Once inside the reception area, I feel somewhat safe.
The walls are sturdy, and the noise considerably less.
The Dutch family bid us a good night and I’m reminded that I’m a good singer. I give a stupid curtsey and they respond by giving me a clap, before closing the door to their room. I wrinkle my nose, cringing at myself.
I’d never sung in front of Jack before. Not properly.
‘I’m gonna check some emails,’ Justin says, referring to the two desktop computers in the small lobby area behind reception. ‘Hate doing that sorta shit on my phone.’
‘I hear you,’ I say. ‘God, we sound so old!’
‘Tonight was fun.’
I agree. It was.
Getting to my room, however, isn’t. The wind on this side of the building is battering the doors to the rooms and I stagger, eyes closed tight, holding onto the wall. It doesn’t bother me as much as earlier, whether due to the alcohol or just growing accustomed, but the pleasant warmth I was feeling moments ago has vanished, quite aptly gone with the wind. I chance a quick peek down and see the swimming pool. It’s basic, rectangular and floodlit, many leaves and a couple of chairs floating on the water. The surrounding palm trees are bent double.
Once inside my room, I slouch onto a sofa and flick off my flip-flops. I try connecting to the free Wi-Fi to scroll through my phone for nothing in particular.
That’s no surprise:
The WiFi cannot connect.
Could be a login error. Could be the weather. I call reception from the room phone.
No luck – the line is down. Unless I go back to reception there’s no way I’ll get online, and as if I’m leaving this room again tonight. As if. The front door trembles within its frame. A whistle, harsh and unfriendly, intrudes through the keyhole.
I turn on the telly.
CNN, Fox, Sky News. A French business channel, a French gameshow. A movie channel showing a film through an eighties fuzz. Michael Douglas is starring. I’ve seen it before, when I was little. At my nan’s house, I think, when she used to allow me and our Kit to stay up way past our bedtime.
My clothes – damp during the meal and singsong – are now stuck to me like cling film. I peel off my t-shirt and polka-dot skirt, drop-kicking them in the general direction of my suitcase. My bra is also wet, and the straps are digging into my shoulders, so I get completely naked and decide to take a hot shower.
The water drips and dribbles for a while, eventually splattering enough to warrant a wash. I keep my fingers under the stream, waiting for the ice-cold water to warm up, but it doesn’t. I don’t actually need a hot shower, but cold won’t do. I need comfort, not a shock, and just standing here waiting is making me shiver and sober up in a way I’m not ready for. Tonight was more than just fun. It was freeing. I can’t believe I’m going to admit this – to think these words – but I felt like the old Chloe Roscoe in patches. Here and there. Not the ghost I’ve become since Jack died.
Fuck.
Since. Jack. Died.
And now all I can think about is how he’s not here and how he’s never going to be here and how he’s not at home and how he’s never going to be at home and …
My fingers are fucking freezing.
I turn the shower off and skulk back to my suitcase, pulling the cotton rag dress over my head. I’m not sober, but I’m not drunk like last night. I’m restless. When will the howling outside stop? Not the season, Justin? Come on. Calm down. Please, calm down.
SMASH!
I run to the double doors that lead onto a small balcony and peer behind the curtains into the storm. A plant is lying sideways, its terracotta pot smashed around it on the ground. The smashing noise was worse than the outcome and I allow myself to find it funny.
Is there a minibar in here?
A small fridge is hidden in the cabinet the telly is sitting on. Two cans of Saigon beer, two Cokes and two bottles of water are inside. Saigon will do fine. The fridge hasn’t been switched on though and the can is warm. I can hear the plant pot pieces scratching around outside, jiggling in the wind. I open the beer, sip. It’s better than nothing.
Interference causes Michael Douglas to fuzz and jerk about the screen.
I change channels and find the international weather forecast. Bright yellow suns are plastered over most of Africa. Edging up towards the Middle East, there’s the odd grey cloud. Temperatures reaching fifty. I sit on the edge of the bed, the lukewarm beer sitting on my teeth, my tongue. The map rotates and focuses on the Middle East and India, corners of Southeast Asia almost visible. I long to see white clouds or, optimistically, yellow suns. As the map rotates once more, grey fuzz fills the screen with an unpleasant buzz and the telly cuts out. My room goes black.
Is this my cue to go to bed? Dive beneath the covers?
Another smash outside, further away, tells me another plant pot has suffered the worst. I fear the broken terracotta shards are going to be swept against the windows, breaking them and shooting into my room. Shooting into me.
Oh, stop with the drama. Stop!
SMASH!!
A series of smashes continue. I want to hide; my instinct is to shelter, but there are glass windows surrounding me from two opposing angles and I don’t know where to go apart from the floor. I’m being ridiculous. I can’t lie on the floor.
The lights flicker back on.
The telly remains off.
The noise isn’t as intrusive now that I can see again, but God, my heart is pounding. Pounding like a drum; and that’s not an exaggeration or me trying to be poetic. My chest feels like a spacious cage, a heavy thudding within. I place my palm against it, calming my heart down. My knees are weak and hollow and I want to cry. I’m scared. I really am. I’m terrified. God, I’m so terrified that I can’t cry. It’s too much effort; too much of a decision to make; and I focus on keeping my heart pressed, secure, in fear of it exploding.
I don’t want to be alone.
And nothing can comfort me. No phone, no telly. I’m far too distracted to read.
I drink more, swigging the beer until it’s gone. Then I go to the door, open it and run to Justin’s room. I bang on his door loudly, pounding with my fists – the only way he’ll hear me against this racket. I duck down, afraid of something dangerous being blown into me.
His door opens, but only a fraction. He has the chain on.
I can’t hear what he’s saying – the wind is deafening – but he’s struggling to open the door. Something must be stuck. I crouch down further, shielding my head with my arms. Finally, I’m pulled upwards and hauled inside. I slam the door shut with my foot and stand there, breathing heavily, my hands pushed against the back of the door.
‘Did you manage to check your emails?’ I ask. No idea why.
Justin’s no longer in his traveller trousers, but a pair of grey joggers. Nothing on top.
‘The connection was bad,’ he says.
I don’t think he’s managed to shower, either. For such a clean, well put together man, he still looks damp with sweat, tired and dishevelled. In this moment, I like it, and I’m aware of the fact that I’m standing in his room not wearing a stitch beneath the cotton rag hanging over my body. Justin’s hands are on his hips, his biceps prominent yet neat. Dark, curly hair decorates his chest, something I hadn’t paid attention to when we were in the hot tub yesterday.
‘I thought this wasn’t the season for typhoons,’ I manage.
‘It happens.’
His room is bigger than mine. Almost identical, just enlarged. I’m not sure if this makes me feel more safe, or more exposed. The lights flicker and I look up, giving it my most intense teacher’s stare to stop it misbehaving. Justin leans across to the wall and turns the lights off.
‘That’ll give us a heart attack,’ he remarks.
‘Yeah. You read me mind.’
His hand is still on the wall, beside the light switch. I feel my breath lighten, getting faster. I tilt my head a little and my hair brushes his outstretched arm, my lips almost touch his skin. He takes a step closer to me, just a small one. I sense his hesitation.
I want to say it’s okay. It was my choice to come here.
I want to be okay.
To have choices.
I look at him briefly in the small pool of moonlight. My eyes are beginning to adjust to the darkness. But I close them tight, hoping to disappear whilst also wanting to be present. Wanting to be wanted.
The wind is getting stronger.
Whistles rush through cracks in the door and I move a little closer to Justin, feeling my whole body draw forward, the coolness between my legs becoming warm. My breasts touch his chest, only the thin cotton of my dress separating our skin. As my nipples harden, I slide my arms around him and our lips meet.
He kisses me back with force – no, perhaps relief. He’s glad I made the move, I can tell.
I let my tongue touch his and he grabs the back of my head, his hand squeezing my hair. As I push him forwards, our lips tightly locked, he guides me away from the door, until he’s leaning against the outside of the bathroom wall. I tilt my pelvis close, enjoying the hard sensation coming from him. He runs his hands up my thighs, lifting my dress higher. I’m enjoying this too much – far too much.
I want him to touch me further.
But I hold out.
I wait.
And I want it more and more.
And God, I hate myself. I truly fucking hate myself. I’m a cheat, I’m a slut, I’m everything I hate. I’m a woman who’s supposedly in love with somebody else. I’m having fun and I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t.
Justin’s hands move upwards beneath my dress and I don’t stop him. He takes one of my breasts, massages it gently; I moan when his fingers brush my nipples.
Touch me. Touch me! I want to yell.
I want—
SMASH!!!
We’re pulled apart by an almighty high-pitched shattering noise.
I think I scream.
I’m on the floor, my knees drawn into my chest. I want to scream again, but I can’t – I’m frozen in fear. Justin puts on the light and we see that a broken plank of wood has smashed through the large balcony door. I want to cry – feel the sort of release that only crying can bring – but I’m taken over by an intense trembling.
‘It’ll pass soon,’ Justin cries out.
‘Why should I believe you?’
‘Look, I know I underestimated this weather but, seriously, we’re in the thick of it now. Remember a little while ago, when it felt like it was dying down? That was the calm before the storm, as they say.’
‘That’s actually a thing?’
‘Where do you think the saying comes from?’
More crashing and smashing noises dance around us, louder now through the broken window. Justin’s on his hands and knees crawling closer to the balcony.
‘Justin! What the hell are you doing?’
He doesn’t answer, just continues to edge closer until he can see out of the window.
‘It sounds worse than it is,’ he tells me. ‘The crashing is only tiles falling from the roof.’
‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better?’
I can’t be here, not for a second longer.
I find my feet and scramble to the door, open it and let it slam behind me. I don’t say goodbye. I just keep on scrambling until I’m back in my own room listening to the tiles falling down around me. I heave the mattress off my bed and drag it to the floor, getting as low as possible. And I lie down, the beat of my heart so intense that I’ll never sleep. I never quite realised until now, but it’s impossible to think about anything when you’re scared, other than what you’re scared of. The moment is so enormous, the present so all-consuming.
So I wait.
Crashing subsides into scraping. Scraping becomes rustles. The noise doesn’t die, but it does fade, gradually, ever so slowly. I think I drift into a light slumber, although I’m still fully aware of where I am.
There’s a knock on my door.
Justin.
No. I can’t. I just can’t.
A dark loathing encompasses me. The wind has calmed enough for me to remember.
The knocking gets louder, faster.
Please, leave me alone … No! I should apologise.
He’s almost banging my door down now. I mean, what the—
‘Alright!’ I say, pulling the door but keeping the chain locked.
‘Breakfast, Madam!’
It’s not Justin. It’s a Vietnamese man, smiling and holding a wooden tray with a miniature banana and a croissant on a plate. A dollop of jam and a dollop of butter sit beside the croissant. A bottle of water and a glass of orange juice rattle unsteadily. The man is wearing a crash helmet.
‘I don’t need breakfast,’ I shriek.
‘Please, take breakfast.’
‘No, I mean, you didn’t have to bring anything! Get inside! Shelter!’
He laughs at me and leaves the tray on the floor in front of the door, waving bye-bye. I carefully open the door and pick it up. I eat the banana and the croissant, leaving the jam and butter untouched, and take the bottle of water, slotting it into the front pocket of my suitcase. I put on some underwear, a pair of jeggings and stripy t-shirt. Slipping into my flip-flops, I leave my room and eye up the ripped-apart roof down to the swimming pool. Chairs, tables and tiles are drowning in the water.
It doesn’t take long to check out. The reception is calm and quiet, not a soul around other than the receptionist, who is different from the lady yesterday. I wonder how the little Dutch boy slept, and hope he wasn’t frightened.
A taxi is called and it arrives within minutes.
‘Hoi An town centre?’ I ask the driver as I clamber into the back seat.
If there’s magic to be seen, I should try and find it; especially now the typhoon seems to have finally passed. Opposite the Garden Villa guest house, I see a family fixing the roof of their home. Two fellas are sitting on the tin top and a woman is handing them tools. They all see me watching from the taxi and wave, smiling. Every tree on this road has been uprooted, the thin trunks sprawled in zigzags on the ground.
‘Sorry, Madam,’ the driver tells me. ‘Too much water. River.’
I don’t argue. I won’t contest. This man knows more about this town than I ever will. If the town is flooded, that means the restaurants won’t be open, nor the shops. Nobody will be cycling through the streets, across the bridge. There won’t be any lanterns. Not today.
‘No problem,’ I say. ‘Da Nang Airport, please.’
The magic just isn’t here.
Would there have been magic if Jack was here? God, imagine how different this whole experience would’ve been if …
Imagine.
That’s all I’ve got. And all I’ll ever have now.
I must go home.