by Clare Pooley
The truth was, he had too much information, and Monica had not enough, and it was complicating everything. He couldn’t even work out how much he genuinely liked Monica, and to what extent his feelings were a result of Hazard’s matchmaking. If he’d been left to his own devices, would he have liked her less? Or perhaps more? In all likelihood, they’d never have met.
Until Riley had come across The Authenticity Project, he’d been totally authentic. Now he was a sham.
The only solution he could see was to make sure he didn’t get any more deeply involved. Then, when he moved on in a few months, Monica wouldn’t be too hurt and—crucially—she’d never find out how it’d all started. That meant no more kissing. Actually, scrap that—that (rather enjoyable) ship had already sailed—but definitely, categorically, no sex. Riley was good at treating sex casually, but he rather suspected Monica wouldn’t be.
TWENTY
Hazard
Hazard felt like he was trapped in Groundhog Day. Every day the sun shone. Every day he’d follow the same routine: meditation with Neil, walk on the beach, swim, read in hammock, lunch, siesta, swim, dinner, bed. He realized he was “living the dream.” He was in the picture on the screen saver that illuminated thousands of offices. He should be horribly grateful. But he was bored. Bored rigid. Bored stupid. Bored to death.
It struck Hazard that he had no idea what day of the week it was. His whole life had been run by the tyranny of the calendar—the sinking feeling of Sunday night, the rude awakening of Monday morning, the neither-here-nor-there hump of Wednesday, and the euphoria of Friday evening. Yet now, not a clue. He was adrift.
Every day there’d be at least one departure from the beach, and at least one new arrival, usually several, so there were always new people to meet. But, after a while, those conversations all blurred into one. Where are you from? Where are you going next? What do you do back home? They’d just skate over the surface of the getting-to-know-each-other thing, and then they’d be gone. All these constant new beginnings, without any middles or satisfactory endings, were exhausting.
Just a few more weeks, Hazard told himself, and I’ll be strong enough to move on, to resist temptation, to go home.
Hazard was spending more and more time thinking about home. Strangely, he wasn’t thinking about his family and friends—there was too much regret bound up in those memories. He knew all about “making amends.” One evening, about a year ago, he’d had a phone call from a girl called Wendy. She was, she’d told him, doing “the steps.” The conversation had been derailed for a while as Hazard thought she was referring to an exercise class. Wendy had explained that step nine of the Alcoholics Anonymous twelve-step program was “making amends,” so she was calling to apologize for having two-timed him a few years earlier. She’d not told him she was married. Hazard was a little nonplussed, as it had taken a great deal of scrolling back through old photos on his iPhone before he remembered her at all. But now he thought back to Wendy, and her insistence that “making amends with those you have wronged” was crucial to recovery. All those bridges burned had to be rebuilt, but not yet. He was too far away, and it was too difficult, so he filed it under “deal with when I get home.”
In the meantime, because it was so much simpler and less entangled with self-hatred, he was thinking about Julian, Monica, and Riley.
Had Monica managed to persuade Julian to teach her art class? Was Julian less lonely? And, the question that taunted him most of all: Had Riley found Monica, and was he the man of her dreams? Hazard felt like a writer who’d started a story, then, partway through, his characters had just wandered off the page and started doing their own thing. How dare they? Didn’t they realize they owed everything to him? He knew how unlikely a happy ending was, but sitting in his hammock, in this improbably beautiful setting, totally removed from reality, anything seemed possible.
Hazard basked in the unfamiliar warmth of having done something good. Something selfless. Kind. He had, so long as Riley cooperated, changed someone’s life. Monica was going to be so grateful! Not that he needed thanks, obviously.
He threw a tanned leg out of his hammock and pushed his toes against the wooden slats of his deck to swing gently from side to side. He cursed himself for not getting Riley’s mobile number, or the address where he was staying. He didn’t even know his surname. He wished he could just send a text saying “Hi. It’s Hazard. How’s it going in London?” Although, he reminded himself, he didn’t have a phone to text from anyway. He knew where Julian was, and Monica, but they hadn’t read his story, and Riley might not have told them about him yet. But he couldn’t bear feeling so left out. Hazard always liked being in the center of the action—that’s probably what got him into this mess in the first place.
Then, he had an idea. It wasn’t perfect, but it was just a small way to insert himself back into the story, to let them know that he was still part of The Authenticity Project.
There were two minibuses on the island that did circuits of the beaches, picking up tourists and dropping them into the only town, with its post office, bank, and shops. The next time it stopped at Lucky Mother, Barbara gave him a shout, and Hazard jumped on.
The bus bumped along the dusty, potholed track. There were no doors, just a canvas roof to keep out the sun, and an open back. The air was sticky and smelled of sweat and sun lotion. Two benches faced each other, five or six tourists on each one, some clutching rucksacks, some just beach bags. Hazard looked down the row of legs alongside his—all various shades of white, brown, and red, often covered in the raised red bulges of mosquito bites and grazes from the coral reef. They exchanged the usual: Where are you staying? Where have you been? What do you recommend seeing? Hazard had had this conversation enough times to know all the tourist sites, restaurants, and bars to recommend, both on the island and farther afield, and didn’t confess to not having been to any of them himself, other than his little beach and, from time to time, the closest town. He didn’t want to explain why: I can’t trust myself.
The bus stopped at the tiny ferry dock, where a boat was waiting to take passengers to Koh Samui. There, a bigger boat could take them on to Surat Thani on the mainland. For a few minutes, Hazard wondered if he should just get on that boat. He had his passport and cash in the money belt he was wearing under his T-shirt. And perhaps he might have done it—he didn’t mind the thought of leaving all his belongings behind in his hut—but he owed a week’s rent to Andy and Barbara, and, after all their kindness, he didn’t want them thinking he’d deliberately done a bunk.
Hazard went into the general store. This is where he’d bought his sarongs, his sun cream, shampoo, and toothpaste. Just inside the doorway was a carousel of postcards. Hazard spun it round, until he found one that showed his beach. An aerial view. You could even just about make out his hut.
Outside, Hazard sat at one of the store’s café tables, drinking coconut water through a straw inserted into a large coconut, and watched the ferry from Koh Samui belch some new tourists onto the wooden dock. They chattered excitedly about the beauty of their destination, ignoring the boatman who was struggling with their rucksacks. Using a Biro borrowed from the waiter, he started to write.
Monica, Monica’s Café, 783 Fulham Road, Fulham, London, UK.
To the lady who sells the best coffee in town. See you soon. Hazard.
Before he could change his mind, Hazard went into the post office, bought a stamp, and posted it.
TWENTY-ONE
Monica
Monica was setting up the café for the evening’s art class. Her mobile rang for the fifth time. She didn’t even need to check who it was. It was Julian pocket-calling her again. He hadn’t quite got the hang of his new mobile phone. He had, however, managed to call her on it earlier today to say that he’d decided the class members were ready to move on to “the human form” and could she please find someone to model for them.
That had n
ot been as easy as it sounded. There wasn’t enough time to run an advertisement, so she’d approached Benji. She explained that it wasn’t gratuitous nudity, it was art. No one would be looking at him as Benji naked, but as a subject, much like Larry the lobster, only he wouldn’t end up as dinner. She was sure that the pose Julian chose would be tasteful and discreet. No one would see his . . . (she’d trailed off at this point). Finally, she’d resorted to offering him double overtime and an extra day off, and the deal had been done.
Julian arrived, wearing leather this evening, like a geriatric version of Danny in Grease, and the class started to fill up. “I got chills, they’re multiplying,” hummed Baz quietly to Benji. Benji didn’t smile, he just lurked behind the counter managing to look both nervous and mutinous. Once everyone had taken a seat behind a table, Julian handed out paper and pencils.
“We’re reverting back to pencil today, ladies and gentlemen, because we’re moving on from still life to figure drawing. Before we start, please may I introduce you all to Mrs. Wu.”
Everyone called out greetings to the diminutive Chinese lady, who stood and bowed. She wasn’t a great deal taller standing up than she had been sitting down.
“Call me Betty!” she said, somewhat ferociously.
“Dear Benji has kindly agreed to model for us today,” said Julian, once all the introductions had been done. “Can you come over here, Benji?”
Benji sidled up to the group. “Er, where should I take my clothes off?” he asked.
“Clothes? Don’t be silly, old chap. We only need to see your hands! No point running before you can walk. Here, sit on this chair and clasp this mug, interlocking your fingers. That’s it. The hands are one of the most difficult parts of the body to draw, so for today, that’s all we’re focusing on.”
Benji glared darkly at Monica, wondering if he’d been set up. Monica glowered back, aware that she’d massively overpaid him for sitting in a chair, fully clothed, for two hours. Sophie and Caroline looked rather crestfallen. Sophie whispered something to Caroline, who snorted with laughter.
Julian continued, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents around him. “Even the most experienced artists find hands difficult.” Julian paused and raised an eyebrow, as if to convey that this obviously didn’t apply to him. “Try not to think about what you know hands and fingers look like. Instead, look at them as a combination of shapes, edges, and contours. Think about how you can use your pencil marks to describe the difference between the flesh and bone of the hand and the hard object it’s holding. And do, please, try not to make Benji’s elegant fingers look like a bunch of bananas.”
Gradually, a peace settled over the class, only broken by the scratching of pencils and the occasional murmured aside, or instruction from Julian.
As the class drew to a close, Riley put his hand up.
“What is it, young man? We’re not at school, you know! You don’t have to raise your hand!” Julian said, looking very much like a stern headmaster.
“Er, I’m planning a trip to Paris and was wondering if you could recommend some good art galleries to visit,” said Riley as he lowered his arm awkwardly and ran his hand through the blond frizz of his hair.
Monica felt the treacherous knot in her stomach that appeared whenever Riley mentioned leaving London. She wiped it out, like a smudge on one of her café windows. She was living in the moment, she reminded herself sternly.
“Ah, Paris. I haven’t been for at least twenty years,” said Julian. “So much to choose from—the Louvre is a must, obviously. The Musée D’Orsay and the Pompidou. Those would be a good place to start.” He stopped, frowning in thought. “You know what? We should all go! Class field trip! What do you say?”
Monica, who loved nothing more than a new project, chipped in. “What a great idea! I could do a group booking on the Eurostar. If we book now for January, we should be able to get a good deal. I’ll work out some costs and report back next week. In the meantime, the ten-pound supper tonight, for anyone who’s staying, is courtesy of the wonderful Betty Wu.”
“Crabmeat and sweetcorn soup, prawn and chive dumplings, and vegetable spring rolls,” announced Betty. “Biming! Hand round chopsticks, bowls, and soup spoons, please.”
“Biming?” whispered Monica to Benji.
“I know. Don’t say a word,” Benji replied. “He’s in denial.”
* * *
• • •
RILEY HUNG BACK as everyone left the café, clutching their drawings of Benji’s hands with varying degrees of pride and embarrassment, the warm glow of Betty’s soup providing insulation against the cold night air.
“Would you like me to help you shut up shop?” he asked Monica, running his hands down her spine. He hooked his hands over the belt of her jeans and pulled her closer toward him. The feel of his surfer’s thighs against hers made her breath catch in her throat.
“Thank you,” she replied, wondering whether she should let him stay tonight, if he asked. She imagined his face in sleep, his long, dark eyelashes resting against his cheeks. She pictured his dark limbs, tangled in her crisp, white bed linen. Her face felt so hot she was quite certain she was blushing. She wasn’t sure she’d have the strength to send him home. She walked over to lock up the till. Riley followed her, carrying a couple of stray glasses back to the bar.
“What are these?” asked Riley, pointing at her array of color-coded Post-it notes behind the counter.
“Those are my customer notes,” Monica replied. Riley picked one up and peered at the neat handwriting he recognized from the notebook.
“Mrs. Skinner. Dairy allergy. Baby called Olly. Ask after new puppy,” he read aloud. “And there was me thinking you just had an extraordinary memory.”
“I do have an extraordinary memory,” Monica replied. “I wrote all those notes for Benji. Hey, I’m so excited about this trip to Paris!” she said, distracting Riley before he moved on to her less charitable notes, like Watch out for Bert, the Fulham Football Club fanatic. Uses hand to wipe nose. Use antibacterial wipes.
“Do you think everyone will come? I’m going to look up the best places to eat. There are just too many to choose from. You’re going to love it, Riley. It really is one of the most beautiful cities in the world,” she said, having swiftly substituted “beautiful” for “romantic” midflow. This was a cultural expedition, not a dirty weekend. Having said that, perhaps she could book a charming boutique hotel, so that the two of them could stay on for an additional night. They could do a sunset walk along the Seine and eat warm pain au chocolat in bed for breakfast, with strong coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice.
She shook herself out of her reverie and noticed that Riley was distracted, looking over her shoulder. She turned around to see what had caught his attention. It was a postcard she’d pinned on the notice board.
“Beautiful beach, isn’t it? Somewhere in Thailand.” She squinted at the inscription in the bottom-right corner. “Koh Panam, apparently. Really strange, though; I have no idea who it’s from, although they obviously know me. Look.” She unpinned the postcard and flipped it over, handing it to Riley. “It’s addressed to Monica. See you soon. Do you think he’s some kind of stalker? And it’s signed Hazard. I mean what sort of a name is that? Sounds like a road sign!”
Then, with hardly a good-bye, Riley announced that he had to go. And Monica was left holding the strange postcard and wondering what on earth she had done wrong.
TWENTY-TWO
Julian
Monica hadn’t told Julian she was coming. Julian suspected she’d deliberately caught him unawares, so he couldn’t protest. She was standing on his doorstep, clutching a bucket filled with cleaning products in various garish colors, bright-yellow rubber gloves on her hands. Had she worn those in public? Surely not.
“It’s a quiet day at the café today,” she said, “so I thought I’d come round and give you a bit of
a spring clean.” He must have looked as alarmed as he felt, because she quickly added, “Not you. Your cottage. Don’t worry—it’s really not a chore. Cleaning is one of my all-time favorite activities, honestly. And this place is just an amazing . . . ” She paused for a few seconds before pulling out the word challenge, like a rabbit from a hat. “This, my friend, is the Rolls-Royce of cleaning projects.”
“Well, that’s jolly kind of you, old girl,” he said, although he wasn’t entirely sure that it was. She bustled past him into the hall, “but it’s really not necessary. I like it just the way it is. Honestly. Apart from anything else, it smells of Mary. If you start attacking the place with all that . . . stuff, you’ll wash her right away.” She couldn’t exactly argue with that, could she?
Monica stopped and turned to stare at him.
“Julian, no offense, but”—Julian resisted the urge to put his fingers in his ears; people always used that expression right before saying something really, really offensive—“are you telling me that Mary smelled of mildew, dust, and something unidentifiable that must have died under your kitchen cabinets?”
“Well, no, of course not!” he replied, horrified and a bit cross, actually. Maybe Monica sensed this because she took his hand in hers, thankfully having removed the ridiculous, ugly gloves first.
“Tell me what your cottage smelled like when Mary was here, Julian,” she said.
Julian closed his eyes and thought hard for several minutes, as he layered one scent on top of the other in his mind.
“I remember rose blossom, homemade strawberry jam, and fresh lemons. That hairspray that came in big, gold cans. Oh, and paint, obviously,” he said.