I pull my duvet onto the sofa and climb underneath it, shivering, set back to the crumpled woman I was when I arrived here all those months ago. Little mouse. I long for my gelato machine. I want the therapy of loading the familiar recipe into the top, of spooning it into my mother’s pink melamine bowl, of savoring the lifelong taste of home in my mouth. I cry my hollow, grey heart out, painful sobs that wrack my body. I want my mum.
* * *
—
“IRIS?”
Bobby taps the door, his voice low and soothing. I heard Robin’s family leave an hour or so ago, it’s pretty late now and I was just about to drag my quilt from the sofa to bed. I contemplate ignoring him, but he deserves better than that so I open the door and try to raise a smile. I fail, feel my mouth tremble, and he instinctively holds out his arms for me to walk into.
“What is it?” he says, closing the door and ushering me back to the sofa.
I know I look pathetic. I feel pathetic, as if I’ve shriveled in on myself over the hours since I read Adam’s message. I pick up my phone and open it for Bobby to read for himself, and after a couple of read-throughs he turns the screen off and lays it face down on the floor.
“So, if he turns up here, I’ll kill him, and Robin will dispose of him. Dissolve him in a suitcase and chuck him in the Hudson.”
I pull a watery smile out of my boots, because Bobby is so vain about their screamingly expensive luggage collection. “Not the Vuitton, he isn’t worth it.”
“You are, though,” he says, staunch, and I know there is no greater love than a man who is prepared to sacrifice his monogrammed carry-on for me. It steadies my nerve.
“What should I do?” I say.
He turns his head to look at me. “Absolutely nothing. DNR. Do not respond.”
“Just carry on as normal? I don’t think I can, Bobby. What if it makes him angry and he turns up here or messages Bella again? I can’t risk that.” I try to keep a lid on my escalating fear but it’s running away with me again. “God, Gio is going to really hate me, isn’t he? Not only is my ex not dead and not ever my husband, but he’s also a vicious snake coiling itself around his daughter.”
“Iris, stop it.” Bobby sits up straight and holds my hands, his eyes locked on mine. “None of this is your fault. You have not caused this, okay?”
I squeeze his fingers, not really believing him.
“Adam won’t come to New York, it’s an empty threat. We’ll sit here and come up with a cover story you can tell Bella to stop her from responding to him if he contacts her again, which he won’t. It’s going to be just fine, I absolutely promise you.” He ducks his head to keep eye contact when I look down. “Okay?”
I nod, exhausted. “Or I could just tell Gio the truth.”
“You could,” he says. “And you should when you’re ready, but not because you’ve been backed into a corner by some asshole.”
I slump against him and close my eyes.
“How was your dinner?”
“Oh, predictable,” he says. “Robin’s mother brought her own turkey in case we tried to serve an alternative Thanksgiving dinner. His father brought Japanese whiskey in an attempt to give me something culturally appropriate.”
“Yet wildly inaccurate,” I marvel.
Bobby sighs. “He tried, I guess. And they turned up, which, let’s face it, wasn’t a given. His grandmother even arrived with her own cushion to sit on. Go figure.”
Robin’s old-money family are ambivalent at best toward Bobby. An apartment over a noodle house, however tasteful the decor, just doesn’t make any sense to them for their son.
“Maybe she’s having continence issues,” I say, just to make him laugh.
His face is reward enough. He isn’t good with bodily fluids.
“You really think ignoring this is the right thing?”
He holds my hand. “You didn’t tell Gio that the asshole was dead for no reason. It was self-preservation. So now you hold the line. Don’t acknowledge he exists.”
I know he’s right, but the idea of Adam contacting Bella again is abhorrent. Now that I know there’s even a one percent chance he could do it again, I’m not sure I can live with myself if I don’t safeguard her against him.
I just don’t know how to do that yet.
Hey cucchiaino, how was your thanksgiving dinner? Everyone missed you here, me most of all. Call me if you’re still awake. G x
The message lights up my dark bedroom just before midnight, and I press the screen against my body and curl up in a ball. I missed him too. I missed them all, but on Monday morning I’m going to give them their recipe and walk out of that door for the final time. It’s the only decent thing I can do now.
21.
DRINKING RULE NUMBER ONE: STEP away from messaging people when you’ve got alcohol in your system, you’ll either embarrass yourself or say something you’ll regret when you’re sober. I know this rule perfectly well, yet here I am, my blood diluted by a bottle of red and my finger hovering over the send button. It’s been forty-eight hours since Adam’s message arrived and I’ve thought of nothing else. I’m consumed by it. How dare he try to firebomb my life? And as for messaging Bella…he crossed so many lines there that I cannot just sit on my hands and ignore it. I can’t. I’ve tried, and much as I know Bobby is right, the fear of doing nothing and something happening is worse than the fear of doing something and something happening. So I’m here at one in the morning with my laptop on my knees, re-reading the reply I’ve just written to Adam to make sure I’ve hit the right tone.
Do not attempt to contact me again, nor anyone else in order to obtain information about me. I’ve moved on with my life and am no longer associated with you in any way. I suggest you do the same.
I think it’s enough. It’s bald, to the point, and at least this way I don’t feel as if he’s in the driving seat. I read it once more and press SEND, then close my laptop and reach for my wineglass. There. It’s done. It’s Sunday tomorrow, the last day of the holiday, and I intend to spend it cleaning my apartment and wallowing in the bath. I’m desperate to wash away this greasy film of distaste that’s coating my body, to bleach all traces of my vicious ex from my home. Just having his words in the room feels like a violation. And then, on Monday morning, I’m going to go to Belotti’s one last time and get the recipe right. It will be a celebration for them, and a goodbye for me.
* * *
—
I’M FURIOUS AS I walk between the noodle house and the gelateria, stomping so hard it hurts the soles of my feet. It’s bitingly cold; there was the buzz of potential snow excitement in the radio forecast this morning. I’ve yet to witness real New York snow. It stayed unseasonably mild throughout the winter season last year, just the occasional flurry here and there that dissolved on impact with the busy city streets. I’m dreading getting to Belotti’s. I’ve lied to Gio this last couple of days about being unwell; I know he’s probably seen my flimsy excuses for what they are. I don’t know if I’m more angry with Adam or myself: him for rearing up just when I was starting to get myself together, or me for allowing him to pull my strings from across the Atlantic. Bobby is adamant that I’m doing the wrong thing, we came as close to a row as we’ve ever been when I told him what I’m doing this morning. I haven’t told him I replied to Adam. I still don’t feel sure it was the right thing but it’s done now, so that’s that.