And sadly I have both – all four.
Imagine.
No idea what I’d do to live, to be alive and stay that way.
Below her, over the handrail, are the layered edges of other balconies and fat rows of plastic pods which she supposes would expand in some startling way and turn into what would be, given the passengers’ manifold incapacities, relatively pointless lifeboats, should the need arise. Here and there she can also see the calm metal side of the ship. Out of her sight it must drop into the water, clean down and vanish, angle in through the cold and the dark until it meets the rest of itself, folds and seals monumentally into the hard depth of a keel. Around them the yellowish spill of their lights spreads across gently progressing water: a careless halo pouring out into the night, showing the white gleam where they cut the water’s skin.
For a while, she’d had the wavering impression that somewhere a band was playing brass instruments with a degree of vehemence – this was when the quayside was still safely tied beside them and a stirring march and uniforms could have been thought an appropriate farewell gesture. She couldn’t be that sure of what she’d heard, because of the explosions ongoing overheard. And there was a breeze rising – enough to tousle sounds and make them unreliable. The music’s stopped now, anyway – they’ve left it behind. Although she supposes that the pianist who played as they strolled aboard may be playing still, or could perhaps have been replaced by some combination of other musicians and instruments, maybe a harp. She feels sure that a harp will appear at some point. And on broad, soft-carpeted decks fruit machines are winking beside the type of green baize tables that promise exciting loss and there are bars and lounges, the theatre, the programme of stimulating lectures and lessons and entertainments and then there are the restaurants and the tiny, pricey shops and the spa and there is, of course, the library – currently closed, but on two storeys with a communicating spiral staircase, which must count for something – and, in short, there is an overwhelming sense that she has entered an environment prepared for people who are quite terribly afraid of being left to their own devices.
But Elizabeth likes her own devices.
Sometimes.
‘She’s got money then, Margery.’ Derek emerges and leans beside her at the rail, slips his arm around her waist and nestles – she can feel the hard shape of his hip. Probably because she is slightly chilled – she’s not wearing her coat – his temperature is surprising, warmth caught in his pullover. He kisses the top of her head and it makes her shiver. ‘Hello.’
‘Margery? No . . . Not particularly . . .’
‘She pays for a pair of these . . . That’s a four-figure cabin in there. That’s two grand. Twice two grand.’ Derek likes to say that kind of thing – to mention money obliquely, disrespectfully, as if he understands it and can’t be impressed.
Not that he doesn’t have money himself. A man of substance, Derek. And all his own work, doesn’t take it for granted.
‘It wasn’t a special effort, was it? She hasn’t got cancer or something – wants to leave everything to you.’
‘She’s my friend, Derek. I was worried enough about her when she had to cancel. I don’t need you . . . adding that jolly idea.’
‘Sorry. Only kidding. Sorry. Really.’ He peers at her until she can let him see he is forgiven. ‘I am.’
‘Her husband – second husband – he had money. And then he died. He was older . . . And . . . she doesn’t have that many friends. And she, ah . . . likes me.’
‘Oh, I see . . . Me, too.’ Derek squeezes her waist in a way that suggests they’ll have sex later under their mustard coverlet, in their fawn with additional mustard and really quite – it has to be said – 1970s accommodation which is not moving, not absolutely – not pitching or rolling, they’re still only creeping along the Solent, after all – but, nevertheless, the walls, the floor, their surroundings, are unashamedly lively with engine throb, and beyond that is the faintest, faintest give, a sway, like an anxiety – or rather, a tease, a promise to be surprising in days to come.
January in the Atlantic – we have to be out of our minds.
Derek kisses her again, moist heat against her neck. ‘Bet I like you more than she does . . .’
She wonders how cold she feels to him, how strange. ‘You both like me in different ways . . .’ Her hair flutters, unhappily disturbed – it stings slightly when it hits her cheek. ‘Since the husband, she does have money, I suppose. Not her money, though. Well, it is hers, since he . . . So . . . yes. She’s well-off.’
‘Shame she couldn’t come in the end – I’d like to have met her. Someone you went to school with – bet she’s got stories . . .’
‘Not that kind of stories, no.’
‘Stories about lovers . . .’ He puts the words in close to her ear and they flicker, nudge.
‘I didn’t have a lover at school. I didn’t even have boyfriends.’
‘Yeah, I’ve never believed that late starter stuff. I think you’re just being modest.’
‘I have lots to be modest about.’ This odd desire he has occasionally to rework her as a sexually rapacious teenager – all pouting and gymslips. Sometimes it’s sweet and sometimes it’s just annoying and borderline weird. ‘My dad wanted me to be academic. So I was.’
‘Always did what your dad said . . .’
‘Always.’
Not absolutely always, but that’s nothing to discuss at this juncture.
Derek begins to steer her indoors and she allows it to be comforting that she gives him control, steps inside and is waylaid by the awful decor, the seafaring neatness, smallness, the practical lack of clutter to pre-empt rough seas and breakages. The effect is claustrophobic, but also endearing.
Derek sits on the tiny sofa, his legs aimed mostly at the bed and thus avoiding the minute table, his whole frame slightly compressed, designed according to a different scale. ‘Not fair, though . . .’
‘What isn’t?’
‘That she pays for you to come along – for us both – and then she ends up being stuck at home herself. Do you think she got a refund?’
‘I didn’t ask . . . Couldn’t be helped, though – when it’s your heart, you have to . . . well – take it to heart. Sorry.’
Hate doubled meanings – once you start them, they don’t bloody stop – inferences, references, cross-references – then everyone turns into the sad bloke at the party who thinks it’s his job to chuck in puns, focus the room’s loathing.
‘And is she OK now, Beth?’
And, right enough, a punster does draw out the hate. Eventually even the nicest people would succumb to their darker longings and just fillet him, cut him up – still punning – and throw him into the tajine, on to the barbecue, into freezer bags for later – depending on the brand of party.
I don’t hate them because they’re not funny, I hate them because they mean nothing you say can stay innocent.
‘Beth?’
‘Yes. Yes, she called and said the tests were, you know . . . reassuring. It’s just the long sea voyage thing and the insurance thing – in case they have to winch you off by helicopter, improvise on you with jump leads, that kind of stuff. They like you to be healthy.’
Elizabeth removes her shoes, lies on the bed. She looks over at Derek as he reaches for the paper and starts to read. He is folded neatly in the available space – the limbs and joints and angles of a long and wiry man, that particular shape. And in her mind she lets herself think
Love.
Such a terrible word – always demands you should be its accomplice, should comply – can’t even say it without that sense of licking, tasting, parting your lips to be open, to welcome whatever it is that slips in beneath your breath, and then you find yourself closing to keep it, mouth it, learn its needs – this invisible medicine, this invisible disease.
It takes a hold.
Not like sex. Sex is a slip of a word, a slither – and it can be so simple, uncomplicated as it sounds.
Not that it wasn’t a cause for concern at the start – because I did reach it later, I was a slow learner and usually, initially unsure – but then hasn’t everyone been unsure? I don’t think it’s remotely unique to suffer those young, young endless doubts – If he’s kissing me, actually kissing me – which is nice – absolutely nice – even so, am I quite sure of why?
Does he like me? Find me attractive? Because I’d be hoping that both of those things is what we’ll be about.
Or is he kissing me the way he kisses everyone, is he just the friendly type? Or curious? Or bored? Or has he stumbled and coincidentally fallen against my mouth?
Which is preposterous, naturally, but need not be mistaken. My insecurity may only signal that I am both ugly and right.
Right about being wrong – romantically mistaken.
Am I, for example, being kissed because there is something delicious on my face – my lips – possibly gravy, perhaps jam – it could be jam . . . Is he just hungry? Is this just to do with jam? I want to believe this is mainly about me, but I could be deluded.
I can’t feel my irresistibility is likely.
Then again, what I can feel is blinding, incandescent, and offers no names for itself and is eating, is swallowing, all of my names for me – and the more I keep doing what we’re doing – because he’s still doing it, too: we’re doing it together, in fact – except he’s doing it in the opposite direction – and this works, really works – and I wouldn’t have thought that a body, anybody’s body, could be that, well, entertaining – the more we do this, whatever it is, the less I know about it, the less I know about everything, and the less I am able to care about not knowing.
I am perfectly happy and also evaporating.
Who’d have thought?
But eventually you’re wholly free of thinking and can begin to uncover who you are with him, touch against touch.
And you make beauties together.
You and whoever he happens to be.
It does seem wrong to say so, but who he is can seem slightly irrelevant.
Not in a bad way – although it does sound bad – the specific identity of the gentleman does not, to be honest, matter that much.
This isn’t your fault. It’s nearly their fault: the number of – eventually a not excessive but still significant number of – gentlemen’s fault, because they have been, as it were, not that outstanding or differentiated and, therefore, in order to have any fun, any modest pleasure, you have become very differentiated. Your heart, your mind, your body, they have become discrete. You have separated into fragments that no longer communicate and which get curious and bored and stumble, and your condition is patently not ideal, but equally you’re never disappointed.
You do sometimes have a sense of waiting by which you are almost overwhelmed, but this shows you are not pathological or numb. And you bear none of the gentlemen ill will. You would smile at them in the street, be quietly fond: you would commiserate should they receive unpleasant news. This isn’t love, though – this is not love, this is not in any way that word.
This is safe.
You are safe.
You are lucky and not confined – not really – it’s rather that you enjoy prudent limitations, almost always have.
You are not unaware of love’s damages, that chaos, and realise you have been spared, are sparing yourself. You get to pursue what are not relationships, more a series of hobbies, indoor games for rainy evenings and afternoons.
So, on several legitimate levels, you are content.
Only then, for instance – just for instance – you may stand beside a man, a not unfamiliar man, and – sharp and hard and for no reason – every shade of him will strike in through you: his angles and his musics and the subtleties of his scents: and you cannot touch him, but want to – cannot respond, but want to – cannot move, but want to. He has, in the course of doing nothing, suspended you in want and want and want. And through you come reeling these dreadful truths: that you respect him and fully intend to be proud of him hereafter and to see him both happy and well – and you’ll need him kept warm in the winter and cool when it’s hot and will let no ugly breeze come near him and no wanker be permitted to annoy him and you wish for him to be comfortable, at the very least comfortable, for ever. And these are desires that ache in you deeper than sweating, or bending, or sucking, or any of the thin and predictable memories or the fantasies that might defend you from the present, too present, reality of him.
The tiny idea of naming him darling is almost unsurvivably arousing.
Which is beyond preposterous.
You are turning innocent and selfless to such a degree that if your absence would please him, you’d disappear.
You would have to go.
But you can’t go.
You couldn’t go.
You couldn’t leave while his voice is purring in your skull, purring and curling and thinking your thoughts and you look at your hands and feel his fingers, as if you have become each other’s gloves – and the sound of his breath and when he swallows could set you falling, could take you to a place where you might weep, where you are far out of your mind, but still at home in it, at liberty inside yourself as you have never been.
Many people take to this, are delighted to be found and lost, possessing and possessed.
You are not one of those people.
You were not one of those people.
But your selves have bled together now, blurred and joined. He has made of you a unified need, a piece of desperation, by being here and existing – effortless.
And his manner of existing means you will not be having sex with him.
Which is to say, you will have sex with him, but you also will not.
You will be complicated.
You will touch – will begin with touch – will slip and slither and hold and rock and cling. You will fuck – but you wouldn’t, you truly wouldn’t, if it wasn’t entirely impossible to say what you need to in any other way.
It won’t be sex, it will be speaking.
And – God help you – it will also be admiration, tenderness, concern – this excruciating list of necessities which are all chained to making love.
You will make love.
You are in love.
You weren’t when he was leaning in the doorway.
Then he stepped over here and you were.
You are.
It isn’t fair.
It isn’t fucking fair.
Because you know what it will mean.
You will lie down with him and be naked – not en route to the usual somethings and, for the sake of practicality, undressed – no, you will be irrevocably naked, stripped – you will be all skin and jolts and talking and – for fucksake – honesty will break out and that’s when you will come unhinged, because you aren’t going to leave him while he sleeps, sneak off and never come back, and you won’t act as if you expect him to smother you in the night, or that you’ll wake up in a quarry later with a head injury and no shoes. And you’re not going to keep it brutal and light in the morning, say you’ll call. You’re going to rest unconscious in the almost unbearable mercy of his arms and want the trust of that and like it – you’re going to stretch and turn into the day for more of the same and for enquiries and delicate smiles and whispers in case he’s not awake, except he is awake – why else would you be talking to him? – he’s awake and listening and whispering as well and you both keep on whispering so you can still dream each other and be not yet in the world.
And then you’ll have breakfast when it’s time for lunch.
And suddenly, unforeseeably, how much you will have to do: memorising mutual preferences, habits, frustrations, ticks – and you’ll discuss – you will
have to discuss – God knows – futures and kittens, or dogs, or stealing a baby from outside a shop – you probably won’t have the time to make one of your own – and, if not that, then certainly there will be carpets and curtains to consider and accommodation, gardens, flats, renting, mortgages, life insurance, drawing up your wills – and what if he dies before you? – then you’ll be upset – and planning how many you’ll have at the wedding breakfast – although you might want something quick, a quiet affair with the cabby who drove you in as a handy witness – I mean, why not? – it could happen – it genuinely, horrifyingly might – when, Jesus Christ, you don’t want to get married, not you – marriage, that’s an institution – since when did you want to spend life in an institution? – this whole thing is unpicking you, reworking you into someone else – which means he will, in actuality, be marrying someone else and how could you possibly cope with that? – the jealousy alone would kill you – and the invading burdens, responsibilities, the claustrophobia, the shock, they are in the room with you like sump oil, they are rising to your chest – and this isn’t how it should be, how you should be, because you love him, he is the closest you will get, the dearest, and surely this should not have to guarantee that being with him terrifies you more than dying – more than if you might die before him and end up making him upset.
He mustn’t be the man you’ll never have, purely because he seems to be so meant, has perfections, ends your waiting, because he opens you up to your spine and doesn’t hurt.
So, although you might beg to, you don’t run.
You stay and can stand with the back of your hand near enough to the back of his for you to feel him, read him, the magnificent argument of his blood, and you tremble and do nothing and this is fine.
Except.
Then your lungs fill with having to dress so you’ll please someone else and vice versa – and this doesn’t choke you, but is unfamiliar, is odd – and then there’s going to the pictures together, which you’re bound to try eventually, it is something you see all the time and completely normal, yet somehow a threat – and there’s wanting to buy a sofa, because that’s what lovers do – and you are lovers – you do, there is no saving you from it, love – and undoubtedly you’ll end up going with him to buy the sofa and looking in lots of places and not being able to see the perfect one – when only perfection can represent your love – or, indeed, be the decor and furnishings of your love – and eventually it’s not improbable that you’ll get tired – you don’t want to imagine this, wouldn’t wish it to be the case – but if you are both exhausted and perhaps your blood sugar is low then it’s almost inevitable that you’ll fight – perhaps not badly but then maybe worse, and this free-floating resentment and discontent will follow after – and maybe in the final furniture shop there’s also a table lamp that you don’t like – you despise it and you can’t help your opinions, they are yours and your personal expression is protected under international law – but your lover does like the lamp, that is his opinion of it – he adores it, insists that it’s superb, and this reignites your disagreement, kicks it into bitterness and rage and additionally looses the welling of commitment and undertakings and regulations and sameness and exposure, hideous risk, and the awful heap of this is insurmountable and sweeps hard down at you and before you can scream or prevent this, you’ve picked up the lamp – the tragic, frustrating, adorable, loathsome lamp – and you’ve hit him, you’ve knocked him right on his wonderful head and he’s bleeding – he’s crying and you’re hitting him again – you’re causing him pain and making him afraid and it’s a nightmare, you would rather shoot yourself – although, of course, you don’t have a gun, you’re dangerous enough without one – and, Christ knows, you haven’t a clue how this came about, but you are still hitting him, your darling, because this way you won’t have the new wait for the failure of everything sweet in your life, its most beautiful thing, you have instead brought it neatly to a close.
The Blue Book Page 4