Authors: Grace Wynne-Jones
‘My daughter’s hair is the same colour as yours,’ I say.
‘She’s very beautiful.’
‘You’re very attractive yourself, Jasmine.’
‘Oh, come on Al – there’s no need to flatter me.’
‘I’m not flattering you. It’s true.’
‘I wish my Katie – that’s my daughter’s name – could meet you.’
‘Why?’
‘Well – you’re so hunky she might decide not to be a
lesbian.’
‘Is she a lesbian?’
‘She’s not quite sure – but it’s beginning to look that way.’
‘And how do you feel about it?’
‘To be frank about it, Al, I’m very disappointed. Of course
I’ve been trying to pretend that I just want what she wants ’cos that’s what one’s supposed to say, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve
read enough
Guardian
articles to know that. But deep down
I’m extremely pissed off about it. Extremely.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I suppose I hoped one day she’d marry someone like
you and have children and we’d – you know – have things to talk about. Have things in common. Mothers tend to feel
that way. I mean, my mother wasn’t that happily married,
but she couldn’t wait to see me walking up the aisle. And now
here I am, separated from my husband, and still wanting my
daughter to do what I did. It’s weird.’
‘No it isn’t weird, Jasmine.’ Al looks at me tenderly. ‘It’s
human. But just keep loving her anyway. Love her in the way
we all want to be loved.’
‘And what way is that?’ I turn towards him earnestly.
‘The kind of love that comes without conditions.’ He picks
up a pebble and cups it in his hand. ‘Contentment is inside
you, Jasmine. It’s not out there waiting for people to do what
you want them to do. It’s not waiting for you to be who you
think you should be. It’s a decision, in a way.’
I sit there happily, drinking in what Al is saying. The ideas are not new. I have, of course, read them many t
imes in various books. He probably has too. But it’s nicer
when someone says them. Someone who understands them
– who’s not just using the words hoping one day to learn the
language.
Every so often in my life I have these mystical conversa
tions. For a while everything makes sense, because I know
it doesn’t have to. And then I find a fake diamond hair grip
in my marriage bed, or some other urgent conundrum – and
it’s as if I’ve never had these cosmic conversations at all.
Al and I get up and go for a swim. Then we walk along
the beach and I look for interesting stones. The thing about
interesting stones is that they tend to look better when they’re
wet – so you have to choose ones that retain their charm
when they’re dry. This, of course, applies to many things
in life – though the deciding factor is usually not as simple
as water.
I so hope that what’s happened today doesn’t turn all dull and sullen later. There’s no need for it to – surely. It’s for me
to decide, isn’t it? Why shouldn’t I give myself a rest from
myself? Isn’t that what holidays are for?
I just choose one stone today. I don’t want to weigh myself
down as I have so often in the past. It’s a perky little coral
pink one that seems to have the faint outline of a pig. I miss
Rosie. She’s such a very charming, understanding pig. And
not just a pretty face, because she’s smart too. She’s slowed down lately because she’s getting old. But she still has style.
I miss Charlie too. But it seems to me I’ll always miss
Charlie more than I want to. More than is convenient.
Men tend to remind me of him – even Al. I compare them
with him and they make me want him all the more. It’s
something I’ll just have to get used to. I’m tired of wanting
people. Of needing them. Casual liaisons – maybe that’s the
answer. Regular holidays and attentive attendance at rugby
internationals. Love – the whole hog type – doesn’t have to feature. When I get home I think I’ll buy a dog.
After our walk Al and I go to a restaurant by the beach and have a delicious seafood meal. Then we go into town and shop for presents. When we get too hot and need a rest we sit at outdoor cafes and have mineral water. I spend a lot of time staring at things. Colours seem so much more vivid in the strong sunlight. Doors the colour of lemon groves. Woven rugs hung up for sale. The hills in the distance. The whitewashed houses. Everything. I feel much more vivid too. More alive. It’s so nice not to have to visualise the Mediterranean. It’s so nice to just be here.
The bus we take back to Holo is so hot I feel I’m baking. As I wipe sweat and grime from my skin, Al asks me about my career.
‘I don’t have a speciality,’ I answer. ‘I’ve done a lot of this and that – especially housework.’ Then I tell him a bit about my years with Bruce.
Al is a social worker, which he finds fulfilling but very demanding. He feels like a change. He feels like he needs to work out his own needs more, and not just other people’s. His words discomfort me.
‘You didn’t – you didn’t take me on today as – as a sort of client, did you? Someone needy?’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Jasmine,’ he looks a little offended. ‘Of course I didn’t. I’m not that altruistic. It felt right – you know it did. We both needed cheering up. These things happen.’
He tousles my hair then, as if I am a kid. And I do feel like a kid for a moment. Very young. An open definition. What has happened between us is not something to magnify. To cling to. It has to be seen for what it is. Not something to lug along, as I so often do, to the emotional
Antiques Roadshow.
‘Your little holiday fling – now where did you get it? Ah yes – in Ibiza. Well of course they are most attractive. And very
in demand. But to be honest with you, dear, there’s an awful
lot of them about. They don’t tend to fetch that much at auction.’
‘I suppose one of the good things about my marriage ending is that I’ll have to learn to live alone,’ I tell Al. ‘A woman should learn to be independent. To kick ass.’
‘Kick ass?’ Al looks perplexed.
‘Well not kick ass exactly. But not kiss it so much either.
That man in the hotel foyer – he told me that I’m a feisty lady. I do need some time alone.’
‘From what you’ve told me about your marriage,’ says Al, who’s staring out the window at the olive groves and
mulberry trees, ‘it sounds like you’ve lived alone for a long
time already.’
Then he reaches into a paper bag he’s carrying and hands
me a peach. I stare at it, somewhat perturbed. I’ve rather gone
off peaches since the peach pillowcase incident. I take it from
him and bite it warily. It’s nice and ripe. The juice runs down
my chin.
When I get back to Holo I half expect Susan to shade her
eyes from my radiance. She’s dozing on her bed in our chalet.
An open copy of
The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous
, by Jilly Cooper, is lying beside her. She stirs and yawns as I enter.
‘Hello Susan!’ I beam unconditionally. ‘How are you?’
‘All right, thanks. Did you have a good day?’
‘Yes. Great.’ I try not to look too smug.
‘Have you finished your packing?’ Susan is studying me
quizzically.
‘Almost.’
I show off the presents I’ve purchased, and she admires
them with gratifying enthusiasm. Then I tell her about Al
and she looks pleased, but slightly envious.
‘Good for you, Jasmine,’ she says indulgently. ‘You’re
learning, you really are.’
I sit on my bed. I reach into my bag and take out a bundle
of postcards and my Eurovision Song Contest biro. I’ve left
it very late in my holiday to write them. I stare at them for
some time, chewing the top of my pen as I ponder.
‘I’m having an enjoyable time here,’ I eventually scribble.
‘The people in Holo are open and friendly, and the work
shops, though weird at times, are quite interesting. The weather has been great and I already have a nice tan. I’ve even learned to windsurf!! I went to a nearby town today and…’ – I pause as I study this partial sentence – ‘and had a delicious seafood meal in a restaurant by the beach.’
The amazing thing is – as I read back over what I’ve written
– I realise it’s pretty much the truth. I wish I’d realised this
earlier.
I’m leaving here tomorrow.
Chapter
23
A letter from Eoin
, the greyhound man, awaits me on my
return home. Charlie has forwarded it.
‘Dear Jasmine,’ it reads. The writing is small and precise.
‘How are you? I was disappointed that you didn’t contact
me last time I wrote to you – but looking back perhaps
it’s just as well. I am now married and Jacinta and I are
expecting our first child. I’m sure you’ll be glad to know
this. I also want you to know that I do respect your honesty
about being married. Many women would have given in to
temptation and not mentioned it at all. I hope Jacinta shows
the same level of loyalty to me if she ever finds herself in a
similar situation. I don’t seem to have as much time for the
greyhounds these days as I used to.
‘Anyway, I’d better get this in the post. I did very much enjoy our evening together. I’m occasionally up in Dublin.
Do give me a call if you’d like to meet again for a chat. Best
wishes, Eoin.’
Eoin has not put his home address on the letter – only his
work phone number – which he’s underlined. I’m not going to phone him. I don’t think he’ll mind. I think Eoin needs me
as someone who could, but hasn’t yet, called. I understand
that. Maybe we’re not so different after all.
This will be my last summer in this house. Bruce and I are going to sell it. That crack in the sitting-room wall is serious.
It’s caused by subsidence. The house needs major structural
repair work and builders tramping around for at least a
month. I’ll move out when they move in this autumn. As
soon as it’s repaired Bruce and I will put it on the market. It’s
too big for one person. On the proceeds Bruce and I should,
hopefully, be able to afford smaller places of our own.
A friend of Susan’s is going to sell her apartment later this year, and I think I may buy it. Though it’s quite small it does
have a sea view. And it has two bedrooms, so Katie can stay
when she wants to.