20 August
Right up until Scott asks me his random question about ghosts, he and I are doing that thing we do. The thing that nauseates everyone around us.
Slouched on deck chairs halfway along the pier, we hold hands in silence. All but ignoring the magnificent view of the sea and the hazy white cliffs to the east, we’re lost in each other’s eyes. I’ve never experienced a closeness like this before. For onlookers, the whole spectacle must be truly appalling, but guess how many fucks I give?
Go on, guess.
Every once in a while, the bare-naked romance of these intimate silences becomes so acute that we burst out laughing and talk again, only to lapse back into all the staring. Feels as though we actually enter each other’s minds and wander around our shared labyrinth together. In terms of the film Labyrinth, which we watched on Blu-ray last night, I am Jennifer Connelly to Scott’s David Bowie. Mind you, Bowie’s character was pretty evil, so that doesn’t work.
This time, Scott’s the one who breaks our silence. “Where do you stand on the existence of ghosts? Yay or nay?”
A chuckle rumbles in my chest. “If I’d had to compile a top thousand list of things you might have said next, this question wouldn’t have been among them.”
He smiles back at me, but says nothing. Looks like he might actually want an answer. I realise that we’ve never discussed our spiritual or religious beliefs, or lack thereof. For all I know, Scott could be a big old Satanist.
“Spooks get a big no from me,” I say. “Seen too many dead people, I’m afraid.”
“Same here,” he says, before jumping back in to explain himself. “Oh! I don’t mean I’ve seen too many dead people. I just mean, I don’t believe in spooks either.”
As he gazes somewhere off into the middle distance, I want his eyes back on me. Sometimes the potency of this love drug feels disturbing. “And now,” I say, “I can’t resist asking what prompted that question…”
His faint shrug snowballs into a laugh. “I honestly have no idea. Maybe the ghost train?”
I take a quick look up along the pier. From this position, we can’t actually see the Hell Hotel ride. Guess he must have seen it while we strolled up here. Every moment of every day, the mind takes in so much more than we consciously acknowledge.
I open my mouth to ask how many dead people Scott’s actually seen, but he squeezes my hand, leans forward in his chair and lays that look on me.
“I’m thinking candyfloss. Yeah?”
As he stands, an alarming noise blasts out of his jeans pocket. The sound is truly bizarre, like some kind of baying, primal animal chorus.
Scott whips out his phone, then quickly presses a button on the side of the case.
The noise stops dead. When he doesn’t immediately offer an explanation, my curiosity boils over. “What the bloody hell was that?”
Having stowed the device back away, he laughs. “God knows! Phones have minds of their own. Now, candyfloss? Candyfloss.”