Josi

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to begin our descent into Grantley Adams Airport,’ the captain begins. I know the rest of the spiel. I reach for my seat belt. ‘It’s thirty degrees and very sunny. Local time is 1.55 p.m.’

I close my eyes. It feels like I’ve been travelling for days but it’s only twelve hours since Richard dropped me at the airport. I can still see his tall tense body bend over to peck my lips. I hadn’t resisted. I’ve learnt how to accept these rituals, remnants of our former loving selves.

‘Have a good holiday,’ he’d said quietly.

‘I’ll try.’ I hadn’t meant for it to sound so flat, but I was tired. It was two o’clock in the morning and I was going to get away from him. Trying to deal with what he’d done had drained me. I made another attempt, hoping to inject a little enthusiasm into my voice. ‘I’ll give it a good go.’

The coach journey from East Midlands Airport to Gatwick was four and a half hours, but I preferred it to sitting with Richard and his aura of hurt and suffering for the two hours it would have taken him to drive me there.

‘Ten minutes to landing,’ the captain’s voice interrupts my thoughts. I shake my head to clear it and focus on the preparations for landing. Blanket folded, book put away, chair returned to upright position, bag stowed under seat. I mentally prepare to meet Celia, who eight months ago made the journey in the other direction to my wedding. Celia’s the kind of friend that doesn’t need explanations. When I called and asked, ‘Can I come and see you?’ she’d said, ‘Yes, sure.’ When I’d added ‘on my own,’ without hesitation she replied, ‘I said sure.’

Now the plane’s landing and I’ve some explaining to do. I know she won’t press me, and will allow me to say as much or as little as I want. I have three weeks but feel I want to get things out into the open as soon as possible.

I catch my breath as a wave of heat, like smelling salts, hits me as I step off the plane. I breathe out slowly and allow myself a smile. ‘Well, Josi,’ I tell myself, ‘you’re here now. You need to make this worthwhile.’

Celia looks radiant in a turquoise vest and blue jeans, waving and smiling as she runs towards me. A full six inches taller than me with a perfect hour glass figure, she still turns heads. Poking out from the end of her long legs is a hand crafted pair of tan leather sandals. We hug, smile and spin each other around. It’s always the same when we meet, but this time I know she feels my unspoken gratitude for her friendly embrace. We look at each other at arm’s length, laugh and hug some more.

‘Girl, it’s good to see you,’ she says eventually.

‘Good to be here.’ I can feel the smile stretch from one ear to the other, like a taut elastic band that I don’t have control of.

‘Good flight?’ She takes one handle of my case.

‘Long. We took off late.’

‘Landed on time though.’

‘Must have made up the time. I slept a lot.’ In fact I’d fallen asleep within seconds of fastening my seat belt; hadn’t even been aware when the aircraft took off. The first time I’ve ever slept through take off.

‘Refreshed now?’

‘Still knackered girl. Is month’s worth we’re talking about here.’ It’s easy to slip right into parlance. I feel myself relaxing.

‘You can sleep when we get home. We’ve got the place to ourselves. Kenny goes to Trinidad tomorrow for a few weeks. He just stayed to welcome you. Said he think we girls will have a lot to catch up on, and he doesn’t want to eavesdrop.’

‘I love your man.’ I laugh.

I envy the easy relationship Celia and Kenny have, the way they understand each other’s needs, aren’t afraid to be apart from each other. That’s not something Richard understands. He resents the time I spend on my own, feels discarded and always has that look of abandonment when I come back from a night out with my friends. I found it endearing at first, flattered that he missed me so much, but after a while it became irritating and I’ve learned to ignore his very unsubtle attempts to make me feel guilty.

We reach the car. ‘Need to go in the trunk,’ she says. ‘Back seat’s full of Kenny’s stuff. I had to bring his because I know you don’t travel light.’

‘I do when I’m not bringing half of England to leave here.’

‘Says you.’

‘It’s true, half the stuff in here’s yours.’

It takes both of us to lift it into the silver grey Toyota Corolla. Celia opens the door. It’s like a fan oven.

‘Shoot! Kenny’s always telling me to crack the window open. I almost never remember. I’ll put on the air conditioner.’

‘Do you mind if we drive with the windows down? I’ve been cooped up with AC for hours. I want to feel wind on my skin.’

‘Sure thing. I like it too.’

I drink in the brightness of the passing landscape. I leave my shades off. I’ve left enough dullness behind. I want the full experience of hibiscus, bougainvilleas, crotons and the magnificent flamboyant. Although it’s only my second visit, it feels like I’m home. Whoever said home is where the heart is knew what they were talking about. This N7 feels an easier place to be than my four bedroom cottage in Lockington.

‘Is Oistins still there?’ I ask as we pass a sign.

‘Yeah, Oistins’s still there. Was last time I looked, hadn’t fallen off into the sea or anything.’

‘You know what I mean,’ I turn to look at Celia.

‘You mean Friday night Oistens?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s still there… but it’s a bit different,’ she emphasises the ‘different’.

‘How different?’ I’m intrigued. Celia is not one for mysteries and guessing games; she’s one of the plainest speakers I know. She’ll always let you know what’s on her mind. She doesn’t suffer fools gladly.

‘You’ll have to see for yourself,’ a soft smile dances on her lips. I know there is no point pushing. Trying to prise anything out of her against her wishes is pointless. That’s why she is my best friend. My secrets are safe with her.

‘Can we go Friday?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

I spend the rest of the twenty-five minute journey quizzing her about the state of my old haunts and the people I met last time. Is the Rastaman still working out on Miami beach? Is St Lawrence Gap still buzzing? What about Hole Town?

I’m happy to be back in my old room in Celia’s three bedroom apartment, happy to get out of my travelling jeans and into a small denim skirt, freeing my legs to absorb the rays of sun floating in through the half open blinds. Happy to hand over the gifts I’ve brought, things she can’t get easily in Barbados: Walkers crisps, Typhoo teabags, crystallised ginger. I lie down on the double bed fully clothed while she adjusts the air conditioning. Fatigue hits me like a juggernaut in a cul-de-sac. I’m asleep before she’s finished asking what I want to do later.

I tell her I’m here for a rest and she doesn’t have to organise things for me to do, or feel guilty if I spend all day every day on the beach.

The next day I head to the beach. I have plenty to read and plenty to think about. I drop my bag with water, towel, swimsuit, and phone on one of the blue picnic tables under the wide leafed almond trees and the long row of arched bearded trees. They’re a perfect wedding aisle.

I take a deep lung-full of the sea air and breathe out slowly. This is what I need, room to breathe, time to allow the Caribbean breeze to blow through all the cobwebbed compartments of my mind. All the places I’ve been trying to avoid in the last six months. A few more lung-fulls and I’m ready to step onto the sand and join the army of marchers pacing backward and forward; gym on the beach.

I feel good in my black leggings and red and white vest, grateful for the time I put into keeping myself looking good. I attract attention, the way any newbie does in a settled community. I begin with my warm up stretches. I’m going to ease myself in gently, no running today, get the legs used to being on sand instead of a treadmill or the Derbyshire village lanes. Give my ears time to replace rustling corn fields with crashing waves, my eyes time to notice that greens fields are now turquoise waters, shimmering and glinting like a bejewelled bride.

I get a few polite nods, some smiles, the odd ‘hello’, ‘keep going’, ‘you doing well’. Half an hour of this and I’ve worked up a sweat; partly from the walking, partly from the heat as the sun wakes up and stretches out over the island. It’s hot at eight; perfect for a dip in the sea. I head for the sheltered area, so calm it’s known as the ‘pool’. It’s too early for families, too early for the squeals and laughter to drown the gentle sighs of the lapping waves. I’m not a strong swimmer; it’s one of those things I’ve neglected. There were always other more important things to do. I get by. The water welcomes me like a returning lover. Puts its arms around me, caresses me and whispers, ‘Relax, you’re safe with me.’ I float on my back, the sun warm on my closed lids. I release my tension, murky ink oozing out of every pore into the patient, ever cleansing sea.

I get into a happy routine. Training on the beach, reading on the beach, talking on the beach – mostly to men interested in my accent and want to know more about me – but they mostly want to tell me about them and why they’d be so good for me; people watching on the beach, watching the sun go down on the beach. I’m content, even though I find myself, occasionally, wondering if any of these men could do what Richard did. I’ve spoken to him twice. Once to let him know I arrived safely and once when he called to say he’s missing me.

After the first day I begin jogging. I’m four or five laps into my ten laps when a set of legs appear alongside me.

‘Morning.’

It throws me off stride. I look up. He’s about late thirties with a wide open face and an even wider smile. Shaved head on top of a thick neck and spacious shoulders. His skin, the colour of milk chocolate, is all on show except for the bit his yellow and orange Bermuda running shorts covers. His feet, on the end of strong, robust legs, are bare. My eyes naturally come to his nipples with three or four hairs growing out of each. It’s hard not to stare at the tight hairs on his chest tapering to where his shorts begin. His slight paunch is firm.

‘Morning,’ trying to get my stride back.

‘Mind if I run with you?’ he asks in that singing, lilting Bajan accent.

Is this a pick up attempt?

‘I’m not going very fast,’ I shoot him a glance, trying to work him out.

‘That no matter. I no going too fast meself.’ He slips easily into my stride.

‘Yeah, sure.’ I’m struggling to keep my balance on the sand and wish he wasn’t watching me so closely, but I can’t think of a polite reason to say no.

‘How many laps you doing?’

‘I’m aiming for ten.’ I’m not good at running and talking.

‘What number you on now?’

‘Six,’ I pant.

‘How long it take you so far?’

‘Not been timing it.’

‘I’m Carlisle.’

‘Like the place?’

‘Is there a place name Carlisle?’

‘Yeah, near Scotland.’

‘Do you have a name?’

‘Yeah, sure. Josi.’

‘Hi Jooseee.’

I’m grateful when he’s quiet for a few seconds. It gives me a chance to increase my strides again. I’m too focused on my legs and lungs to take him in, but his strides are easier and smoother than mine.

‘You from England?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How long you here?’

‘Three weeks.’

‘How much longer you have left?’

‘Just got here two days ago.’

Another welcome pause. I’m on lap eight and wishing I hadn’t told him ten. My lungs are straining when he asks, ‘So what do you do in England, Jooseee?’

I debate whether to tell him what I do and waste precious breath or tell him I’m a teacher. I opt for the latter as I still have two laps to go. ‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a police officer.’

I slip him a sideways look. He doesn’t look like a police officer. I catch myself. What do police officers look like when they’re out of uniform? I don’t know any police officers socially and wouldn’t go out of my way to make friends with one. One of my clients had a very abusive police husband; it took her two years to leave him, handicapped by the fact that he knew the law, knew where and how to hit her so the bruises wouldn’t show; and, to add insult to injury most of their friends were in the force. She couldn’t face the embarrassment of being investigated by people she’d gone out with on social functions. How could she hold her head up if it all came out? Where could she go where he wouldn’t be able to find her? Who would believe her?

Her sister eventually managed to get her out of the house; found her a safe place. But she was too terrified to function. Couldn’t leave the house, became depressed, found all kinds of ways to blame herself for what had happened. That’s when she was referred to me. It took months of intensive work to help her rebuild the self-confidence he had so effectively eroded. Bit by bit, she began to believe in herself again. First by gathering the threads of her life from where they’d been scattered and then beginning the slow process of weaving herself a new tapestry; one that didn’t omit him but placed him where he belonged, a ragged thread of the past that helped her find a deeply buried strength. That awakening to new possibilities is one of the things that makes my work so rewarding.

I look at Carlisle again. How many times have I castigated others for stereotyping? Yet here I am summing up this stranger without knowing anything at all about him.

‘How long have you been a police officer?’

‘Twelve years.’

Long enough to be skilled at deception and abuse. I catch myself again.

‘Do you enjoy it?’

I’ve slowed to little more than a fast walk. Using mental energy’s draining my physical resources.

We’re just about to do the turn for the last lap. ‘Last one,’ he says brightly, ‘you want to speed up a bit?’

I give him another glance. Where does he think I’m going to get the energy from for a sprint?

‘No, just want to get to the end of this.’ He hasn’t answered my question. I’m curious, want to find out what kind of police officer he thinks he is.

‘Do you enjoy being a police officer?’

‘Well, most of the time I do, but the job’s changing.’ He talks about increasing lack of respect for the role, especially among the young, about the sophistication of technology-based crimes and the international nature of criminal activity on the island. As he talks, I recognise I’ve been harbouring another stereotype; police officers are uneducated and inarticulate.

We finish my last lap and he volunteers to do my warm down stretches with me. I have a better view of him as we stretch. He shows me how to do abs work using the benches. He smiles a lot, showing white even teeth. His lips part suddenly, almost without warning, a sunshine streak across his face.

Patting his little paunch, he explains he’s been fitter. ‘Need to shift this.’

‘Don’t you have a work gym?’ Doesn’t the police force provide the means for keeping its workforce fit? Why does he need to work out on the beach?

‘Yeah, we have a small one, but I like to come dun here cause I get to know people; can stop little tings becoming big tings.’ He still believes in community policing. He tries to keep fit so he can ‘chase dun a man an arres him instead of pull a gun a shoot him.’ Too many of the unfit officers go for the gun but for him ‘every man I shoot is somebody’s chile.’

I’m warming to Carlisle. He’s challenging my beliefs – shifting my thinking. I respect people who do that. When he asks if I want him to be my running partner to help me build my speed, I wonder again if he’s hitting on me. Are his questions about my marital status, length of stay, children (did I have any and how many) polite curiosity, professional inquiry or something else. I look into his deep brown eyes, see the smile spread across his face and say, ‘Yes, thanks.’ He’s easy on the eyes. I’ve just accepted a social engagement with a police officer.

Morning beach training with Carlisle becomes a regular part of my routine. I like routines. They help me know what to do next; steady me when my head’s scrambled. Order allows me to deviate. It’s one of the principles I work with. I tell my clients we need a balance of certainty and uncertainty. Too much certainty and life’s boring. Too much uncertainty and we can’t think straight, can’t make real plans, can’t follow through. Live in chaos. Most of them come looking for certainty in some part of their lives – career, business, children – but mostly they come looking for certainty in their relationships.

After the beach I go back to the apartment to shower and eat. Some days, when Celia’s working late, I go back to the beach in the afternoon, pay the ten dollars for a sun bed and lay on it reading till sunset. Sometimes men wondering if I’m looking for a little adventure stop by, sometimes others with big issues – usually they want to know why a woman is on her own. Other days I get a bus and do a little bit of sightseeing or shop and prepare a meal till Celia gets home.

Although Celia never mentions it, my silence about what had happened between me and Richard hangs in the air like a fine mist. There’s no pressure from her, but we both know there’s something to be said. It’s a wall we go round. It’ll be easier when I find an opening through the wall, or better still, when I dismantle it.

Celia finishes early on Friday. We go to visit an aunt in St Philip she wants me to meet, and to collect bagfuls of mangoes from the tree in the back garden. It’s a small house with a neat veranda which leads into the living room. A floor to ceiling display unit in rich mahogany houses all kinds of ornaments and crockery. Commemoration plates of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer’s engagement, wooden carvings of African masks and figures, plastic and glass snow globes, glass ornaments of all kinds of animals. Models of the Statue of Liberty, the CNN tower, Big Ben. Vases displaying an array of plastic and silk flowers. And photographs.

The room’s a historical gallery. Sepia stills of stiff-lipped people posing with hands on vases of flowers or perched on the edge of a table. Women and girls in wide skirts, men and boys in suits or long-sleeved shirts and bow ties. All looking like a visit to the doctor to hear bad news is imminent. Around the walls are photos from all decades; black and white, sepia, washed out colour becoming more vivid, more vibrant, the subjects increasingly relaxed. There are photos of children in school uniforms in cardboard frames, others are beautifully framed. Someone’s taken great care to match the subject and activity to an appropriate frame. A small two-seater sofa sits opposite the display unit, a deep rich green velvet with cream lace antimacassars draped over the back and the arms. Beside that, a small table, also covered in lace, provides lodgings for a vase filled with freshly cut marbled crotons and rich pink hibiscus. On the floor, a simple multicoloured rush mat provides effortless sound proofing.

Celia’s scrutinising one of the photos.

‘This is new,’ she says almost to herself.

‘Your aunt must be well travelled,’ I observe.

‘Nope, never left the island. In fact, haven’t left St Philips that often.’

‘So what about all this?’ I wave at the display unit.

‘Presents from those more travelled,’ she smiles. ‘That’s why I want you to meet her. Aunt Enid is one of the most remarkable women I know.’

‘Well, she certainly keeps an interesting house.’

‘And raised eleven children from here.’

‘From here?’ I echo. There’s hardly room to swing the proverbial cat.

‘Another world, another time. These Chattel houses were once des res, I’ll have you know.’ She’s laughing at me.

‘Chattel?’

‘I’ll tell you another time. Here’s Aunt Enid.’

I turn, expecting to find someone who’s borne eleven children and lived almost all her life in the same village. Someone bowed by the burden of child-rearing, plump from being distended so often, and a little slow mentally from never having travelled. Instead I look up into calm brown playful eyes; a smile that reflects all over her face and percolates through her pores as bouncing happy energy, spreading out to embrace me and Celia. I imagine her doing that to anyone in her presence.

She’s the same height as Celia and as erect. Her slender body’s lost some of its hour-glass definition but is still lean and firm. Both women have their hair in buns. On one it gives the appearance of freshness and innocence, on the other, with its liberal sprinkling of grey, it’s distinguished, regal. Aunt Enid’s simple emerald shift dress is belted at the waist. Thin black leather to match her sandals, expensive looking like Celia’s.

I reach out to shake the extended hand. ‘Welcome to my house chile. You waa somein a drink?’ she asks in a heavy Bajan accent.

‘I beg your pardon?’ She repeats her question and I look at Celia for a translation.

‘Do you want a drink?’

‘I got some mauby. Yu waa dat?’

‘Mauby?’ Celia says.

‘Yes please.’ I’m not a huge fan of mauby but it can be refreshing when ice cold.

I understand ‘get it’ as she turns and leaves the room.

‘She looks fantastic.’ I’m incredulous.

‘Told you,’ Celia says smugly.

‘And you two look so alike.’

Enid’s back with the mauby in long glasses with gold flowers. With translation, the conversation goes something like this.

‘How long you here for?’

‘Three weeks.’

‘You married?’

‘Yes.’

‘Children?’

‘Three boys.’

‘You strong woman.’ Generosity itself considering she’s got eleven. ‘Where you husban?’

‘At home.’

‘Looking after the children?’

‘No, working.’

I don’t add the children are old enough to look after themselves. The youngest is at university and no longer in need of babysitting.

‘What you doing here on your own? Looking for mischief?’

‘No, just need a break.’

‘In my view, when a woman need a break from her husban this far from home, she ready for mischief. You husban don’t mind?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘He mind. He just saying that to make heself feel better.’

I don’t know what to say. Seems she has an answer for everything.

‘Be careful. There’s plenty Bajan man happy to get you into mischief. I have a little advice fo you. If you get into mischief, spare you husban de details.’ She winks at me. She puts her arm around my shoulders and leads me out to the back garden.

‘Whatever it is, a sure you can work it out. Life too short to be unhappy.’ Well she’s testimony to happiness. It isn’t just a word she uses, it’s in the tilt of her head, in the length of her neck, the straightness of her back, the sureness of her foot, the gentleness of her arm around my shoulder. I want to ask her what she would do in my situation, but I doubt my issue’s one she’s ever encountered.

‘You wa pick some mangoes?’

I hadn’t realised when Celia said we were coming to pick up mangoes that it was pick your own. There are two trees in the back. Walking past the croton hedges I see where she got her cut flowers. There are seven different types of crotons forming a colourful hedge around the house, a hibiscus and small frangipani trees. The two mango trees are laden with low hanging fruits. Enid produces two plastic carrier bags.

‘Take as much as you want,’ she instructs us.

‘Bags e the Julies,’ I say to Celia.

‘You can have them. I like the stringy ones better.’

During the fruit picking, I discover that Enid was with her husband, Cecil (Celia’s namesake), for over sixty years. He died ten years ago. She’d already had five children when they got married and went on to have another six. Her secret for a long and happy marriage? Never let him think he’s the only one interested in you.

I do a double take.

‘What about love and security?’

‘Love him yes; but never let him tink he have every part of you. Do things he don’t do, keep your friends, keep a part of you for you and always smile when he come home.’

‘What, even if you’re mad at him?’

‘Especially if you’re mad at him. No man want to come home to a sour face. Wait till he at home before raising your issues. Choose your time well. Learn what please him and always make him see that what you want will be good for him.’

‘And what if it isn’t? He may be convinced at first but when he finds out he won’t trust you. Have you never lied?’

‘Only if it was for his good.’

I set my full bag of mangoes on the ground and look at her. She could have been a diplomat. Maybe I’ve been reading the wrong books, the wrong magazines. One final tip. ‘Don’t put your mischief in his face.’

‘Did you ever do mischief?’

She smiles her big smile and makes her way back into the house.

Oistens is only a ten minute walk from Celia’s apartment and one of my favourite night outs. I choose a little floral skirt; large red, white and blue flowers, lycra and easy to wear. It shows of my legs, strong and muscular, probably my best feature. I don’t have Celia’s hour glass figure. I’m only five feet three inches so have to be more careful with what I wear, but I’m trim; flat stomach, toned arms. I still turn a head or two, often mistaken for much younger than my fifty years. Last time I was here, Celia and I flirted mercilessly with some of the young men. But it never goes beyond that.

I team up my little skirt with a black and white tank top that displays my neck and shoulders to my liking. Dangly real white feather earrings, a heavy silver feather necklace and black strappy Roman sandals complete the outfit. I apply a little make-up. It’s too hot for foundation. A little eye shadow and a touch of lipstick will have to do. I’m feeling a bubble of excitement as we set off. I remember the party atmosphere, the delicious barbequed fish dinners, people dancing on the stage in the centre of the complex. Bold, colourful, flamboyant men. There were a few women brave enough to take to the stage but they appeared to be there at the invitation of one or more of the men. I couldn’t remember any freestyling women. I’d asked Celia about that. She’d put it down to the fact that women had more sense, less ego, didn’t need to flaunt themselves in public.

‘So are you going to tell me about these changes?’ She hasn’t even hinted at them since that drive back from the airport.

‘You’re nearly there now, you’ll see for yourself soon enough’

‘Do you like the changes?’

‘Whatever answer I give you is going to influence your opinion, so best I keep quiet.’ She won’t budge.

‘How long since they made the changes?’

‘About a year now.’

‘And you like them?’

‘Didn’t you hear me?’

‘Yeah.’ I give up. Prising anything out of Celia is like using a plastic fork to dislodge a limpet from a rock. I switch the conversation to a client she began to tell me about before she was interrupted by the phone.

‘Sometimes I think I should be given a medal for patience.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I tell you, this man’s been to look at this property eight times in the last two weeks. Three times by himself, twice with his brother, once with his sister, once with his friend and today with someone he says is his niece. But I tell you, if any uncle of mine ever looked at me like that, I’d stick a fork in his eyes.’

‘You don’t believe him then,’ I laugh. Celia has a side to her that I believe would use the fork if she had it.

‘The girl couldn’t be any more than fifteen, the way he was letching at her was disgusting.’ She’s welling up to a full outburst when I hear the insistent rhythms and Bob Marley’s invitation to “Lively up Yourself”. We’ve arrived at Oistens. It’s time to leave the issues of the day behind and eat, drink and party. We start bopping to the music, stepping in time to the beat, moving closer to where it vibrates in our bones and fills our heads.

The air’s filled with a rainbow of fish flavours. Goat fish, marlin, king, dolphin, flying fish. Succulent white flesh sizzling on hot coals or caught up in the drama of the flames, leaping two feet high in front of skilled chefs. People are everywhere, seated at tables in neat rows under marquee style coverings, waiting to give orders or having them delivered by scurrying waiters. Gone are the queues waiting to be served then overcoming the challenge of finding somewhere to perch while they tuck into their delicious fare. This is orderly eating; I’m instantly nostalgic for the nomadic event it’s replaced. Celia’s watching my face.

‘I see,’ I say slowly as I take it all in, ‘interesting.’

‘You don’t like it. Didn’t think you would.’

‘I didn’t say I didn’t like it.’

‘You said it was interesting – same thing.’ There’s a reason this is where I come when I need to be myself, to let my guard down, to show the warts. She knows me in a way I wish my husband did.

‘OK you got me there, but is the food still good?’

‘You want to eat?’

‘Let’s get a drink first.’ All week I’ve been looking forward to a Mount Gay rum and coke, saved myself for this moment. I’m not a big drinker, worked with too many people who let it control them, but I like a drink when I’m relaxed, and I’m relaxing into the night.

On the way to Lexis’s Bar, I take in the other changes. The small stage has been replaced with a much larger version, housing the massive speakers whose output called us so effectively to the womb of the revelry. There are only a couple of men on the stage doing their thing to “Could you be Loved”. Seems like the DJ’s doing a Bob Marley set as he goes straight into “Small Axe”.

As we make our way past the mini restaurants we step into another gentler, less frenetic world, where gyrations are out and waltzes are the order of the night. An open air dance floor marked only by the number of people on it. Couples hold each other at arm’s length, move in harmony; men lead, women follow. The music is less singular, more cooperative. As we stop to watch, Celia raises a questioning eyebrow.

‘Haven’t had time.’ I’d promised myself I’d take ballroom dancing lessons so I could join in.

‘You?’

‘Same here. I muddle through. Plead ignorance and get them to help me.’

‘Let’s get that drink.’

Whether it’s the anticipation, the smoothness of the rum, or the atmosphere in the bar, I feel any residual tension drain away. We flirt with a couple of men at the bar. Men who hear the accent and rightly deduce at least one of us is foreign.

‘You visiting?’ the man on my left asks.

‘Yes.’

‘How long you here for?’

‘Three weeks.’

‘How long you got left?’

It’s beginning to feel like an interrogation. ‘Just over two.’

‘Let me welcome you to our beautiful island.’

‘Thank you sir.’ I give him my best flirty smile. Mount Gay on an empty stomach’s not ideal for keeping a level head; but I’ve been level for too long.

‘May I have the honour of showing you some of this lovely rock?’ He looks directly into my face, like he’s known me a long time.

‘Where exactly have you in mind?’ I look across at Celia but she’s talking to the man on her right. The music’s too loud to hear what she’s saying but she’s laughing at something he’s said.

‘You from England, right?’ It’s more a statement than question.

‘Yeah, you been there?’

‘No. I hear the men are cold.’ Did I hear him right? People usually comment on the weather.

‘Yes, it’s been quite cold this year.’ I answer the question I want to hear.

‘So you could do with a little warming up from a hot-blooded Bajan maaann.’ He leans back on his stool and stretches himself as if to say, ‘Look at what I’m offering you.’

I look at Celia again but she’s still engrossed.

I’m not impressed with what’s on offer. Five foot ten, thick shoulders, thick waist and thin legs; like an upside down martini glass. Hard to tell his age as his head’s shaved – a sure sign he is trying to hide some grey. A large pointed head sits on top of a thick neck with ears that would look more at home in Lord of the Rings. I look at his feet and find no reassurance there. Looks like a size seven. I don’t like the offer but as he’s so polite I decide to be charming.

‘Good of you to offer but I haven’t had time to work out where I want to go yet.’

‘Well, give me you number and I can always call you when I’m going somewhere, see if you want to come.’

‘Tell you what,’ I say, leaning into him conspiratorially, ‘why don’t you give me yours and I’ll call you.’ I’ve found this the most effective way to extricate myself from unwanted attention. He must be aware of it too because he tilts his head to one side and gives me a quizzical, disbelieving look. Maybe it’s the rum but I start to giggle as I focus on his pointed ear. I want to stroke them and say, ‘Come to me my precious.’

‘You got some paper?’

Trying to suppress the giggle, I shrug my shoulders. ‘Wasn’t expecting to be collecting numbers tonight.’

He looks around the bar, sees someone he knows.

‘Hold on a minute.’ He slides off the stool and heads across the room. Brisk, purposeful steps. I nudge Celia. She breaks off whatever she’s saying and looks at me. I nod. That’s our code for “lets get out of here”. She ends her conversation and we’re just getting off our stools when Gollum returns. He’s written in large capitals VICTOR followed by a phone number. He presses the bit of paper into my hand, his palm’s slightly damp.

‘Call me.’

‘Sure.’

‘When?’

‘When I’ve decided where to go.’

I smile at him, feel his eyes on our backs as we leave.

Celia and I giggle like teenagers, bumping each other on the shoulder. We’re used to the pick up lines, used to the games; comes from looking younger than our age.

‘How was yours?’

‘Wondering why this vision of loveliness is out on her own. If I was his he wouldn’t let me out on my own. Ready for some food?’

‘Yes, need something to soak up that rum.’

We go to George; although he has a queue, we’re prepared to wait. We place our order, include another rum and coke and sit down to wait for our food. I have the marlin steak dinner and Celia the snapper. We make light work of the breadfruit, roast potato, plantain, coleslaw and salad, helped down by the rum and coke. I’m not sure of the measures but this one tastes even stronger than the last. I’m in a happy alcoholic haze, that state where I decide to leave my responsibilities in a tightly zipped bag and step away from it. I know they’re there to be opened up and attended to again, but for now they’re safely locked away. It feels like a lifetime ago since I was this free. Apart from Celia, no one here tonight knows me; lost in the anonymity of this pulsating crowd I can be anyone I want to be.

We make our way back to the gentle dancers and watch for a while before we’re approached by two elderly gentlemen. They could be twins. Both wear black pointed toe shoes polished to a shine and dark trousers tightly belted over white short sleeved shirts opened at the neck. Both have shaved heads with clean sharp features, as though time had chiselled their features rather than worn them down. They both walk briskly, purposefully toward us, their bright eyes hold ours as they hold their hands out to us. At about five foot, nine one’s the same height as Celia, the other slightly taller than me. The only other difference is that one’s nearly twice the width of the other.

I wonder how they made the decision who’d approach who, because the slim one – who can’t be more than nine stone – holds his hand out to Celia and the eighteen stone one asks for mine. His smile pushes his cheeks up towards the corner of his eyes and displays teeth so even I guess they must be dentures.

‘Can I have this dance please?’ His voice is like pebbles sliding across each other as the tide goes out, a kind of swishy whisper.

I take his hand but lean forward to tell him I’m not a ballroom dancer.

‘That doesn’t matter dear, just follow me. I’ll take care of you.’

Holding one of my hands out in front of me, he places my other on his shoulder and lightly rests his other in the small of my back. ‘Just follow me,’ he says softly as he steps off. I’m focusing hard to follow him, foot forward when he goes back, trying to keep in time when he moves forward and I have to move back.

‘Relax dear,’ he advises and squeezes my hand. ‘It’s OK to make a mistake.’

‘Sorry.’ I feel embarrassed. I should have said no to the dance. He must be laughing at me.

‘You visiting?’

‘Yes.’

‘From England?’

‘Yes.’ Hard to focus and talk at the same time.

‘I was there last year,’ he says

‘Oh really,’ I’m surprised, ‘where?’

‘Spent some time in London with my sister.’

‘Where abouts in London?’

‘A place called Notting Hill. Do you know it?’

‘Yes, it’s very famous. Have you heard of the film Notting Hill?’

‘I think my sister mentioned it but I didn’t see it.’

‘Did you enjoy your time in London?’

‘Yes, I like it very much.’

‘What time of the year did you go?’

Before he can answer, the song finishes. I’m pleased with myself, I haven’t stumbled, I’ve moved smoothly across the floor with his guidance.

‘Thank you dear.’ He holds my hand, takes a slight bow. ‘And remember, just relax and let your man lead.’ He’s gone. To ask a woman in a heavily printed dress to dance. I feel dismissed.

I wait till the next dance finishes and Celia returns. I watch the woman in the printed dress glide across the floor, despite her bulk, in the arms of an expert. Could I learn to let go and let a man lead me? I thought there was at least the possibility of sharing leadership with Richard but… Leave the bag where it is Josi. Not tonight.

‘Fancy the other place?’ Celia says, walking toward me. I nod.

They’re playing Michael Jackson’s “Bad”. The crowd in front of the stage is tightly packed, turning, spinning, weaving, arms going one way, hips the other, heads bobbing. The energy’s intense. I want to be part of it, to lose myself in the fervour, the thumping pulsating music. Want to stop the pounding in my head, to lighten my leaden legs. That man walking away pricked a large hole in my fragile blissful haze; pricked my balloon. I’m deflating fast. The hole’s letting in thoughts and feelings I’m trying to keep out, at least for tonight. I need to build myself up again, re-establish my miasma. I feel tears jab the back of my eyes, like impatient children kept too long inside and straining to run wild in the sunshine. Feel them kick the door with their heels, rattle the door knob. Not here, not now. I’m out tonight to have fun, to forget.

The DJ plays “Hot, Hot, Hot” and I find myself stepping up onto the stage, glancing over my shoulder to see if Celia’s following. She isn’t. I carry on anyway. I move my feet to the beat, small rhythmic movements. Scanning the bobbing crowd, I wonder what I’m doing up here. Then something gives, the giant elastic band that had been holding me together suddenly snaps.

My hands make big circles, my body undulates, my legs are fast and furious, my hips find new life. Everything I do is big. I watch myself from a distance and marvel at this bold and daring woman. A man in a white tracksuit manoeuvres himself in front of me and mimics my moves. He smiles. The light catches his single gold incisor but hides his eyes winking behind the large white sunglasses with blue lens. His white headband’s wet with sweat. Looking down at his white trainers, he does a Michael Jackson spin. I copy him. He holds out his hand. I take it. We turn and spin and slide across the floor, from one side of the stage to the other. I’m the only woman on the stage and I wasn’t invited on by a man. All eyes are on me and my man in white. I’m light as air, can do anything. Moves appear out of nowhere. I’m hot and breathless. The song ends.

Before the next song begins, another man positions himself in front of me, seizing the opportunity when the man in white goes to get a towel from a small rucksack at the back of the stage. He isn’t as flamboyant as Mr White. His checked trousers and beige polo shirt make him look more like Rupert Bear than Bobby Brown.

What he lacks in garb, he makes up for in style. We do salsa moves, cross body, side step, Suzie Q, lay back, v-step. He stands back to let me shine. Steps I haven’t thought about in years reappear fresh and new, like an old coat from the dry cleaner’s given a new lease of life. He never takes his eyes off me. I see his unclothed desire but it’s not what I’m looking for so I decline when he asks for the next dance.

I’m about to step down from the stage when I feel an arm on my elbow. Not an urgent insistent arm, a touch that simply says, ‘May I?’ I turn and am encircled in the arms of a man just over six feet. He’s the antithesis of Mr White, dressed from head to toe in black. Black trousers with front and back seams, shiny black long sleeved shirt worn over his trousers, black trainers and black shades. He carries his black towel in his back pocket which he takes out to wipe his brow.

The DJ’s changed mood and plays one of my favourite reggae songs, “She’s Royal”. As Tarrus Riley’s deep molasses voice oozes though the speakers, Mr Black puts one arm round my shoulder and the other in the small of my back. Not this again! Not another humiliation. I should leave now. But as he begins to sway his hips, I realise we are in for a different kind of dance. One I feel more at home with. I allow my body to move in time with his. There’s something in his touch that calms my frenzy, something tranquil in his moves; something in the lyrics that stills my mind. When the song finishes, I thank him and leave the stage.

Celia’s waiting for me.

‘Can we go?’ I shout above the opening words of Sean Paul’s “Get Busy”.

She nods. We walk away in silence. As the music fades in the background and the aroma leaves our nostrils, she puts her arm round my shoulder and says quietly, ‘Do you want to talk about it?’