Dare to Love (18 page)

‘If that’s what you can give me, I’m happy for it.’

‘I just need to let my friend know.’

I go to Grant and tell him my friend is having some real problems with his business and I’ve offered to help him with some advice over the next two hours. Can he be around till then or does he have something else planned? He leans his head to one side. A fleeting look of incredulity crosses his face before he drawls, ‘Yeah, I guess I’ll wait.’

‘Thanks,’ I breathe out and run back to Karl. I feel like Lucy Honeychurch in
A Room with a View,
who lies and lies and lies.

Karl suggests going to get breakfast at a little place he knows that won’t mind us being a bit sweaty. I rinse my feet under the tap by the changing area, put my trainers back on and leave Grant on the beach.

‘So how are things really?’ Karl asks when we’ve got our toast, eggs and drinks.

‘Like I said, some ups some downs.’

‘Something come up you didn’t know about before?’

‘What makes you ask that?’

‘Like you said, I’ve been at this longer than you. Problems so soon in a marriage, has to be something like that.’

I continue chewing to avoid answering. He sees this and carries on.

He’s got marriage woes of his own, only he seems resigned to them, doesn’t seem to have the energy to do anything that would upset things too much, doesn’t want to have to deal with the fall out. When a boil bubbles up, he brings out another sticking plaster. If his marriage was a body there probably wouldn’t be a single part of it not covered by a plaster. Financial imprudence, disagreements over how to raise the children, where to live, what work to do, how to socialise, infidelity.

A boil comes up and instead of lancing it he reaches for a plaster and, like all plasters, they fall off from time to time, the pus seeps out. Another plaster. His marriage is rotting from the inside but the outside looks fine. What’s painful is that he knows this, but is too battered from years of foraging for plasters to marshal the will to go into the full scale battle it would take to clean up the mess; and walking away doesn’t seem to be an option.

As much as I like Karl, I recognise that suffering is his badge of honour. By his demeanour he insinuates that there isn’t anything so big that a plaster can’t be found. I don’t tell him that I’d need a bandage and the body would look like a mummy. This one can’t be covered. He’s sweet, he’s dear, he’s thinner, but he’s not happy.

Someone’s joined Grant at the table. As I draw closer I see he’s deep in conversation with a middle aged man, clean shaved head, deep cut features. His nose in profile has a slight hook. The kind of face you imagine fitting well in a line up of convicts. He’s got beige skin and beige clothes, a sharp contrast to Grant’s dark skin and black shorts.

He looks up as I reach the table. The smile on his lips doesn’t make it to his eyes as he introduces me.

‘Sammy, this is my friend Josi, she visiting from England. Josi, Sammy.’

Sammy holds out his soft buttery hand and I shake it. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he says in an unnatural sugary voice as he looks me up and down. As they both remain seated and no invitation is offered for me to join them, I ask Grant, ‘Are you still OK for later?’

‘Yeah sure,’ he says flatly, ‘do you want me to pick you up?’

I nod. ‘See you later. Nice to meet you Sammy.’

I turn and walk across the sand to the road, conscious of two pairs of eyes on my back.

I shower and choose my clothes carefully. Short cream skirt which is at home on my hips, grey and cream stripy vest which show off my arms a treat, grey belt threaded through the loops of the skirt and cream sandals. Hair pulled back loosely with a cream chiffon scarf.

He arrives on time and appraises me from head to toe and back again, like it’s the first time he’s seeing me today. He smiles a long slow smile as I get in beside him, and equally slowly lets his head rest on my forehead and his lips on mine. I feel prickly heat. He makes no attempt to touch me in any other way for a while, then gently parts my lips with his tongue. A small moan escapes from my lips. As though satisfied with that, he sits back in his seat and smiles.

‘What do you want to do?’

‘Just be with you,’ my head says but my lips say, ‘Can we have lunch at St Lawrence Gap?’

‘Sure, anywhere in particular?’

‘Somewhere that does snacks. I’m not very hungry but I do need to eat.’

As he drives, I use the time to take him in. He’s a ball of sunshine in an orange polo shirt and green, blue and orange plaid shorts. He always appears so calm. I know he wasn’t happy with the scene on the beach this morning but there’s no sign of any annoyance. Either he’s very quick at forgiving or he goes to the same plaster shop as Karl.

As he drives, I wonder what it is I’m to be careful of. Maybe Carlisle thinks he hasn’t told me about his girlfriend. Did Carlisle see us on the beach yesterday? Did he
have binoculars on us in the sea? Does he think a married woman would not be with Grant if she knew he’s got a g
irlfriend?

We walk past rows of bars and restaurants till we find one where the salads and fruit look particularly inviting. We order a salad, sandwiches, Hennessey and coke and water.

‘How’s your friend?’ he asks as we wait for our order. ‘Did you sort him out?’ It’s a light hearted query but I sense an undercurrent of tension in his voice.

‘No, not really. He’s got the same issues since last time. I don’t think he’s looking for a solution though. Think he just wants someone to moan to.’

‘So he book an early appointment with you, eh?’

‘Oh no, he just turned up this morning, said he had a hunch I’d be on the beach.’

‘So its first come first served with you?’

I don’t like the tone of this. What’s he insinuating? ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Oh nothing.’ He tries to wave it away.

‘No. What do you mean?’ If he has something to say, let him say it. I’m not playing guessing games. I realise I’m leaning forward, arms folded on the table in what Richard calls my confrontation position. I sit back and lower my shoulders.

‘Just…’ he begins, like he’s choosing each word carefully, ‘that… he… just… turned up… and you choose to spend time with him… even though I told you I’d see you today.’

I wait to make sure he’s finished.

‘You told me you would call me last night. That’s what you said you were going to do. If there’s one thing I hate it’s unreliability, especially when it comes to people calling me or turning up on time for an appointment. I hate watching the phone wondering if it’s going to ring. Hate the fact that someone could think so little of me that they can’t even remember or take the trouble to phone me, or even text to say they can’t talk. Not even a text and you have the nerve to ask me if it’s first come first served, like I’m some kind of prostitute.’

The waiter brings the food just as I finish. I wonder what he heard. I hope it wasn’t just ‘I’m some kind of prostitute’. If he did, he doesn’t show it. He lays our order in front of us and stays for a brief chat when he hears my English accent. When he’s gone I lean close to Grant and whisper, ‘Why do they always think I’ll know their friends and relatives. Don’t they realise how big England is? You’d think he’d know better, wouldn’t you, especially as he’s been there himself.’

He laughs with me, which breaks the ice, and I ask him to tell me about Guyana. I’m ashamed to admit that I know so little about his homeland.

‘What do you want to know? I could talk all day about Guyana.’

‘Everything. How big is it, what are the beaches like, how many people, where in Guyana are you from? Does it grow sugar cane like here? Why does my friend call you GT man?’

‘Well for a start.’ He bites into his sandwich. Pauses. We both laugh. We’re in sync again. ‘You can fit the whole of the Caribbean in Guyana.’ I listen intently as he tells me of its status as an international conservation nature habitat because so many species not found elsewhere live there; about its forests and swamps, its sea walls and rocky beaches because most of Guyana is below sea level. He talks about its political instability and why so many of its bright young people leave as soon as they gain a qualification, why Guyanese nationals are scattered throughout the Caribbean and leave in droves to the US and Canada.

He’s completely animated, his hands weaving magic spells that keep me entranced, his eyes look past me often to a place only he can see, but which he brings alive for me. There’s passion in his voice, love in his heart for a place he too has left. He talks about the family he’s left behind and about needing to go back soon, his visit being long overdue. There’s just a shadow of sadness as he talks about the two children he has there, and an ex-wife. It’s gone as quickly as a wisp of mist disappears. I could watch him all day.

‘And GT?’

‘Oh,’ he laughs. ‘Georgetown’s the capital. So we all GT men.’

He drains the last of his Hennessey and looks me full in the face. ‘What do you want to do now?’ I’m still caught up in watching him and can’t think what I want to do. He offers suggestions. ‘Do you want to stay round here? Go to the beach? Have another drink? Go for a drive?’

‘I don’t really want to do anything much,’ I finally find my voice. ‘St Lawrence beach is a little busy for me but if you know somewhere quiet…’

‘Come.’ He holds out his hand to me and pulls me up as I take it. A tremor goes through me as we connect. ‘I know the perfect place.’

It’s a five minute drive to Dover Beach. One of the things I love about Barbados is its little surprises. Just off a busy main road is tucked an instant retreat. A wide grass verge on which is dotted a few picnic benches. The grass looks freshly cut and rolls down into a slope. Large trees provide shade for any would be lingerers. I want to be one of those lingerers.

‘This is lovely!’ I exclaim as we step out of the car. ‘But where’s the beach?’

‘Through there.’ He points to a gap in the trees and the hedges shaped like an arch. I can hear the swishing waves but can’t see the water.

‘Can we stay here for a while? It’s so peaceful.’

Apart from us there’s just one man sitting at one of the tables eating what looks like a late lunch. We sit on one of the other tables in the shade some distance away from him, bare arms and legs touching, electricity crackling.

‘Do you want to lie on the grass?’ he asks. I feel like a teenager on a park date.

‘I don’t like creepy crawlies,’ I shudder.

It takes him a second to work out what I mean. ‘I have mats in the car,’ he offers.

‘OK. I’m OK with mats.’

I watch his languid walk back to the car, his easy movements as he scoops up two shiny windshields and lays them on the grass. We lay on our backs looking up at the sun, holding hands like lovers. In the silence I hear trickling water, distinctly different from the rush and roar of the waves.

‘A river! You never said there was a river!’ This reminds me of an English park. The tall trees casting shade on the grass, the benches, the gentle tinkle of water flowing over rocks, the calm quiet air. But for the heat and foliage, we could be in a park in Surrey or Dorset or Derbyshire.

‘This is beautiful.’

‘It’s a place for lovers,’ he says, propping himself up on one elbow and looking down at me.

‘Do you bring all your women here?’ I tease with more than a hint of curiosity.

‘Don’t have that many to bring,’ he smiles. ‘And I told you, I’ve only just found it.

I want to believe him, to feel unique, special. His eyes are dark and inviting. He bends his foot at the knee, wraps it around me, pulls me in close with his free arm and kisses me. No soft gentle touching of lips. His tongue is suddenly large in my mouth, pushing to the back of my throat. I gasp, partly because of his unexpected force and partly because of my body’s instant reaction.

‘Baby, I want you,’ he mutters, as he slides my hand to his crotch, ‘can you feel how much I want you?’

‘I want you too,’ I whisper, pressing my palm hard against his bulge.

‘You do?’ he sounds surprised.

‘Can’t you tell?’ I mock.

‘You change you mind!’ He sounds eager, pleased. ‘How come?’

‘It’s a long story.’ I’m not ready to share with him the long battle I’ve had with my conscience. Finding answers to the questions it threw at me. What if he thinks you’re cheap? What if he doesn’t call after you have sex with him? What if he’s a blabbermouth? What will I tell Celia? What will I tell Richard? How can I betray Richard like this? What about HIV? And the fight I’ve had with my body that asked slightly fewer questions. What if you can’t sort it out with Richard? What if you’re as good with Grant as you think you’ll be? Why are you denying yourself this?

He pulls me to lay on top of him and wrap his arms around my back. I feel his heart beating fast, he’s hard against my mound. I wonder if he can feel my heart racing. I wonder again about his boldness, but he’s about to get a whole lot bolder.

‘Do you want to just slip it in?’ he says next to my ear.

‘What?’ Did I hear him right?

‘Go on. You could just slip it in.’

I pull back, prop myself up on one elbow to look into his face.