Don't Marry Thomas Clark (24 page)

What's more, my presence doesn't seem to bother him. Our altercations leave him totally indifferent. He's relaxed, driving with the window down and his eyes fixed on the road. He seems to have forgotten that I'm even there, just to his left. I can't stand him!

‘
No woman no cry…
'

‘Why'd you turn over?' he asks in astonishment.

‘Because I'm irritable and bossy,' I say, and the answer seems to satisfy him, given that he continues driving without asking further questions.

Ten minutes later we enter the city. He turns on the navigation system and a metallic voice guides us to the port.

‘Is there any chance you could actually tell me where we're going?' I ask impatiently.

‘Not yet,' he says in a distracted voice while he concentrates on the narrow road.

We follow the signs and find ourselves in a spacious parking area, a short walk from the pier. As we get out of the car we are drenched in the sunlight of a beautiful late morning in late July. Around us there is a crowd of restless people, along with a disgusting smell of pancakes, coming from a kiosk a few steps from the pavement.

Looking about me, I walk round to the boot. I've never been to Dover before. The view from here is not all that great, unless you're crazy about concrete and the smell of rotten fish, but I've heard that the city is really pretty, and, if I remember right, there should be a pretty famous castle somewhere.

‘Give me that,' I mutter absently, holding out my hand towards Thomas, who in the meantime is busying himself with our suitcases.

‘Are you kidding?' he says, furrowing his brow.

‘No,' I confirm, again raising my arm to make him understand that I have no intention of giving up.

‘This is one of those incomprehensible feminist moments where you ask me not to be polite because it clashes with your concept of emancipation and then spend the rest of your life giving me a hard time about it because I irremediably offended your female sensibilities?'

‘Actually, I just thought you wouldn't want to carry my bags,' I admit laconically.

‘What kind of people have you spent your life hanging around with?' he asks, making it sound more like a statement than a question.

I wish I could deny it, but part of me actually thinks he's summed up my emotional situation pretty accurately.

We get to the crowded quay, pass a group of people intent on piling heavy boxes next to a van and take a wander among the many boats anchored between the salt-encrusted balustrades.

‘Careful. It's slippery,' he murmurs with an unusually thoughtful tone.

‘Are we nearly there?' I ask, when we get to the middle of the dock.

‘Yes, we're almost there,' he says, checking the names of the yachts anchored in line. I look too, but I don't notice anything except the obvious bad taste of their owners. The boats are incredibly huge, and topped with pools of all shapes and sizes, sofas, water slides, and on one they've even planted palm trees – really!

Suddenly, a horrifying thought hits me like a truck: seen from the outside, we probably look a couple of sweethearts on vacation. And an even more horrible idea follows the first: we
are
a couple of sweethearts on vacation!

I can't breathe.

‘There she is,' he says, heading towards a metal ladder on a yacht at least two hundred feet in length and as white as the driven snow. Attempting to hide the agitation I feel, I walk over to him and study the boat below, seeking refuge from the sun behind my hand.

‘Meet the Othello,' he says with satisfaction. ‘What do you think?'

‘Nice little boat,' I reply unenthusiastically. ‘Now what do we do?'

‘What a silly question – we get on board, ‘ he says, moving towards the handrail.

‘Are you kidding?'

‘Not at all.'

‘Why should we get on a yacht?' I ask him.

‘I told you that I wanted to make it up to you, right? Well, I thought it over and I decided to book the Othello, so we can spend a romantic week being lulled by the waves, drinking champagne and enjoying the magnificent natural beauty of the Irish coast.'

‘You brought me to Dover to put me on a boat and drag me off onto the open seas with only you for company for the next sevendays?' I yell at him, completely beside myself.

‘Surprise!' he exclaims with a radiant smile, opening his arms.

‘Mr. Clark, welcome!' the voice of a middle-aged man leaning over the balustrade greets us.

‘Who's that?' I whisper, pointing.

‘Thanks very much,' he replies, cheerfully, to the man. ‘Have you been waiting long?' Then he turns back to me and whispers, ‘Come on, say hello to Captain Foster, don't be rude.'

‘Who is Captain Foster?' I repeat, refusing to get on board.

‘Erm, the captain?'

‘That means he will be with us?'

‘Of course – I don't have a skippering license.'

‘So it'll be you, me and Captain Foster?'

‘Apparently there'll also be a couple of waiters, a cook and three sailors.'

‘And where are we going to put all these people?'

‘Relax!' he says, amused by my agitation.

‘They'll only be on board while we sail. Whenever we anchor, they'll leave the yacht.'

‘And that's supposed to make me feel better?'

‘So, are you ready?' asks the captain, clearly desperate to get away from dry land.

‘Of course,' Thomas responds, starting to climb the steps of the boarding ladder. ‘Coming, darling?' he says, stopping halfway, noting that I haven't moved an inch.

It looks like I've got no choice.

‘This time I'll get you. I swear I'll get you,' I mutter to myself, contemplating my revenge.

‘Glad to welcome you aboard the Othello,' Captain Foster says as soon as we set foot on deck. ‘Please leave your bags here. Jack will take them to your cabin. Did you have a good journey?'

‘Yes, thank you,' replies Thomas. ‘There wasn't much traffic, and it's a beautiful day.'

‘I couldn't agree more,' he confirms, calling a young sailor who moves quickly to take our luggage. I guess it's Jack, so I nod at him.

‘Would you prefer a cool drink or would you rather take a tour of the yacht first?'

‘I don't know… Darling, what would you prefer?'

Whisky!

‘Let's take a look at this contraption,' I say instead, pushing him by the shoulder. ‘I'm eager to see my prison cell.'

After a moment of embarrassment at my last statement, Captain Foster takes us on a brief tour of the Othello. On the bridge, he briefly explains how the crew's shifts will be organized. From what I can understand, there will always be someone aboard to deal with our every need, but, as per Thomas's request, apart from them, nobody will be allowed to sleep on the yacht. Precisely for this reason, we will be anchoring in a different port every day until we reach Dublin. On that occasion we will travel at night, weather permitting, and the crew will remain with us until the next day. Next, Thomas starts asking a number of technical questions about the management of the ship, and the captain is overjoyed to have the chance to go over what, to me, sound like incredibly boring lists of pointless information that my brain refuses to take in.

I stop listening, walk away from them and go over to the balustrade. The wind tickles my face, but the feeling is pleasant, so I breathe in deeply, lean on the handrail and try to relax. I must admit, the view is beautiful, what with the gunmetal-grey horizon, the oil slicks along the coast and the reinforced concrete buildings in the distance…

Without realizing it, I start daydreaming. What are my friends in London doing? It seems like a lifetime since I last saw them. We're constantly in touch via web or phone, but it's not the same thing. I feel excluded from what was, until a few weeks ago, my life, and it's not a pleasant feeling at all. And I miss Rufus. I miss him terribly.

Suddenly I think of Mike.

On impulse I take the phone from my pocket and scroll down the names in the phonebook, stopping at his. I haven't heard back from him, just as I'd imagined. He's probably going out with someone else now and most likely wouldn't even remember my name.

What about if I call him? But, even if he answers, what could I say? ‘Hello, Mike. I'm Sandy, do you remember? The one who stood you up at that Nightwish concert. Hey, you know what? I'm getting married! No, don't worry, it's not forever. It'll only last ten years. Think you'll be about after?'

‘Isn't it beautiful?' asks Thomas, joining me.

‘What?'

‘The view…'

‘Ah… Yes, beautiful. Sure,' I answer, dismissively.

He notices that I'm miles away, so he lets it go, ‘Shall we carry on with the tour?'

I agree, because what choice do I have? I shake my head, letting the cascade of negativity flow down my slender back and follow the others, looking from time to time at what the captain proudly points out to us.

After showing us the oval pool and solarium, the captain takes us below deck, where there are the crew's bedrooms, the two suites reserved for guests, several bathrooms and recreation rooms, which consist of a living room with a corner piano bar and bookcase, an open-air dining room and a media room equipped with a television so big that it could almost be a cinema.

The last room we visit is ours. Particularly bright and tastefully furnished, the first thing I notice is the solarium. From here it feels intimate and cosy. There are comfortable wicker chairs with large white cushions that look soft and inviting. I'm just about to sink into one when my attention is drawn towards the bed. Nestling between the pillows is a red rose, still in bud, a veiled warning of what might appear to be a voluptuous promise but in reality is nothing more than the simple reaffirmation of a simple and inescapable constant in my life: a tendency towards the tragicomic.

To hide my irritation, I walk aimlessly around, pretending to be fascinated by the prints hanging on the walls. I notice that our bags have already been brought in while we were doing the grand tour and placed by the wardrobe, along with a box containing an endless series of ties rolled up in a glass drawer divided into square compartments.

‘Everything in order?' enquires the captain at that moment.

‘It's a lovely vessel,' says Thomas. ‘I'm sure we will be fine.'

‘I'm sure you will. Mrs Clark, is it to your liking?' he asks, turning to me. I still haven't said a word.

‘I'm not Mrs. Clark,' I answer instantly, slamming the wardrobe door with a thud.

‘Oh, I apologize, I imagined…' Captain Foster stutters, taken aback.

‘Captain, this is Miss Sandy Price, the future Mrs. Clark. For the moment we are only engaged, but we'll be getting married soon,' Thomas says, in an attempt to ease him out of the tricky moment.

‘Well let me give you my heartfelt congratulations,' he responds with relief. ‘What wonderful news!' And he shakes Thomas's hand vigorously.

I force a smile, but inside I feel like running up to the bridge and throwing myself into the sea.

How the hell did I
get
myself into this mess?

Why didn't I listen to Rufus when there was still in time?

How will I survive a week of this hell? Why me? Why me? So absorbed am I in my own existential psychodrama that I don't even notice that we are alone. They've all gone. They probably wanted to give us time to freshen up.

‘Did you hear?' Thomas asks, unbuttoning his shirt.

‘What?' I mumble, snapping out of my trance.

‘Lunch will be served in about an hour. Would you prefer to eat in here or shall I ask them to lay the table in the dining room?'

‘What difference does it make?' I reply dejected.

‘We're going to be leaving the coast. You might want to enjoy the scenery,' he proposes, joining me next to the wardrobe.

His naked torso.

Oh God. Where did all those muscles come from? And I find myself staring at the ceiling, looking for cracks.

‘Sandy, did you hear me?' he asks, making eye contact while trying to button up a cuff.

‘I heard you! I heard you!' I snap, hiding my face in my hands and banging my head against the wardrobe.

‘So?' he insists, not realizing that there is a problem.

‘So what? What do you want? And, above all, why are you stripping off?' I shout, now extremely embarrassed.

‘I thought I'd put on something comfortable,' he says quietly.

‘And you have to do it in front of me?'

‘Well, you might as well start getting used to it. We're going to be married soon, right?' he says, twisting the knife in with a cheerful grin. ‘Will you give me a hand with this?' And with an innocent expression, he holds out his arm. ‘It doesn't seem to want to go through the buttonhole.'

‘Argh, for God's…! Oh all right, give me the bloody thing so I can finally take refuge in the bathroom. And I'm not coming out until lunch is ready!' I shout, tugging vehemently at his white shirt. ‘What a brilliant idea, let's lock ourselves away for a week in a ten foot square cabin,' I grumble as if he wasn't there. ‘This is a pre-booked bloodbath. Oh, keep still! If you keep fidgeting like that, I'll never get it in,' I continue to rant. ‘Seven endless days without Internet, without any books, without anyone to talk to, and nowhere to hide from you. Nice trick you've played on me! This is why you didn't want to tell me where we were going – you knew I'd never have accepted.'

I look at him. ‘What were you thinking? And explain to me how you're going to be able to work? Can you really take all this time off?'

‘Actually this
is
work,' he says, making no effort to hide his amusement at seeing me so upset.

‘I forgot,' I say, realizing only now that the will, for obvious reasons, must be his principal problem.