by Celia Hayes
‘I’ll answer that only when I’ve personally examined the contents of your bag!’ he snorts, putting it in beside the spare wheel. I stand by the door, arms folded and frowning, but don’t reply. I have enough problems dealing with sharing a bed, I’m not going to complicate things by adding the extra stress of being polite and sociable in the morning.
‘Ok, we’re ready,’ he decides, closing the door energetically before getting behind the wheel. ‘Get a move on!’ he says impatiently, when he realizes that I still haven’t moved to get in. I open the passenger door and sit next to him, putting my shoulder bag down on the floor. Out of habit and to distract myself, I lower the sun visor and look in the mirror, checking my hair. As I lift up my sunglasses, I find myself staring at two, deep purple circles. Caused by the last few nights spent staring at the ceiling. I can’t do it. Knowing that Thomas is sleeping there next to me is torture. Every night the same old story: about eleven o’clock he comes into the room with Rudy, gets into bed and lies down. Reads for a bit, teases me about my pyjamas, tries to make me feel uncomfortable and when he sees that I’m about to explode, chuckles with satisfaction, turns off the light and falls asleep thanks to his absurd ability to collapse into a coma at exactly the same moment he closes his eyes. To avoid the same performance in the morning, I pretend to be asleep until he’s left the room. I would have done it again this morning if only I hadn’t been attacked by a cushion hitting me in the face and threatened with being carried bodily to the shower.
‘You’re not looking so great,’ he says, casting a glance at me.
‘Well, good job I’m not on the lookout for a husband, then!’ I snap bitterly, taking out a small make-up bag and hunting for my concealer.
‘I hope there’s some holy water in there,’ he says, leaning over to take a peek inside.
‘Oh, ha ha, how hilarious!’ I retort sarcastically.
In fact, after putting on a little make-up I feel better, so I decide to add a little eyeshadow, just to remind myself that I’m still a woman, and in the meantime Thomas starts up the car and drives down the gravel driveway that leads to the entrance gate of the estate.
‘Oh, look,’ and I point at the head gardener. ‘There’s Joe.’
He says nothing.
‘Pull over. We can’t leave without saying goodbye,’ I say, blending some pearl grey eyeshadow in at the corner of my eye with a fingertip.
‘I’m sure he won’t mind,’ he says, ignoring me and driving straight on.
‘It doesn’t seem polite,’ I say.
‘Neither does interrupting him while he’s working.’
‘I haven’t figured out yet whether it’s just snobbery or whether you’re simply annoyed that he’s better looking than you,’ I say.
And the car suddenly slams to a halt.
‘Hey! What the hell are you doing?’ I complain.
‘Oops… A pothole! I really don’t know how that could have happened,’ he replies, shrugging.
‘What the…’ I look in the mirror and see with horror that I’ve smeared eyeshadow across my nose. ‘Happy now?’ I ask him angrily.
‘Yes, I’d say I am for the moment.’
He leans against the door to enjoy better the effects of his bravado.
‘I’ve met twelve-year-olds who were more mature than you!’ I shout as he reaches over to the dashboard, opens the glove compartment and pulls out a pack of citrus wet wipes.
‘Here,’ he says.
‘Err… Thanks.’ I try to open the packet but he beats me to it, pulls out a wipe and starts rubbing my face vigorously.
Great, now I look like a panda!
‘Just stop!’ I angrily grab the wipe and continue by myself.
‘Why are you so cranky this morning?‘
‘I don’t know, let me think: oh, maybe it was because I was turfed out of bed at dawn and forced to take a shower in less than ten minutes, I’m in a car with you, I don’t know if this is a kidnapping or the preamble to a premeditated murder, and I’ve just managed to make my face look like a bad copy of a Kandinsky. Really, I just don’t know what could be the matter with me!’ I conclude snarkily.
‘And it’s only ten in the morning,’ he reminds me, biting his lip in amusement.
‘What else have you got in mind?’ I bark.
‘Like I said when I wrote to you yesterday: I’m trying to make it up to you. I shouldn’t have offended your sensitivity with those comments about your unorthodox way of dressing,’ he says, feigning a tone of regret. ‘How did I describe you?’
‘Tacky and embarrassing,’ I remind him, finding the courage to look him in the face. Strewth – he hasn’t moved an inch and he’s staring at me like a brown bear!
‘How rude!’ he says indignantly.
‘Indeed. I would never have expected that from you. What awful manners…’
‘I must have been totally off my head,’ he exclaims.
‘Yes. In fact you were quite worked up. You kept shouting. I hardly recognized you! But that often happens when you start drinking.’
‘No?!’ he exclaims astounded. ‘I’m an alcoholic now, am I?’
‘Yes, but we’re trying to keep it a secret for fear of the effects that the news might have on your business.’
‘A wise choice. Did I suggest it?’
‘It was a mutual decision.’
‘It must have been that entrepreneur from Toronto’s fault,’ he replies with conviction.
‘Who? Richard? The charming oil magnet who was struck by my beauty?’
‘No,’ he corrects me. ‘I meant his father: Jasper, the elderly owner of the fertilizer factory with hairy ears and an addiction to gambling. You’ve been seeing him secretly for almost a month, thinking that I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Wait a minute,’ I bridle. ‘Why does he have to be old and ugly?’
‘Because I made this part up myself, so it’s for me to decide.’
‘All right. I’m cheating on you with a middle-aged man with hairy ears, but it’s not my fault. I’m not the one who’s suffering from performance anxiety. Anyway, what do you know? Maybe Jasper has hidden talents that help me endure the meagre attractions of our relationship,’ I say, determined to settle the score.
‘Define “meagre attractions’!”
I chuckle. ‘Can’t you work it out for yourself?’
‘I hope I can’t, for your sake!’ he threatens.
I can’t help it – I just can’t help it! I have to rub salt into the wound. ‘It’s not your fault. I’ve resigned myself to it…’
‘Sandy …’
‘OK, don’t get worked up. Try and remember where you put it last time. ‘
His only reaction is to blink.
‘Big mistake!’ he whispers, his voice grim.
‘What?’
‘Huge mistake…’ and I see a disturbing smirk appear on his lips.
‘What?’ I say, staring at him.
‘A mistake of elephantine proportions!’ he continues, moving towards me so that I have to back off until I find myself with my head buried in the seat and his face a breath away from my own.
‘It was you who started it – forcing me into the arms of a hairy walrus with a gambling addiction!’ I say with the last thread of voice remaining.
‘I’d rather have put it off,’ he interrupts, as though he hasn’t heard a word of what I just said. ‘All in all I’d asked for it, I said to myself, so I dropped the subject…’ he continues, keeping his eyes fixed on mine and with his forefinger raised.
‘And you call this “dropping it”?’
‘So I dropped it,’ he repeats, this time in a voice so harsh that it shuts me up completely. I sit there, silently watching him, my cheeks burning and a guilty expression on my face. ‘Basically it wasn’t anything that offensive and, after all, it helped underline how totally taken by you I was. But now, here you are deliberately ridiculing my manhood. I appreciate that my attitude might seem like some retrograde alpha-male nonsense, b
ut I loathe it when you call my masculinity into question.’
‘Could we continue this conversation after restoring the usual safe distance?’ I propose, as I try to move him away from me.
He lets me push him back a few inches, then stops and whispers to me, ‘Do you realize that now you’re forcing me to prove you wrong?’ Lights flash in his amused gaze.
I silently thank God that I’m not a cuttlefish for reasons that I don’t think it is appropriate to explain in the current situation.
‘There’s no need. You know what? Let’s put it like this: after a troubled night, I realized the error of my ways and I came back in tears to beg your forgiveness, having realized that my lack of fidelity was the sole cause of your momentary dysfunction. Your honour is saved!’ I croak, hoping that will placate him.
‘Do you really think you’re going to get away with it that easily?’
He settles next to me with his arms crossed and an expression simply brimming over with off-colour puns. For a moment – one stupid bloody moment – I stop looking at the make-up bag as though the fate of the universe depended on it, wondering what the heck he is up to. Well, I’d have done better to keep on counting the flecks of glitter on the blusher because I find that he’s gazing intently at my lips, and it sends me into a full-on tailspin.
‘You’re not thinking of…?’
‘I don’t know, what do you think?’
‘Thomas…’ I whisper, trying to ignore the fact that he’s edging towards me.
‘Sandy…’ he whispers back.
Surrendering to the inevitable, I close my eyes and moan, ‘Please, Lord, put an end to my suffering: kill me now!’
He listens, but nothing happens. ‘Hmm… he must be busy.’
‘OK, you’ve had your fun. But enough’s enough!’
‘Why, what are you going to do about it? Are you going to leave?’ and he takes my chin between his fingers.
I’m not even breathing. I can just about manage to close my eyes and wrinkle my nose, preparing for my doom. I wait. Nothing happens. I open my eyes and, of all the possible reactions, the one that I least expect is the one that greets me: he bursts out laughing, unable to help himself. This effect on me is like a cold shower, and it leaves me somewhere between uncontrollable rage and a violent desire to fall off the face of the Earth.
‘You thought I was going to kiss you? Really?’ he asks incredulously.
‘You idiot!’ I blurt out before I know it.
‘You should have seen your face.’
Just look at him – he’s almost in tears.
‘I can imagine!’ I snap, on the verge of a nervous breakdown. ‘Did you really think I couldn’t wait to throw myself into your arms?’
Slowly he manages to catch his breath.
‘But you didn’t try and stop me, did you,’ he notes with a sly smile, when he finally decides to break the oppressive silence in the car.
‘You’ve gone too far this time,’ I say icily, and grab hold of the door handle. ‘I’m leaving!’
‘What?’ he asks quietly. ‘You’re giving up that easily? Don’t you want to see the surprise?’ he says, glancing towards the closed gate in front of the car.
‘Thomas, fu—’
‘Ah ah ah!’ he stops me, in a pedantic tone, ‘A countess to be doesn’t use bad language.’
‘I think I’m going to faint,’ I say, collapsing onto the seat.
‘Before fainting, though, could you tell me what your intentions are? Am I single again?’
‘Forget it!’
‘Are you sure?’ he says, thoughtfully. ‘You look exhausted…’
‘Thomas, start the car and let’s get going!’ I scream in his ear.
‘OK, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. You’re in for a tough week,’ he promises as he concentrates on getting us out of the driveway.
‘What the hell do you mean, “week”?!’
Chapter 23
We’ve been in the car for almost twenty minutes. We’ve left Canterbury and we’re heading towards the coast. From the road signs, I infer that our destination is Dover, which is less than a quarter of an hour away.
Despite not having said another word, Thomas continues to be annoying. He seems particularly fascinated by the news on the radio and, if there is one thing I can’t stand, it’s the news on the radio. I hate the newsreaders. They all sound so conceited and smug. The news is always upsetting, and there are so many ridiculous adverts, accompanied by jingles that would make even the average listener in the eighties cringe. The worst thing is that the news doesn’t seem to be enough for him. Oh, no – we also have to put up with call-ins about current affairs and dozens of anonymous callers who all seem convinced they have the gift of omniscience.
My brain hurts.
What’s more, my presence doesn’t seem to bother him. Our altercations leave him totally indifferent. He’s relaxed, driving with the window down and his eyes fixed on the road. He seems to have forgotten that I’m even there, just to his left. I can’t stand him!
‘No woman no cry…’
‘Why’d you turn over?’ he asks in astonishment.
‘Because I’m irritable and bossy,’ I say, and the answer seems to satisfy him, given that he continues driving without asking further questions.
Ten minutes later we enter the city. He turns on the navigation system and a metallic voice guides us to the port.
‘Is there any chance you could actually tell me where we’re going?’ I ask impatiently.
‘Not yet,’ he says in a distracted voice while he concentrates on the narrow road.
We follow the signs and find ourselves in a spacious parking area, a short walk from the pier. As we get out of the car we are drenched in the sunlight of a beautiful late morning in late July. Around us there is a crowd of restless people, along with a disgusting smell of pancakes, coming from a kiosk a few steps from the pavement.
Looking about me, I walk round to the boot. I’ve never been to Dover before. The view from here is not all that great, unless you’re crazy about concrete and the smell of rotten fish, but I’ve heard that the city is really pretty, and, if I remember right, there should be a pretty famous castle somewhere.
‘Give me that,’ I mutter absently, holding out my hand towards Thomas, who in the meantime is busying himself with our suitcases.
‘Are you kidding?’ he says, furrowing his brow.
‘No,’ I confirm, again raising my arm to make him understand that I have no intention of giving up.
‘This is one of those incomprehensible feminist moments where you ask me not to be polite because it clashes with your concept of emancipation and then spend the rest of your life giving me a hard time about it because I irremediably offended your female sensibilities?’
‘Actually, I just thought you wouldn’t want to carry my bags,’ I admit laconically.
‘What kind of people have you spent your life hanging around with?’ he asks, making it sound more like a statement than a question.
I wish I could deny it, but part of me actually thinks he’s summed up my emotional situation pretty accurately.
We get to the crowded quay, pass a group of people intent on piling heavy boxes next to a van and take a wander among the many boats anchored between the salt-encrusted balustrades.
‘Careful. It’s slippery,’ he murmurs with an unusually thoughtful tone.
‘Are we nearly there?’ I ask, when we get to the middle of the dock.
‘Yes, we’re almost there,’ he says, checking the names of the yachts anchored in line. I look too, but I don’t notice anything except the obvious bad taste of their owners. The boats are incredibly huge, and topped with pools of all shapes and sizes, sofas, water slides, and on one they’ve even planted palm trees – really!
Suddenly, a horrifying thought hits me like a truck: seen from the outside, we probably look a couple of sweethearts on vacation. And an even more horrible idea follows the first: we are a couple of s
weethearts on vacation!
I can’t breathe.
‘There she is,’ he says, heading towards a metal ladder on a yacht at least two hundred feet in length and as white as the driven snow. Attempting to hide the agitation I feel, I walk over to him and study the boat below, seeking refuge from the sun behind my hand.
‘Meet the Othello,’ he says with satisfaction. ‘What do you think?’
‘Nice little boat,’ I reply unenthusiastically. ‘Now what do we do?’
‘What a silly question – we get on board, ‘ he says, moving towards the handrail.
‘Are you kidding?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Why should we get on a yacht?’ I ask him.
‘I told you that I wanted to make it up to you, right? Well, I thought it over and I decided to book the Othello, so we can spend a romantic week being lulled by the waves, drinking champagne and enjoying the magnificent natural beauty of the Irish coast.’
‘You brought me to Dover to put me on a boat and drag me off onto the open seas with only you for company for the next sevendays?’ I yell at him, completely beside myself.
‘Surprise!’ he exclaims with a radiant smile, opening his arms.
‘Mr. Clark, welcome!’ the voice of a middle-aged man leaning over the balustrade greets us.
‘Who’s that?’ I whisper, pointing.
‘Thanks very much,’ he replies, cheerfully, to the man. ‘Have you been waiting long?’ Then he turns back to me and whispers, ‘Come on, say hello to Captain Foster, don’t be rude.’
‘Who is Captain Foster?’ I repeat, refusing to get on board.
‘Erm, the captain?’
‘That means he will be with us?’
‘Of course – I don’t have a skippering license.’
‘So it’ll be you, me and Captain Foster?’
‘Apparently there’ll also be a couple of waiters, a cook and three sailors.’
‘And where are we going to put all these people?’
‘Relax!’ he says, amused by my agitation.
‘They’ll only be on board while we sail. Whenever we anchor, they’ll leave the yacht.’
‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better?’
