by Hayley Doyle
‘No swimming today, Madam,’ the receptionist warns.
Justin’s on the phone now.
‘Enjoying Vietnam?’ I ask the Dutch lady.
‘Oh, we love it. We’ve been here for one month already, travelling.’
‘With a little one? That’s amazing.’
‘We’re relaxed, so he’s relaxed. He loved all the lanterns in Hoi An Ancient Town.’
‘I’ve heard they’re very special.’
‘Oh, yes. We lit a lantern and made a wish, and we watched it float across the river and into the sky. So beautiful.’
Yes, yes, yes! This. This is what I want.
It’s the perfect way to connect with Jack; to wish for a happy ending; to feel his presence fly away in a floating lantern. At the moment I seem a bit floaty, never mind the bloody lantern. Maybe this magical town is already having an effect on me. Not that I’ve witnessed any of this supposed magic yet. But remember, Justin said the storm will pass soon. It’s not typhoon season.
I make my way to my room. It’s on the second level of the two-storey building, and I’ve got to drag myself through an outside corridor where the doors are situated. The wind hasn’t calmed down, so as much as I want to peep over the balcony, take in the pool and the view, I better keep my head down and my feet forward.
The photos were accurate. The room is beautiful. Probably the best sixteen quid I’ve ever spent. A king-size bed with crisp white sheets invites me to bounce; it has cushions and a throw in the same material as the upholstered chairs in reception. Wooden decor creates a boho-chic feel, carved dark wood poles dividing the space between the bed and a sitting area. There’s a flatscreen telly, the usual tea and coffee and a bowl with two mini bananas. The bathroom isn’t much to scream about; basic, functional – and the shower doesn’t look too promising. But how can I complain? Besides, there’s a little round soap wrapped in mint-green paper, and a shower cap: the sort of treats I’d find in my nan’s house.
There’s a knock on my door. I open it carefully and the wind whips in. Justin jumps inside.
‘Apologies. I wouldn’t usually barge my way in—’
‘Don’t be soft. Did you sort out a taxi?’
‘No chance.’ He runs his hands across his heavy, dark stubble, irritated. ‘Apparently all the beach accommodation has been evacuated. It all seems a little OTT, but maybe I’m wrong; maybe typhoons can hit this time of year.’
‘I just wanna see some lanterns,’ I say, like a five-year-old demanding a unicorn.
‘You hungry?’
‘I think so.’
‘The lady on the desk told me to get food now – it might be too late soon.’
‘Okay, that does sound a bit—’
‘OTT?’
I purse my lips and look around my room. The wind is howling through the fan in the bathroom window. Hanging around here probably isn’t the most inspiring thing to do; food is the better option.
‘Let’s go,’ I say.
The receptionist even gives us an umbrella each, kindly requesting we remember to bring them back. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk to the ancient town and that’s our plan. We figure if we can get to a place where more people are milling about and restaurants aren’t keen on closing for business, we’ll perk up. And hopefully, the storm will pipe down.
Fat chance.
We’re blown to the restaurant on the corner of the road, a stone’s throw from the guest house. We never managed to get the umbrellas up. Both of us are completely drenched from the rain. I sit on the entrance step and wring out the water from my polka-dot skirt. I give my hair a shake, knowing I’ll have mascara running down my cheeks. There’s no door into the restaurant – it’s open-fronted and currently shielded from the storm by some blankets attached to the tin veranda roof with pegs. How they haven’t been blown off, I’ll never know.
‘Welcome!’ The waitress smiles.
Her hair is pulled into a ponytail. She’s wearing skinny jeans, and a red t-shirt hangs neat upon her petite physique. Her name badge reads Linh. She invites us to sit down and hands us a menu folder, each laminated page filled with photos of various dishes, and she reads out the words printed in English on the front cover.
‘You Eat, I Like,’ Linh reads.
That must be the name of the restaurant. Cute.
And wow, is it cute.
Low bamboo tables are dotted around the space with bright-coloured beanbags as seats. Some red heart-shaped cushions are scattered about. A guitar hangs on a painted white wall, framed pictures of The Beatles on another. The words All you need is love are painted beneath the guitar. Ah, home from home. There is an open kitchen, with a man and woman doing the cooking for all to see. I notice a double bed – well, more of a mattress, really – in the corner of the restaurant, a few mismatching pillows and blankets thrown on it, a small bedside cabinet against the wall. This is a family-run business and they must live in this room, too. The first page of the menu is filled with information about their daily cookery classes.
‘Beer?’ Justin asks me.
I’m old enough – or wise enough, rather – to understand that hair of the dog works.
‘Yep.’
It’s not yet five o’clock, although it feels like the depths of night. The restaurant is bright with bulbs hanging from wires across the ceiling, and the waitress is putting out candles on each table ready to light. The Dutch lady is sat behind us with her son and, I presume, her partner. We exchange hellos. I order a special Hoi An noodle dish and some banh xeo – Vietnamese crispy pancakes. Justin is mid-order when the electricity cuts out and we’re all sitting in darkness, one small flickering candle on the Dutch family’s table alive.
‘I guess this means we can’t order from the menu now,’ Justin gripes.
‘Bloody hell, you are a grump today, aren’t you?’ I point out.
‘I wasn’t expecting this.’
‘Ha. You’re telling me?’
Linh finishes lighting all the candles and brings us ice-cold beers, asking us if we’d like food, too.
‘I make?’ she asks. ‘We try the generator.’
In the kitchen, I can see the man trying to get the generator working. The woman is still preparing food, doing what she can with little resources.
‘We’ll have anything,’ I say. ‘You bring and we’ll eat. Whatever’s possible.’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ Linh beams.
‘No, no,’ Justin says, feeling like an arsehole, I hope. ‘Thank you.’
The gentle ripple of the blankets suggests it’s not too windy outside, so the storm could well be passing. It occurs to me that Jack would have been a wreck on the flight from Bangkok to Da Nang, had he known we were landing in such extreme conditions. I didn’t think about it at the time, presuming the bumpy ride down was due to the plane being a small low-budget aircraft. Despite that, I wish he was here, beside me in the candlelight. He’d be best mates with Linh and her family by now, giving the little Dutch kid a shoulder ride.
‘Thinking about Jack?’ Justin asks.
‘Always.’
I really don’t want him to say anything bitchy about Sabrina. It’s not the right moment.
‘Everything feels a bit fuzzy,’ I admit. ‘Like I’m caught between reality and a dream. I know I’m here, in Vietnam, but I’m not sure how I got here … metaphorically, like.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘That’s good. I’m not usually such an – erm – philosopher.’
‘Do you feel like the decision to be here, although you ultimately made it, was out of your hands?’
I take in these words, think. ‘Yeah, I do.’
What I mean is ‘I hope so’.
Linh places a plate of Vietnamese spring rolls between us, a colourful-looking noodle salad and some chicken rice, plus a dish of what looks like fat, fried potatoes. One bite tells me it’s not potato; it tastes cold, crumbly and rather odd. Good-odd. I try a spring roll and it’s so fresh, so de
licious, I’m in awe of how this was thrown together without any electricity. We tuck in.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ Linh says, gesturing at the food.
‘Oh no, this is amazing,’ I tell her as I take another potato-that’s-not-a-potato. ‘Even this!’
We enjoy a couple more beers and the Dutch family join us around our table. It’s inevitable but I tell Linh that I’m from the birthplace of The Beatles, pointing to the quote on the wall. I’m not sure she understands what I mean, although she smiles kindly. Like a total moron, I point to the quote again and speak slower. Again, she smiles and now puts her hands to her heart, saying yes.
Justin stands and reaches for the guitar, asking, ‘May I?’
I’m no expert, but it doesn’t look particularly like a collector’s item. Linh stands on her tiny tiptoes to help Justin take it down from the wall. He strums a painful chord or two before sitting back down to give the strings a much-needed tuning.
Once the guitar’s in better shape, one bold strum alerts everybody to the beginning of ‘A Hard Day’s Night’. Justin kicks off the singing and Linh claps as the Dutch couple join in. I don’t think Justin is a singer, but his voice is pleasant, similar to how he speaks – low and gentle, effortless. He doesn’t show off, hold notes too long or anything; he just watches his fingers move about the strings. I find myself singing along, too.
Only a handful of other customers are in the restaurant. Two pay up and leave, and the others – three young female backpackers – come and sit closer with their shared bottle of wine. ‘She Loves You’ is next on the list; we all sing, taking a stab at random lyrics. Justin seems able to hold the fort though: his knowledge of the correct lyrics is even better than mine. Linh brings over more bottles of beer and I order a bottle of wine, the same as the backpackers are drinking, and invite them to help themselves.
Justin leans close to me, whispers into my ear.
‘What’s your favourite?’
I tell him, ‘In My Life’.
He spends a minute or two tuning up the guitar a little better. The backpackers tickle the toddler, who is enjoying taking the pages out of the menus, and the Dutch couple have a private moment doing their own small toast. Linh is clearing tables.
Justin plucks the opening notes of my favourite Beatles song and after repeating the sequence again, he looks up and catches my eye. Naturally, I start to sing. It’s fun and rather daring, but not completely out of my comfort zone. I’m a drama graduate, remember, although I was more suited to being in the ensemble than a soloist. The fact that I’m merry, and fuzzy from a hangover that’s now mellowed into a sweet haze, helps my confidence. Others sway and listen, but nobody else joins in. The round of applause at the end is both comforting and excruciating.
‘You are a good singer!’ the Dutch lady says.
Justin puts his arm around me and pulls me towards him with a well done shake. I expect him to ruffle the top of my hair like I’m a kid he’s proud of, but thank God, he doesn’t.
After a group effort of ‘Hey Jude’, we all pay up and call it a night. It’s not late, but the rain is plummeting down and Linh is fixing the blankets with extra pegs to hold them in place. I give Linh a hug goodbye and tell her to stay safe tonight. She laughs this off, ever so blasé about the forceful wind outside. The toddler is wrapped up inside his sturdy buggy and a team effort ensues; we link one another in a long line to get back to the Garden Villa guest house. Nobody bothers to try their umbrella. The wind ushers us and we have no choice but to run along with it.
22
Once inside the reception area, I feel somewhat safe.
The walls are sturdy, and the noise considerably less.
The Dutch family bid us a good night and I’m reminded that I’m a good singer. I give a stupid curtsey and they respond by giving me a clap, before closing the door to their room. I wrinkle my nose, cringing at myself.
I’d never sung in front of Jack before. Not properly.
‘I’m gonna check some emails,’ Justin says, referring to the two desktop computers in the small lobby area behind reception. ‘Hate doing that sorta shit on my phone.’
‘I hear you,’ I say. ‘God, we sound so old!’
‘Tonight was fun.’
I agree. It was.
Getting to my room, however, isn’t. The wind on this side of the building is battering the doors to the rooms and I stagger, eyes closed tight, holding onto the wall. It doesn’t bother me as much as earlier, whether due to the alcohol or just growing accustomed, but the pleasant warmth I was feeling moments ago has vanished, quite aptly gone with the wind. I chance a quick peek down and see the swimming pool. It’s basic, rectangular and floodlit, many leaves and a couple of chairs floating on the water. The surrounding palm trees are bent double.
Once inside my room, I slouch onto a sofa and flick off my flip-flops. I try connecting to the free Wi-Fi to scroll through my phone for nothing in particular.
That’s no surprise:
The WiFi cannot connect.
Could be a login error. Could be the weather. I call reception from the room phone.
No luck – the line is down. Unless I go back to reception there’s no way I’ll get online, and as if I’m leaving this room again tonight. As if. The front door trembles within its frame. A whistle, harsh and unfriendly, intrudes through the keyhole.
I turn on the telly.
CNN, Fox, Sky News. A French business channel, a French gameshow. A movie channel showing a film through an eighties fuzz. Michael Douglas is starring. I’ve seen it before, when I was little. At my nan’s house, I think, when she used to allow me and our Kit to stay up way past our bedtime.
My clothes – damp during the meal and singsong – are now stuck to me like cling film. I peel off my t-shirt and polka-dot skirt, drop-kicking them in the general direction of my suitcase. My bra is also wet, and the straps are digging into my shoulders, so I get completely naked and decide to take a hot shower.
The water drips and dribbles for a while, eventually splattering enough to warrant a wash. I keep my fingers under the stream, waiting for the ice-cold water to warm up, but it doesn’t. I don’t actually need a hot shower, but cold won’t do. I need comfort, not a shock, and just standing here waiting is making me shiver and sober up in a way I’m not ready for. Tonight was more than just fun. It was freeing. I can’t believe I’m going to admit this – to think these words – but I felt like the old Chloe Roscoe in patches. Here and there. Not the ghost I’ve become since Jack died.
Fuck.
Since. Jack. Died.
And now all I can think about is how he’s not here and how he’s never going to be here and how he’s not at home and how he’s never going to be at home and …
My fingers are fucking freezing.
I turn the shower off and skulk back to my suitcase, pulling the cotton rag dress over my head. I’m not sober, but I’m not drunk like last night. I’m restless. When will the howling outside stop? Not the season, Justin? Come on. Calm down. Please, calm down.
SMASH!
I run to the double doors that lead onto a small balcony and peer behind the curtains into the storm. A plant is lying sideways, its terracotta pot smashed around it on the ground. The smashing noise was worse than the outcome and I allow myself to find it funny.
Is there a minibar in here?
A small fridge is hidden in the cabinet the telly is sitting on. Two cans of Saigon beer, two Cokes and two bottles of water are inside. Saigon will do fine. The fridge hasn’t been switched on though and the can is warm. I can hear the plant pot pieces scratching around outside, jiggling in the wind. I open the beer, sip. It’s better than nothing.
Interference causes Michael Douglas to fuzz and jerk about the screen.
I change channels and find the international weather forecast. Bright yellow suns are plastered over most of Africa. Edging up towards the Middle East, there’s the odd grey cloud. Temperatures reaching fifty. I sit on the edge of the bed, t
he lukewarm beer sitting on my teeth, my tongue. The map rotates and focuses on the Middle East and India, corners of Southeast Asia almost visible. I long to see white clouds or, optimistically, yellow suns. As the map rotates once more, grey fuzz fills the screen with an unpleasant buzz and the telly cuts out. My room goes black.
Is this my cue to go to bed? Dive beneath the covers?
Another smash outside, further away, tells me another plant pot has suffered the worst. I fear the broken terracotta shards are going to be swept against the windows, breaking them and shooting into my room. Shooting into me.
Oh, stop with the drama. Stop!
SMASH!!
A series of smashes continue. I want to hide; my instinct is to shelter, but there are glass windows surrounding me from two opposing angles and I don’t know where to go apart from the floor. I’m being ridiculous. I can’t lie on the floor.
The lights flicker back on.
The telly remains off.
The noise isn’t as intrusive now that I can see again, but God, my heart is pounding. Pounding like a drum; and that’s not an exaggeration or me trying to be poetic. My chest feels like a spacious cage, a heavy thudding within. I place my palm against it, calming my heart down. My knees are weak and hollow and I want to cry. I’m scared. I really am. I’m terrified. God, I’m so terrified that I can’t cry. It’s too much effort; too much of a decision to make; and I focus on keeping my heart pressed, secure, in fear of it exploding.
I don’t want to be alone.
And nothing can comfort me. No phone, no telly. I’m far too distracted to read.
I drink more, swigging the beer until it’s gone. Then I go to the door, open it and run to Justin’s room. I bang on his door loudly, pounding with my fists – the only way he’ll hear me against this racket. I duck down, afraid of something dangerous being blown into me.
His door opens, but only a fraction. He has the chain on.
I can’t hear what he’s saying – the wind is deafening – but he’s struggling to open the door. Something must be stuck. I crouch down further, shielding my head with my arms. Finally, I’m pulled upwards and hauled inside. I slam the door shut with my foot and stand there, breathing heavily, my hands pushed against the back of the door.
