Liz Nugent - Lying in Wait

We wandered down the street towards the Piazza Navona and passed several restaurants packed with tourists, but Karen led me further away from the main drag, down a side alley to an anonymous door in the wall.

‘The concierge in the hotel told me to come here!’ she said, as I looked unconvinced at the door that displayed no restaurant name but just a painted ceramic tile with a number on it. Through the door, we found ourselves in a large leafy atrium. Tall umbrella pines surrounded three circular fountains, every one as ornate as a miniature Trevi, which we had been rushed past amidst a throng earlier in the day. Water poured from the mouths of dead-eyed stone gargoyles. Bougainvillea leaves glistened with the spray of water from the fountains.

A small man with badly dyed hair came from nowhere and greeted us.

‘ Prego .’ He pointed us in the direction of one corner, and as we followed him a vaulted colonnade appeared behind the trees, open to the courtyard on one side and open to a busy kitchen on the other. Simple wooden tables dressed in paper tablecloths lined this colonnade, mostly occupied by older people, all Italian. We were the only tourists, but while they could have resented me, they were clearly taken by Karen and acknowledged us kindly with a nod. Beauty is an international passport to acceptance. I used my phrase book to decipher the menu, which included pizza and pasta, as one might expect, but also aubergine, mozzarella and artichokes, exotic to me.

I had an overwhelming urge to devour everything on the menu but fought to eat delicately in front of Karen. She, of course, ate like you might expect a model to eat, picking at her food like a bird, but bemoaning the fact. She would love to eat more, she admitted, but didn’t dare put on an ounce as she was on a diet. I groaned inside as her half-full plates were removed. I resolved to find more street food later when I was on my own.

I couldn’t remember a better day in my entire life. We talked easily to each other. It didn’t matter that we had few shared interests. She listened to my opinions on current affairs and books, and I learned more about pop stars and actors and fashion than I had ever known, but we were able to engage each other. Inevitably, though, the conversation turned to Annie.

‘I’m not going to give up until I find her. Even if I have to go to the press, even if it upsets whatever new life she has now. She owes it to us to make proper contact. One lousy letter after six years of trauma isn’t good enough. She nearly destroyed us.’

I was tentative. ‘What would happen if you just let it go? Stopped looking, forgot about her?’

Karen’s eyes glistened ‘I can’t. I loved her. I know that she loved me. There’s something not right about it. I can’t help feeling she is being kept against her will. It doesn’t make sense.’

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

‘I’m sorry, I’ve ruined our day. It’s been perfect, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

I paid the bill and tried not to panic about how I would survive for the rest of the week.

At ten o’clock, she stifled a yawn and I offered to walk her back to her hotel.

As we meandered slowly through the streets, I wondered if I should take her hand. She held her hand loosely beside mine as we walked, just centimetres away. Was it an invitation? Emboldened by the wine at dinner, I thought maybe there was a chance, but just as I was about to make a move, she turned suddenly.

‘Have breakfast with me tomorrow! I’m not being picked up until eleven.’ I readily agreed. We parted with a peck on the cheek. I sensed for a second that we might have kissed properly, but I was the one who hesitated. Why did I? There was nothing I would have liked more than to follow her up the grand staircase of her hotel, but something stopped me.

‘See you in the morning,’ she said, trailing her fingers away from my shoulder.

I made my way back to my hotel slowly, wondering what was wrong with me. I stopped at a small pizzeria and ate my way through a very large pizza on my own. The proprietor baulked at my capacity, and I worried that my old appetite was returning.

The streets and alleyways behind Termini that had seemed so lively earlier now took on a sinister glow and I thought, at first, that it was my malign thoughts that had brought this change in atmosphere, but then I noticed the girls. Lounging in groups of two or three, dressed inappropriately for their age in very short miniskirts and skimpy T-shirts and the highest of heels. The girls whistled at me as I approached, and I realized that they were for sale. A dangerous-looking man in a leather jacket sat in a Mercedes nearby, surveying his wares. He was clearly the pimp. The girls catcalled, hissed and followed me for a few yards. They tried several languages, including English, but I kept my head down and my hands stuffed into my trouser pockets. I knew that I didn’t look prosperous enough to mug, and I passed unscathed.

The encounter unnerved me. All I could think of was Annie. Selling her body as if it was ice cream to the nearest buyer. I wondered about the man in the Mercedes. Was he there to mind them? Would he treat them well? Or beat them, kill them?

When I got back to my hotel, Mario was still on duty.

‘You telephone your mamma now, yes? She call four times.’ Christ. ‘I place call for you, yes?’

‘Thank you, but I will telephone in the morning.’

‘Not now?’

‘No. It is late. Tomorrow.’

He heaved a deep sigh. I suspected he would never have made his mother wait for a return call.

‘There is another message. A lady. Is name Helen.’

‘Helen? When?’

He seemed reluctant to tell me.

‘An half hour ago.’

Oh God, something was wrong.

‘I’m going to my room. Can you place a call to Dublin for me in five minutes?’

‘Yes. Helen or Mamma?’

I did not answer him, but took the stairs two at a time, dreading the news I was going to receive.

In my room, I picked up the receiver with a shaking hand. I was not in the humour for Mario’s impertinence and barked my home number to him. He put me through without delay. Helen answered.

‘Helen! What are you doing there? Is Mum OK?’ I heard her say ‘It’s him’, and then there was a grappling sound as somebody else took the phone, while voices babbled in the background.

‘Oh, Laurence, where have you been? We’ve been trying to get hold of you all day!’ My mother, breathless and excited.

‘What is it? What is so important?’

‘Try not to be upset, dear, but it’s your grandmother. She died this morning. Your Uncle Finn and Aunt Rosie are here. It’s all so awful. Such a lot has happened. It’s up to you of course, but I really think you ought to come home.’

Shit. Shit. Shit.

‘Yes, I will.’

‘Oh, that’s great, darling. I knew you would. Helen went to the travel agent and booked your ticket for first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘She… what?’

‘She’s been an enormous help. Would you like to speak to her?… Helen!’ Mum dropped the receiver and Helen took it up again.

‘Sorry about your granny, Lar. I know she was a fierce wagon like, but she was still your granny.’

‘Thanks. So what time is my flight tomorrow?’

‘It’s at 9.20 a.m. You can collect the ticket at the airport. Is that OK?’

I rang Mario and asked for an alarm call in the morning. I told him that I would be checking out. He was incensed that I was cancelling my week-long stay, but when I told him I had to go home to my mother because my grandmother had died, he understood immediately. I asked him to place a call to Karen’s hotel. The receptionist there refused to put me through, insisting that Karen had asked not to be disturbed. I guess ‘beauty sleep’ is a real thing. I left a message with the receptionist, apologizing for not being able to keep our breakfast appointment, explaining I had to return to Ireland.