Summer Loving (11 page)

I feel cold inside.

‘That just isn’t true.’

‘OK. Just speculating. It’s just that when you talk about him, I can tell you’re not in love with him. Shit. Sorry. Did I say that or just think it?’

Blunt as ever. He looks into my eyes, waiting for a reaction.

‘What are you talking about? How can you possibly say something like that? What are you now – a bloody psychologist or something?’

My mind is racing. Is he right? Damn. Of course he is.

‘Look. I’m sorry. I just haven’t seen you for a long time. I’m just wondering if you’re alright, I suppose. I guess I feel – I feel a little upset ‘cause I’m getting a vibe off you…’

‘What are you talking about? What vibe?’

‘Don’t get annoyed, but I think you look great. The hair and everything else. You’re – you’re beautiful. But it just isn’t you. Something’s wrong and I don’t know what’s wrong. I think I’d better shut up. I don’t want to upset you.’

‘Yes. You’d better.’

We sit in silence for a few minutes, sipping at our coffees. This has suddenly got depressing and I’m not exactly sure why. I think he probably felt the same thing as me when we were in the water just now. It was almost as if the eight year gap hadn’t happened. I feel a little tearful. I think I’m going to need therapy after this holiday.

I’m hoping that this topic of conversation is at an end. I’m sure it is, as far as Kirstan is concerned. He looks upset that he’s upset me. But I can sense something welling up inside me. I want to tell him who I am now. I want to tell him
what
I am now. I don’t know if I should. I don’t know if it’ll make him sad. I don’t think I could stand the look in his eyes when he finds out that I’m the spoiled, pampered consort of a man who’s almost seventy.

I wish we hadn’t come here and I wish he didn’t work here. What are the bloody chances of this happening? Millions to one? More? Damn! We could have gone anywhere on holiday, but we had to come here because of the bloody golf. And now this has happened.

So it all spills out. I can’t stop it. My years at university, my useless relationships with fellow students, my dead-end multiple flings when I was a temp and then my ‘arrangement’ with Franklin. My status with him, the hair, the boob job, his brusqueness, his sexism, his materialism, his humourlessness, his awful friends and the dry, meaningless, tediousness of my entire life for the last eight years, but the last bloody two in particular.

When I’ve finished, Kirstan looks like I’ve just slapped him across the face.

‘Shit.’

‘Yes. Shit,’ I reply.

I take a deep breath. I gave up smoking three years ago, but I badly want a cigarette now.

‘I’m sorry, baby.’

‘And could you stop calling me ‘baby’? I’m not your baby. Not anymore.’

‘Sorry, baby.’

‘Oh, piss off.’

It’s no good. I have to laugh. He’s just so bloody charming and good-natured.

‘Don’t worry, Sask. It’ll sort itself out. Everyone goes through rough patches.’

‘Do they? Rough patches that last eight bloody years? Nothing has worked for me with relationships since we split up. I didn’t think it ever would again. That’s why it was easy for me to slip into what I have with Franklin.’ I’m getting tearful. I can feel it coming on. Got to control it. Keep it together. I blink my eyes rapidly.

‘But you’re talking about it like – I don’t know – this is upsetting for me too, you know. You’re talking about it like it was all my fault or something.’

‘It
was
your bloody fault! You bloody broke my heart; you know that, don’t you? Shit!’ The blinking isn’t working. I feel one tear run down my cheek.

‘What? What did I do? It was
you
that left and went to university in bloody
Scotland
! Where was it? Stirling? What was the matter? Couldn’t you find somewhere further away than that? Iceland or somewhere? I’m sure they’ve got a university in Reykjavik!’

‘Oh, god. Oh
god
.’ I’m sobbing again, so badly that I can’t speak, my hands over my face to hide the warm tears which are pouring out, tears which I can’t control. I begin to wonder if this is what having a nervous breakdown is like. I think it probably is. ‘If you had said…’

More crying. This is insane. I can’t even get a fraction of a sentence out. I’m not like this. This isn’t me. This is someone else. This is some weak, out-of-control, blubbing woman who I don’t know and would cross the street to avoid.

‘If I had said
what
?’

I look up at him. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what’s going on. I can see his eyes fill with tears. He’s upset and angry, too. I can feel it and I can see it. I can’t speak. I can’t. I really can’t speak for crying. My whole body is shaking. He pushes over a couple of
paper serviettes. I pick a couple up and wipe my face, then blow my nose. I must focus. I must try and speak. The guy behind the bar is looking at me. He looks sad. I must look like I’m in total despair. Perhaps I am.

I can’t stop. I’m going to have to find a way of crying and speaking simultaneously. This is insane. I take some deep breaths.

‘I was in fucking love with you. If you’d have asked me to…’ More crying. I can’t prevent this. I’m definitely having some sort of breakdown. I wipe my eyes with my hands. I must look awful. ‘If you’d asked me to throw in university and stay with you I’d have done it like a shot,’ I sniff and wipe more tears away. They just keep on coming. ‘Nothing was more important to me than you. Nothing. I didn’t give a toss about university. It was awful.’ Another sobbing jag stops the words for a few moments. I don’t think I’ve ever cried, I mean
really
cried, so much in my life. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone else cry so much. Not even on television. ‘But you didn’t. You didn’t say anything. You just let me go. Oh
shit
!’

More tears. There’s no doubt about it. I’m in meltdown.

He runs a hand through his hair. He looks shocked and hurt. I think ‘horrified’ and ‘dismayed’ might be in the mix, as well. I look away. I can’t look at him. Looking at him makes it all worse. I breathe heavily and sniff frequently.

‘But Sask, I couldn’t tell you what to do with your bleedin’ life! You’d worked hard getting A levels and stuff. You’d always wanted to go to university. You’d filled in the forms. You’d gone to the interviews. The whole process was happening. You told me about it
as
it was happening. I couldn’t let you go through all that and then say oh by the way I don’t want you to go!’

‘Yes you
could
! Yes you
could
! That was
why
I was
telling
you!’

‘Well how was I to know
that
? Christ!’

‘And I’ve
never
loved anyone else,’ I blub, like a big girl, ‘Never. No one –
no
one
ever made me feel like you did. No one’s ever come close to it. And my life has been screwed up ever since. And it’s still screwed up. And it’s your fucking fault!’

He’s plainly stupefied. If I was impartially observing this, I’d probably feel sorry for
him
, not me. ‘
Your
fucking fault. And I still fucking love you!’ I gulp in more air. I sob.  ‘I’ve thought about you every bloody day for
eight
years
and every time it’s like someone’s stabbed me in the heart. I’ve tried to supress it but it doesn’t work. I can’t stop it.
Every
bloody
morning
I wake up and the first thing I think about is
you
. What you’re doing. Where you are. If you’re even
alive
,’ I shake with sobs once again, ‘And I can’t stand it! I can’t bloody stand it! It’s been killing me, Kirstan. It’s been bloody killing me.’

I get up, pick up a small cardboard container full of plastic straws and throw it at his head. The container bounces off his head and all of the straws go over the floor. It’s not much, but it’s all there was to hand. At least I didn’t miss. That would have ruined the moment.

Still sobbing, I storm off to my room. The guy behind the bar smiles weakly at me as I pass by. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking.

Eight

I get into the room and realise I’ve left my bloody clothes in the bloody changing room. I’m still crying and sniffing. I avoid looking at myself in the mirror. I take my swimming costume off and throw it at the wall. I go into the bathroom and run a bath, swishing some purple bubble bath stuff under the tap. I go to the minibar and get out two small bottles of scotch and pour them into one of the glass tumblers from the bathroom. I drink it down in one. It burns, but I feel slightly better for having done it.

I feel angry, upset, useless and stupid. I’ve just made the most awful fool of myself. How could I have done that to him? He must think I’m totally crazy or a real bitch - or both. My breathing is reaching the hyperventilating state again. I get into the bath while it’s still running and lie down, staring at the ceiling. Christ, have I been bottling all that up for almost a decade? Am I really that unhappy? Is my life as screwed as I said it was?

And what I said was true. All of it. Even the bit about thinking about Kirstan as soon as I wake up. I’m sure that there’s a huge area of my brain which is solely occupied with suppressing all conscious thoughts of him so that I can function properly and get through a normal day without breaking down in tears. And then, at the bar, it was as if someone had uncorked the bottle and all of that came pouring out. Eight years’ worth of it.

I always thought you were meant to feel better about things like that when you’d brought them out into the open after a long period of time. It isn’t true. It isn’t true at all. Is this some sort of – I don’t know what you’d call it – some sort of
existential
crisis
that I’ve just had? Can things ever be the same now? Everything’s fractured. I can’t possibly stay with Franklin after seeing Kirstan again.

I close my eyes as I feel the scotch kick in. I’m still crying. I don’t know what’s wrong. I just can’t bloody stop. If Franklin came in the room now, I can’t imagine how I’d explain this to him. ‘Sorry, darling. I’ve completely lost it. Better in a minute. How was the golf? What wine shall we have with dinner tonight?’

After ten or fifteen minutes of staring at the bathroom ceiling and sniffing, I get out and dry myself off. I wrap a large, fluffy brown towel around myself, walk into the main room (is that what it’s called in a swanky hotel suite?) and switch on the television. I notice for the first time that my arms ache and for a second I wonder why. Then I remember that I’ve had a surfing lesson this afternoon. About an hour and a half ago, in fact.

I don’t understand Portuguese, but this makes watching what I assume is the news much more relaxing. Some men in yellow jackets are standing outside a house with big security gates. I can’t imagine what this is about. Looks serious, though.

I get a half bottle of Champagne out of the minibar, open it and sit down in front of the telly, swigging out of it. Not surprisingly, it starts to come out of my nose. It’s only five-o-clock, but I just want to get completely smashed. I try to work out what’s happening next. Oh yes; dinner with Estelle. But that’s not for another few hours. I really must compose myself before I meet up with her again. After all that’s happened this afternoon, I’ve almost forgotten what she’s like.

I mustn’t be drunk when I’m having dinner with her, though. She’s the sort of person who would tell Tybalt about it if I seemed pissed and he’s the sort of person who would tell Franklin about it. Franklin would then ask lots of questions that I wouldn’t want to answer. I’m getting paranoid. I’m starting to feel that they’re all fundamentally against me in some way. Why is that? It’s strange, but it’s somehow got the ring of truth about it. It’s like they don’t like me, but they have to find roundabout ways of expressing it. At the same time, it’s essential in some way for them all to have me there.

I’ll just finish this Champagne, have another scotch or whatever’s in the little fridge and then have a shower before I get changed.

For some reason, I suddenly find that I’ve stood up and I’m looking around the suite. What am I doing? I go to the wardrobe and slide it open. There are all my expensive designer clothes. There’s the new dress that Franklin bought me. I run my hand across its smooth, suede surface. Was it really only twenty-four hours ago that I unwrapped it? It smells of my perfume.

I take out my black Chanel clutch bag and look at it as if I haven’t seen it before. I suppose it cost a couple of thousand pounds. I turn it around in my hands. Very soft leather. I’ve got to the point where I don’t really keep anything in little bags like this apart from lipstick. They’re just things I carry around to show people that Franklin can afford to buy them.

There’s a whole load of expensive lingerie in a different section of the wardrobe. Brands that I didn’t even know existed a few years back; Bordelle, Jean Yu and Carine Gilson. All worth thousands. The sort of lingerie that the most exorbitantly-priced courtesan, or call girl might wear. I do like the Bordelle stuff, though.