A Surrey State of Affairs (43 page)
Read A Surrey State of Affairs Online
Authors: Ceri Radford
So here I am, alone in front of a glowing computer screen in the lobby of the Hilton, marooned on this marble-clad island of civilization amid the great, seething, dusty unknown. When I think of home—my favorite wicker chair in the conservatory, my daily walk past the village pond—my chest tightens. But I cannot face the long flight back alone. I cannot accept that this is the end.
9 P.M.
Feeling stronger after a salade Niçoise from room service with half a bottle of Argentinean white from Mendoza. It was surprisingly good. Over dinner, I watched an American program called
Frasier
on the gigantic flat-screen TV and found myself laughing; then I remembered where I was and why and I cried. The lobby is full of people on their way out for the evening; women in skirts and heels, men in jackets, children being told off for dipping their fingers in the ornamental fountain. There is an elderly couple in front of me now; they could be Argentinean or perhaps Spanish, both immaculately dressed in cream, with creased, nut-brown skin. Her hair is pure white, scooped back in a chignon held with a tortoiseshell clip. He has stopped and leaned his cane against the wall to help her put her cardigan on. I’ve got to go. I think I’m going to cry again.
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 20
I’ve not told anyone at home what has happened. How can I, when I’m not even sure myself? Perhaps Jeffrey will call in the next day or so and he’ll be back to his usual jaunty, unruffled self.
I jumped in expectation when my phone bleeped this morning, as I was eating breakfast. It was a text message, which read:
Hi Mum, hope yr ok and enjoying Argentina. Have a steak for me! Love Rupert.
Like the rest of the family, he doesn’t know the real reason for this trip.
I sat there, alone, in front of a little glass bowl of grapefruit compote and a plate of sausages and tomatoes, and I did not know what to reply. In the end I fell back on:
Hello Rupert, weather good, food good, take care, love Mum x.
It wasn’t a lie, but it didn’t really tell the truth either.
I wonder if I can make it to the Argentinean national museum and back on my own without getting lost or mugged.
6 P.M.
I could, and I did. They have some very beautiful artifacts for such a wild country.
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 21
Last night I went to the Hilton bar, alone. I realize that in usual circumstances a woman should not drink by herself, but I think the fact that after thirty-three years of marriage my husband has abandoned me in favor of a herd of cattle should be taken as a mitigating factor. The bar in question is very plush, with dark oak fittings, a sweeping view across the city, and no men in baggy T-shirts eating crisps in dark corners. It is certainly a contrast to The Plucked Pheasant.
I perched myself delicately on a bar stool, opened my copy of Joanna Trollope’s
The Spanish Lover,
and waited to be served. When she came over, the barmaid took one look at me—my novel, my white blouse which I had pressed with the traveling iron—and gave me a broad, sympathetic smile. She looked about
thirty, with pretty features and one tiny streak of gray in her thick black hair. As she poured a gin and tonic she made small talk, and it was so nice to have a fellow human being to chat with—not that this blog isn’t a great relief too, of course, but sometimes one pines for an actual voice—that I could almost overlook her dreadful lisping accent. I expect I will see her again this evening.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 22
1 A.M.
readers ive learned a word in spanish and that word is
cabrón.
Adriana the barmaid says that is what heffrey is and she is right.
Cabrón cabrón cabrón cabrón!
3 P.M.
I am embarrassed to see my earlier outpouring. Please understand that I am in a situation of peculiar stress. Thirty laps in the hotel pool and an iced Perrier have helped to clear my head.
Still no text message from Jeffrey. No e-mail, nothing. I could have been run over by a mad Latino driver or trampled to death by a samba street parade for all he knows, or cares.
Cabrón.
I did, however, receive the following:
yo mo, hope ur havin a wicked time in argentina. has dad fallen off his horse yet?!! lol
do u have a spare credit card? wanna buy darcy more nutz :)
luv soph xx
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23
This morning, with the help of Adriana the barmaid’s map, I made it to the national art gallery and back. On the way, I stopped off to buy Rupert a leather belt and Sophie a purse. Jeffrey would no doubt have tried haggling, but I was happy to
accept that such an activity is inimical to an Englishwoman’s soul and hand over five dollars apiece.
4 P.M.
Is this it? Is this what it feels like when a marriage is over? Empty, anonymous, dislocated, dizzy, alone? I’m eating well, I’m sleeping well. Every night when I go to bed, I read my book propped up on four plump white pillows and luxuriate in the space.
Is this it?
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24
Two e-mails arrived today. The first read:
Connie,
Sorry to scarper, old bird. Feel much better up here in the fresh air. Getting a grip on things—including a polo mallet! Think I’m a natural. Next time I try, the horse will be moving!! We’ll talk soon, I promise. Just need to clear the head.
Hope the Hilton’s okay. The credit card’s in your handbag if you need anything.
Love,
Jeffrey
I did not feel that it merited a reply.
The second read:
Dear Constance,
You are gone, and I don’t know why. Rumor has it that you’re in Colombia. Perhaps you always wanted to go there, and Jeffrey has taken you off on a spontaneous, romantic holiday. But I worry this
is not the case. I can’t help but think that Tuscany would be more to your tastes. Constance, if you don’t want to be there, if you have traipsed after that man for no good reason and are regretting it, if you want someone to come and see you and bring you home, just say the word and I will book my flight. (I am presuming Jeffrey did not get his shotgun through security.)
Love,
Gerald
I didn’t reply to that one either.
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 25
Today is my thirty-fourth wedding anniversary, and the fourth anniversary that Jeffrey has apparently forgotten. My bags are packed. I am not going home. I am not going to find Jeffrey.
I am going “traveling.”
Over the course of several evenings, Adriana, who is a native of Patagonia, the mountainous territory in the south, has described the rugged splendor of her country. Her voice is mellow and hypnotic, once you get used to the lisp. After a while I could almost smell the cold, clean wind blowing off the glaciers. I felt a strange yearning. I wanted to go. Why should Jeffrey be the only one to disappear when he feels like it? Why should I languish here, breaking the paper hygienic seal on my own lavatory day after day?
Because, I know you are thinking, I am not the sort of person to indulge in flights of fancy. Because my feet are firmly on the ground, encased in L. K. Bennett court shoes. Because, to be frank, strange places, strange people, and strange food scare me. And yet Adriana swept all these worries and more away with the quiet determination of a glacier displacing moraine. She wrote down
some essential phrases in Spanish, including “No, thank you,” “Yes, please,” “Leave me alone, you son of a she-dog,” and “One steak, medium-well.” I felt light-headed, and free.
I am taking a taxi to Buenos Aires airport, followed by a short flight to El Calafate. Once there, I have the address written down of a hotel that Adriana assures me is modern, comfortable, and an excellent base for booking a trip to the glaciers.
Jeffrey tried to call me earlier, and I pressed the
BUSY
button.
Hasta luego, amigos.
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 26