Inside, she closes the screen and assumes this does not seem dramatic or unreasonable. Who wouldn’t close their screen on the multiplicity of biting things out there? And most especially because she’s about to put on her bedside lamp.
But now she’d like to be busy in her body so has another drink. She’d like to reaffirm the plan so goes to the sink in the bathroom through the high-smelling air and rubs the remnants of make-up from her face. She thinks of the whiteness beneath as an absence of face. She knows this isn’t true, of course, and excoriates herself for such drab submission to the inglorious work of the world. But when it suits her, it suits her to use it too. Besides, she feels that war can never be won. No. She doesn’t feel that at all and that feelings are just fish to be fried. Rather she thinks, to keep herself in, she will decide to think: I could not turn myself on anyone looking like this. Again, she knows that’s a lie – in the gripping moment no one’s primary concern is eyeliner. So, resorting to an illogic that makes reasoned argument mute, she now says to herself: I haven’t gone bare-eyed for years. But what about the life before those years? Well, that was some time ago.
Further, push further. What’s as effective as self-disdain? Make-up first, now the strappings. Whittle those illusions away.
Time to take her bra off and fake relief from its dig – although the bands of red, where flesh fights the expectation of it, are surely real enough. She will not say she’s no model, despite the plan, and bridles at the assumption she should honestly find this a cause for regret. If asked, she would say she is a person, a woman, and this body is the only one she’s got. Thirty-five years of using and inhabiting it. Still going strong despite the life she’s lived and sadly, and regretfully, she’s known more than one who cannot say as much. She experiences no sense of triumph in this – possessing enough longevity to have made it into mid-life. She just thinks: leave me alone. She goes, instead, to the bedside table. She kills the bottle of wine. She puts a reasonably clean T-shirt on. She considers going outside again. Then hears several voices somewhere in the corridor beyond. It’s an echo box clearly, so if they’re going-to or coming-from, she cannot really tell. Conspiratorial, she thinks, happy-sounding? Her inadequate French means she cannot be sure. It forms a suspension though, makes her swallow slow. When she was young, she was mad for a group too, down the pub, summer Fridays, tapering off to chips. Her place on the periphery was rarely in doubt but she loved it all the same. The jokes of others. The stories made in her head about what transformations occurred simply by being present. What future awaited and what sophistications would grow out of herself once that future had come. She’d expected it to be opened and entered – like it would all be as simple as that. She is not sorry though, or thinks her innocence a fool, or forgets how innocence can create its own type of cruel or forgets that knowing and innocence can rub along quite happily for a while side by side. She decides to smile at this because she knows innocence never does win. Besides which, the past cannot be unpicked even if she possessed any eagerness for it and she really does not. She has almost always been a woman kneeling at the altar of ‘And then?’ ‘And next?’ A shuffle in the corridor a few doors down now. Theirs. So, they were going in. However many. For whatever reason. Some music starts up. Well, the bass anyway. Unusually she doesn’t become irate at the invasion of her inner ear. Sentiment must be at work somewhere, unfortunately. The seep of alcohol and sense migrates to the days and life after life in the group finished, the life of moving on to only one. The one and only, as she’d thought of him. Don’t. Don’t think of that. Too late. She already has. And remembered how she’d welcomed it, the construction of complex circles of her own. Their. Their circles. Spun and spun. She’d banked on them lasting a lifetime but they had managed only some. They’d managed enough though that she’s unlikely to forget and has not. It’s the reason she regulates her orbit at an angle to all that. Pleasanter on the eyes, and life. Christ! These walls must be paper thin. Come on. In the morning she thinks she’ll probably eat a few croissants. Come on. Will she have jam? Yes, that’s right. She might well have them with jam, if they have it … will they? She’ll have to wait, with bated breath, to see. Right now, she decides on more wine.
Now there’s a snap in her celery, a spring in her step. She’s passed through the mawkishness to where the sugar is going great guns in her blood. She does not think she can get very drunk. A plateau has somehow been reached. Yet, she drinks some water, to pace herself. A nod to the plan she is still in possession of. One more cigarette then she’ll head for bed and everything’s worked out fine! She knew it would. A little self-restraint but not punitive amounts. And this cork slides out so easily now. It could almost be a sign. She doesn’t believe in signs. She pours very carefully, to proclaim her sobriety intact. The result is the very same.
Out.
Outside the sky’s a horror of fight and bruise. Velour black, pumped with racket, gored by orange. She lets the heat, though, tempt her in. Less blast oven to it now and more ember, although questions about what’s burnt there remain. No. Do not remain. Have been dealt with by the plan. A plan without a B. Simple to follow. In each circumstance recollectable. As she does even now, and despite the sound of the gritty slide open of next door. These doors could fall forward, it feels like. Or like they may already have done and been slotted back in until the next fall-out. Engineering has never been a preoccupation but they do seem to wobble and hotels … you know … However, with nothing to be done about that, she lights her cigarette up and, escaping the tedium of contemplation, settles into the centre of the world.
Hello.
Good evening.
How are you?
I’m fine.
She knows that his glance and her body combine. She has been here before so there’s no meeting of minds she would less willingly pretend to pursue. Indifferent to this, he lights up too, as she knew he would, ushering in the beginnings of dance and excuse. Both expected and clung onto until the very last. She knows how quickly the time can pass between too soon and too late. She has the plan but appreciates he knows nothing of that. ‘And you?’ She can’t help it or liking the dance. It’s the lift she can’t resist, secure in the knowledge the plan sits in place to avoid any trouble produced. So, she looks through the gap right into his face. Smiles into the smile she knows awaits. There, seen. And seen. Bodies usually go to where this look leads but she takes all the time of it she wants. She can tell he’s practically there, doing the maths of her and where. His other smile. His body shifts. He pretends to be searching out his English. She guesses he doesn’t have to look hard. It’s just a few seconds in which to hide stepping forward. That’s a honed skill but no less enjoyable for it. There’s pleasure in knowing she’s read it right – she could, and she sees that. A lick of hormone. She’d like to. She’s fairly certain she’d enjoy it too, until no one wakes in her ear. How has she gotten this close? Why did she come out here? It just could be nice – nothing hefty, without risk and so hived off from everything else as to almost not exist at all. No one doesn’t buy this excuse. No one knows her too well and that she doesn’t give a toss for nice, not really, because no one’s head is screwed on. ‘May I join you?’ rings through the gap. No one follows her eyes, then reminds her sharply: What you did once, in this room – or one so like it as to be virtually the same – this would not be that. And that … is not the plan. That, in fact, is the why of the plan and you shouldn’t have to be told.
So, no, to him.
Yes, to herself – if this were an advert for some kind of self-help.
Bloody no one. Is there no escape?
Actually, I was just going in but … have a nice evening.
What a pity but … you too.
This, despite the expectancy in how he still waits. She finishes up her cigarette, snuffs it out in the grey sand beneath, curatorially nods her goodnight, then rises and steps back indoors. No one, it seems, is capable – and from wherever she stands – of getting any
one ignored. Further to this, no one ensures, once she’s inside, that she lets the inner door slide. Shut. Tight. That she locks it loudly. That she makes of it a point of pride to do this without apology. Because, no one reminds her, she isn’t sorry, not really. She has nothing to apologise for. But, just beyond no one’s reach, she thinks … well …
No.
The stink of bathroom floor. The smallness of her case. All the hours of getting here and … and …
… now the room seems even browner than before. That’s the difficulty; plans sabotage odd stealths of enjoyment, inevitably. No matter. No matter. She says it again. She retains her privacy, self-possession, and a nearly full bottle of wine. Fill the space. Flood the mind. She’d like a radio, or music, anything to barrow the assembling muddle from her head. No such option appears to exist. So, dusty barefooted, she permits herself to rumple the sheets, fill her glass to the brim and lay her head on the beige patterned pillow, down. From dimensions beyond the breeze blocks, lights throw shadows above. A paradise of birds? Of bars? She’s too tired to decipher of what. Her tongue cleaves a swallow of wine to her palate, then lets it trickle down too. In a while it will become her. She’s now patiently awaiting that time.
And it comes. Into itself. As it always will. Her eyes inch back to the glass and, suddenly, she is …
Roll. There is no one to see you roll and roll right off the bed. As your arches roll across the mock parquet. As your knees do not exist. As your shoulders open like you have wings. As your brain starts to lead from the back. As your body notices space is a trick. As your fingers wrap around the remote. Turn it on. TV. Zapped into light. Whither now? Abroad, to French television tonight. The dark. And hotel rooms alone. Everyone knows what that means.
Primarily pinkly personnelled pornography. Popularly, perseveringly and – periodically perceivably painfully – protractedly pursuing previously private perspectives of perfectly pumped penii practically pummelling professionally pruned pudenda and precisely depilated, pucely pert or – more pedantically – patently pedestrian posteriors alike. Period – as in Full Stop, and not of the bleeding kind.
You are not American, and this is stupid.
But.
Principles carry no precedence here.
But.
Phraseology is not the priority.
But.
Punctuation is in no way the point.
But.
But what?
I like what I see.
And as it goes into her, ideas resurrect of next door. Other outcomes could still be available to her. She knows, were she yet keen to try, it wouldn’t be too late to change her mind. She probably won’t though. She’ll be better off sticking to whatever her addle recalls of the rapidly fragmenting plan. Certainly, she retains wit enough to recognise the better of bad worlds is this. And actually – now no one’s done chewing her ear – does the impetus exist any longer? Hard to know. Almost nothing does. Behind, behind the eyes. Too late now, too late will be the cry. Alas, the moment has arrived to succumb to her descent. She’d badly rather call it her descant but, even in this state, she remembers she cannot sing.
Slip then.
Slip right down.
Then she feels it in the parts of herself where feeling still exists. And she likes the sensation, plus the simple filth, unhinderedly being at one with it. Unbolted in her body and seceding from thought. Patterns hint that by morning her position may have altered but tonight, she can live like this. Will. So, my hand does the strange familiar until my eyes have grown tired of the screen. The encroach of boredom never takes long but its accelerant, the participatory loss of the mind, remains the best absence of all. Even buckling forward into its end, I do not spill my wine. Have. Have it. Lose it a little. Lose it entirely. Gone. A moment. A moment. Now, quickly sequester my sprawl. Limbs. Knickers. Put the glass safely down. Set a match to inklings of thinking about … but then go to sleep. And not the sleep of the just. Nor the sleep of dreams. Where the brain lies undiscerning of everything, is that even sleep?
Sound.
Down.
Down.
Down.
Sleep.
Something.
Sound.
Noise.
Clamour.
Cacophony.
And so pervasive now, she opens her unwilling eyes. Is it inside her? No, outside her. It’s not of the mind. Then where? Outdoors? No, indoors. The sun is so bright. How come she’s so parched? Brown blinds up. Curtains wide. Yesterday’s T-shirt somehow grown tight. Sex audible everywhere.
Oh.
Eyes look. No. She can’t turn her head. Fingers look and, efficiently, find the remote. Down by her side. There on the bed. How does it work? Luckily there is an instinct and it navigates swiftly to OFF. The welcome silence also comes as a shock, as the escalating moans are arbitrarily shut up, forever unconsummated now. But that’s their own problem. It’s her ears’ reprieve – the cooling quiet in which she begins collecting herself. She’s here on her own, which makes the plan a success. By the sound of it, next door is now boiling his kettle. For tea or coffee? her re-forming brain idles. Tea or coffee? Oh.
She can hear his kettle boil, then pins dropping all over France.
Oh God oh God. Why is the night? The body yes but not much else left intact. Was that the plan? Why would that be the plan? Why would she ever make a plan like that?
She knows from precedent what comes next so sits up, electing to listen to life next door instead. And hears it. Clearly. He’s already up and apace. His shower-curtain rings clatter, clearly, open and shut. So clearly, in fact, she’s certain she could identify exactly which type they are. She doesn’t hear him sing in there but if he did, she would. Clearly. She hears the water flow, stop. She hears him step out and the towel snapped from the rail. Clearly. She imagines his waist. She can’t actually hear any coffee getting made – spoons, stirring – but, because of the kettle, thinks he probably does. What she next clearly hears is the metal strap of his watch, picked from the desk? Maybe? The side table perhaps? Hears it wrung round his wrist until its clasp clicks. Clearly. So clearly, she hears this, that the only room left within her for self-deceit now collapses completely in. There is no possibility, she admits, of her ‘entertainments’ having gone unheard, unless … Unless? Why bother herself? Too late, too late is already the cry. Ear plugs or earphones or Valium or what? Dance and excuse. Why did she choose the latter last night? The hard end, the steep side, the long way round. How do so many others never get this wrong? Why do so many others see these problems a mile off and so go a mile out of their way? She is tired. No. Avoiding the truth. No. She’s just been here before. In this place, which she’s now ruined. Only once. Not in ages. Not in years. It amounts almost to nothing, those twelve, thirteen hours but. But. But. But. They never will return again. And from here she can see right back to here, but then. To the way he swore at the tyre. To the grease under his nails. How they had found it in the middle of some very weird rain. ‘Birds of paradise?’ he’d suggested when she’d racked for the plant’s name. ‘This place is so grim,’ he’d said, after he’d ordered some wine, and she’d said, ‘It’ll be fine.’ ‘Oh yeah,’ he’d said, ‘it’ll be fine.’ Which, in fact, it was. All of it was. And far more than that.
Next door zips his case up and she is recalled. To head hanging, hand wringing, the whole medley of awful. It’s too soon to reframe last night as a blank but she’ll try to just as soon as she can. Because that is the plan. That is now the plan. But in the mode of confession, and given all that has passed, can she truly say coming round on his side of the wall would have been so much worse? If she’s being honest, and she thinks she is. Maybe though she’s not ready to think. Just leave it for now, knowing there’ll be an assessment, in due course, some other time. In this moment there is only spectacular shame. Blah blah. I’ve come to talk to you again. Etc. Etc. Ad infinitum, and beyond. France has won the match.
She hears his door open, then clo
se. Turn of a key, old-fashioned key, in its lock. She follows the tread of his footfalls right up the corridor, with its strange frame of light and its microphone logic, until expensive shoes strike the tiles of the foyer floor. Then stop. At the desk? His just about audible salutation receives a conspiratorial ‘Salut’. She recognises the clerk’s voice and hears knowing in it. He knows. He heard. Everyone did. Then even her poor French makes out a question about breakfast. Where they serve it, she thinks and Oh God.
Oh God. Breakfast.
Has she paid for that, or not? Inevitably she’s suddenly empty. She is completely starving. She won’t leave this room though. She absolutely cannot. The merest glance across the breakfast room would eviscerate her now. But can she bear to call for room service? Or is that just, not yet? She checks her watch. She checks herself. She thinks there’s still time to decide.
Orford x
Manchester x
Edinburgh x
Dublin
Dingle
Liverpool x
Bristol
Dublin
Galway
Sydney x
Strange Hotel Page 2
