by Jonathan Coe
‘Are you close to him?’
‘Haven’t seen him,’ said Adam, ‘for about two or three years. He and Mom split up a while ago. Much to the relief of me and my sister. They fought all the time. It was … intense.’ Taking care not to look at Sophie directly, he said: ‘I’m guessing you come from a different kind of family. You seem … Well, you seem pretty calm about things.’
‘Yes, my parents don’t fight, exactly. They just seem to live in a permanent state of … I don’t know how you’d describe it. Semi-hostile indifference.’
Adam laughed. ‘Sounds very British.’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what it is. They keep calm and carry on, even though my mother …’ She tailed off, not wanting to pursue this any further.
‘And you?’
‘Me?’
‘Married life.’ He glanced down at her wedding ring. ‘How does it suit you?’
‘Oh. Well, it’s a bit early to say. It’s only been three months …’
‘Ah – so recently? Congratulations.’
‘… But so far, it’s been good. Very good. I feel very … grounded.’
‘Excellent. I’m happy for you. And him.’
‘Ian. His name’s Ian.’
‘And what does he do?’
‘He’s a teacher.’
‘Of course. Art history?’
‘No. He teaches people how to drive more safely. That was how I met him. In one of his classes.’
‘Really? I don’t see you as a dangerous driver. Do you have a wild streak that you haven’t been sharing with any of us?’
‘No,’ said Sophie, more thoughtfully than the question perhaps warranted. ‘I don’t believe that I do.’
They must have sat there for half an hour or more; long enough to watch the sunset in all its leisurely glory. Behind them, on the other side of the island, the moon was rising, throwing enough light for them to follow the path easily when they began to feel hungry and set off in search of the port and its restaurants. They couldn’t find the other conference guests: a navette had just left for Marseille, according to the timetable, and perhaps they had decided to take it. The next boat wasn’t for an hour, but there was no urgency in any case: the last one left at midnight.
They found a quiet waterside bar and ordered moules marinière with panisses and salade Niçoise and a carafe of rosé with plenty of ice. By the time they had finished eating, it was half past ten and two more boats had left and it was beginning to feel as though they had the island almost to themselves.
‘It’s so peaceful here,’ said Sophie. ‘I can’t believe we’re only twenty minutes from the city. It’s like another world.’
‘Do you want another drink?’ Adam asked.
‘No. Let’s go back to the beach.’
The water was calmer, now, and lay dark and welcoming, illuminated only by a path of moonlight that stretched towards the horizon. There was no one else on the beach. Neither Adam nor Sophie spoke, or suggested what they do next; it was an entirely mutual and spontaneous decision to slip out of their clothes, pick their way painfully across the stones to the water’s edge and launch themselves into the sea. Spontaneous and chaste: neither of them looked at the other until they were fully submerged, although Sophie still managed to feel, somehow, a vivid sense of the contrast between their skin colours. She had never skinny-dipped before, and had no idea how delicious the still-warm water would feel against her bare skin. She was a strong swimmer – unlike Adam, it seemed, who remained crouched in the shallows, half-swimming, half-walking – so she struck out towards the mouth of the cove, into the furthest, deepest part of the inlet, thinking it wise to get as far away from him as possible. There she swam backwards and forwards, crossing from one rocky side to the other ten times or more, until, when her arms and legs began to ache, she flipped over and floated on her back for a few minutes, watching the moon and the stars, and thinking that she had never felt so happy, so at peace with herself, so at one with the elements of water and air. She closed her eyes, felt the gentle stirrings of the Mistral caressing her face, and surrendered to the embrace of the ocean; passive, trustful, unresisting.
She and Adam spoke little to each other after that, not even on the midnight navette back to Marseille. Their evening together lay under a spell, and they both knew that to talk would be to break it.
It was almost one o’clock when they reached the halls of residence where the conference delegates had been accommodated. Their rooms were at opposite ends of the same corridor.
Outside her door, Sophie reached up to kiss Adam on the cheek.
‘Well, goodnight,’ she said. ‘That was beautiful.’
‘It really was,’ he murmured, and as he said it, his mouth seemed to brush across her face until it was in contact with hers. Which was fine, Sophie thought, because after all, what was this, but a friendly goodnight kiss? His mouth was open, and hers was open, which was fine. She felt a little jolt through her body as their tongues met. But that was fine. This was just a friendly goodnight kiss. Although it did seem to be going on for a long time. And now his hand was moving, moving slowly but purposefully across her body, no longer touching her back in the lightest of hugs but now travelling up across her stomach towards her breast, her left breast, where it lingered, where she allowed it to linger, pressing herself more firmly against him so that his hand, without wanting to, was pressing more firmly against her breast, and the sensation was exquisite, it was sending waves of pleasure through her body and she wanted nothing more, at this moment, than to yield to those waves, to give in …
… but no. No no no no no. This was not all right. This was not fine. This was not a goodnight kiss any more. Abruptly she pushed him away and leaned back against the door, panting and reddening. She looked down at the floor, and he looked away down the corridor, also breathing heavily, and Sophie ran her hands through her hair and said:
‘Look, this is –’
‘I know. I –’
‘I mean, we can’t do this. I’m –’
‘That’s fine. I shouldn’t –’
Now she looked at him, and he looked back at her, and there was sadness and anger and frustration in their eyes.
‘OK.’
‘Yep. OK. Goodnight, then.’
‘Goodnight,’ said Sophie, and unlocked her door quickly and shut it behind her just as quickly and then stood with her back to the door for what seemed like for ever, her eyes stinging with tears as she waited for her breathing to become more regular again.
*
There was only one session on Friday morning: a plenary session, to remind people of all the papers that had been presented during the week, to take stock and draw conclusions. Adam was not there. He hadn’t been at breakfast either. Sophie had contemplated missing breakfast too, but in the end that seemed a stupid thing to do: she and Adam were both adults, and there was no reason why there should be any embarrassment or tension between them this morning. No serious boundaries had been crossed the previous night; they had pulled back in plenty of time. So where was he this morning? Why was his place in the lecture theatre empty?
‘He took the train back to Paris,’ François told her during the coffee break. ‘Apparently there was some emergency at home. He said he was taking an earlier flight back to the States.’
Before the morning’s session resumed Sophie sent him a simple email – There was no need to do that! Write to me – but she received no answer.
Her own flight home on Saturday morning landed in Luton at midday. It was pouring with rain. The sky was slate-grey and heavy with clouds. The train to Birmingham was disrupted due to planned engineering works and buses would be providing a rail replacement service between Kettering and Nuneaton.
‘Rail replacement service’, ‘Kettering’, ‘Nuneaton’. Were there five more dispiriting words in the English (or any other) language?
As the bus crawled its way through the clogged and stuttering weekend traffic between these Midland towns, Sop
hie thought – and kept trying not to think – of Thursday night on the Frioul islands. The feel of the water against her skin. The pattern of stars above her in the night sky. The moonlit journey on the boat back to Marseille, sitting on the open-air top deck, Adam’s thigh in gentle contact with her own. And then in her head she could hear Naheed’s voice, on her wedding night, at the dinner table in the marquee, talking about driving, and how Every few minutes you come to a different junction, and you have to make a choice. And every choice you make has the potential to alter your life.
It was four o’clock by the time she had trudged up the hill from New Street Station to Centenary Square, pulling her case behind her, with its cargo of dirty underwear, Marseille fridge magnet and souvenir bottle of pastis. The clouds were thicker, darker, denser than ever, and the unfinished skeleton of Birmingham’s new library rose up ahead of her. The lights were already on in the flat. Ian was standing at the window, looking out for her.
15.
At nine o’clock on the evening of Friday, 27 July 2012:
Sophie and Ian were sitting together on the sofa in their flat, watching the Olympic opening ceremony on television.
Colin Trotter was alone at home in Rednal, sitting in his armchair, watching the Olympic opening ceremony on television.
Helena Coleman was alone at home in Kernel Magna, sitting in her armchair, watching the Olympic opening ceremony on television.
Philip and Carol Chase, along with Philip’s son Patrick and his wife Mandy, were sitting in the living room of their house in King’s Heath, a Chinese takeaway on their laps, watching the Olympic opening ceremony on television.
Sohan Aditya was alone in his flat in Clapham, lying on the sofa, watching the Olympic opening ceremony on television and texting his friends about it.
Christopher and Lois Potter, in the midst of their subdued walking holiday in the Lake District, were watching the Olympic opening ceremony on the television of their rented cottage.
Doug Anderton, his daughter Coriander and his son Ranulph were all sitting in separate rooms of their house in Chelsea, watching the Olympic opening ceremony on different televisions.
Benjamin was alone in the mill house, sitting at the desk in his study, making cuts and revisions to his novel, while listening to a string quartet by Arthur Honegger.
*
Sophie had no great hopes for this particular spectacle. Just as Ian was instinctively drawn towards anything to do with sport, so she was instinctively repelled by it. It had never meant much to her that London was hosting the 2012 Olympics, and now that she didn’t live there, it meant even less. Pointedly, she had a book open on her lap (The Count of Monte Cristo, in fact, which she was now rereading) when the broadcast started: a none-too-subtle way of signalling that she was prepared to keep Ian company while he was watching it, but she wasn’t going to pay any attention. She assumed it was just going to be a whole lot of men in singlets and shorts walking around a race track for three hours while military music played and the Queen waved at people.
‘Even Danny Boyle can’t make that interesting,’ she said.
But she was wrong. The ceremony began with a two-minute film: a speeded-up journey along the Thames, from its very source to the heart of London. As the camera raced along the surface of the water to a soundtrack of fast, pulsing electronic music, passing three characters from The Wind in the Willows along the way, the soundtrack morphing to include snippets from the Sex Pistols’ ‘God Save the Queen’ and the theme tune from EastEnders, Sophie’s academic interest was piqued. She realized that something clever had been put together here: there were going to be a lot of intertextual references to look out for.
‘Why is there a pink pig flying over Battersea Power Station?’ she asked Ian.
‘Search me,’ he replied.
*
‘You know what that is, don’t you?’ said Philip in delight, pointing at the screen with a chopstick. ‘That’s a Pink Floyd reference. Animals. The album they made in 1977.’
‘Only you would know that,’ said Carol.
‘Me and a few million others,’ he said, spearing a prawn ball. Sometimes his wife’s musical ignorance alarmed him.
*
Helena found the opening sequence far too confusing and frenetic. She hoped it wasn’t all going to be like this. But she relaxed somewhat when the next section featured four different choirs, from all four countries in the United Kingdom, each one singing a different anthem. The young boy singing a solo version of ‘Jerusalem’ in the stadium had the most beautiful voice, and the scenes of rural life being acted out in the arena were very restful and charming. Then a number of stagecoaches entered, bringing actors dressed as Victorian industrialists, and her hackles started to rise again. Several of the businessmen were played by black actors. Why did they have to do that? Why? Did people have no respect for history any more?
*
‘Wow …’
Sohan had noticed that the section of the ceremony featuring the industrialists was called ‘Pandemonium’. He fired off an immediate text message to Sophie.
Did you see that? Pandemonium! They’re channelling Humphrey Jennings!
*
Sophie replied:
Amazing. And totally not what I was expecting.
‘Who are you texting?’ Ian asked.
‘Sohan,’ she said.
‘What about? Can’t you concentrate on this?’
‘That’s what I’m texting about. He’s just pointed out this whole section is based on a really obscure book called Pandaemonium, by Humphrey Jennings.’ Ian looked at her blankly. ‘He was a documentary film-maker in the forties.’
‘Ah. OK.’ Ian paused, reflecting. ‘You two have so much in common.’ He kissed her. ‘Good job he’s gay.’
*
Like Sophie, Doug had approached the opening ceremony in a mood of scepticism. Like her, he watched it with a mounting sense of admiration that was soon bordering on awe. The scale of the spectacle, the originality of it – the weirdness, at points – the majestic sight of the industrial chimneys rising out of the fake Glastonbury Tor, the hypnotic, accumulating power of the Underworld music … This eccentric hymn to Britain’s industrial heritage was the last thing he had been expecting, but there was something hugely affecting and persuasive about it … Something fundamentally truthful, in fact. And what he felt while watching it were the stirrings of an emotion he hadn’t experienced for years – had never really experienced at all, perhaps, having grown up in a household where all expressions of patriotism had been considered suspect: national pride. Yes, why not come straight out and admit it, at this moment he felt proud, proud to be British, proud to be part of a nation which had not only achieved such great things but could now celebrate them with such confidence and irony and lack of self-importance.
He could feel a column about this coming on. Definitely.
*
Colin enjoyed the celebration of British history as well. He liked the poem that Kenneth Branagh recited. The only thing that annoyed him was that they had to include a reference to the arrival of HMS Windrush, and Britain’s first Jamaican immigrants.
‘Oh, here we go,’ he muttered into his lager, as soon as he saw the actors. ‘The bloody political correctness brigade are at it again …’
*
So far, incredibly, Sophie seemed to be more focused on the ceremony than Ian was. After a few minutes he became restless, got up to get more beers from the fridge, emptied some crisps into a bowl. ‘Aren’t you enjoying this?’ she asked. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘We get the message. Britain’s done lots of stuff.’ He looked even more unimpressed when the next sequence – a short pre-filmed item called ‘Happy and Glorious’ – began with aerial shots of Buckingham Palace. But then he saw a figure walking in through the palace doors, wearing a white dinner jacket, his shoulders swinging in a gesture of suave, gentlemanly confidence, and realized who it was – James Bond: or at any rate Daniel Craig, Bond’s latest screen i
ncarnation. Ian sat back down next to Sophie, leaning forward on the sofa, his attention seized. Bond walked through the palace reception rooms until he was facing an actor playing the Queen, seated at her desk with her back towards him. Only then she turned and it wasn’t an actor. It really was the Queen. ‘Good evening, Mr Bond,’ she said, stiffly, and it was obvious that she wasn’t going to give the most natural performance in the world, even though she was playing herself, but still – they had got the Queen, the Queen of fucking England, to take part in a film for the Olympic opening ceremony, and in fact it was even better than that, because the next thing that happened was that she was following Bond out of the palace and they were getting into a helicopter together, and then the helicopter took off and it was filmed rising high above Buckingham Palace and high above London, and soon afterwards it was approaching the Olympic stadium and then you had the greatest joke of all, the greatest stroke of genius, because they made it look as though the Queen and James Bond were jumping out of the helicopter together and parachuting into the stadium, and as the James Bond music played his parachute opened up and it turned out to be an enormous Union Jack, in a homage to that amazing opening sequence of The Spy Who Loved Me, and the effect of these elements – the Queen! James Bond! the Union Jack! – was to induce in Ian an almost orgasmic surge of patriotic excitement, so that he leaped to his feet and shouted ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ – and then threw himself down next to Sophie, enfolding her in a tight hug and kissing her again and again.
*
When the music to the next section started, Philip could hardly believe it. He recognized it at once, that unmistakeable hypnotic phrase with its curious time signature, music he had listened to hundreds of times, thousands of times, music which he loved with all his heart although for almost four decades peer pressure had obliged him to keep that love a kind of secret, had made him feel that to love this music was to declare yourself somehow laughable, or at the very least permanently out of step with fashion. But here it was. Being broadcast to the whole world, presented as an example of the very best in British culture. Vindication! Vindication at last!
