The Blue Book (23 page)

Or they just want to fake being film stars.

And the Germans fake being Brits and the Americans fake being Brits and the Brits fake being Brits – fake it harder than anyone else so they can be imperturbable ladies and firm but fair gentlemen.

The French stay French. They have their own problems. They have their own flag.

Everyone has their own flag. How would you know what's yours if you can't stick a flag in it?

Me, I'm flying a white one. For surrender and undecided – blank sheet.

It takes her an effort to move along the passageway – going against its grain.

Did he want us to be here because we're both fakers? Did he think I would be at home in this many lies?

And she'd knock on wood if there was any –
Does veneer count? –
she'd throw salt back over her shoulder in a trail if she thought it would help.

It has the scent of a good hotel, that's all – no need for me to get hysterical.

Arthur is a collector of good hotels.

It wasn't unlikely I'd meet him in one. In, for example, sodding Beverley.

In sodding Beverley, Beth had stalled outside her mother's room, had missed the moment when they ought to kiss goodnight, or hug, should do something compassionate. Eventually Cath had thanked her again for the lovely time she clearly wasn't having and had given a small, stiff nod.

‘You don't need to thank me. I wanted to . . . It's good if we . . . And the office has been busy and . . .'

‘You can't work all the time.' This only a quiet statement, not accusing – which naturally made it accuse Beth more and then widen to suggest a background of daughterly neglect, the waste of a university education in mindlessly administrative jobs, a consuming lack of positive direction that was clear to anyone – the usual themes.

Beth was unable to explain that she wanted to be busy, not fulfilled: that chasing fulfilment would be dangerous, would wake her. ‘No, I think I
can
work all the time, actually. I think . . . Sorry.' Beth watched her mother's lips, the sadness briefly plain in them and then the irritation. When she spoke again Beth sounded childish, whining, ‘It's what I do, Mum . . . Coping . . . Sorry . . .' She had no strength to be kind and do better. ‘Sorry. I shouldn't . . . We should have breakfast late tomorrow – last day. Or in bed – you could do that.'

‘I'd rather have breakfast with you.'

The need to have Beth around had never been there before; at least, not in this ravenous, sad form. It made Beth want to leave.

So she did. ‘We'll do that, then. And I'll get off to bed. Tired. Sorry.' No sitting up in her mother's room and ignoring bad telly again, both reading to avoid being companions, or having a conversation. ‘See you in the morning. Sleep well.' But they would have been together, nonetheless, which might have been bearable for Cath but Elizabeth couldn't deal with it, not yet. She only ever saw her mother with her father. Now she can't sit next to one and not expect the other, assume he'll fluster in with apologies about a gig that ran much longer than expected, an awkward audience, a birthday girl who cried.

I should be more help to her. But I won't. As ever, not a jolly good fellow. But I can only stand what I can stand.

And she'd headed upstairs to her own room, padded along the carpet between perspectives of calming, Zen-flavoured pictures, door frames, doors.

Heard the noise of an opening door and I looked round. No reason to do so – I wasn't expecting anyone.

A man standing in a doorway.

And I can't recall being surprised to see him. I don't think I felt anything – no dip in the stomach, no swing – it was only like being suddenly in a wide, high empty space and having no breath.

Arthur was standing in his doorway, barefoot in an upmarket suit – thinner than she'd remembered, paler, wearier, clean-shaven and with a poorhouse short back and sides. He was holding a Do Not Disturb sign, about to close up for the night.

He looked at her.

I don't think he was feeling much, either. Although the sign shook in his hand. I noticed that: a jolt and then he made himself steady.

And there had been something naked in his eyes, caught in the open for an instant and then gone.

And I could have decided to think – ‘What are the chances of both of us staying at that hotel and at that time and of my passing precisely when he would be standing there and I could see him?' I could have imagined our meeting was so unlikely it must be a sign of some larger intention at work – our destiny.

But there are so many corridors inside so many hotels and so many people who have met – at other times and in other places – so many other people and there are so many nights when so many sleepers might wish not to be disturbed that the chances of somebody somewhere encountering somebody else – even somebody they have kissed in the past – those chances are quite high. Even though the greater the number of variables, the less likely the event, it's still not that miraculous for someone, somewhere to see someone stand in a doorway – someone whose palms they
have kissed, whose stomach they have kissed – someone they have kissed right to the root where he's hard and sweet and clever and where he wants.

She stops in the rising and recoiling passageway and can no longer think of going forward.

And he kissed me. We might have been kind and done better, but we didn't even speak that much – just acted as if we were following a plan and had decided to give each other what would keep us from having to think.

Of course.

But there wasn't a plan, not anywhere. Our meeting was a coincidence, not a hint, not a gift, not anything that means we have been sentenced to a life spent faking – play-acting that we're a pair of horny strangers, chasing the cum.

Deck Seven waits – all swaying perspectives and a reddish carpet for the movie star touch.

I can't recollect if I told him my father was dead.

I'd have told a real stranger – it would have been the first thing I'd have said.

And Beth waits, too. She can't go back, but she also can't move any nearer to the curve that will lead round the line of the stern. Turn the corner and she'll find Arthur's suite and he'll be expecting her, because the Purser's Office told him she was on her way, because wealthy people should not be subjected to surprises. Beth can imagine she feels his concentration drilling and humming against the walls.

But he could have gone out – avoided the issue, done what I might do.

I am out and avoiding, in fact.

She decides she should stand and worry that she isn't properly dressed. This will pass the time.

And what exactly would the dress code be for this? What's the proper costume for not quite adultery, or for various grades of betrayal, or for the new start of something old? I couldn't face that. The new start of something new, then. Which I can't face either.

Should I be naked, get it over with, cut straight to the way we end up?

Or fancy underwear? We tried that. I tried that. The guy never has to, it would seem. He just brings fancy sheets.

More things to not face.

Nondescript appearance, that's what I'm aiming for, noncommittal, non-combatant – an ensemble that might suggest I'm not making assumptions.

I should have tied my hair back, sprayed it down, worn a bloody balaclava – it has a mind of its own. One of us ought to.

I'm not going to be as I should and he's going to see it. And I'm ugly enough where it doesn't show, so I would rather be presentable on the surface.

She closes her eyes and begins to step forward – being blinded helps.

The jeans because they fit, they're comfortable, a comfort, the sweater because it's cashmere and it might not look terrific – green, it's draining and it's clashing with the carpet – but it's soft and I need soft.

Low shoes because I would rather not fall.

Already a fallen woman.

While she progresses, the ship's life works on her, its motion making her heavier and then lighter in a long, slow rhythm, as if something is hunting along her bones, squeezing out the thoughts she doesn't want.

Derek might be awake, he might be rallying.

I'm not even sure what time it is.

It's ridiculous that she may be found like this by a steward and asked to explain herself, which would be shaming.

I don't want to be ashamed.

So I shouldn't be heading back to Arthur.

People who don't want to be ashamed should avoid performing shameful acts.

And the floor, walls, ceiling keep on shifting and her mind also shifting, running, shuddering, until suddenly it locks, is still – perhaps exhausted – and she thinks this is what it's like to be him, Arthur – a man so filled with everything that he twitches and flails on dry land, unfitted for anywhere stable, but shake him out into chaos and then he's a piece of peace.

If I knew how to be him well enough, I could maybe get by without him. I could fake that and be safe.

Bollocks.

I want to kiss him.

It isn't complicated.

I want that.

A man standing in a doorway.

The man ought to be Arthur, but Arthur has arranged other arrangements.

Loves his arrangements – surprises for everyone but Art.

When she rings the bell, Art's suitably impressive door is opened to her by a man in a dinner suit who wears white gloves and a shipping line name tag –
Narciso
. ‘Good evening, Miss.'

Arthur is the one in the living room, sitting on a sofa with not enough space for his length of bone. He is concentrating on his bookshelves – this level of accommodation provides both bookshelves and books – and now he tells a random selection of tour guides and holiday mysteries, ‘This is Narciso – my complimentary butler. And he is. Very.' Arthur winding his arm round under his knee, frowning. ‘I think he'll be staying. He can serve us things. Snacks. Champagne.' Art is in jeans and a very fresh shirt the colour of his eyes and this is a plausible choice: not unattractive and it doesn't emphasise his skin – the pale shock of his skin; better to highlight the blue where he looks, the dodge and sudden focus of that. This isn't a working outfit – the idea would be that he's trying not to try – but it's formal enough to let him be relaxed. The shirt will have been made for him by somewhere double-barrelled – Payne & Hackett, Needham & Markham, Markham & Dunne – a place with bloody names.

‘They've been trying to give me champagne since I boarded, but I don't like it because it's for celebrations and I don't celebrate.' While Arthur speaks, Narciso smiles like a man who is only half listening and used to eccentricities. He ushers Beth into a seat and stands behind her shoulder.

‘We're close. Aren't we close, Narciso? We're as close as a temporary, rented butler and his not-really-employer could possibly be and we have no secrets. So he can stay. I think he should stay. What do you think?' He turns and blinks at her and is slightly out of breath. ‘We could watch telly.'

And Beth feels as she is intended to: insulted and a little sick and she snaps back, ‘Or you and Narciso could watch telly and I could leave you to it.'

Arthur calculates his way through shrugging, sniffing, demonstrations of unconcern. ‘We could do that, we could . . .'

And the ocean is dark and torn through the windows and the weather lunges round the balcony which would be perfect for summer entertaining, but is useless to them currently. Beth watches the rain streak and shiver on the glass while the silence thickens and what else did she expect – that he would be straightforwardly pleased to see her and this would be easy and not very possibly the last of their last chances?

Narciso paces neatly away to the tiny kitchen, returns with a tinier dish of rice crackers – which are tinier still – and sets them down, stands at ease.

‘Thank you.' Arthur letting this be a murmur and deciding to claw both hands through his hair. ‘And I think that even though we are not in any way celebrating, you could bring us the champagne and then, as it turns out, we won't be needing you this evening and you can put out the sign on the door to that effect, because being disturbed is not a good thing and I have had enough of it and from here on in I will avoid it at all costs.'

Narciso tranquil, ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.' And bringing the champagne, tucked into its ice and, ‘Good afternoon,' then vanishing away.

It's almost intolerable when he goes.

Ought to wave the flag – run it up and wave it and admit defeat. But he'd never trust that and nor would I.

Arthur faces her, quiet, clear. ‘Ahm, look. I don't know. Nothing of this is . . . and I don't know what would . . . for the best . . . I, I do want the best. For you. But also for me.' And he swallows. ‘I'm very tired. Can I start with that? Should I start with that? I go every day to the spa
place here and they try and put me right, relax me and I lie in the pool – sorry – I . . . mainly the hot tub and then
I'm here and they bring me the fish with the seasonal vegetables and the fruit which is good for me because that's what I ask for and it's
OK
, it's a reliable meal and I can eat it every day if I have to – I need things to be reliable . . . And I am . . . That is, I don't sleep.' He is
wound into himself, elbows and knees folded tight, long feet tucked away from her and there is something distantly
horrified in his expression and she doesn't want this to be her fault – she doesn't want him horrified at all – and he keeps on. ‘You know how I don't sleep. Nothing to do with conscience, just physiology – I actually sleep more when I'm working – sorry – but it's starting to matter, the insomnia – because eventually I need to sleep and I still don't, not exactly, and the problem is – apart from anything else – that I sometimes dream and you're there – and so I am avoiding sleeping, because I am avoiding dreaming – sorry, but I am – but you are there when I do get to sleep and I do want that. I think. Waking up is bad, because that means you go, but I do think I want that – to dream. So I'm not sure why I'm trying to keep it away . . . I was kissing your neck the last time, that's all I remember . . . I can't . . . ah . . . I can't do what we've been doing. I can't. The visits every now and then.'

‘I know.'

‘It's not . . . I can't do it.'

‘I know.'

‘Well, then fucking help!' The start of this shouting, but then it snaps down low again. ‘Stop fucking me about.' He rubs his knees, rocking slightly against the will of the ship. ‘Just . . . I fuck you about too and I don't intend it . . . and . . . but I do.' He subsides, bends forward to study his hands before he lifts them to rub at his eyes and then cover his face. He keeps them in place to hide him. His back rises and falls unevenly.

‘Arthur.' Beth's voice strange in her throat and she's wishing for codes to solve this, give him meanings. ‘I . . .'

I can go and sit beside him and get him to believe in me, that's more effective than talk. I know how to feel trustworthy – just imagine that I love him and I wish him well and the rest will take care of itself, automatic. He'll understand.

A drumming scours through the ship and almost makes her stumble, but she does go to him and doesn't touch, does not disturb, only concentrates and then begins with, ‘There was that place where we stayed – Fife, wasn't it? The baby castle with a sort of tower and it was genuinely old, but peculiar, weird furniture and made-up coats of arms on papier mâché shields.' And this is chatting, which won't be frightening.

Chat and the world chats with you, strive to address your issues and you'll be doing it alone.

I wouldn't even be doing it with me.

But Beth would prefer to be here and herself and not alone and not frightened, ‘There was no staff – just that guy who owned it and pretended there were staff, but then when he's serving breakfast and he's clearly also cooked it and there are no other guests, he admits that he's all by himself, but not to worry because he hires the place out for weddings and that goes quite well – wedding in a castle.'

Arthur is still leaned over, but his hands have eased down and he's beginning to relax. He's letting her in.

But I mustn't notice, I'm just telling a story and he can listen and we'll be like friends, old friends, and I do love him and I do wish him well, so there's nothing here that could disturb him.

She isn't performing a shameful act, ‘Our room was the library – great big purple room with a four-poster bed and these abandoned hardbacks, nothing newer than the
1950
s, and . . . it was . . . that seemed . . . there was the lake at the back and tall, tall foxgloves – so many colours and as high as you.'

His spine straightens a fraction at this and shows how she is working in him and she keeps her rhythm, her pace, the engaging details, ‘And tiny frogs, when we walked there were these tiny frogs – perfect little babies scampering away to be out of danger only we weren't going to hurt them and we . . . it all smelled of cut pine wood and I wished it was cold so we could have a fire and sit by it and instead we sat on the patio by ourselves and there was confetti left in the gravel – silver metal confetti cut out in the shape of a couple dancing, which was very tacky, but I kept a piece. I've still got it. I found
it with you and it made me remember dancing with you.
I keep it because it makes me remember remembering.' So that he knows she wasn't blankly absent, was imagining her ways back to him all the while, all the months, was puzzling out towards him.

And he joins her, joins in, gives in. ‘The confetti people, they had rather distanced upper bodies and high arms. That's what I remember. It didn't look like dancing. It looked like two people throttling each other. You could take your pick. Both intimate in their ways.' Which is him testing her, not making himself easy, but still willing.

He pauses and she lets him and likes that she heard a smile under what he said, but doesn't check him. It's too soon to check. He mustn't feel examined. The next thing he'd feel after that would be that she's playing him.

When playing him would be a shameful act.

Beth starts in with a gently different direction, something warmer. ‘I didn't dance with you that time.'

‘No.'

‘That was . . .'

‘Galway.'

He doesn't move. ‘Galway.' But the purr is beginning in his throat, the low and comfortable sound.

Two men who had that – two men with that exact sound. And Arthur's the only one left.

‘We were in Galway.' And he shifts and turns further from her, but leans until his back is tight to her side and rests with a small flicker of something like regret, misgiving, and then a fuller pressure. ‘And it was another bloody wedding . . . Big hotels – you'll get weddings – weddings, or honeymoons and all the fucking – and I mean that literally – all the
fucking equipment
: remote control ignition real-flame fires for romantic atmosphere, scented candles for overpowering atmosphere, built-for-two tubs with bubbles and funny lighting . . .
Christ.'
His ribs move when he jerks out a small, fast breath and she knows this is like a laugh – the way a sad man laughs.

But she can't have him sad – ‘We like them, though. The big hotels. The facilities . . .'

Arthur's body tenses slightly and no training or insight is required to help her read that he doesn't entirely want to start recalling the glide of soaped skin in hi-tech showers, the coddle of warm water and the tease of cold and the splaying and crouching and mouthing and the ludicrous, never-ending cleanliness of staying dirty – Friday night to Monday morning checkout of straining to keep themselves spiked, taut, stiffened, adequately bewildered to hide from who they are and to be fucks. Three nights of being a ride, faking that you're a stranger's little gift.

And this will hurt him, so he shouldn't think it and it's
OK
to change his thinking if it saves him from a hurt.

‘Galway – it was nice.' But he's closing down into himself.

Catch him then, steer him.

‘Yes. We liked Galway – and downstairs in the function suite there was a band and it didn't seem likely it could be that bad . . . and loud.' She sounds as casual as she can while the floor writhes under their feet.

He edges out to meet her again. ‘Probably everyone else in the place was down in the function suite, banqueting hall, whatever – there with the wedding. Us the odd ones out.'

‘Like always.' And she tries to make this sound like a good thing.

‘Like always.' And he makes this sound as if it's not.

‘We're more the honeymoon.'

Which is the wrong, wrong, wrong thing to say.

Amateur.

‘We're not any kind of honeymoon.' And he sits away from her, coughs. ‘Sorry, I don't want to lose my temper and I don't want to be talking about this. I can't. But people on honeymoon are together and that isn't what we do and please don't insult me with that kind of . . . I realise you like to hurt me and you have your reasons and I have my own reasons to hurt me and they're better than yours – I know me better – but please don't.'

Twitch in his shoulders, as if I've hit him which I'd never do – only ever did that once which I regret – and arguing fatal now – we can't – I can't – but chatting – run back to the comfortable and easy chatting – he needs to be comfortable and easy – then we can do what we need to.

‘They played covers from
The Blues Brothers
and
The Commitments
. . . I think they played “Mustang Sally” three times, four times – a lot.'

‘Just a lot, Beth. Let's do without the fucking numbers, they give me a headache.'

Concentrate and concentrate and give him what's right.

And love and love and love and soft and smile.

And, ‘No numbers, then. I'm sorry. We got out of bed and we had a dance. All those layers of floorboards and the carpet, so we were having the music filtered – still not great – but
OK
at a distance and . . . it was like when you'd only just stopped that wearing the gloves thing and all the rest, being wrapped up all the time – way back then . . . You were so . . . As if you weren't used to it – the touching . . . and your skin was . . . It felt . . .'

I've got this whole speech ready – about how there's this other man he keeps inside and he's always dancing and he shows, not all at once, but he's there: in the shoulders, or the snap to an arm or a spring in the walk, the melody in under Arthur's walk, and he's there, he's properly there, this happy man, the truly happy man and I love him and I danced with him in Galway – with almost all of him.