"So, let's see if I've understood." She stroked her boss's cheek. "I flirt with him a little." She brushed up against him. "I get him hard." She bit her lip. "And I suck him off." She slid her index finger inside her mouth and bit down. Hard.
Tironi smirked.
Chantal continued.
"Then I close my eyes," she whispered, gently pushing down her boss's eyelids. "Three minutes and..."
She threw her drink in Tironi's face.
"Fuck off, you prick!" she snarled.
"What the fuck do you think you're playing at, you stupid girl? You do realise that I could..."
She never heard the end of that sentence. She had already stormed out of the changing room and slammed the door behind her.
She hadn't worked for the strip club since and never would again. She'd been out of work for nearly two years before Robobi's forced her into a two-year contract earning a few hundred euros a month. And then chose not to renew it.
"Bastards," she said, piercing a cube of mozzarella with her fork.
She convinced herself that the offer from the guy in the chat room – What was he called again? Oh yeah, Alfredo – really was a golden ticket. Salary, board and lodging. It was the answer to all her prayers.
If she accepted the job, she'd have to go and see her father before she left. He might have been off his rocker these days, but she would still have to say goodbye.
CHAPTER 8
On reaching the roundabout at the intersection of Via Paglia and Via Carducci, she'd considered doing an about turn and heading back home. But a little voice inside her head had told her she couldn't leave town without saying goodbye. So she'd gone round the roundabout three times before taking the exit towards the clinic.
Giancarlo Moretti was in bed, the covers pulled up to his chest. Beads of sweat glistened on his furrowed brow. His eyes were closed, shutting out the world that had robbed him of his wife a year earlier.
He was asleep. Perfect. She no longer needed an excuse not to talk to him.
Chantal breathed a sigh of relief, but immediately felt like a coward: she had neither the courage nor the desire to enter the room and talk to the man who had always been a perfect parent.
Nearly always, she corrected herself.
Chantal watched her father and reflected on the unfortunate circumstances that had brought him there.
Giancarlo Moretti had led a troubled life but had always got by, even when his problems had seemed insurmountable. But the premature loss of his wife had floored him for good. He'd let himself go one day at a time, alcohol the only point to his existence. The drinking had started the week after the funeral. Before being admitted to the rehab clinic, he would get up in the middle of the night and guzzle whatever he could lay his hands on. Whatever could make him forget the sad reality of life.
Chantal knew what he was doing, but he'd always denied it. That was, until he came home in the early hours one morning and collapsed on the living room floor. The colossal crash had woken Chantal with a start. She'd feared they were being burgled, and her instinct was to lock herself in her room. But then she'd recognised the sobbing and phlegmy coughs of her father. She'd turned on the light and headed towards the noise. And there he was. She'd walked over to him, helped him to his feet, looked him straight in the eye and seen a pitifully drunk old man.
Having struggled to get him to bed, Chantal didn't sleep a wink that night - unlike her father, who was out for the count and snoring within minutes.
The binges became increasingly heavy and frequent, and he started to get nasty with her.
Then he hit rock bottom. He came home one night and Chantal went in to find him sprawled on the sofa, a knocked-over bottle of whisky by his side and vomit down his greasy shirt. His head was back and he was foaming at the mouth.
Chantal was petrified. Her hands shaking, she'd fumbled around in her handbag for her phone and rung the emergency services. They'd managed to save him, but the doctor told her he would be better off in a rehab clinic. He'd advised her to take her father to the nearest SerT, a public drug treatment centre. After all, they couldn't afford private care. So that's what she had done, hoping that he would respond well to treatment and make a full recovery.
But months later, Giancarlo Moretti was still in the clinic. The detox process had resulted in a string of psychiatric problems that had put even more strain on the father-daughter relationship.
Chantal came back to the present, pulled a tissue from her bag and dabbed at her eyes. She glanced over at her father and couldn't help but cry. She raised a hand to her mouth and blew him a kiss.
"Good luck, Papà. I just came to say bye," she whispered.
But she feared it was more than just goodbye:
"Farewell, Dad."
She took a couple of steps away, then turned around and looked back through the glass wall of her father's room:
"I love you. I've always loved you."
CHAPTER 9
Chantal's computer flickered into life.
This was it. Decision time. The job she'd been offered would give her a fresh start. Hopefully, it would be a change for the better.
Could hardly be any worse than the previous year, she told herself.
She manoeuvred her mouse over the mouse mat, clicked on the smiley face and watched as the chat window opened and displayed her most recent messages.
She had no problem finding the right words this time. They came pouring out effortlessly, and she was so sure of herself that she hit 'send' without even bothering to re-read what she'd typed.
06/02/2016
SadChantal 17.43
Hi Alfredo. I've thought about your offer and have decided to accept it. Just let me know when I can start! Have a nice evening.
No sooner had she sent the message, she couldn't wait for her new adventure to begin. She got up and located her cigarettes. If her mother had been there, she'd no doubt have chastised her for restricting herself to tinned tuna and cheap pasta so she could afford to buy fags. On four hundred euros a month, she couldn't have her cake and eat it.
She felt a bit stupid, but she couldn't suppress her desire to smoke.
She lit up and inhaled greedily. As she blew out a cloud of smoke, she chewed nervously at a hangnail on her thumb.
She took another drag and looked around the room, searching for something else to make her forget her current plight.
She looked right, then left, but nothing she saw managed to distract her.
Until she glanced over at the shelf next to the stereo. A photo showed her striking a pose in her swimming costume as she lay on a brilliant-white beach. She could remember the exact moment the snap had been taken.
The exact moment he had taken it.
It was only just over a year ago, but it seemed like a lifetime.
That was the last time she had gone to the beach and smelt the sea air.
She'd forgotten the smell itself,
but she knew it was the most wonderful thing she'd ever smelt.
She smiled as she thought of spending the rest of her life by the seaside. That would be her ideal scenario. By the sea, she felt only joy; no anger or bitterness. By the sea, she felt only calm; no sudden bouts of anxiety.
Whatever the problem, the sea could resolve it. At least that's what she'd thought until that last holiday, the one immortalised in the photo she was now staring at.
They'd decided to go to Mauritius.
As they'd flicked through the holiday brochures, they'd fallen in love with the views, which were seemingly from another world. They'd hoped that the trip would repair the cracks that had started to appear in their relationship after months of fighting. An eight-year relationship.
Eight years of being Chantal and Giulio.
They were so happy in Mauritius: swimming in the sea; walks on the beach; candlelit dinners; sex morning, noon and night. So much sex.
Before jetting off, they'd decided they would make a baby right there in that paradise on earth. They'd certainly tried hard enough, but Chantal had her period when they got back to Italy. They kept trying, but there was no sign of her falling pregnant so they went to see Dr Cresti, a gynaecologist, who referred them for tests.
They waited for ten long days for the results.
There was no problem with Giulio's sperm, but Chantal's ovaries were considerably swelled by cysts, which were preventing fertilisation.
She went under the knife, and the operation was a success, but she still couldn't get pregnant. They subjected her to more tests, which revealed she would not be able to have children. Chantal had cried for a whole week, and just as the tears had finally begun to dry, she'd caught Giulio in bed with another woman.
"It would never have lasted anyway," he'd told her in an attempt to justify his infidelity. "I'd never have stayed with a woman who couldn't give me a child."
His words had cut like a knife. And her scars would never heal.
On the very same day, she'd packed a case and headed back to her childhood home. Not that it felt like her childhood home anymore. First her mamma had died of stomach cancer, and then her grief-stricken papà, Giancarlo, had been forced into rehab after descending into a spiral of drinking.
Chantal snapped out of her daydream and opened her eyes.
The Mauritius photo was still there in front of her.
She stared at the horizon, the fine line between the sky and sea. Between two things that were similar but entirely different.
Sky and sea: identical yet opposite.
Just like the two monosyllabic words that had been going round her head ever since Alfredo had offered her the B&B job.
Yes, no. Yes, no. Yes, no. Yes, no…
Chantal told herself that sooner or later she had to get back on her feet. She'd had a torrid year, but life had to go on.
She took a deep breath and sat back down in front of the PC.
Her heart jumped into her throat. The smiley face. A message.
THE DEPARTURE
La canzone rimasta nel vento
le sorprese che fa il firmamento
ed i primi che mangiano tutto
e gli ultimi pagano tutto quel conto…
(La linea sottile, or The Fine Line - Luciano Ligabue)
CHAPTER 10
Chantal loaded her case into the car and closed the boot
before going back inside to pick out a few last things. She grabbed her pack of Philip Morris from the shelf, chose her best handbag, transferred everything across from the bag she had used on the previous day and zipped it shut. She grabbed her scarf from the bedroom and wrapped it several times around her neck before walking over to the door and lingering as she stood on the threshold. The borderline. A fine line that separated the light tiles of her flat from the dark marble slabs of the landing.
A thought crossed her mind and made her smile.
Light, dark. Sea, sky. Yes, no...
...In or out?
She took a deep breath and stepped over the line into a brand new chapter of her life.
A shot at redemption, she told herself.
Chantal closed the door, inserted the key and turned it all the way round in the lock. She shoved the bunch of keys in her bag as she went down the stairs, and got in her car.
As she started the engine, her thoughts turned to the moment when Alfredo had replied to her message. He'd been brief, writing only that he was happy she'd accepted the job and that he'd have her come down to Grosseto immediately in an ideal world. She took him at his word, replying:
"I can leave tomorrow".
He replied with three smiley faces and just two words: Can't wait!
Chantal sighed and pressed the button on the remote control. The gate opened, revealing yet another borderline, this time separating the apartment block from the rest of the world.
As she crossed it, she thought to herself that life threw up more thresholds than anybody could ever imagine, each one putting us at a crossroads, presenting us with a choice, a decision to make.
On the radio, the newsreader's voice gave way to a familiar tune.
Chantal smiled
and turned up the volume a few notches. With or Without You by U2.
As she belted out the chorus, Chantal felt the weight lift off her chest only for it to return even heavier as her head filled with memories of a relationship that was no more.
With or
without you.
Without the man she had loved more than life itself. Without Giulio.
It would never have lasted anyway. I'd never have stayed with a woman who couldn't give me a child.
"BASTARD!!" she yelled, drowning out Bono and banging her fist on the steering wheel.
It was all her fault. She was barren, so she couldn't possibly have hoped to find a man who would stay with her forever.
She wouldn't be falling in love again in a hurry, that was for sure. From now on, she would chew men up and spit them out, just like she herself had been.
It would never have lasted anyway...
With the town she grew up in fading into the distance, Chantal drove at a steady pace and turned onto Via Meucci, her mind racing. She took a left onto Via Italia and stopped at a red light.
She glanced at the trees on either side of the road, their tapered trunks holding firm against the icy gusts of wind. Chantal's teeth chattered and she shivered as she rubbed her hands together.
Someone behind tooted impatiently, making her jump. She raised a hand to say sorry and drove off quickly by way of further apology.
She decided to concentrate on the road ahead, but no sooner had she regained her focus, she was distracted by a noise. Her mobile was ringing.
She looked all around but there were no police, so she picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
No answer.
She looked down at the screen: Missed call.
She put her phone back in her bag.
After taking another left, she reached a roundabout and took the exit that led to the motorway toll booth. She took her ticket and the bar in front of her raised.
As she emerged from the toll booth, she noticed it had started to rain. She pressed a button to close the driver-side window and instantly felt more secure, as if she were inside a glass bell jar protecting her from the outside world.
Temporarily reassured, she moved into the inside lane and began to fiddle with her phone, keeping her other hand on the wheel. When she accessed the list of missed calls, she saw Alfredo's name against the one she had missed just a few minutes earlier.
What did he want? Did he no longer want her to come and work for him?
She decided to call him back.
A hoarse voice answered after just one ring.
"Hello?"
"Oh, ermm, is that Alfredo?"
"Yeah, hi Chantal. What can I do for you?"
"I'm just returning your call. I didn't pick up in time, sorry."
"Oh, right, of course. I just wanted to check you'd left and ask what time you might be getting here."
"Well, I looked online yesterday and it said it would take around five hours. So, I reckon I'll be with you at about seven. I'll turn the sat nav on when I stop for a coffee in the next hour or so, see what my ETA is. I'll let you know, yeah?"
"OK, I just wanted an idea because then I can rustle you up something for dinner. What do you say?"
"That's really kind, but..."
"But what?"
"I wouldn't want to put you out. Perhaps it's best if I grab something while I'm o..."
"It's no bother, really," he insisted. Suddenly, his tone became rather abrupt. "Anyway, I'll leave it there. See you later."
Chantal didn't even have time to say goodbye before he'd hung up.
Why?
In fact, why her in the first place? Why had he chosen a girl who lived three hundred miles away over someone local?
She couldn't remember if she'd already asked him, but she would sure as hell find out when she got there. She'd ask Alfredo why he hadn't hired a girl from around these parts to...
Her stomach lurched as her thoughts were interrupted suddenly by a loud boom that sounded as though someone had fired a cannon. The car jerked violently and began to swerve all over the road. Chantal lost control and slammed on the brakes in desperation. The tyres of her Citroën C2 screeched plaintively as the vehicle travelled another few yards and spun round twice before