Dancing in the Dark (19 page)

‘You should tell your wife that there's a lot of money in gardening these days. Television's made it very popular.'

‘You mean she could end up on one of them programmes?'

‘Why not? She's got the looks for it, and the confidence. A lot more than I ever had.'

‘Hmmm.' I can see him considering it, thinking that maybe gardening could prove as good a bet as hairdressing, if not better, at the very least be something to use on his wife.

‘Does she come home for lunch?' I ask.

‘Pops across the road from the salon, usually, grabs a sandwich or something.'

‘I'd like to have a word with her.' I stand up. ‘What's the name of the place she's working?'

‘Lucille's.' He gives me directions.

She's inside, sweeping the floor. It's a week since I last saw her and she looks unhappy and defeated. I'm deeply ashamed of myself. Sins of omission; I should have come to see her before this. When I open the door, she looks up and her face grows stony; she hunches her shoulder, starts sweeping again.

‘Have you got a minute, Trina?' I ask.

She leans on her broom. ‘What for?'

‘I want to talk to you.'

The woman who is obviously the owner of the place looks at me and then at Trina and once again at me. ‘Go on, then, darlin',' she says. ‘Almost your lunch-break, innit?'

Trina removes the PVC apron she's wearing and follows me across the road to a sandwich bar. I buy sandwiches and coffee for us both and bring them to the table she's sitting at.

‘How'd you know where I was, anyway?' she asks.

‘I went to your house and your father told me. He showed me your wonderful back garden.'

‘What do you want?' Her hair is now a defiant shade of green. Metal studs sprout like pustules on her face.

‘First, I want to apologize.'

She just looks at me.

‘Secondly, I want you to come back and work for me.
With
me.'

‘After what you said? Right out of order, that was.'

‘I know. I was rude, insensitive, unkind, mean, thoroughly—'

She lifts her cup and I can see she is trying not to smile. ‘No need to overdo it.'

‘I mean it, Trina. I should never have spoken to you the way I did. I can only say I've been going through a bad patch recently—'

‘I noticed.'

‘Still am, to a certain extent.' Never apologize, never explain, someone once said, and here I am, doing both.

‘You got no right to speak to me like that.'

‘That's why I'm here. Look, I really wish you'd come back.'

The look she gives me is inimical. She half turns away. ‘I don't think so.'

‘You've got huge talent, Trina. You're utterly wasted sweeping up other people's dead hair. You need to learn as much as you can from me, and then enrol on a horticultural course of some kind.'

‘My mum won't like it. And there's another thing . . .' She waves her left hand in front of my face and I see for the first time the small turquoise and diamond band on her fourth finger.

‘Oh, Trina . . .' I feel defeated. ‘Why?'

She gives the one-shouldered shrug I'm so familiar with, shutting me out. ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time.'

‘There are so many better ideas. Dozens of them.' Panic seizes. ‘Don't do it, Katrina. Don't get married just as a way of getting back at me, or turning your back on all the possibilities ahead of you.'

Maybe it's the use of her full name. For a long moment, she stares me without speaking. Tears fill her eyes. Then she reaches for a tissue from her bag, and I can see it's hopeless to try and persuade her back. A life wasted. And it's my fault. Theo the Destroyer.

‘You had so many plans,' I say feebly.

‘Yeah, well . . .' We both fall into silence. Around us is the clatter of tea cups, voices murmuring, the whirr of the microwave, the slam of fridge doors. Is it my imagination or can I hear the sound of dreams shattering?

Eventually she turns away from me, gets up and leaves without looking at me or speaking. I watch her cross the road, back to Lucille's, and the pain I feel is almost insupportable. I think of my mother's face in the gloom of a hotel dining room, the way I shouldered away from her, the hardness of my expression as she tried to hug me.

I have to face the fact that my self-indulgent anger has precipitated Trina's engagement, the probable waste of a talent. What hurts me most, though, as I get back into my car and drive away, is the fact that she doesn't seem any happier about it than I am.

A
seasoned traveller, Fergus guides us confidently through the journey. The flight to Corfu is free of snags, everything happens as it is supposed to; I don't have to worry about anything at all. It's a welcome change from most of my trips abroad. We take a taxi to the house that Fergus has borrowed from his university friend and are greeted by an ancient woman who establishes that her name is Maria by repeating the word several times and gesturing at her black-swathed bosom. She speaks rapidly in Greek, a language I don't know, Greece being one of the few countries where Luna never alighted. Luckily, Fergus seems to be fluent. The two of them chat away as Maria pulls open cupboards, demonstrates stoves, shows us where the spare canisters of Calor Gas are stored and how the washing machine works. Opening the big double refrigerator, she points at the contents and then at me. She pulls out a covered bowl and bats at her chest again, indicating that it's for me, that she made it herself. I smile and nod while Fergus murmurs gratitude.

She ushers us upstairs and flourishes at the view, the linen cupboard, the bathrooms. She leads us into what is obviously the master bedroom and makes gestures at the huge bed. Now is not the time to indicate that we won't be sharing it.

Downstairs, she shows us the garage where there's an old car, a motor-scooter, bikes. She mimes someone on a bicycle, arms pumping, legs stamping so vigorously I almost see the wind in her sparse grey hair. She points at Fergus, throws back her head and cackles, showing us brown teeth spaced haphazardly in her gums.

‘So, what do we think?' Fergus asks, when she has finally gone, walking away up the stony track towards the road above the house.

‘That we're very lucky indeed,' I say. ‘That your friend must be exceptionally nice to let us have this place.'

‘I'm in a state of total guilt. Ian's been incredibly generous, and I've been thinking the most uncharitable thoughts about him.'

‘Who is he?'

‘Some financial wizard I knew at university. A walking cliché. Always wanted to write the Great English Novel but instead took the easy glide into money-making, and ever since has felt that he betrayed his genius.'

‘He knows I'm here, does he?'

‘Yes, but I didn't mention your name.'

Contentment falls over me. From Fergus's description, I'd expected something between a castle in Spain and a piece of Hollywood schmaltz and it is undoubtedly very luxurious. Nonetheless, there's a comfortable feel about the place, as though it's a genuine home-from-home. Ancient straw hats hang from hooks on the wall of the kitchen, there are ashes in the hearth where the scent of olivewood still lingers. I can imagine Fergus's friend and his family walking in for the first time each year, stepping out of their stiff English selves, taking on the relaxed personae that people do when they're away from the pressure of daily living.

I choose a bedroom. It contains one four-poster bed, one capacious wardrobe of iron-hard black wood, and one upright chair. The walls are whitewashed, the windows small to keep out the heat, the floor is tiled and wonderfully cool under my feet. Below is a swimming pool, set in the midst of burgeoning greenery. I can hardly wait to get into it. Tomorrow I'll try the sea, but for today, chlorinated water will do. I change into a swimsuit and run downstairs and outside. Despite the little onshore breeze, the heat is almost tangible, like a bronze ceiling above my head, as physically present as the chairs round the pool or the ceramic pots trailing flowering plants.

Fergus is already there, standing on the edge of the pool and looking down at the flat water, green with beautiful handmade tiles. I can't help noticing (and no reason why I shouldn't since it's right there on display) that he has a good body, better than you'd imagine from the fully clothed version. There's a tattoo at the top of his left shoulder, looks like a toucan from where I'm standing. Why would anyone have a toucan on their shoulder? Perhaps it's a guy thing. Unaccountably, uncomfortably, I feel a flicker of desire. No – be honest, Theo – something more than a flicker. Something closer to a rush. It's been a long time since I was this close to a semi-naked man. A
gorgeous
semi-naked man. A man I . . . face it . . . really like.

‘Last one in gets to –' he starts and I'm in before he's finished the sentence with – ‘open the wine.' He leaps in after me, a boy's jump of splashes and spray, and comes clumsily after me. I've always been a good swimmer; he hasn't a hope of catching up.

It's moving towards dusk and birds are starting their twilight hymn to the coming night. A couple of swallows swoop across the water as I move smoothly from one end to the other and back again. On my tenth lap, I turn over and spread my limbs, floating like a starfish on the cool green surface as the still-warm sun beats down on me. I can feel stress sloughing off me and even though I know it can't last, it is nonetheless healing. Energy flows into me, and a desire to move onwards. I experience one of those now-and-again moments of almost orgasmic bliss, when everything combines into perfection, though as always, it only lasts a nanosecond. Then Fergus is thrusting out of the water beside me, his black hair clinging to his skull, his eyes reddened by the swimming-pool salts. He throws back his head to clear the hair from his face, scattering drops all over my warm body, and puts a cold hand on my stomach.

‘Bug off, Fergus,' I say lazily.

‘Come on, let's have a race,' he urges.

‘I'll race you tomorrow.'

‘Spoil sport.'

‘Horrid, aren't I?'

‘No,' he says softly, slipping away from me. ‘No, you're not.'

Showered, easy in a cotton sarong and a white top cropped enough to show off my flat stomach, I stand barefooted on the terrace outside the salon. Cypresses and olives spread away to the left. I can see the roofs of the little town below, the fizz of neon lights. Occasionally, on the wind, floats the parp-parp of car horns and the sound of brash tourist-tempting music. The moon is rising over the edge of the sea, a great cheesy disk, dog-eared at one edge as though a giant hand has turned down the rim.

Fergus speaks behind me. ‘Fancy a drink?' He is holding a tray, glasses, a bottle of wine.

‘Wonderful.'

We stretch out on the generously cushioned chaises. He's also prepared a plate of
mezetés
: olives and a crumbly white cheese, smoked octopus. ‘Maria said we must eat whatever's in the fridge.'

‘It's a real bonus that you can speak Greek,' I say.

‘I can't. Barely a word.'

‘Didn't sound like that to me at all. Nor, as far as I could tell, to Maria.'

‘Amazing what you can do with a classical education and a bit of Grecian gibbering.' He passes me a glass of wine. ‘Are you hungry? We can raid the fridge, or walk down the hill to the town.'

‘Let's think about that a bit later,' I say. ‘How's your book going, Fergus?'

‘It's coming along.' He sounds evasive. Shifty.

‘How far along?'

He shrugs. Busies himself with his wine glass. ‘I haven't sat down and counted the words, if that's what you mean.'

‘How long have you been working on this one?'

A long silence ensues. After a while, he says, ‘Are you really interested?'

‘I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't.'

‘Well . . .' More silence, then, ‘I've found this one more difficult to get into than I usually do.'

‘Why's that?'

‘Who knows. I've written a lot of it, and then junked it. It hasn't been coming out right. But . . . the ideas are all there, all flowing, even if it's at the speed of a glacier. Any time now I'll start putting the words down on paper.'

I can see that he is telling me something which matters a lot to him. I suspect he doesn't often talk about his working methods. He fiddles again with his glass. ‘Got any plans, now we're here?'

‘Whoa!' I say. ‘That nearly took my head off.'

‘What did?'

‘The speed with which you changed the subject. Anyway, since you ask, tomorrow, I'm going to do absolutely nothing except go down to the beach, swim, eat and read.' And try to overcome my demons. The memory of myself shouting at people who are in no position to shout back makes me hot with shame. ‘How about you?'

‘Pretty much the same. After that, I must work.'

We both sip our wine. He clears his throat. ‘Look, since, as you pointed out, although we are entirely independent, we are nonetheless together . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘This beach . . .'

‘What about it?'

‘Am I allowed to occupy it at the same time as you? If I showed up and you were there already, could I spread my towel near yours?' he asks humbly.

‘If you promise not to flick sand in my face.' I'm smiling. ‘Though . . .'

‘What?' he says, leaning forward to refill my glass. ‘You're staring at me.'

‘From what I read in the gutter press, you must be used to that.'

‘If you believe that . . .' He spreads his hands. ‘The occasional crazy bag-lady might try to catch my eye, but beautiful women gawping, drooling slightly as they do so, have so far been a little thin on the ground. Callypygian women even more so.'