertaste, so I would very much not recommend it, but it’s hard to say no to such nice people.
When things do eventually wind up, I feel like we’ve been sitting here for hours, and I feel genuinely fond of some of our fellow guests and sad that we won’t see them again. I also am not looking forward to the awkwardness of going back to the room with Callum, so when John and Manda, a lovely couple from Northern Ireland, suggest that we all go for a night walk to get a drink (there’s been no more rain), it feels like a no-brainer to say yes.
‘I might just…’ Callum says, clearly not wanting to come.
‘You can’t desert your wife after leaving her all afternoon while you worked,’ Manda says.
‘Yep, no, absolutely.’ Callum sounds like he’s gritting his teeth. ‘Did we want to get an early night, though? Darling?’
Does he really want us both to go back to the room sooner rather than later?
Maybe he does. Maybe he’s so unaffected by seeing me now that he’ll just hop into his bed and get a solid eight hours in straight off. I by contrast can imagine not being able to get to sleep for hours and to have a hope of nodding off I’d rather be more tired than this before I get into bed.
‘We can have an early night any time, darling,’ I say jollily. ‘Whereas we can’t have a drink with this group any time. So I’d love to go.’
‘Of course.’ Callum nudges my ankle under the table and I ignore him.
Well, I ignore him in that I ignore his meaning, which was clearly to say can we please actually not go for a walk. I struggle entirely to ignore him full stop because I can’t help thinking that this is the first time we’ve touched all day. Which is probably not normal when you think about it. Like, if you’re with a friend all day would you not at times inadvertently bump into them? Or just bump hands or arms or something? Subconsciously I must have been holding myself away from him and maybe he’s been doing the same.
I address the monks. ‘Thank you again.’ And then I address the group who want to go for the walk. ‘Shall we go?’
I feel like we might be keeping the monks up. I’m less knowledgeable than I should be, I realise, given that we’ve been welcomed here at a very low price (we should make an extra donation) and they’ve been very generous with their hospitality and time, and I really don’t know what a monk’s daily life entails, but I do think maybe it involves getting up during the night or very early to pray so we should really let them get on.
‘Could we help do the washing up for you?’ I ask. ‘Please?’ It just seems rude not to.
I start to gather up the dishes nearest to me and then several other people, including Callum, join in, despite the monks’ protestations, and we take them to the kitchen, and then insist on doing the washing up for them, which I have to say is genuinely enjoyable and also quite quick, with the group of us doing it, because it turns out the monks don’t just have one dishwasher (I’d feared they wouldn’t have one at all; Father Davide laughed uproariously when I told him that), they have three .
Callum’s on the other side of the kitchen drying hand-wash dishes while I load one of the dishwashers, so there’s no chat between us in there, and that’s good.
When we finish, though, it occurs to me that it might be weird for a newly married couple not to walk along next to each other in a group of people they’d only just met, and it must occur to Callum at the same time, because by mutual consent we move towards each other as we all head off out of the monastery, all of us armed with keys to the building’s main door, provided by Brother Francisco, who I haven’t had the opportunity to chat to much but who has a lovely smile.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask the group so that I don’t have to chat to Callum.
‘Are there any bars?’ John asks.
‘Isn’t the nearest village miles away?’ I say.
‘No, it’s just down the road,’ Laura tells me. ‘It’s a tiny village but very well-equipped with a bar and a shop and a garage.’
‘A garage?’ Callum repeats. ‘What kind of a garage?’
‘One for fixing cars,’ Laura tells him, looking at him as though his understanding is poor.
‘Wow,’ Callum says. Yes.
‘We weren’t planning to stop here,’ I explain. ‘But our windscreen wipers and back lights broke and it was raining so we couldn’t drive anywhere, and we thought the nearest garage was a long way away, so that’s why we’re here for the night.’
‘That’s hilarious,’ Carla guffaws. ‘Well, it’s all worked out for the best. We wouldn’t have got to meet you if you’d carried on today.’
‘So true,’ Callum says, deadpan. ‘Very lucky.’
The bar’s closed when we get there, but John is not deterred.
‘I actually have a few bottles of vodka stashed in the car,’ he tells us all. ‘Let me go and get them and then we can just find somewhere nice to sit and drink.’
‘Mixers?’ Callum asks, one eyebrow raised.
‘I might have a couple of bottles of Coke as well,’ John says.
‘You know, I wonder whether we should go to bed,’ Callum says to me. ‘We have a long way to drive tomorrow.’
I look first at him and then at everyone else. And, yes, I would prefer to stay. But also, even though he’s been chatting away to everyone, Callum clearly really doesn’t want to, and maybe it’s linked to the fact that – from the sounds of it – he no longer drinks a lot.
So I say, ‘You’re right,’ and turn to the group and say, ‘It’s been so lovely to meet you all.’
A good ten swapped phone numbers and a lot of hugs later, we’re on our way back to the monastery. And the bedroom.
‘I cannot believe that there’s a garage right bloody there,’ Callum says as we walk along.
‘Maybe it’s karma,’ I say. ‘We were meant to stay in the monastery for some reason.’
Eek, what if he thinks I mean we were meant to be together in the bedroom. Awkward.
‘I think you might be getting your world religions confused there,’ he says, and I laugh, because I’m glad that the moment of awkwardness has passed.
For the time being, at least.
Because, as we continue our path back to the monastery, it doesn’t feel too weird being in the same space as Callum, and our mutual silence feels quite companionable, from my side at least, but I know that that’s because we aren’t in a small, enclosed space where we both have to sleep.
Callum’s the one who’s holding the key to the front door. He turns it with ease and says, ‘Wow, that’s a seriously smooth lock. These monks know what they’re doing home-maintenance wise.’
‘Love a smooth lock,’ I say, because I’m beginning to feel a bit anxious about the whole bedroom-sharing thing, so I want to talk but my mind’s gone blank.
‘I mean, who doesn’t?’ Callum responds.
And then we traipse round the cloister, through the door into our part of the monastery, up the stairs, along the corridor and to our room.
‘Here we are,’ I say brightly when we arrive.
‘Yup.’
Once we’re inside, Callum asks whether I’d like to use the bathroom first or second.
‘I will go—’ my mind’s working furiously to try to determine what would be the least uncomfortable for both of us and then settle on ‘—first.’
Oh, no, but I really don’t want to open my bag and get all my stuff ready with him in the room.
‘Second, I mean,’ I amend.
Oh, but maybe I’m being selfish.
‘Or you go second if you like?’
‘Very happy to go first.’ Callum lifts his very swish Samsonite case onto his bed and unzips it while I look hard at my phone so that I don’t inadvertently see inside because I don’t want to be intrusive.
I continue to stare at my phone while he rummages briefly and then he stands up. ‘See you in a minute,’ he says, and off he goes.
I let a huge breath out when he’s gone and then open my own bag. I get out my toiletries and pyjamas and then sit very upright (I don’t know why) on my bed (it seems that mine is the one to the left of the door as you look in and Callum’s is the one on the other side; there’s no discernible difference between them so that, at least, wasn’t awkward) and read my Kindle while I wait for Callum to come back.
He’s back far too soon.
‘Hi, that was quick,’ I say very brightly, and switch my Kindle off (I don’t need him to know that I’m reading a very spicy TikTok-made-me-buy-it romance, which is definitely aimed at younger women in their late teens and early twenties but which I am loving ), place it face down on the table, stand up and leave the room without really looking at him.
I take my time in the bathroom because I feel like I need to be properly prepared for the oddness of sleeping in the same room as Callum again. The last time we slept in the same room we were in the same bed and lay with our limbs all tangled together. This time we will of course be as far from tangled as humanly possible.
Walking back along the corridor, I congratulate myself for my foresight in keeping my bra on under my pyjamas, because I don’t want any jiggling to happen, and I wonder whether we’ll talk at all before we put the light out. Should we say goodnight to each other? Yes, I think we should. Weird not to. Should we discuss what time we’re going to set our alarms for? Honestly, there are a lot of decisions to be made.
I’m still not sure what the answers to any of my questions are when I do a little tap on the door and then another one when there’s no answer. Eventually, I just go in.
The room’s in darkness and Callum’s breathing deeply and slowly and regularly and just audibly. All I can see of him in the very dim light coming through from corridor is the vague outline of a mound on his bed.
So there we go. Callum has gone straight to sleep. We have not had a particularly tiring day. He can’t be that worn out. He must just genuinely have been relaxed enough to nod off at his normal time.
Well.
I am of course pleased for him because I wouldn’t want to wish a bad night’s sleep on anyone.
I am also of course pleased for myself because I was kind of dreading the weird bedroom chat, like any ex couple would.
However.
I am a teensy bit offended if I’m honest that he has so few feelings left for me that he can just go to sleep instead of lying awake thinking about the fact that I am in the same room as him, just a few feet away.
I get into my own bed and look across at the Callum mound.
If I lie right on the edge of my mattress and stretch my arm out I could almost touch him. That’s how close we are.
And he’s asleep .
Well, fine.
I will also just go straight to sleep.
The bed’s very hard, though.
And Callum and I are in the same room.
What’s it going to be like in the morning?
Oh my God. Morning breath. Not something I’ve ever really worried about. But that stew was garlicky. And I don’t want Callum to think I’ve developed morning breath issues since we split up. Maybe I’ll get up before him and sneak off and clean my teeth. How will I know what time he’s set his alarm for, though? Why didn’t I think to put any mints in my bag? Actually, what am I worrying about, anyway? It isn’t like we’re going to be kissing or anything, is it? Yep, nothing to worry about.
Why did Callum just go to sleep so easily? Why?
Okay. I’m going to read my Kindle and that will make me sleepy like it always does.
A long, long time later I’ve nearly finished my book and I have to say I’m enjoying it a lot less with Callum lying in the bed opposite me. There’s far too much very explicit description of sex. I don’t want to think about actual bodily parts when I’m in the same room as Callum. What if he wakes up and somehow sees what I’m reading?
I don’t want to finish it, actually. I go to my Kindle library and look for something else.
I start a biography of the suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst that I downloaded quite a long time ago and haven’t ever got round to starting, even though it sounds fascinating.
But oh my God , it’s dull. Perfect for sending me to sleep, you would think, but no, because it turns out that there is nothing short of a serious anaesthetic that could have me nodding off right now.
I’m so tired. I’m so bored. And I’m so still thinking about Callum being just on the other side of the room.
I can hear him breathing. Slow and steady and deep. Bastard. How did he get to sleep?
I put my Kindle back on the table. I’m going to count sheep.
Doesn’t work.
Nothing works.
I’m going to be awake all night.
I’m finally very sleepy and I’m definitely drifting off…
…and then Callum stirs and rolls over and, ping, I’m wide awake again.
I suddenly snap.
‘I want to kill you,’ I hiss.
‘What?’ he murmurs.
I sit bolt upright in bed. ‘Are you awake ?’
‘Nope.’ And then the deep, regular, slow breathing starts again and I lie back down, fully awake again, and wonder how I can get rid of him and continue my journey alone.