‘Thank you.’ Manners obliged her to respond. Gently but firmly she began to insinuate her way through and around couples and groups too engrossed in the delay to notice her progress. Goal achieved, she faced the official as he slowly examined her passport. Her eyes challenged him but her face bore only a smile and she was through.
Trish had driven many times abroad. Many different cars too: big, small, fast, slow. Now she was looking at the car she had been allocated. It was a disgrace: dirty and battered and old. The desk was now closed so she could not even complain. She looked at the large, bulky inelegant machine in disgust. She had no choice. She opened the windows to clear the car of the smell of stale tobacco and turned the ignition. The car juddered and lurched as she put it into gear. No air conditioning either and a sticky night. The road was poorly lit and inadequately signposted but, against all odds, the car was powerful and fast. She made good progress but, more than once, she had to stop to check the route. When she did so, she closed the windows as a precaution. It was a habit of hers when driving abroad though she couldn’t imagine any danger on such a deserted road. Her only thoughts were to end her journey as quickly as possible as she passed through sleepy villages in a darkened landscape.
7
It was midnight. Richard lay naked on top of the bed. What the hell was Trish thinking of, arriving here, late and on her own? He should have gone to collect her. Anything could have happened. This was no place for a woman alone in a car at night. The sexist thought seemed appropriate right now. He opened the window. The street was deserted. Not a sign of her. He left the window open. To hell with the mosquitoes. He took a long slug of tepid mineral water. Warm beer would have been too much of an insult. A beam of light shone across his room and he heard a car. He scrambled into some clothes and went to reception. It had to be her. The night porter was dozing, a newspaper open at the sports page. Richard could see Trish through the glass door. Did the porter speak English? The door was locked.
‘Excuse me.’ No result. Richard repeated it with emphasis. Not a murmur or movement. He gently shook the porter’s arm. A torrent of words greeted the gesture accompanied by a clear expression of displeasure.
‘Excuse me,’ Richard began again. ‘My friend’s at the door. Could you open it please?’ Incomprehension. The pantomime of sign language and pigeon English began in all its frustrating longevity. The porter looked towards the door at last and then slowly turned his head towards Richard. A few more seconds of scrutiny and then he pointed to the wedding band on his own finger.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Richard nodding his head enthusiastically.
He had no intention of worrying about a technicality such as the absence of a marriage contract. He just hoped the porter would not inspect Trish too closely. But the porter had made his stand and he was no longer interested. He pressed a buzzer beneath the counter releasing the door catch and returned to his newspaper. Richard hurried Trish up to his room silencing her with a finger to her lips.
‘What was that all about?’ Trish asked.
‘The porter wanted a reassurance that we were married. It’s a bit old fashioned around here.’
Trish didn’t bother to reply. She was too busy looking around the room.
‘Not exactly the Ritz, is it? Thank God I’m not a journalist.’
Richard shrugged.
‘Well, you didn’t have to come but it’s good to see you, anyway.’
She appeared not to have heard.
‘My God, Dick, it’s awful. It’s so hot. Can’t you do something?’
Richard knew exactly what to do with the question. In a second he was naked, his erection plainly visible. She smiled and together they pulled off her clothes and their bodies slid together with the sweat and the heat.
‘At least this is a plus,’ said Richard, as they stood together afterwards under the shower, their skin tasting the coolness of the water. They came together again, softly laughing, slippery hands and fingers entwining their limbs in a single moving mass. There were no more words that night.
The morning air felt good by the sea, fresh on the skin, as, far out on the horizon, the sun glowed gently through a heat haze waiting to envelope the day in its veil.
‘You know – this must’ve been what the south of France looked like before it got overrun with concrete.’ Richard mused half to himself and half to Trish.
‘Um, that’s a bit unfair on St Tropez and Villefranche and all those fantastic hilltop villages but I know what you mean. It’s a great spot. Coffee’s good too.’ Trish tilted her face toward the morning sun, too contented to start a debate. ‘Quite a little idyll really.’
The fishing boats rocked against their moorings in a gentle breeze, the leathery faces of their owners, intent on inspecting their nets. He was glad that Trish liked the harbour side café.
‘You have quite a little routine, don’t you Dick?’
‘Have I? Well, this is a good spot for breakfast, at least while the weather holds. The coffee at the hotel is pretty grim.’
‘Is that your island out there?’ Trish pointed out to sea.
‘My island?’ Richard laughed. ‘Well it’s where I’m going, once the organisers get their act together.’
‘Why haven’t you come back to London instead of sitting around here?’
‘Good question.’
‘Come on, Dick, sharpen up.’
‘Thought I’d do an easy travel piece on the place, chance to idle around on full pay.’
‘Always knew you were lazy.’
‘Why do you think I did a Ph.D? It put off the evil hour of a working life.’
‘You told me it gave you a real intellectual buzz, all those little grey cells of yours working away.’ Trish tapped his skull.
‘Um, well, that’s as maybe but it was all as and when I chose. No tight deadlines or people screaming at you for copy.’
‘Finished in record time I seem to recall, and a star pupil at that.’
‘Just hearsay.’
‘Oh yeah. You’re forgetting I read that reference from the Prof.’
Dick remembered the accolades only too well and the subsequent dismay and denouncement when he turned his back on an academic career and went into journalism. ‘Want to live a bit,’ he had said. ‘Get my head out of books.’ Doug had encouraged him.
‘More coffee, Trish?’
‘You’re avoiding the issue.’
‘No, really, I need a good shot of caffeine after last night.’
Trish smiled. They hadn’t slept much and it certainly wasn’t on account of the heat of the room. He leant over and whispered, ‘Great sex. Thanks.’
‘Likewise,’ she replied. Amused at the exchange of niceties she too leant over and gently nibbled his ear.
‘Steady,’ he said. ‘I think we’re being watched.’ Several leathery faces were staring at them. Another face, more distant, also fixed on the couple. Trish returned to her coffee but Richard was staring at a familiar figure approaching their table.
‘I think we’ll need an extra cup.’
Trish looked up. ‘How come?’
Dick nodded at Father Piontius as he approached their table.
‘Good morning to you both.’ The priest shook Trish’s hand. ‘I am very pleased to meet you.’ He turned to Richard. ‘This is your wife?’
‘No, Father, we’re not married yet.’ Dick felt uncomfortable.
‘For the future, for the future.’ The priest seemed untroubled himself. A nod to the waiter and coffee for three arrived.
‘You are here for long?’ Father Piontius turned to Trish.
‘Only for the weekend; I just wanted to see Dick.’
‘Yes, separation can be so difficult, even in this day of mass communications. Mobile phones, e-mail: who would have thought it possible? I believe there is something called a blueberry?’
Richard stifled a smile. ‘Blackberry, Father.’
‘Forgive me. The church in these parts is slow to embrace such things
.’
‘I don’t know – being in touch 24/7 can be a drag.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Trish.
‘Well it’s like you’re always on-call, on stand-by: no chance to switch off and just think.’
‘Think about what?’ Trish was intrigued.
‘Life, the universe, oh I don’t know.’ Richard paused. ‘Perhaps it’s like wanting to silence the white noise of life.’
‘White noise of life?’
‘Yeah, like a background hum that stops you from stepping back and looking at things as they really are.’
‘But I thought you were bored with being quiet and unstimulated.’ Trish looked at him sharply.
‘Well perhaps I haven’t given it a chance.’ Richard was beginning to regret his words.
Trish frowned.
‘Well that’s a change I must say.’
An awkward silence followed.
‘You need such moments for prayer and communion with God. At least I find they are of help to me.’ The priest spoke quietly but with gentle authority.
‘Does the fact that this place is so beautiful help you too?’ Trish was glad to change the direction of the conversation.
‘That would appear to be the case on the surface but it may disguise a deeper truth. Goodness does not necessarily reside where beauty is found. There is more evil than good in the world. Evil is attracted to beauty and feeds off it until it destroys it. Do not confuse goodness with beauty. It is easier to find goodness where beauty is lacking.’
‘But, do you mean we have to ignore philosophers such as Plato? Reject the idea that perfection of form has a moral worth?’ Richard had never tried debating with a man of the cloth and his philosophy felt distinctly rusty.
‘I don’t deny the attraction of the argument – perhaps it is the ideal to which we should all aspire. Too often, though, you will see in its stead corruption, and then there is nothing to match its evil.’
‘That’s all very abstract,’ countered Trish, impatient to move on. ‘I’m sure, for most of us, ‘ - and here she shot a quizzical look at Richard – ‘we just want to make the best of our lives without rocking the boat.’
‘Ah, self-interest.’ The priest smiled. ‘Well perhaps that is not evil in itself but can we be so sure?’ He paused. ‘And now forgive me if I leave you. I have a sermon to write for tomorrow. Once again I say too much, but you are young with all your life to live. It inspires me to say more than I perhaps should. Good day and enjoy your time together here.’
He left a lingering silence between the two of them.
‘Come on,’ said Richard suddenly. ‘Let’s go for a drive. The coastline is said to be spectacular.’
‘Umm, please. I’d be up for that.’
8
Trish turned lazily onto her back and stretched out her legs, arching her body in pleasure. She was tempted to remove her bikini top but Richard had said ‘No’, and something in his tone and manner had dissuaded her from disagreeing on this occasion. The cove was deliciously quiet; not a single person disturbed their solitude. Only the rhythmic wash of the waves over the rocks entered her consciousness. She was pleasantly without thought, suspended happily in that near trance that sunbathing brings. But time passed anyway and the little cove drew in the sun at its height, baking the sand, the stone and Trish. Richard was already in the water, swimming steadily, far out to sea. She stood and waved, then, treading over hot sand, picked her way to the shoreline and skimmed through the gentle swell to join him. They swam around each other in lazy circles with a slow breaststroke. Once in their depth they stood shoulder high together, as the waves washed around them and they embraced, tasting the salt on each other’s lips. Trish touched him first and felt his sex grow within her hand. Soon his fingers found their place in her and they moved together gently rocking and swaying with the ebb and flow of the waves.
‘Come here.’ Richard pulled Trish toward him wrapping her towel around her and rubbing her body vigorously, pleased to feel again the dips and curves of her figure beneath his hands.
‘My turn, ‘ she said when he had finished.
‘Oh, no.’ Richard laughed. ‘We’ll never get lunch if you start on me.’
Richard’s brand new hire car was parked in the shade, an unnecessary precaution as it had air conditioning.
‘God, what a relief to be in a decent car. I can’t believe what I’ve been given. Talk about basic, to say the least, and it’s in a filthy state. I shall complain when I take it back. I just hope it doesn’t break down, though I must say it’s fast to drive.’
‘I should’ve collected you.’
‘No need.’
‘What, alone and late at night, driving through deserted countryside in a crap car. Sounds like an invitation for trouble to me. It’s not like driving around London.’
‘And I suppose that’s totally risk free,’ said Trish.
Dick didn’t bother to comment. He was accustomed to Trish’s stubborn independence, but there was something about this place that made him concerned for her.
He changed tack and turned the ignition.
‘This heat!’ He turned up the air con. ‘Quite unseasonal.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Trish.
‘Father Piontius told me.’
‘What the priest who plundered our precious time together this morning.’
‘That’s a bit uncharitable. I think he’s rather lonely, and certainly extremely isolated intellectually.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Just the things he says. I’ve bumped into him a couple of times and we got talking. He’s quite interesting really. I’m amused by the way he speaks. Sounds so stilted. Bit of a curio, if you ask me. Anyway I’m glad to talk to anyone who speaks English these days.’
‘The charm of the place not enough for you?’ said Trish. ‘Still we’re not supposed to be seduced by such things now, are we? Anyway, where are we going?’
‘Well, I saw a restaurant on the way out here, just set back from the road on the hillside. Looked authentic. Food should be good. Might be a problem if they don’t speak English but you never know.’
‘Ok, let’s give it a go. There’s always that good linguistic standby desperanto.’ Richard laughed.
9
‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you.’ The restaurant suddenly seemed exceedingly quiet as Richard took a sip of liqueur and pondered Trish’s statement. There were now only two other couples in the room, all taking a post-prandial coffee, with the men enjoying a cigarette, whose smoke, Richard was glad to see, was drifting away from Trish. He doubted he could be heard and, anyway, who would understand?
‘What do you mean?’ he queried at last.
‘Yet,’ said Trish enigmatically.
‘Sorry?’
‘Yet,’ she repeated emphatically.
Richard looked puzzled.
‘You used the word when you spoke to that priest.’
‘That priest, as you put it, has a name,’ said Richard, becoming increasingly irritated with Trish’s obtuseness. ‘And so what if I did?’ He had no idea what she was talking about.
‘Let me spell it out. When you told him I was not your wife you said yet.’
Richard smiled. Had he really?
‘Did I? Slip of the tongue I suppose.’
‘What, a Freudian slip?’
‘Now just where is this going Trish?’ Richard felt the warmth of the evening ebb away.
‘Well?’ Trish took another drink. They had both had too much wine and the liqueurs were now loosening their words to an unaccustomed degree. ‘I didn’t know marriage was on the agenda.’
‘Is it?’ queried Richard.
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘Think? I have no idea Trish. I’m here on a boring assignment, counting down tedious hours as best I can. You turn up on a whim, grab a bit of sex and start whinging over one little word. What’s with you?’
‘Richard, lower your voice.�
�� Trish only used his full name when she was extremely displeased. ‘It may’ve been a slip, as you put it, but it shows the assumptions you make about where our relationship is heading. You’ve practically moved in with me, without discussion, or any attempt to make the compromises that you have to make when you start to live with someone. As for sex – I didn’t notice you complaining.’
This was not how she had meant it to be. She had envisaged a quiet, civilised drink in a sophisticated London wine bar, a polite and considered airing of the options they had as a couple and a mutual agreement with no raised voices. This verbal brawling was not her style and it rankled that she had succumbed.
‘Oh come on Trish. You could’ve had a say anytime you wanted. You had to give me the key to your place, after all. I didn’t steal it.’
He looked across at her for a response but in her eyes he saw only the play of shadows from the room lights.
‘What’s all this about, Trish? I thought we were good together.’ But were they? He kept the thought to himself. He waited for an angry response but his challenge had changed Trish’s mood. She looked suddenly tired. No one was going to come out of this exchange for the better. Better stop.
‘Let’s leave it for now,’ she said, attempting a conciliatory tone. Unused to this approach it sounded more like a counter challenge. Richard opened his mouth to reply but Trish was already on her feet. ‘I’m going to the Ladies.’
Thwarted, Richard pulled out his mobile and began tapping the keys. Soon he was scanning the football league results with a measure of contentment. He had supported Chelsea since he was a boy. Their success that day provided a welcome source of relief from his current unpleasant situation. He was still surfing through the scores when Trish returned. A quick look over his shoulder satisfied her curiosity.
‘I should’ve known,’ she said, with undeniable acerbity. ‘Bury your head in football instead of facing things as they are. Honestly!’
From Nemesis Island Page 3