It had at least started well. Buenos Aires had delivered all that Grace had required: hot sun, boutique shopping, swanky bars and a grand buffet of aloof, beautiful men. During an evening at a bar called Milion – when Grace had forced Janey to join her in a series of seductive tableaux on the jasmine-laden balcony – Grace had caught the attention of a man called Nacho who wore a dazzling white shirt and a tasteful amount of dark chest hair. ‘I am Ignacio,’ he said broodily, having spent the last hour staring in a very sexual manner at Grace. ‘But it is okay for you to call me Nacho.’ He didn’t clarify what Janey should call him.
While Grace and Nacho conducted a conversational prelude to hot sex, Janey had wandered down into the candlelit garden and thought about Dylan. He was moving out today, as she recalled. She imagined their neat little flat in Ranelagh now stripped of Dylan’s possessions. Like a person half clothed. She imagined the moonlight shifting across the sterile white kitchen that she’d never truly liked, and realised that, even though she still didn’t know what she was doing in Argentina, it was definitely the right place to be. In Dublin her heart hurt, her head hurt, her life hurt. Here, she could breathe. Just.
By the time Milion closed it was settled that Grace and Janey were to join Nacho in Bariloche for a long weekend. ‘I will make reservations at the Llao Llao,’ he announced. Grace nodded coolly but later, when her and Janey Googled the hotel, she screamed her head off. ‘Will you look at it!’ she yelled. ‘Look at the spa on it! Look at the bloody INFINITY POOL! Feckin’ FECK, JANEY!’
Bariloche certainly looked like a pretty town: Janey was excited about the vibrant turquoise lakes and stunning, flower-covered mountains, and quite looked forward to stuffing herself with the chocolate for which Bariloche was famous. And while it felt like a bit of a shame to be holed up in a five-star hotel miles away from the pretty, Swiss-looking town centre, she’d at least be close to some good hiking.
Grace told Janey she would be too busy having facials and hot sex to go hiking and said that if you asked her, Janey was getting a bit carried away with this travel malarkey. ‘You’ll be after buying one of those backpacks if you’re not careful,’ she cautioned. ‘Just cool it, Janey, okay?’
Three days before they were due to arrive in Bariloche Janey and Grace had gone to a travel agent to book flights, only to find that there were none. It was the weekend of the Dia de la Virgen – a national holiday – and Bariloche was rammed with Argentina’s wealthy. ‘All of the flights were booked weeks ago,’ explained the nice lady at the flight desk. Grace disgraced herself in three different travel agents before she finally began to face the terrible prospect of an overnight bus.
‘Everyone takes overnight buses here,’ Janey said, reading their guidebook. ‘The seats recline flat! And you get a glass of champagne!’
Grace swore spiritedly for a while but really, she had no choice. Not if she wanted to see Nacho again. And it had all gone quite well; Janey had force-fed Grace a sleeping pill as they’d pulled out of Retiro station and Grace had slept through the night.
The scenery this morning had been stunning. Vast, wind-swept plains, pock-marked with silly llamas, giving way to Andean foothills and deep glacial lakes. Grace had even begun to start saying things like, ‘This is the life, eh Janey?’
Until: boom. The whole bus heard it. Not even the paved Ruta 237 was immune to loose gravel and one of those infamous flinty stones had pierced their rear tyre. The mighty double-decker coach was beaten; a useless shiny box stranded high above a river in the middle of nowhere.
Janey watches with both amusement and anxiety as another backpacker goes over to talk to Grace. Janey can’t understand why anyone would want to talk to Grace at this moment. She looks like she could eat you alive with her bare teeth.
A few seconds after the man crouches down in front of Grace, she storms off away from him. Janey frowns, wondering where Grace is planning to go. She marches furiously away from the bus and the river, wind-cropped grass swiping at her feet.
After stomping for twenty metres or so, Grace looks around, realises that there is not a useful picnic table anywhere and lets out a little scream of rage. She plonks herself down furiously on the grass and exudes radioactive rays of foulness. Janey, sighing, goes after her.
‘Is she your friend?’ The backpacker man says, gazing across at Grace.
Janey confirms that she is. The man looks curious. ‘Is she having a breakdown?’
She tries not to laugh, out of loyalty to Grace, but Janey can’t help herself. ‘No!’ she chuckles. ‘But I can see why you’d ask.’
The man seems pleased to have made Janey laugh. He smiles at her and she notices how kind his face is. She thinks he’s the sort of man who buys people presents and knows how to make bread and fix a bike. The sort of man who’s as happy listening to Schubert as he is Justin Beiber and doesn’t care what anyone thinks. The exact opposite of Dylan, who only listens to electronic music made by men with stupid haircuts.
Janey shakes her head briefly, wondering where all of that came from.
‘Well, good luck with her,’ the man grins, looking out at Grace. ‘Make sure she doesn’t eat you.’
Janey picks up Grace’s handbag and the Jesus statue and walks out into the scrub.
‘They’re fixing it, Grace, it won’t be much longer now,’ she says, sitting down next to her. A strong gust of wind flattens the grass, sending Grace’s hair flying into her eyes, which causes her to swear a bit more. It crosses Janey’s mind that they are probably the first two people ever to sit on this particular part of the earth. Land stretches away from them in all directions; the coach already looks like a little Club bar. The orange-flavoured one.
‘I thought you could pray to Jesus,’ Janey says, propping him up against Grace’s handbag so he won’t fall over.
‘Feck off,’ Grace snaps.
‘You can’t say feck off to Jesus!’
‘I didn’t. I said feck off to you.’
‘Oh.’
Grace moves Jesus so that she can get into her handbag. She rootles round haphazardly for a few seconds and then pulls out a tub of Crème de la Mer. ‘Stupid wind,’ she mutters, dabbing some blobs of the cream around her eyes. The stupid wind picks up again, sticking her hair to her face, and Grace screams furiously. She throws the Crème de la Mer over her shoulder and puts her head in her hands with a manic, hollow laugh.
Janey is unperturbed. She knows Grace is not a monster; that these rage attacks seldom last long. And after all, she and Grace are in the same boat, they’re just dealing with it differently. Janey at times wishes that she had Grace’s combustible anger. It’s probably a lot more effective than the strange emptiness she’s feeling.
Janey props Jesus back up and rubs Grace’s back. ‘Have a good pray,’ she says encouragingly. ‘Go on, now.’
Grace huffs. ‘Okay, Jesus,’ she says. ‘Listen up. I want some cake and a pot of really good tea. None of that half-arsed rubbish they served me in Buenos Aires. And I want a facial, and a shellac pedi. I want to eat everything on that breakfast buffet without getting fat, and I want to have a good time with Nacho and – Jesus, here’s the thing, I just want to flaming well GET THERE. Okay?’
Janey laughs. In spite of everything, she loves Grace. Grace is like a difficult child; never to be taken too seriously.
‘Your turn,’ Grace says to Janey. She nods towards Jesus.
‘Oh!’ Janey wasn’t expecting this. She looks at Jesus’ face, which has been painted really quite beautifully, and admires the quiet confidence in his eyes. He is the antithesis of Grace. Humble. Calm.
‘Jaysus,’ Grace says, aghast. ‘Are you actually praying there? Like, silent piety and the like?’
‘No! I was just looking at him.’
‘Well, get on with it then.’
Janey closes her eyes and says the first thing that comes into her head. ‘Jesus, if it’s okay with you, I’d like a day where I don’t think about Dylan. Just one day. Um, amen.’
There’s a silence, during which Janey tries not to cry and – miraculously – succeeds. When she opens her eyes again, Grace is watching her. ‘Have you gone religious?’ she asks suspiciously.
‘Eh?’
‘You went all quiet and then you asked Jesus if you could have a day not thinking about Dylan, and then you didn’t cry. I smell a rat, Janey.’
Janey laughs. ‘Maybe Jesus could help me with this broken heart business.’
Grace looks ever more aghast. ‘Oh, holy God.’
‘Grace, will you get over yourself? I’m joking! And I’d like to remind you that it was you who bought a Jesus statue, not me.’
Grace nods her acknowledgement. ‘Fair enough. But Janey, did you see the man? He was a RIDE!’
Janey and Grace had taken a day trip to Lujan, a small town with an enormous cathedral that was one of the most sacred places in the whole of Argentina. Grace had got bored quite quickly and had wandered off into the gift shop, only to fall in love with the man who worked there. She had come away with a two-foot Jesus statue and a phone number.
Janey grins, remembering the day. ‘Most of the men here are great-looking,’ she points out.
‘How was I to know! We’d only just got here!’
But Grace is laughing now, her rage broken.
‘Ah, I’m sorry Janey. I’m being a devil.’
Janey doesn’t deny it.
Grace sighs. ‘I just don’t seem to be dealing with my breakup as well as you’re dealing with yours. I miss that fecker Chris like you wouldn’t believe, Janey.’
Janey smiles encouragingly at Grace but thinks, I’m dead inside. How can you not see that?
Two days later, Janey’s heart is still frozen but the rest of her feels like it’s made of spun gold. In the hotel spa she has been stroked, massaged, polished and buffed to within an inch of her life. The sun is shining and she and Grace already have the makings of respectable tans, although they are like old white socks next to Nacho’s conker-brown skin.
Nacho is enjoying his weekend with Grace very much, by the sound of things. ‘He won’t stop the sexing,’ Grace breathes at breakfast today. ‘I feel like I’m an actress in a filthy high-class—’
‘Shut up!’ Janey hisses, aware of a well-heeled couple poring over the fruit bar nearby.
‘Ah, who cares,’ Grace grumbles. ‘They could probably do with some tips.’
After breakfast, they roll out pristine white towels on their sunloungers once again, positioning themselves so that they look over the infinity pool into the vivid blue lake beyond. Mountains rise up behind the water and at the end of the carefully manicured lawn wild flowers sway in a languid breeze.
Grace starts talking about how she is going to lure Chris back by getting really thin, especially in the thigh area, and maybe look at some chemical peels.
‘I’ve been researching personal trainers,’ she says. ‘There’s a great-sounding guy in Portobello. Maybe we could see him together? Turn ourselves into Goddesses, you know? You could be magnificent if you threw a bit of money at yourself, Janey.’
You could be magnificent if you threw a bit of money at yourself, Janey.
Janey repeats this sentence detachedly in her head. She is about to agree with Grace when she is suddenly sledge-hammered by a thought: I might just be magnificent anyway. Free of charge!
‘All of your problems could be solved with a little bit of tailoring,’ Grace continues, just as Nacho arrives. ‘Some decent cosmetics and a nice handbag. Oh, and goji berries. They’re the business. They’d sort out that skin of yours in a month.’
‘I agree,’ Nacho says authoritatively.
Janey looks at them and has another thought: I have to get out of here.
She feels uncharacteristically wild. The hotel is beautiful; luxurious beyond her wildest dreams, but right now she wants to feel wind in her hair and eat a dodgy burger from a roadside vendor and maybe find a secret lake into which she and her bad skin will plunge naked. She might even let off a primitive howl in the woods somewhere. Tussle with a dog, or a ruggedly handsome man, and chip her nail polish.
‘I’m going to hire a bike,’ she says to Grace and Nacho, who stare at Janey as if she has just grown a third breast on her forehead.
An hour later Janey is freewheeling down the long hotel drive towards the circular road that loops around between the lakes. ‘YEAHHHHH!’ she shouts as the bike gains speed. ‘WHOOOO!’
Yeah and whoo indeed! Janey feels like she’s emerging from a coma; from an emotional stasis not dissimilar to constipation. She does not have a plan, other than to keep moving and be as wild as she possibly can.
Freedom beckons, she thinks excitedly. Let the fun begin!
Half way through the bike ride, Janey is boiling hot and totally exhausted. She knows she should be grateful for the beautiful scenery but the hills are punishingly steep and the heat is deadly. There are itchy bites all over her ankles, she is sweating like a pony and she keeps narrowly avoiding death-by-badly-driven-tourist-car.
This bike ride, she thinks darkly, is a load of cack. I should have had a facial and tried to flirt with one of those French blokes by the pool.
She cycles angrily on.
Then: ‘No!’ she cries, realising that she’s going to turn into Grace if she’s not careful. Janey fixes a smile on to her face. This bike ride perfect, she tells herself. The perfect escape!
A few seconds later she is forced sideways into a verge by a car whose driver shouts ‘Boluda!’ in a Buenos Aires accent. Janey can’t quite remember what boluda means but she is sure that it doesn’t mean ‘hello!’ or ‘have a nice day!’.
Janey tries to do a V-sign but the car has already sped off round the corner, and she finds herself doing it at an oncoming cyclist instead.
‘Oh,’ says the cyclist in an English accent. ‘Thanks.’
As he pulls over Janey realises it’s the man from the bus, the funny one who asked if Grace was having a breakdown. He is damp with sweat and red in the face which makes her feel a lot better about the fact that she is too.
‘Oh!’ Janey echoes. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No. Just annoyed. And a bit embarrassed.’
He offers a hand to pull her up. ‘Don’t be. An old lady forced me into a ditch a few miles back.’
Janey straightens out her bike.
‘So I’ve been trying to find the lake you can swim in,’ the man says conversationally.
‘I’ve been looking for it too! I’m boiling!’ Janey is pleased. She didn’t think that English guys were up for things like talking. They were quite distinct from the Irish in that respect.
‘Tell me about it,’ the man says. ‘I smell like a ferret’s armpit. To be honest, I’ve started to hate this cycle ride a little bit.’
Janey giggles. ‘Thank you for saying that. It feels naughty not to enjoy it.’
‘This is the problem with travelling. You’re not allowed to have a crap time. Everything’s meant to be, like, amazing. But right now, I hate this bike ride. I don’t want to cycle. I hate these stupid forests. I hate the flowers. I just want to sulk in a lake and have someone bring me ice cold beer. And that’s that.’
Janey feels weak with desire at this prospect. ‘Oh God . . . cold water and beer. Oh my God . . .’
The man looks at her, as if sizing her up. ‘Sod it. Do you want to try to find the lake with me?’ he asks. ‘We must be so close. If we just hide our bikes and push through this bit of woods I reckon we’ll be there pretty soon.’
Janey ignores everything she’s ever been told about not going off into Argentinean woods with men she’s met at bus breakdowns. ‘Yes,’ she says decisively. ‘That is exactly what I think we should do.’
The wildness is all back on. Janey is a fearless adventurer! The type who off-roads with unknown men.
They see the lake through the trees ten minutes after setting off and soon after they emerge: two tiny stick people
next to a vast, gently sparkling sheet of water. Janey knows how cold these lakes are and couldn’t give a rat’s arse about it. All she knows is that she is hot, prickly and very sweaty. And wild.
But there is a problem.
‘I forgot my bikini,’ she says sadly.
‘I forgot my trunks,’ the man says. He is visibly disappointed.
Something strange is happening to Janey. It feels like the wildness is cranking up to the next level.
‘I won’t look if you don’t,’ she says slyly.
The man grins. ‘You want me to take my clothes off?’
‘Yes. And I’ll do the same. And we won’t look at each other, we’ll just jump in like . . . like mad water buffalo,’ she finishes with slight uncertainty.
The man looks like he might cry with relief. ‘You are my favourite woman on earth,’ he says earnestly. ‘You have my word. I won’t look.’
And a few seconds later, shouting like tribesmen, they hurl themselves into the water. Janey has no idea how deep it is, whether it harbours a Loch Ness monster or one of those little fish that swim up your whatsit. And she doesn’t care, because as the water closes over her head and she sinks down into the cold, velvety depths, she is so full of life she can hardly breathe for it.
‘RAHHH!’ she shouts, breaking the surface again. ‘Feckin’ amazing! AMAZING!’
The man breaks the surface a few seconds later. ‘YEAH!’ he shouts. He begins to laugh. Janey begins to laugh too. She doesn’t even know his name, and yet she is swimming naked with him in broad daylight. Something is happening to her, and it’s good. Locks are being released. Chains are being removed.
‘LET’S CATCH A FISH,’ she roars, and the man laughs even harder.
The lake sparkles like a treasure chest.
Much later on, Janey unlocks the bedroom door quietly, in case Grace is asleep. It’s unlikely; they are all checking out tomorrow and she and Nacho are probably conducting a sexual marathon in his room.
The chambermaids have come in and turned down the beds, leaving soft lamps on and the curtains open before the last traces of light fade into fragrant black.
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