Ordinary Miracles (33 page)

‘Rockall, Fastnet, Humber, German, Bight’ we sang as he
escorted me back to the front gates of Holo. We were singing
it to the tune of ‘Show Me the Way to Go Home’.

I’d missed my vegetarian supper so, after I’d said goodbye
t
o José, I stumbled up the pathway to the small stone chalet
I share with Susan.

‘I should have gone to Greece on a package holiday like Mum and Shirley Valentine,’ I thought. ‘At least that way I
might have got some sex.’

I’ve been thinking an awful lot about sex lately, especially
now that I’m abroad and not wearing so many clothes. Sex
has snuck up on me. It’s slinking through my celibacy like
a feral cat. It’s got a hungry-eyed determination to it now
that’s quite disturbing. It’s sitting on some high wall waiting
to pounce.

It’s strange, but I almost feel under some sort of obligation
to renew my acquaintance with sperm. Newly separated
women are supposed to do that on holiday, aren’t they?
Kick over the traces. Find themselves a toyboy – some exotic
hunk who wants to pleasure them in a superbly superficial,
uncomplicated way. It happens. I’ve heard about it. But it
won’t happen to me. I don’t know how to be uncomplicated.
Charlie understands that.

I really wish Charlie was here so we could talk – talk
like we used to before it got so complicated. I think we’d giggle a lot actually, and struggle desperately not to burst
into laughter at inappropriate moments. Not that Charlie
would be too cynical about all this. He’d probably think it was sweet in a way. Rather endearing. But not to be taken
too seriously. Like most things.

I wish I could be laid back, like him. I collect experi
ences like some people collect antiques – storing them, restoring them, polishing them – lugging them fearfully
to the emotional equivalent of the
Antiques Roadshow
for
valuation. ‘Your marriage? Ah now – it could make a good
trompe-l’oeil.
But see those flakes there? They’d need to be
varnished.’

‘Where have you been?’ Susan demanded that evening
as she came into our chalet. She’d been at an impromptu
flamenco dancing session in the courtyard.

‘I’ve got to get away from here, Susan,’ I replied. ‘There’s
just too much pressure to be authentic. I don’t want to be
authentic. I want to be a fake. I know how to do that – I’ve
been trained.’

Susan smiled at me.

‘You’re not taking me seriously, Susan!’ My voice rose in
desperation. ‘I’ve got to escape for a while.’

Susan continued to calmly unfold her cotton night-dress.
Then she lit her aromatherapy burner which she uses to deter
mosquitoes.

‘This is hardly Alcatraz. You’re dramatising things again,
Jasmine,’ she said sharply. ‘Stop it.’

Her ‘Loving and Letting Go – Finding the Harmony Within’ workshop has made her a bit irritable. In fact Susan is often irritable these days. I’m not sure I like her
any more.

‘Have you seen my sex?’ I demanded.

‘Your what?’

‘My socks – the blue cotton ones.’

‘You didn’t say socks, Jasmine. You said sex.’ Susan was smirking knowledgeably.

‘Of course I didn’t. Why on earth would I say that?’ I protested, with as much conviction as I could muster.

‘Yes you did, Jasmine. I heard you say sex quite clearly.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you what you shouted last night in your
sleep,’ I countered. ‘You shouted “Josh!” Who is Josh? I’ve
never heard of him.’

The still night heat seemed to be making both of us more and more direct. We just didn’t have the energy for
obliqueness.

‘Josh is a man I loved once,’ Susan flung the words at
me while tossing off her flip-flops. Then she started to slap a
ftersun onto her arms.

‘It seems to me you still love him. You should be sharing
this chalet with him instead of me.’

‘I can’t share this chalet with him,’ Susan snapped.

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’s married.’

This silenced me for some time. I watched Susan as if she
were a stranger. I studied her cautiously as she scrubbed
moisturiser into her face and shook sand off her towel.
She performed these small tasks in an abrupt, almost harsh
manner. She looked like a woman preparing for a night alone
at the bare base camp of some dream.

‘You had an affair with him?’ My voice sounded small.
Fearful.

‘Yes.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He’s with his wife. They live in Africa.’

Susan got into bed then and pulled a blanket over her head.
I sat up and twiddled my new ceramic necklace.

‘Did his wife find out?’ I had to know.

‘Yes.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me about this before?’

‘I wanted to tell you – many times,’ Susan sighed. ‘But you
were so upset about Bruce and Cait I didn’t think you’d be
very sympathetic.’ Her voice was somewhat muffled by the
blanket.

‘So you don’t love Liam?’

‘Maybe I do. I’m not sure,’ Susan sighed. ‘Look, can we talk about this some other time? I’m really tired.’

I lay in bed for hours thinking about what Susan had just
told me. At around one o’clock she blew her nose.

‘Susan, are you awake?’ I said. ‘I want to ask you some
thing.’

‘What?’

‘Did you and – and he – the married man – ever make
love in his home? In his bed?’

‘Of course not. I never even went to his house. It wasn’t
like that at all.’

‘So – so you weren’t careless?’

‘No. We weren’t careless. I’m not like that, Jasmine. You
know me.’

But suddenly I wasn’t sure I knew her. I wasn’t sure I knew
anything. Holo was having a strange effect on me. I could almost feel myself fragmenting. Facing things I didn’t want
to face. And there was all this sex to deal with too.

‘There’s just no getting away from oneself. Not really,’ I
thought forlornly. ‘Not even in the Mediterranean.’

That night I dreamt Susan and a stranger were making love
in the sitting-room of my home while I watched
Emmerdale Farm.
All she was wearing was a huge diamond hair grip, and then
Bruce came in attired in an off-the-shoulder silk evening
dress. When Bruce opened his mouth to speak he sounded
rather like a donkey braying. Very loud flamenco music
started up then and he hitched up his dress and started to twirl around shouting ‘Ye Ha! Go with the feeling!’ And
when I looked over at Susan and her lover – who resembled
Eoin, the greyhound man – I saw they were covered in slugs
and slime and smiling in a very eerie manner.

‘What on earth were you dreaming about last night?’ Susan
asked the next morning. ‘You called out “Charlie!” at least
four times in your sleep.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘I couldn’t have.’

‘You did.’

‘Four times?’

‘Yes – and quite loudly too.’ Susan studied me knowingly.
‘What’s going on between you two?’

I turned sharply towards her. ‘Nothing.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it, okay?’ I gave her a flinty
look. ‘Now could you please get up for a moment. My dance
workshop’s about to start and you’re sitting on Nathaniel’s
tambourine.’

Susan and I had a long chat that afternoon.

‘You’ve grown a bit self-righteous lately, Jasmine,’ she
said.

‘No I haven’t!’ I exclaimed self-righteously.

‘Yes you have. You’re like a Benetton shop assistant. You go around folding things up. You want everything to be neat
and tidy. Life’s not like that.’

I stared at her glumly. ‘So what should I do, Susan? Throw
all the jumpers in the air and shout “Whoopee!”’

‘Of course not. You need to find some middle ground.
Some acceptance that life can be a messy business. We
all make mistakes sometimes, Jasmine. If we don’t forgive
others, how can we forgive ourselves?’

We were sitting in the large whitewashed courtyard.
Susan’s eyes were glistening.

‘We’re talking about Josh, aren’t we?’

‘Yes. In a way.’ Susan looked down at her sandals.

‘I’m sorry if you got hurt.’ I meant it.

She smiled at me gratefully.

‘Tell me about Josh – if you want to,’ I continued. ‘Don’t
be too fair. Wallow in it if you like – I’ve got some extra tissues. I’ve already decided he’s a complete shit, so you’re
on safe ground.’

‘Oh, Jasmine, if only he were a shit,’ Susan mumbled
brokenly. ‘It would have made it so much easier.’

And so Susan told me about loving this man who wasn’t
free to love her. I listened and nodded in the appropriate
manner and reluctantly felt life getting larger – as much in
flux as the molecules you’d see in a table – or in a marriage
– if you stared and stared long enough.

And then Susan jumped up and said she’d be late for her
massage class.

‘By the way, I found your sex,’ she said, before she
raced off.

‘My what?’

‘Your blue cotton socks. They were underneath my bed,’
Susan laughed mischievously. ‘You should have a fling, Jasmine. You’ve gone too long without socks. You really
have.’

Chapter
22

I’ve escaped.