Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
‘So what happened to your marriage, as we’ve covered mine?’
I have tried Harriet’s phone three more times and it’s still off. We are walking back down the hill, as neither of those tavernas could seat us right away. We vaguely remember that we passed a rather less inviting-looking place on the way up that may, or may not, be open.
I glance at him when he doesn’t answer. ‘What?’ I say.
‘Nothing. Just… this is not you show me yours, I’ll show you mine .’ He says it fake-cavalierly.
Something about his attitude stops me in my tracks. ‘What does that mean?’
He shrugs. ‘It just means some topics are not on the table.’ Then he says, an almost taut, ‘Sorry.’
He walks on, leaving me still standing there processing this. ‘What happened with your book success then?’ I trot after him. ‘You said it was the best thing that happened to you – but also the worst. Surely you can at least tell me that.’
He pretends to sigh a dramatic sigh. ‘Seems the lady doesn’t take no for an answer.’
‘The lady ?’ I catch up to him. ‘Is this for real? You’re seriously not going to tell me?’
‘I’m not going to tell you,’ he says, with finality.
Wow.
We reach that viewpoint again. But not before passing a couple of cold-looking tourists who ask us if there’s a restaurant open anywhere. We point them in the direction of the square and Frank tells them there’s a bit of a wait.
‘I don’t think I want to go to dinner any more,’ I say when they get past us, their bodies rounded to fight the wind. I plonk myself on the wall that has a precarious drop right behind it with no safety barrier. The kind of death trap that would be illegal anywhere but Europe.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, like he genuinely has no idea.
I feel like I’m bracing myself for a massive overreaction. I want to stop it, but the other part of me just wants to let it rip. ‘You can’t say you have a story for another day and then not tell me. Not after I’ve poured out all that personal stuff about my situation – about my whole damned life.’
He looks at me rather despairingly. ‘Come on. We have to eat. Tonight would be ideal. Not sometime next week.’
‘Go on your own,’ I say. I can’t bring myself to look at him. ‘In fact, you know what? Forget it. Even if you told me, I wouldn’t listen.’ I cover my ears with my hands to make my point.
He does that Ha, ha, ha thing of his again, which suddenly inflames me so much that it makes me want to push him off the cliff.
‘Okay now you’re being a child.’ He is watching me like he’s unsure about me. ‘You’re cold and you’re hungry and we’re supposed to be trying to find our kids. We’re not talking about anything until you’ve eaten.’
‘Oh, you care about me, do you? You care about my well-being?’ I lean back from the hips, outstretching my arms like wings, feeling a prickle of daring in the soles of my feet.
‘Don’t do that, please.’
‘Why not?’ My coat sleeves flap with the wind. I hate my behaviour, but I’m powerless to stop it.
‘You can fall. Seriously. People do that in movies and they never fall, but in real life they end up quadriplegic, so don’t do it.’
I lean back a little farther and get another attack of the tingles. There’s a moment where I wonder what it would be like to do one fatal skydive, that glorious feeling of flight before you realise you’re seconds away from ending your own existence. ‘So you do care,’ I say, a fraction more serious this time.
He closes his eyes briefly, then says a quiet, ‘Yes, I care.’
It crosses my mind to lean back a little farther, but even I know when to stop.
He strides over and snatches my hand. He yanks me up so that I almost fly into him. My heart slams as his hand stays clamped around mine, a flare of desire in his eyes. I think he’s going to kiss me. Every atom of my existence is convinced of it, is drawing to it; I can almost already taste it. We are so on the brink of it that I am almost fully lost to him. But then he says, ‘You need to sort your shit out.’ His eyes register my surprise for a beat – or three. Then he lets go of my hand.
I don’t even know what part he’s specifically referring to, but a tidal wave of disappointment washes over me, almost wiping me out. ‘Because I asked your advice,’ I say, my voice tremoring with my injured pride. ‘Because, clearly, you know so much about marriage and relationships. Because… why? Oh… wait! You write about it, rather than actually live it. Or I should say you used to write about it. But you don’t any more.’
He turns and shoots daggers at me, the wind whipping our hair around our faces. I pluck mine out of my eyes. My heart hammers, a thousand regrets filling the stiff silence.
When I can get hold of my emotions, I say, ‘You can’t see me with no clothes on, and then listen to me while I bear my soul and give me nothing in return.’ I try to say it levelly, but I am almost choking on the echo of my own despair.
I search his face for some sign of understanding – something. Anything. But he just stares an inch past my head, gazes out across the caldera. Stoic. Intractable.
‘Definitely got no appetite now!’ I barb.
He suddenly snaps out of his pensive stupor. He turns and strides off down the hill.
‘Where are you going?’ I ask his back, watching his long legs, the angry bounce of his shoulders.
‘To eat, Einstein,’ he says. ‘Sorry you’re not coming.’