When he came in, just after five, he found her reading in the room, and she looked up to see his scowl – a deep furrow in his brow gone maroon in the sun.
‘I came here to spend a week with you, not on my own,’ he said.
The irony made her gag. ‘Why don’t you just fuck off, Nick?’ He sat down on the bed. He picked up her book and looked
at it, then put it down.
‘I must tell you . . .’ he addressed her as if she were a client, ‘on Saturday, I met an old school friend here, a girl – well, a woman now, but I knew her when we were young.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I took her virginity. She was very vulnerable, because her parents had died, and I let her down pretty badly, as it happens. I ran into her when I left the restaurant. I brought her to meet you but you were gone. Anyway, all I’m saying is the conversation was uncomfortable, to say the least. I can see now that I could be accused of being rather callow.’ He looked at her. ‘Do you know what I mean?’
‘Yes,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘I know what fucking callow means. I wish you’d stop using your words like you get a triple letter score every time.’
‘This girl, this woman, she set me straight about the kind of person I am, unfortunately, and it’s hit me quite hard.’
‘How do you mean? What on earth are you on about? What does she know about you? You were just a teenager when she knew you.’
‘I don’t have a mother and father. Not because they died, but because I cut them out of my life. People hate me. This man burst into my office last week and called me an arsehole. He said it was thanks to me he’d had a heart attack!’
She made a face. ‘I had this woman once who said I’d ruined her sex life with a bob. People just want someone to blame.’
‘He said to me, If I ever see you crossing the road, I’ll run you down.’
‘Oh, I don’t suppose he will, Nick.’
‘He came up the stairs, shouting, Where’s that cunt . . .’
‘I bet a few heads popped up then.’
‘Astrid!’
‘Well, quit your job then! Do something nice, fuck you.’
‘That girl, Morwen . . .’
‘Moorhen?’
‘Morwen.’
‘What kind of a name is Morwen when it’s at home?’
‘Welsh.’
‘Welsh! You slept with someone Welsh?’
‘She’s not Welsh.’
‘But you did sleep with her?’
‘Twenty years ago! I told you! Look, she was in love with me. She said I was her first love. She said she’s been trying to find me ever since . . .’
‘Stupid cow.’
‘But she couldn’t find Gary Goodyew of course, because he doesn’t exist any more. She went really nuts when I said I’d changed my name. She flew off the handle. She went on about how I’d been untrue to myself and just about everyone else. And she’s not far wrong.’
‘Well, you haven’t been untrue to me, have you?’
He stood looking out across the harbour, his back to her. He didn’t answer.
After a while, he turned round, his eyes small, and said, ‘She’s down there, on the beach.’
Astrid pushed past him and leant over the balustrade, holding it tight, and saw a single woman, on a towel on the beach in a navy-blue swimming costume, meditative pose, legs crossed.
‘That the one?’ He nodded.
‘Is she waiting for you, or something?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, in a sense she was always waiting for me.’
He hung his head and sat on the little tin chair on the balcony, looking out to sea. He didn’t hear the door close.
When he looked across to the beach, he saw Astrid, taking the steps down past the fountain two at a time. She hopped off the wall on to the sand. Morwen looked up as Astrid approached. There must have been something of Artemis in her expression, for Morwen stood up. They faced each other, hands on hips, then first Astrid then Morwen looked towards the balcony at him.
He did not think a wave would be appropriate.
There was some conversation. Morwen folded her arms across her chest and put a leg out to one side. Mistake. Astrid slapped her. He could see it was hard because Morwen reeled. A man stood up, but didn’t move further. Astrid clambered on to the wall and went back up the stairs.
He retreated quickly from the balcony, closed the double doors and stood in the dim room, feeling his cheeks burning. He heard the swagger of the elevator, then the ping of its bell, followed by the sound of her flip-flops slapping the marble floor, coming closer and closer. When the door opened, he saw a wild woman, nothing like the girl he’d met in the spa.
‘She said the wrong thing,’ she panted. ‘I asked her how she felt qualified to ruin my holiday with her half-arsed opinions, and she asked me what my problem was and – well, as you’d say, I’ve never liked that expression used that way.’
She went to the minibar and helped herself to a can of beer. She was shaking.
‘I can’t believe you just did that,’ he said.
‘I’m tired of being good,’ she said, and then she drank.