As the evening drew on, the shame didn’t leave her, it just grew more intense, until Anna had convinced herself that not only was she completely inept, but a few days with her mother had already sent her hysterical. Worse, she was hiding in her room like a sulky teenager. Brendan’s voice came back to haunt her: You need to get out more. If only he were here. Brendan knew how to make people feel at ease; he always made things look so smooth and easy.
From below came the sound of singing, raucous laughter, clinking glasses. Too late now to make an entrance; there’d be questions, wry looks from her mother, some witty crack from Vernon. Sulky teenager or not, Anna decided she’d rather stay put.
At last, she hears the sound of Vernon’s unsteady footsteps on the stairs. She sits on the end of the bed, watches the strip of light under the door flicker as he passes, hears the door to his own room, opening and closing. There’s another sound, as if he’s clearing his throat, then a faint rush of water. Anna pulls on her mother’s raincoat and steps onto the landing. Everything is quiet below. In the dimmed light from the hall, she negotiates the stairs like a prowler, moving swiftly through the French windows and out into the garden. The night is thick as a bag. She stumbles, banging her toe against the edge of the bench and muffling a yell. Feeling her way onto it, wiping off a slick of water with her hand, Anna sits on the edge. She searches for the cigarettes in her pocket, then lets out a groan as she realizes she gave them to Brendan. She finds her mobile and jabs at the keypad. When she hears the message—her own wavering voice telling her she’s not at home—she tries another number.
C’mon Brendan, answer the phone. Come on. Talk to me.
Faint movement at the corner of her eye, a darker object in the shadow of the trees. She straightens up, telling herself it will be a fox, or a neighbour’s cat. It’s too dark to see. The man peels himself out of the blackness. Coming closer now, he’s glittering with raindrops. He’s staring at her.
You can smoke inside, you know, says Anna, trying to keep her voice even, It’s a hotel, not a hospital. Despite all appearances.
Lewis stares at the burning tip of the cigarette between his fingers as if he doesn’t know how it got there.
I prefer it out here, he says, taking a step nearer, It’s good, after rain. Do you mind if I sit down?
Don’t suppose I could have one? She asks, gesturing to the cigarette.
You can smoke inside, you know, he says, half-smiling.
Lewis reaches into his jacket and takes out the pouch of tobacco. Clamping his own cigarette between his teeth, he begins to roll another, nail-thin and perfect. Anna watches him do it, stumbling over her words as she tries to explain herself.
It’s just—it sounds silly, she says, lowering her voice, But my mother . . . she doesn’t like me smoking. And anyway, I’ve given up. Nearly.
Giving up’s easy, he says.
Yeah, says Anna, I’ve done it loads of times.
They both laugh at this familiar joke.
So. You must be Anna.
Mr Caine, I presume, she says, blinking rapidly, I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself earlier. But I hate a crowd.
I hate a crowd, parrots Lewis, as if pondering the fact, Me too. And what a crowd. Are they like that every night?
A wind picks up from nowhere, sweeping the clouds over the tops of the trees to reveal a fat brown moon hanging in the sky.
Careful, Mr Caine, that’s my family you’re talking about.
When he glances at her, she’s no longer smiling. With her head angled slightly away from him, and her dark hair covering her eyes, she reminds him of an animal. He likes it that she isn’t smiling; he likes that he can’t read whether she’s joking.
No offence, he says, handing her a roll-up, Just the fat guy, he’s got a lot of lip. Under that moustache.
Vernon, she sighs, Ah, well, you can insult him all you like. He isn’t family. And won’t be, if I have anything to do with it.
Lewis bends near to light her cigarette. In the light from the flame, he steals a glance at her face; her mascara smudged and the sockets dark-ringed, the eyes behind the stuck lashes burning. The whole look of her is perilous. He knew it the first time he saw her, standing in the doorway, wiping the sweat from her hands and bracing herself, he knew then: she is for him. Second time around, and he’s surprised at the sensation: it’s not the sudden jarring he felt earlier. The feeling now is almost peaceful. Almost like a drug. Almost bearable.
He your mother’s boyfriend?
Now Anna does smile again; crooked, ducking her head. Lewis likes that too.
He would say companion, she says, mimicking Vernon’s voice, He’s such a pretentious old fart.
She takes a suck on the roll-up, watching Lewis as he turns away from her to cough into his fist. She sees his knuckles, the cracked grazes across them.
Don’t hold back on my account, he says, Say what you feel.
Anna takes a deep breath.
The great parasitic loon! she says, and then laughs.
He’s not one of the guests, then?
Listening to him talk, you’d think he runs the place, she says, glancing at Lewis from under her fringe, Well, to be fair, he probably does run the place. And you’re the guest. Singular.
Lewis makes a little frown of surprise.
I have had the pleasure of listening to him talk, thank you. And sing. They’re very into their showbiz stuff, aren’t they?
You mean you haven’t noticed the film posters, or the piles of sheet music on the piano—or the door plaques?
The what? He says.
I’m in Bogart, she says, with a slow blink, But I believe your room’s not named. My mother will be out at the crack of dawn getting one made up in your honour: the Michael Caine suite.
Forgetting who he’s supposed to be, Lewis is mystified. Then he remembers.
The Caine Penthouse, I think, he says, grinning with relief.
I’ll let her know you’ve got a preference, says Anna, and then, as a new idea occurs to her, her face lights up.
Who would you rather be, she asks, Caine or Bogart?
Bogart, naturally, he says, without thinking, How about you? Erm, Lauren Bacall or Elizabeth Taylor?
Liz Taylor, Anna says, But only in her Richard Burton period.
Lewis considers this. Out of old habit, he flicks the cigarette ash into his hand. Realizing what he’s done, he tips it away onto the path.
That’s cheating, he says, It’s all or nothing.
He was Welsh too, wasn’t he, says Anna, bending to catch his eye. Lewis pitches the dog-end of his roll-up on the path, then gets up and retrieves it. He changes the subject.
Inside or outside? He asks.
Anna hesitates.
Inside or outside what?
I mean, where would you rather be—as a preference?
Outside, definitely, she says, pleased with her choice, What about you?
Same, says Lewis.
They’re quiet for a second, then Anna catches a breath.
Okay, she says, chewing the inside of her lip, Tea or coffee?
Tea, says Lewis, watching her closely.
She continues,
Wine or beer?
Beer, he says, In Cardiff they have a beer called Brains SA.
Anna is delighted with this fact.
They do? What’s the SA stand for?
Lewis laughs,
They call it Skull Attack, he says, But that’s more to do with how you feel in the morning. You like wine, I guess.
Yep, and gin, and lager, says Anna, But only out of a bottle. Is that where you’re from, then, Cardiff?
Lewis says nothing to this.
Okay, says Anna, feeling the moment sink and not wanting to let it, Stockings or tights?
This brings a laugh like a choke from Lewis.
You serious?
Anna nods.
Depends, he says, I mean, if you’re robbing a bank, the last thing you want is an extra leg fl
apping round your head, getting in the way of things.
Like your gun, offers Anna.
Like your bag of swag, corrects Lewis.
I meant on a woman, actually.
In any other situation, Lewis would see the question as clear flirtation, but when he looks at Anna, her face is earnest.
What do you wear? he asks.
Socks. And pop socks in summer.
Pop socks. Do they still call them ‘pop socks’?
I do, Anna grumbles, Anyway, I was just checking out a theory.
Which is? asks Lewis, raising an eyebrow.
That men who prefer stockings are—obviously—more basic in their desires than men who prefer tights.
She tries to say this lightly; it’s intended as a joke, but Lewis shakes his head at her, suddenly serious.
No, no, you can’t pigeonhole a fella on the basis of something he says. You can’t say he’s basic just because he’s responded to a direct question, and maybe he’s got the answer wrong, but that’s because the only right answer exists in your head. You can’t do that. It’s not fair.
Sorry, she says, glum.
Anyway, pop socks are just short stockings, aren’t they? He says, trying to make amends, They’d be perfect for a bank job. Pop them out of your pocket, pop them on your head!
Anna inspects the end of her roll-up.
Look, it’s gone out, she says, holding it up again for re-lighting.
Lewis draws his hand from his pocket.
Nothing lasts forever, he says, leaning close.
Their fingertips touch as Lewis gives her the lighter. She sees him flinch, as if stung from the contact. The lighter is warm from where he’s stowed it in his fist. She turns it over and over in her hand.
I’ll roll a loose one next time. Just for you.
I’m honoured, Mr Caine, she says.
They are silent for a moment, looking out over the garden, trying not to look at each other. It’s so quiet, Lewis can hear the grass ticking, stretching itself upright after the downpour.
My name’s Lewis, he says, with his head down, Just don’t let on to anyone else.
Anna hears perfectly well the effort this takes. She nods, looks fully at him, says nothing.
NINETEEN
Lewis leans against the wall and stares out to sea. Despite what people say about sea air, it doesn’t give him an appetite, nor a good night’s sleep. He had lain awake for hours in the darkness, listening to the wind buffeting the window, police sirens in the distance, the raucous laughter of a group of young women passing on the road below. Towards dawn, he got up, and showered and shaved. He has decided that if he can do nothing else, he can at least walk: this will make him tired. But now he finds, once again, he’s unable to rouse himself.
The wind has fallen away to nothing; he’s amazed to find that he’s enveloped in a diffuse and even light, as if the day’s been preserved under tissue paper. He expected to be greeted by a scene of devastation, but apart from a few pieces of scattered rubbish marking the tide-line, there’s no evidence of a storm. Ahead of him, a monochrome sky and a monochrome sea meet on an invisible horizon, so it’s all one: a giant sheen of brushed metal hanging from the heavens. Even the sand at his feet is drained of colour. He tells himself it should be easy to move in this; like sleepwalking.
Lewis tries to stay parallel to the shoreline, but as he gets nearer, he sees the waves, steady and gentle, a milky frill skirting the sand. The sound they make is like breathing. The air feels sticky on his skin. Grains of light scatter in his vision. He wills himself to be calm.
When he reaches the groynes, he sits in the lee of a rusted post and rolls a cigarette. He takes out the match-box he stole from the raincoat in the hall; it has a motif of a leaping deer on the front, and a telephone number on the back. He doesn’t recognize the code. Lewis tries one match, then another; each one fizzes wetly against the strike. He takes a third between his fingers and rolls it warm, flicks it with the edge of his nail. It flares at once, leaving a small yellow scorch on the tip of his thumb. Thick bolts of mist come in off the sea, so he can’t tell smoke from air; they clear, to reveal the wan shore and the water, then crowd in again, wiping the view away. With his head against a horizontal strut, he looks at the world sideways; now he can’t tell up from down. He wants to take the time to think about Anna, but when he goes over their meeting last night, he feels a knot of anxiety, caught like a bundle of wire in his ribcage. If she knew him, she wouldn’t want to. Fact. He tries to recall what they talked about, but the memory is like a silent film—brilliant, sharp images, and no sound. He has spent the waking hours of the night trying to relive it, and still now, he can’t get much beyond the weather, her mother, the names of film stars. He feels as if his memory is living an independent existence inside his head. The memories he’d like to forget trail him like scavenging dogs; all the good moments are lost in his need to escape them.
It’s my mind, he says quietly, I should be in charge of it.
There is another anxiety: the idea that he can spend half the night sitting in the cold dark with a woman he’s only just met, and feel as though he knows her intimately. Now he considers it—to him, it didn’t feel remotely cold and dark. It felt light, and warm, and she was funny. She was lovely. He can believe he imagined the whole thing. If he saw her again, it would just be ordinary; she would just be anyone.
Looking up, he catches sight of a figure in a windcheater and jeans: it’s as if he has magicked her. Anna, on the far end of the groyne, clambers awkwardly over the post. She’s singing to herself. Lewis can’t make out the words, but it sounds military: it sounds like swearing.
Morning, he calls, turning his face up at her as she jumps onto the sand. She doesn’t appear to hear him. Lewis is afraid she might walk straight past. He searches his mind for something to say; anything, to keep her. He tosses the box of matches into her path.
Shit! she says, suddenly aware of him, You scared me!
She bends down, picks up the matchbox, and throws it back hard.
Sorry, he says, Story of my life. Are you alright there?
Anna takes a few steps towards him, then falters. She turns sideways to inspect her closed fist, as if she’s caught a secret.
Look what I’ve done, she says, spreading her hand for him to see. There is a gash across it like a second lifeline. In her other hand, she has a crumpled tissue smeared with blood. She gives him a rueful smile.
Come here, says Lewis, patting the sand next to him, Let’s inspect the damage.
She kneels; now he can see her face more clearly. Her eyes are sharp with pain, or maybe irritation; her skin glows pearl. To Lewis, she is exquisite. He feels the wire in his chest unravel. Taking her fingers, he flexes them slightly, traces below the wound with his fingertip until she grunts at him to stop. She pulls her hand away and closes it against her heart.
That’s nasty, he says, How did you do it?
Anna turns her head and stares out to the east, peering into the mist.
I was looking for something. I tripped. Those groynes are practically buried out there.
Looking for something . . . in the fog?
Anna thinks she knows the coast well enough now to correct him; she uses a word she has learned from her mother.
It’s not a fog, she laughs, It’s a fret.
Ah. So what’s the fret?
She doesn’t respond directly. She came out to photograph the wind turbines this morning, as she has every morning since her first sighting of them; she’s annoyed to find they’re not visible. She nods in the direction of the sea, thinking about her answer. They have to be seen to be believed; she won’t put her trust in words.
Nothing, she says, Another time.
Another time, says Lewis, And we’ll find that groyne and punch its lights out, yeah?
Another time, I’ll show you what I was looking for. If you’re still here.
She sits down beside him, dragging her hair from her eyes. Now and t
hen she opens her hand, half-glances at it before curling it back in her lap.
Stings, I expect. You’ll want to lick it, he says, wanting to lick it for her.
After a second, she spreads her palm, tentatively dabs it with her tongue.
He’s been trying not to stare at her mouth; the colour is too true in the even light, but now he gives in and watches.
This weather’s pretty awful, she says, tasting blood on her lip, Like drowning.
No, thinks Lewis, it’s not like that at all. He follows her eyeline into the distance, then glances back at her face. He finds he can’t not look at her.
Better than that racket last night, he says, Couldn’t sleep for the noise.
Oh. I didn’t hear anything. Is it the bed? Is it creaky? she asks, solicitous now, Because we can always put you in another room.
The bed’s fine, he says.
She looks him in the eye.
But you didn’t sleep?
Rust never sleeps, he says.
Anna hooks a strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn’t know how to answer that. She heard it too last night, this strange way he has of talking, as if he’s learned the language from a textbook.
It’s almost as though the sea isn’t there, she says, gesturing into the mist, As if you could just get up and walk to Holland.
Why would you want to do that? he says, with a wild look that makes her grin, Tell you, I want to be able to see where the water is.
You like to swim? she asks, I never really got the hang of it.
Me neither. Which is why I like to see the water. Know your enemy, he says, with a bitter laugh.
But the sea isn’t your enemy, she says, Surely you don’t think that? And it has to be more interesting than this—she waves her hand, dismissive—This nothingness.
Actually, I think it’s unreal, he says, looking about him, Like sitting on a cloud.
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