Authors: Grace Wynne-Jones
‘You’re a feisty lady. I admire that,’ he says, but he looks
uncomfortable. ‘You have style.’
‘So have you,’ I say. ‘And I’m not sure I like it.’
Serge’s face breaks into a broad, conspiratorial smile. I frown at him.
‘Do you do this a lot?’
‘What?’
‘Approach strange women in foreign hotels?’
‘Occasionally.’
This is not a romantic answer. I look at him with sudden
distaste. He didn’t even bother to dress the reply up. Toss a
silk scarf over its sharper contours. Give it some accessories.
A woman likes verbal accessories and men, duplicitous crea
tures that they can be, tend to need them.
‘He probably has a wife,’ I think. ‘I’m almost sure he does.
He has that look about him.’ Suddenly I don’t know what to
say. It occurs to me that I could bite him – hard.
‘Don’t get me wrong, Jasmine. I am fussy,’ Serge continues.
‘This doesn’t happen all that often.’
I remove the rose from behind my ear and shove it back
into its vase. I straighten up and reach for my handbag. ‘You
should brush up on your reassurances, Serge,’ I say. ‘They’re
not all that convincing.’
‘Are you leaving?’ Serge looks amazed.
‘Yes. Yes I am.’
‘Why?’
‘You want to have sex with me, don’t you?’
Serge gives me a coy smile. ‘The idea had crossed my mind.’
I rise from the sofa in as regal a manner as I can muster.
‘I’m sorry Serge, you’ve got me wrong. I’m not that sort
of person. I do not treat sex in such a casual manner. My
husband and many of my friends do – but I’ve chosen not to join them.’
‘That’s a pity, because I think we could have had some
fun, Jasmine. I think you need to have some fun.’ Serge rises
and reaches for my hand. He kisses it without rancour. I find
myself hesitating. He’s right, I do need to have some fun, but
surely I’m not this desperate. No – no – of course I’m not.
My resolve returns and I try to assume the friendly yet feline
inscrutability of, say, Charlotte Rampling.
‘Thank you Serge, I did enjoy – you know – whatever it is
we were doing. I’ve got an awful lot of shopping to do now, so I’d better go.’
And I do go. I square my shoulders and stride through the
door of that hotel. My path is less linear than I would like it to be because I’m slightly tipsy from all the wine. As I step
out into the full blast of a Mediterranean afternoon I shade
my eyes. I walk along blinking at the world in a bewildered
manner and searching in my bag for my sunglasses.
And then I bump straight into Al. Al of the beautiful bottom. Al from my windsurfing class.
‘Hello, Jasmine,’ he beams. ‘Doing a bit of sightseeing?’
‘Mmmm – sort of.’ I try to smile in a calm, friendly fashion
but I fear the wine may have turned it into a leer.
‘I was going to go to the beach – want to join me?’
‘Mmmm – well.’ I stare down at my canvas shoes and feel
myself sobering.
‘Don’t worry if you have other plans. It was only a suggestion.’
The midday heat is baking my skin now. It’s uncomfort
able. The beach would be cooler. It would be sensible to go
there, and I’m going to be sensible today – I really am.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll come for a while. I’ve got some shopping
to do later.’
‘Great,’ says Al. ‘It’ll be nice to have some company.’
We start to head in the direction of the sea. I walk while Al
saunters. I try not to look at him. I’m not used to men being
quite so handsome. I feel rather frumpy and old beside him.
His skin is a beautiful kind of honey colour, and his thick
hair is tousled and sun blond. He’s in his early thirties but
he looks about twenty. His body is great too – muscled in
all the right places, but not offensively so. When he smiles I almost shade my eyes again. It’s such a wide, carefree smile.
His brown eyes smile too. They’re less carefree though. In
fact they look a little lost.
The aimlessness of holidays is, of course, one of their
attractions. But I’m not sure I like it just now. I’m used to
having Bruce beside me, steering me towards some monu
ment or other place of cultural merit. Suddenly the day
seems chaotic and I do too. Suddenly a wave of loneliness
engulfs me. I’m walking towards a beach with a near stranger. A stranger with a beautiful bum. I have no idea what we are going to talk about – surfing maybe. Al looks that type. I’m going to have to pretend to be happy too. You’re supposed to be happy on holidays. This fact has been pressing in on me lately – thickening my thoughts
– making me a bit miserable in itself. I consult my holi
day script.
‘It’s wonderful to be away, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘And it’s so
beautiful here. So warm.’
‘Absolutely,’ says Al.
‘I’m surprised you’re in town on your own. You seem to
have made so many new – new friends.’ I’m remembering all
the nubile beauties who hover around Al at Holo.
‘Mmmm,’ says Al. Maybe it’s my imagination, but there
seems to be a certain gloom behind his cheery demeanour.
‘Have you been to Holo before?’
‘Yes, once. With my girlfriend – my former girlfriend.’
Al sighs as he says this, then he adds, ‘We broke up last
month.’
When I turn to look at him his eyes are glistening.
‘Do you want to talk about it, Al?’
We’ve stopped so that Al can examine some postcards at
a stand.
‘No, not really,’ he says as he chooses some. I wait while
he pays for them at the counter.
‘I’ve just separated from my husband.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Al studies my face kindly.
‘No.’
We walk on, a trifle morosely now. All the things we don’t
want to talk about swarming around us like mosquitoes. I’ve
got four mosquito bites on my arm and they’re a bit itchy.
I scratch them absent-mindedly and then stare at the ocean
we’ve just reached – trying to find some peace in the view.
Al has been to this beach before. He knows a secluded
corner. I’m not sure I want to be in a secluded corner with
him, but he seems determined to go there. The day seems
to be taking on a momentum of its own. Something I don’t
understand and can’t seem to stop. It’s very improbable – Al
and I walking together along this beach. I feel like a miscast actress in
Baywatch.
Any moment now someone is going to
grab me off the set.
My holiday script has made no provision for this scenario,
so I decide to fill Al in on some local history that I’ve gleaned
from my guidebook. Al does not appear that interested so I find myself blabbing about Serge, the man in the hotel
foyer. Al’s silence is fuelling my revelations in a disconcerting
manner. I give him far more details than I intended to. Still, I
know I’m on safe ground. Al can’t possibly be interested in
me in the way Serge was and these intimacies do, in a sense,
show that I realise this. As I speak I take off my shoes and
then I yelp with discomfort. The sand is very hot. I head for
the wet sand by the sea which is cooler.
‘I’m not used to being single you see, Al,’ I say. ‘Sex is like
a kind of dance – isn’t it? But I don’t know the choreography.
I know a bit about ballet, but not this modern stuff.’
Al smiles wryly, as if I’ve just said something amusing.
‘It’s not a joke, Al. I mean it. My friend Susan says I should
have a fling, but I don’t know how to. I mean, I want to, in a
way. But I don’t know how I’d react.’
‘You won’t know until you give it a try.’ Al smiles charmingly. Then he picks up a stone and sends it skimming along
the water.
I’m beginning to see why strangers sometimes approach
me and tell me their life stories. Sometimes it’s easier talking
to someone you don’t know. Someone who will listen to your
story without already knowing the plot. Who won’t butt in
and correct you, as though it wasn’t your story at all.
I feel like a comfy pair of carpet slippers – a cosy presence
that Al somehow needs. This has the effect of dampening
my libido and making me maternal. I don’t know what his
girlfriend did to him, but it’s obvious he’s very hurt. Since he
doesn’t say anything much I blab on in that awful way one
does sometimes. Driven by a pleasing indiscretion – showing
off my warts.
I find myself telling him about Charlie. ‘I wish I could
love him, but I don’t know if I can love anyone any more
–
not in that way,’ I tell him. ‘Not after what Bruce – my
husband did.’
I wait for him to ask what Bruce did, but he doesn’t. He’s
a bit like Teddy in that way. Kind but uncommunicative. I
tell him about Bunty.
‘It’s amazing. I never thought I could drive, but I can. It
frightens me a bit, but I’ve got used to that.’
The secluded spot we’re heading for is now, apparently, in view. It’s sheltered by rocks and very out of the way. I
turn, half-scared, towards the other end of the beach where the holiday-makers are now small dots. I really didn’t know
we had walked this far.
‘We’ve come an awfully long way, Al,’ I say.
‘Yes we have. Can I have a hug?’
‘A hug?’ I stare at him, bewildered.
‘Yes, a hug. I need one.’
Somehow I’d forgotten all about Holo, where frequent
hugs are almost
de rigueur.
‘Okay,’ I say, a trifle grudgingly. But when Al wraps me
in his arms I lean against him gratefully.
‘Do you buy into all that stuff?’ I ask. My voice is muffled
by his T-shirt. My face is pressed against his chest, smelling
his sweet, young, smell.
‘What stuff?’ Al is rubbing my back in a friendly fashion.
‘That stuff at Holo. Hugs and everyone trying to be so nice
to each other all the time.’