Don't Marry Thomas Clark (26 page)

‘I'm starting to like her.'

‘That doesn't surprise me,' I reply bitterly. ‘It was embarrassing to stand there watching someone helplessly make a fool of themselves in front of everyone,' I continue, tilting my head as glimpses of my youth come to mind.

‘Do you think she acted so ridiculously just because she liked me?'

‘I wasn't talking about her.'

‘This conversation is absurd,' he mumbles, ‘I don't even remember her!'

‘Exactly! You don't have the faintest idea who she is, and yet you spent a whole summer treating her like a doormat. You asked her to collect the balls, to carry the bag with the rackets to the locker room, to lend you her hairdryer… and she did it all, immediately, honoured to be your slave.'

‘While in the meantime you were drowning in your own bile because it wasn't you?' he provokes me, taking a sip of his water.

‘Thomas, seriously – if I'd been left with your racket in my hand for more than a few seconds, you'd have found yourself in casualty with a head injury,' I say, smiling amiably.

‘All this violence! You really should learn to manage your temper,' he suggests.

‘You're amazing!' I reply. ‘Haven't you got anything else to say?'

‘Like what?'

‘I don't know. Something. Just showing a bit of embarrassment would be a start. You ruined that girl's adolescence and it doesn't seem to bother you in the slightest.'

‘She was obviously happy to be able to make herself useful and spend some time with me and I had someone who would pick up the balls. If you look at it from the right perspective, it was a perfect relationship!' he laughs.

Here he is, in all his glory. Thomas Clark, the perfect example of the hypertrophic brain, archetype of the regression of the male sex.

‘Do you realize that if I drowned you I could call it legitimate self-defence?'

‘Are you
always
this much hard work? It was just a joke,' he says.

‘The cake and coffee are being served in the solarium, as you requested. Whenever you're ready…' announces the maître d' with a slight bow.

‘Thank you so much!' I exclaim cheerfully, throwing my napkin on the table, glad to end the conversation. ‘Darling…' I whisper coquettishly, as I pass Thomas, ‘I'm going to the room. Are you coming?' And I cover his forehead in kisses. ‘Oh look at that adorable pout!' I say, moving a lock of hair from his forehead. ‘Isn't my little currant bun
delicious
?' I ask the waiter, who hesitates in embarrassment. ‘Come on, babyface, let's go and put a bit of cream on that funny little rash you've got under your belly button,' and I climb the stairs two at a time until I reach the short hallway that leads to the room.

When I open the door, a blast of cold air hits me – someone left the air conditioning on. I turn it off and I walk towards the balcony, drawn towards the sofa. ‘Aaah, bliss,' I sigh, letting myself fall limply into the cushions. Thomas joins me shortly afterwards, livid.

‘Everything OK, darling?‘ I ask him thoughtfully as I pick up my plate of cake from the glass coffee table.

‘Of course, light of my life. It's always been my dream to have the staff look at me as though I were a leper.'

‘Glad I could help,' I chirp cheerfully, tucking into my dessert. ‘Mmm… What a delight!' I say, mouth full of cake and eyes closed in ecstasy. ‘You know? You were right to order the same. My taste buds are in raptures.'

‘In a better mood now?' he asks, settling into an armchair.

‘I'm trying to take advantage of the few moments of pleasure that this internment has in store for me,' I tell him, wiping the corner of my mouth with my thumb. ‘What else can I expect? What's the first stop? I'd say we've probably left Limbo behind us by now.'

He pulls a strange face, then murmurs, between sips of his coffee, ‘Then we must be entering the second circle – lust.'

I go purple as he bursts out laughing. ‘Next time, avoid quoting things if you don't know exactly what you're talking about,' he gloats.

‘You know what? I'm going to sleep.'

‘Wait!' he stops me, suddenly pulling me towards him.

‘Forget it! You've exhausted my weekly resources of endurance in half a morning.'

‘I'll take that risk,' he replies, forcing me down onto his lap. ‘Come here,' he whispers hoarsely. ‘I need to talk to you.'

‘You can still talk to me if I'm standing up.'

‘Yes, but this way you're more receptive. Will you stop wriggling?‘ And he grabs me in his arms to keep me still.

‘So tell me what else you want?'

‘Tonight we anchor at Eastbourne. There'll be a concert at the port and a couple of friends have asked me to join them. Want to come?'

‘Are you inviting me to go out with you?'

‘Something like that,' he says, placing his lips on the fabric covering my shoulder without taking his eyes off me.

I watch him, hypnotized, until he lifts his head again and gently brushes my lips with his in a kiss. No. Wait. I must be imagining all this. Oh God, I've even started
hallucinating!

What is wrong with me?

‘Would you rather stay on board?'

I don't know why, I don't know how, but I've let out a ‘Yes' before even realizing it, given the situation, it might sound a tad suggestive. ‘I mean, no,' I correct myself, looking away. ‘I mean, yes, but without you. I mean that I don't want to go on land with you,' I say, feeling agitated.

‘And what are you going to do? The staff will be going ashore as soon as we dock.'

‘I could watch a movie,' I say. ‘Now will you let go of me? I'm starting to think that you actually like holding me in your arms.'

‘As you wish,' he says resignedly, letting go. ‘I'll tell the others that we had a fight and that you decided to go out alone. They'll understand…'

‘I hate you …' I moan.

‘Be ready for seven. Now go and have a rest.'

‘Why, what are you going to do?' I ask suspiciously.

‘I have to work. There are a few contracts I need to look through,' he replies, rubbing his eyes.

‘You're leaving?'

He pushes me away. ‘If I stay here I won't get anything done.'

‘All right.' I walk inside, head held high, and close the glass door in his face. ‘ I just hope you don't get a desperate need to pee!' I say, closing the curtains as though I'm on stage and revelling in the stream of insults I hear as soon as he realizes he has been locked out.

‘Sandy, open the door immediately!'

But that's the last threat that I manage to hear before putting on my earphones and throwing myself into some metal with the volume turned up to eleven.

Finally, a bit of peace!

I don't know how it's happened, but the last few days have flown by, and being in the company of Thomas has been almost bearable. We watched the fireworks in Eastbourne and visited a series of small towns on the coast. Even the hours of sailing which took us to Ireland were not as painful as I'd imagined they were going to be. I take up residence in the multimedia room, between the Jacuzzi, the pool and the amazing cakes of M. Baudry, our French chef. Thomas has been trying desperately not to get behind with his work, and when I realized that, I started disturbing him as often as I could, hoping to drive him to the point of exhaustion so he would order our immediate return to Dover, but to my great disappointment he put his laptop into his case and started enjoying the holiday, often keeping me company. I thought that the concept of relaxation was completely alien to him, but instead he instantly got into the new rhythms and has even managed to get a tan, which for me would be impossible. Like any self-respecting redhead, I am a complete stranger to the middle ground between deathly white and third-degree burns. If I want to be in the sun, I have to cover myself in layers and layers of sunscreen and there's no way of preventing freckles – which usually only cover my nose – from popping up everywhere else too.

And so the journey comes to an end. Last night we arrived in Dublin. Today for lunch we're meeting Mr. Doyle and his wife Gwendoline, and after that we will have until tomorrow to visit the city and then we can finally return to Garden House where, taking advantage of the harmony that has been established between us, I will suggest he calls his lawyer to prepare a new agreement so as to put an end to this absurd situation. We were too tense to think straight before, but now we have calmed down enough to address the issue like two adults.

‘Have you seen my cufflinks?' he calls from the bathroom.

He wanders around the room like a lost soul. His hair is still wet, his shirt half buttoned and he's wearing a pair of tight, black boxers that leave little to the imagination. I should be used to it by now. We sleep together, we eat together, we share the bathroom, and he hasn't the slightest sense of propriety, but I still can't help panicking when he starts to act as though I'm his girlfriend – as if it were perfectly natural to sleep next to me wearing only a skimpy pair of shorts, or go to the bathroom while I am washing without knocking, or even taking advantage of the presence of the staff, knowing that in front of them I can't refuse him.

‘Those golden cufflinks with the engraved “c” in the centre?' I ask, rummaging through his trousers.

‘Exactly,' he says.

‘The ones that you always put on your shirt cuffs?'

‘They're the ones,' he says, coming nearer and sounding impatient.

‘Those rectangles that when you take them out, you always say, “Sandy, can I put them here without worrying that you might somehow destroy them, lose them or inadvertently throw them away?” right?'

‘Yes, Sandy, those ones. My cufflinks!' he answers.

‘No.'

The door of the walk-in wardrobe opens and I find his nose two centimetres from mine. One thing's for sure: he has no sense of humour at all.

‘How should I know where they are? Check where you left them the last time you had them!' I growl, grabbing my palazzo pants from the pile.

‘They're not where I left them.'

He snatches the trousers from me, nervously hanging them up again. ‘They don't suit you. Put this on,' and he hands me a short, pale pink dress.

‘I don't want to wear that. I like the trousers!'

I hang the dress back up. ‘Where were they before you lost them?' I ask.

‘Well, let me think – on my bedside table,' he answers, testily, looking on a shelf. ‘Only now they've disappeared and in their place there are painkillers, face creams, books, make-up and God knows what else.'

Nothing on the shelf either, apparently, so he walks back over to me, opens the wardrobe and, after taking out the dress again, puts it back in my hands.

‘I had to use your bedside table – there wasn't any room anywhere else,' I say, in self-defence.

‘Have you asked yourself why?' he says gruffly.

‘Because it's too small.'

‘It's not small, it's you who puts stuff in the wrong place. The rubbish bin is under the desk!' he shouts as he rummages through my tops.

‘I doubt you'll find them there,' I say.

I wonder how he manages to feel so at ease poking through other people's things.

‘Sandy, make my cufflinks reappear or I'll be a widower before I even get married,' he threatens, pulling a cream sweater out from among the T-shirts and handing it to me. ‘It's damp today. Bring this as well.' And he dumps it unceremoniously on my head as he walks over to the bed.

‘Why should you decide what I ought to wear?' I ask him, pulling on the sweater with irritated movements.

‘And why don't
you
admit my innate good taste? Look at this mess…' he mumbles, trying not to trip over my sandals, which I abandoned beside the dresser. ‘Do you want to tidy this up?'

‘Will you stop telling me what to do?'

‘If we absolutely must share a bedroom, I expect to be able to navigate my living space without needing GPS.'

‘Well, here's the latest news: you no longer
have
any living space. Why
else
do you think that sixty per cent of married couples on the planet are in counselling?'

‘Well, that means that I'm entitled to throw away everything that you leave lying around.'

‘Don't you dare,' I threaten him.

‘I strongly recommend that you put the things you're attached to on one side,' he says menacingly, grabbing the handle of the bathroom door.

‘I don't need to. The only thing I really care about is already attached to this ring and there's no way you can take it away from me. It's your freedom.'

‘Well, what a coincidence. The same place where I put yours,' he snaps, slamming the bathroom door violently behind him.

What did I tell you? Two mature people who are in a relationship, facing all our difficulties with tact and composure.

When we get back home, I'm sure we'll come to an agreement.

Forty minutes later, we're in a charming restaurant with large glass windows.

In the end I wore the dress, but I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of wearing the sweater too, so now I'm trying to pretend that I'm not freezing to death while attempting not to lose sight of the waiter who is slipping between the other diners as he escorts us to the table we have reserved. It is in a secluded corner of the room, right in front of the balcony overlooking the small private beach below, and is surrounded by a hand-painted wooden booth.

‘Mr. Doyle,' Thomas says, grabbing his hand as soon as he rises up from his chair. ‘Mrs. Doyle,' he continues, turning to his wife with a smile that would melt an iceberg, ‘a pleasure to meet you.' At this point he introduces me to both of them. ‘This is Sandy Price, my fiancée.'