What’s the point?’
‘I’m thinking!’
He laughed, picked up a pebble from the ground and slung it high, as far as he could.
‘All day? For a whole fucking day? With your back up against a wall?’
He asked her if she couldn’t smell the sewage, which came from a burst pipe in the village. She couldn’t smell the rot, or the empty feeling of nothingness stretching from the pine tree across the vineyards into more nothingness .
She said she was confused. She was sorry. She didn’t mean to exclude him. He sat beside her and said that he was feeling tired of it all. He thought that perhaps he should go back to London with her.
‘Don’t do that,’ she said gently. ‘Let’s take a few days apart.’
Which was fine, he conceded. ‘Absolutely fine.’
They sat on an old bench in the atrium under cover of spiders’ webs and leaves, picnicked on bread and olives and cheese. Kate was hungry now and glad to eat. A breeze rustled the leaves in the trees but otherwise the garden was still. In a few days, Stephen said they could go to the coast, buy some oysters down in the oyster bays. There were flamingos there. He had seen them on the way in from the airport. She said she would like to see the flamingos, how pink they would be against all the blue; and that she would like to take a walk on the beach; throw some pebbles in at the sea.
‘Good,’ he said, feeling better at once for the shade and the food.
‘Do you love me, Stephen?’ she asked quietly.
He ripped a hunk of bread from the loaf and dragged it through the oil in the plastic container; tried to swallow it whole, like a snake with a small bird.
‘I want to get back to our routine, Kate.’
‘Then you should be going back. And I should be staying here.’
‘But your mother.’
‘Yes but you’re the one who wants to be going back.’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Can I stay?’
‘I don’t know, Kate. Can you?’
They wiped oil off their chins. Stephen pulled giant, glistening anchovies out of the jar and laid them across the bread. He cut a slice of blue Roquefort from the triangle sweating and shining in its paper on the bench. There was the drill of a woodpecker. In the village, a dog was barking.
He filled her glass for her and she leant forward to drink. She slopped more wine into her glass and tilted it up towards her mouth.
‘I love this wine,’ he said. ‘So clean.’
‘It’s a nice wine,’ she agreed. He turned and looked into her eyes, which were big and brown and suddenly full of love. How fickle it was; the way it came in and out, depending on the mood, on the sunlight and the quality of the wine. He watched the tears bead on her eyelashes and he put his finger there to flick them away.
‘We were always going to go to Fiji. Do you remember that?’ he asked, gently. ‘That was our place. In the first year we moved into that house and we had no money and were always working just to keep it all going. We said to each other one night that we were doing it for a holiday – a great big holiday, one day, in Fiji. I can’t stop thinking about that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we never went there, Kate. We sort of lost it.’
‘We got busy.’
‘Things have changed a bit.’
‘And I feel like I want a different life. I feel like I’ve paddled all the way out and dropped the oars and now the mist has come in and I can’t find my way back to the shore.’
He was grinning as if he hadn’t heard her, red-cheeked, insane. She looked at him then and her eyes neither moved him nor had any life in them at all. She was suddenly pale, and old-looking. He looked at the crow’s feet around her eyes.
Behind her head, a spider was moving, its web a tremor of frailty in the shade. She told him she could hardly breathe. She bent down for her glass, and drank up the wine.
‘That’s it,’ he said, and he could hear his voice; it was menacing and strange. ‘Drink it up, darling,’ he coaxed, and he placed a hand on the back
‘I’m thinking!’
He laughed, picked up a pebble from the ground and slung it high, as far as he could.
‘All day? For a whole fucking day? With your back up against a wall?’
He asked her if she couldn’t smell the sewage, which came from a burst pipe in the village. She couldn’t smell the rot, or the empty feeling of nothingness stretching from the pine tree across the vineyards into more nothingness .
She said she was confused. She was sorry. She didn’t mean to exclude him. He sat beside her and said that he was feeling tired of it all. He thought that perhaps he should go back to London with her.
‘Don’t do that,’ she said gently. ‘Let’s take a few days apart.’
Which was fine, he conceded. ‘Absolutely fine.’
They sat on an old bench in the atrium under cover of spiders’ webs and leaves, picnicked on bread and olives and cheese. Kate was hungry now and glad to eat. A breeze rustled the leaves in the trees but otherwise the garden was still. In a few days, Stephen said they could go to the coast, buy some oysters down in the oyster bays. There were flamingos there. He had seen them on the way in from the airport. She said she would like to see the flamingos, how pink they would be against all the blue; and that she would like to take a walk on the beach; throw some pebbles in at the sea.
‘Good,’ he said, feeling better at once for the shade and the food.
‘Do you love me, Stephen?’ she asked quietly.
He ripped a hunk of bread from the loaf and dragged it through the oil in the plastic container; tried to swallow it whole, like a snake with a small bird.
‘I want to get back to our routine, Kate.’
‘Then you should be going back. And I should be staying here.’
‘But your mother.’
‘Yes but you’re the one who wants to be going back.’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Can I stay?’
‘I don’t know, Kate. Can you?’
They wiped oil off their chins. Stephen pulled giant, glistening anchovies out of the jar and laid them across the bread. He cut a slice of blue Roquefort from the triangle sweating and shining in its paper on the bench. There was the drill of a woodpecker. In the village, a dog was barking.
He filled her glass for her and she leant forward to drink. She slopped more wine into her glass and tilted it up towards her mouth.
‘I love this wine,’ he said. ‘So clean.’
‘It’s a nice wine,’ she agreed. He turned and looked into her eyes, which were big and brown and suddenly full of love. How fickle it was; the way it came in and out, depending on the mood, on the sunlight and the quality of the wine. He watched the tears bead on her eyelashes and he put his finger there to flick them away.
‘We were always going to go to Fiji. Do you remember that?’ he asked, gently. ‘That was our place. In the first year we moved into that house and we had no money and were always working just to keep it all going. We said to each other one night that we were doing it for a holiday – a great big holiday, one day, in Fiji. I can’t stop thinking about that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we never went there, Kate. We sort of lost it.’
‘We got busy.’
‘Things have changed a bit.’
‘And I feel like I want a different life. I feel like I’ve paddled all the way out and dropped the oars and now the mist has come in and I can’t find my way back to the shore.’
He was grinning as if he hadn’t heard her, red-cheeked, insane. She looked at him then and her eyes neither moved him nor had any life in them at all. She was suddenly pale, and old-looking. He looked at the crow’s feet around her eyes.
Behind her head, a spider was moving, its web a tremor of frailty in the shade. She told him she could hardly breathe. She bent down for her glass, and drank up the wine.
‘That’s it,’ he said, and he could hear his voice; it was menacing and strange. ‘Drink it up, darling,’ he coaxed, and he placed a hand on the back
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