I have no idea what I’m supposed to say – how to explain that Derek is no longer my concern, not at all, that I look at him and get vertigo because he is so far away.
I could ask for it to be included in the ship’s daily newsletter – GRAND SUITE USED FOR MAKING LOVE WRONGLY, WOMAN TRAVELLING IN CHEAPER STATEROOM EXPRESSES REGRET, BUT RETICENT ABOUT HER REASONS FOR DISCOMFORT.
Beth concentrates on the TV which is currently showing a map of the ship’s progress, accompanied by the kind of charmless music she associates with crematoria.
I think I will hurt him and I think that is hurting me.
WOMAN UNWILLING TO SAY WHO SHE MEANS BY ‘HE’ FOR FEAR OF SCREAMING AND THEN BEING UNABLE TO STOP.
A jaunty orange dot in the Atlantic shows their position and it’s not a wild guess to imagine that Derek is willing them fast into port.
WOMAN FOUND REPEATING INTERNALLY ‘I CAN’T TELL HIM’. UNABLE TO SAY WHO SHE MEANS BY ‘HIM’ FOR FEAR OF FINDING OUT.
I am not a jolly good fellow.
Derek wants to be back with normality.
And I think I will hurt him again.
Derek hopes to be the way they were, because he misunderstands what that was. If he knew more, he would want her much less.
I no longer know what I am: but if I owned something this broken, I’d throw it away.
I should be thrown away.
Derek is no longer seasick, just homesick, but he also seems contented. ‘I do feel a bit . . . you know – good. I slept for a long time.’
And how almost beautiful it is to be this scared – cold, sick, as if something is dying. I haven’t felt this much in years.
Like ecstasy.
‘Well if you slept you must have needed it’ – rules of civilised conduct – and she kisses his cheek and not his mouth – never kiss a man – ‘Glad you’re getting better’ – with another man’s spunk – ‘Very glad, love’ – still in your mouth – ‘Very glad to hear it.’
She eases round the cabin to avoid both him and the bed, tries lurking on the sofa.
Not still in my mouth, that’s an exaggeration. But it makes itself felt, nonetheless.
Derek’s concentration follows her like a clumsy fumble, he irritates, but she doesn’t respond.
Another man’s semen, seminal fluid, cum, spunk. Which is the simplest part of this.
Beth arranges – pressure flutters – her limbs as if she – in his balls – as if she has never – get him to where he can’t help it – as if she has never had limbs – which isn’t fair – to arrange before – tastes of home – they are all shining and distracting. He tastes of home.
Not an unreasonable rule, the No Spunk Rule.
He tastes of home, he tastes of where I could live and I stole him away from himself and he knew it.
Not an unreasonable rule.
And Derek has to ask, ‘Where were you?’ because this is not unreasonable, either.
And it’s not as if – ‘Massage’ – I hadn’t prepared an answer – ‘I went and got one’ – good answer, allows me to seem rearranged for an innocent reason – ‘Bloody expensive, but you know . . .’ And I do smell different, but not of cologne, no aftershave – no scent but Arthur’s skin – ‘I was tense’ – Close skin on me, hard to catch – ‘Still am, really. Funny’ as if he’d designed himself to be undetectable, to make this easy for me.
‘Well, that’s nice, then, Beth.’
Nice. Yes – that is precisely the word I was searching for – this whole week has been, beyond question, as nice as nice can be.
‘Yes. Nice. Did me good.’
I could have said I’d been decorating hats, there was a hat decorating class: started more or less exactly when I pulled down Arthur’s jeans.
The class not involving cock-licking, just hats. At least that’s what I would imagine.
Fuck.
He didn’t stop me.
I knew he wouldn’t.
And I know I can’t be me and I can’t be here and I can’t have – I can’t have.
She turns to Derek without meaning to and he grins. ‘I’m only just awake.’ He’s glad of her.
‘Yeah, love – you look a bit . . .’ – may I suggest – ‘Drowsy.’
‘They’ve given me a scopolamine patch. See?’ And he shows her the little sticking plaster thing behind his ear. ‘It’ll last three days.’ He is as bashfully pleased as he might be if he’d grown it.
‘Three days. Wow. Strong stuff then, Derek.’
So he’ll be in the way for the duration – transdermally delivered interference. Which means I have to tell him.
I’ve already said that.
I do have to.
He blinks docilely. ‘And we’ve only got another two nights on board . . .’ and brings back a gentle and genuine smile that she hasn’t seen all week. ‘Have you been very bored? On board.’
‘No.’ And if she wanted to, she could like the deception. ‘Not bored.’
‘I am sorry, though.’ Derek manoeuvres himself across the bed, gently preoccupied because he is testing his reactions and finding them healthy and promising. His robe falls open unalluringly. He gets himself within arm’s reach.
And I wish that arms wouldn’t.
But he keeps himself delicate, only takes her ear between his forefinger and thumb, strokes her cheek and she has to let him, because not doing so would be unusual, and here he is, undeniably Derek – looking and acting exactly as he has at other times when he has been endearing and lovable. But today he isn’t.
That’s all gone.
She is embarrassed for him.
But I also want to laugh – like giggling at our funeral.
What am I that I’d feel this way?
He is trying to make good. ‘I’m very sorry, Beth. I’ve been . . . I wasn’t the best company and I didn’t mean it, but . . . I’ve never felt that lousy . . .’ Which is what people do when it’s too late.
‘It’s OK.’ He needs a shower. Mouthwash. To get away from me. ‘I understand.’ And I’m sorry as well, but saying so would be misleading. ‘You must be hungry. We’ll go out and have something to eat.’
‘Do we really have to leave the cabin . . .’ and he gives her the foreplay smile, which isn’t any more and never will be.
‘Yes, I think we should.’ Standing up and away from his hands – no finesse: I used to think that was honest and maybe it is, but I still don’t like it: he has bad hands – a slight brush of his forearm as she goes, to prevent offence. ‘Fresh air . . .’ She holds her back to him, reconsiders the television, apparently fascinated by the details of wind direction, sea temperature, heading. ‘Then Mila can get in and have a good clean while we’re away – she’s been waiting to for ages – born to clean, that woman – a natural taker of cares.’
‘Bugger Mila.’ And maybe this is who he really is: a mean-spirited man with a sour tone, the one she would end up dreading once they’d married and he’d stopped putting up a front.
Which is a comforting thought – that he was betraying me, pretending, and would have turned out to be somebody else.
He needn’t have bothered. Somebody else was already there.
‘Mila was very worried about you and is a nice woman.’ Staying bright and firm. ‘Get a shower and then we’ll have a stroll, a bit of food. There’s this lovely couple we can maybe hook up with – they’ve been keeping me company.’
I think I’m shaking.
But Derek slumps back into his mounded pillows, squinting up at her and failing to be charming. ‘You really want to go out?’
‘I do want that, yes – that is exactly what I want.’
No it’s not.
Derek sighs, stalks to the bathroom.
The buffet isn’t crowded: the dinner rush has passed. Couples are lodged in ang
les, enjoying shadows – or some passengers are merrily in fours, teams by now, settled into patterns of which they feel protective on this their second-last night. They are delicate with nicknames and jokes, references to shared events and enjoyable complaints, their tiny history together. They are planning they honestly will keep in contact and meet again, go ashore with this extra comfort: it’s always wonderful on cruises who you’ll end up talking to.
An American woman in a tentative sweater sits down at a Geordie man’s table. He is unpromising.
‘It’s always wonderful who you’ll end up talking to.’ She can say this because she recognises the Geordie from yesterday’s lecture – which was about sand – and her announcement of their provenance is desperately confident, unarguable, and so he lets her join him and they shake hands and this will not be the beginning of a romance, or even an acquaintance, but they won’t eat alone. They’ll demonstrate they can be interesting and entertaining if they wish. They can be at least as wonderful as sand.
Beth scans the tables – recognises the so many faces who have seen her rushing, or weepy, or miserable with a coffee, or outside in the blustery light and staring – seeing the hinge where the world swings – air into water, water into air.
Big-earring couple, still pursuing their week-long pirate theme – surprisingly tattooed Floridian woman who misses her kids – dim, military husband and silently damaged wife – gay guys from the West Country: only one of them joking when he eyes up the Filipino waiters – and Bunny.
‘We should head over there . . .’ Beth so relieved when she sees Bunny that she fears she may just have surrendered to hopeful delusion.
Derek is trying to slow and incline towards a series of seating options which would mean he has her to himself, but she pretends she doesn’t notice and drives on. This makes him less subtle. ‘Do we need to be with strangers?’
‘They’re not strangers. They’re . . . ah.’ Beth waves.
Because Bunny loves waving and ought to have people that she can wave back to every day – Francis and friends and visitors every single day.
Bunny waves back.
‘This is Bunny.’ Beth almost trots Derek along to present him. ‘This is my . . . this is Derek.’
‘Oh, you poor dear.’
Bunny taking Derek’s arm and settling him beside her while she gives Beth her instructions. ‘I am going to see how your friend’s recovery is progressing and I’ll tell him all the best ship’s gossip that he’s missed.’ She deadpans at Derek and then chuckles, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make it racy. And Beth will go and fetch you appetising morsels. But you’ll have to pace yourself, you know.’ An ill person being businesslike about recoveries and weaknesses. ‘Beth will also be very kind and locate my missing husband and then he can help her to carry things back.’
Bunny’s in a trouser suit – purple, mandarin collar, a tidy and sensual fit which Francis will like and her favourite jewellery again. ‘I haven’t a clue where he is – habitual with him, the wandering off. Watermelon. He’s been on a mission for watermelon all day. I should never have mentioned it. By now he’s probably insisting they lower a boat to fetch some.’ Derek isn’t responding to her, so she changes her focus to Beth. ‘What will we do when this is all over?’ The sense of a weight returning when she says this, so she adjusts, ‘When we don’t have servants . . . poor us.’
Beth kisses her – with a dirty mouth – gives her a peck on the ear – with a lover’s mouth and Bunny understands about love – and reassures because this is expected and can be playful, ‘You’ll have Francis at your beck and call. I’ve never seen anyone more anxious to be becked and called, in fact.’
Bunny agrees to be distracted by the thought.
All of us masters of distraction.
Mistresses.
Sounding louche is the least of my troubles.
Then Bunny moves on to being coy, enjoys it: ‘I don’t believe we can describe him as staff, though. There are certain things one doesn’t do in front of servants.’ Her smile is coloured with Francis and how he would smile if he could hear her. ‘Or with them, for that matter.’
Derek is, meanwhile, sullen and clearly doesn’t want to consider geriatric sex or listen to Bunny, but Beth pats his shoulder and goes in search of Francis – because I would like to eat my dinner with a gentleman.
‘Oh, I’m not, you know.’ Francis quietly tired when she finds him, his tray laden with fruit – especially watermelon – and cheese, his pockets full of crackers as usual. ‘No, I’m just me. And she puts up with the me-ness of me. And that’s all right. That’s very fine. No one else would.’ A fingertip smudge of blue beneath each eye.
He’s spent the week breaking his heart to be cheery, a jolly good fellow.
‘No, you’ll always be a gentleman, Francis. It’s how you’re built.’
I don’t give compliments. It’s not a compliment, though, is it? He’s a gent.
‘You’re very kind. Thank you. Should we meet on any future occasions – not at sea, I don’t just mean tomorrow – it would be my pleasure to try and not be disappointing.’ He peers at the plates of watermelon – neat chap in a blazer and slacks, doing well for his age, only really needs glasses for reading – but it’s not his health that scares him – a tray full of gifts for Bunny, treats, expressions of affection.
What will he do when they’re pointless?
Some people have problems they did not make.
‘You’re very good with each other.’
‘What?’ Francis close to alarmed for an instant – he doesn’t want a eulogy yet and she should have known better than to start one – but then he simply rolls his eyes. ‘We’ve had our moments. In both directions.’ Then he stops, doesn’t want to hear himself almost speaking his marriage away, out of existence. ‘And I’m sure we will again . . . Christ, it can make you bloody miserable.’ He pauses again, picks an unthreatening meaning. ‘This end of the voyage bit, it’s glum. Even though it’s not as if you’ll actually miss almost anyone you’ve met and you’re going straight back home with whoever you came with – I mean, it’s not an emotional time, or anything. It shouldn’t be.’ He rests his hand on her shoulder. ‘You, though – you have to come and see us. And I would recommend you do that almost as soon as we land. Unless you’re busy, might be . . .’ He stumbles when what he meant to be enthusiasm sounds as if matters are urgent and Beth ought to rush.
‘I will come and see you. Both of you.’
Because any word can work a spell and then Bunny will have to be there, still all right.
Francis gathering his poise again, summoning up mock-serious nodding. ‘Excellent. And that’s contractually binding, you know – a promise made at sea, I’m sure that’s something legal. Not the standard holiday fib. Let me give you our address.’ And he moves deftly through his procedure for finding his card and presenting it. Beth suspects there was a time when having a business card was a big deal – it still pleases him. ‘Here. Don’t lose it. And then you can come and stay – we’re deep in the country now and it’s too far to travel and not stay – and if you stay for a night, then you might as well make it longer . . . See?’ He winks at her. ‘You were warned you’d be kidnapped . . .’
After this, both of them are aware they will need to joke and talk nonsense and not act as if anyone is dying or ever could: they will behave like human beings and make the very best of ignoring the long term.
Which could make me proud of us. I’m definitely proud of Francis.
So they improvise and she forages, as Francis puts it, with him in attendance, encouraging and advising and flirting in a way which implies mutual respect.
‘This is very wonderful, Beth. Your being here. And you’ve made the sun come out.’ He steers her round to a window and proves his point. ‘More wonderful. Gorgeous.’
Out on the deck a jogger in a knitted hat fights his
way past the glass and they watch him and then survey the restaurant and its quietly pornographic butter sculptures and carved fruits and busied heat lamps. The room seems to halt before it drops with another wave, rolls and sighs, and while it does Beth looks at Francis and tells him, ‘I’m not going to say goodbye. I would if I was going to, because it seems like the right time, but I’m not.’ And she kisses his ear and he grins.
Then he kisses Beth’s hand and when he raises his head again, the grin isn’t hers any longer – it’s for Bunny. ‘Very wonderful. Now, we’re late and there will be rumours and alarms. And I have already been severely scolded for eyeing up the butter maidens. Dairy produce – it makes the sculptor overly focused on milk and its associated physical attributes. Come on.’
‘I can’t think what you mean, Francis.’
‘And Bunny says neither can I.’ Still grinning as they progress round to the table.
When he arrives, Francis kisses his wife and she frowns at him until he pantomimes being sly and then they both giggle and she kisses him back. ‘Did he give you any bother, Beth?’
‘No more than usual.’ Beth sets down her offerings alongside Francis’s careful array. Her efforts appear random: cold chicken, grated carrots, dumpling soup, a slice of pizza, watermelon, something with fish in a pink sauce – the kind of things she’d bring a stranger, trying to guess what he’d like.
When I no longer care about what Derek likes.
And what would be a suitable meal to share with a soon-to-be-ex-almost-future-husband? Sexual Etiquette For All Occasions – I think that’s a lecture I missed.
Derek has decided to be baleful. ‘And what’s the usual?’ But then he seems unable to think of anything more to say, so he prods at his chicken suspiciously. He may have thought it might be impressive to refuse nourishment, but then Beth watches as four days of fasting kick in and he proceeds to eat everything she’s brought him and then to insist on more. Otherwise he is mostly silent. Bunny, who has clearly been steadfast in trying to draw him out, makes a further attempt. ‘We live in Dorset.’ Although she’s beginning to tire.
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