Vinegar
She went down to the bar in her second-best dress. In Twisted Night, the detective had been seduced by the main suspect, in a hot tub, coincidentally, though less heavily chlorinated. Close-reading erotica had left her feeling vampy and seductive and so she wore the black dress with red roses, a widow suspected of murdering her husband. Conrad would be on the M6 by now but that was his loss, and there was no reason why she shouldn’t prowl the Wainwright Bar for snacks and good times. Tuesday, a sign declared, was pie night. There would be a choice of eight pies. Beneath the sign, Michael, in yesterday’s shirt, was looking at his Ordnance Survey maps. On the speakers, an eighties mix, ‘Sweet Dreams’ by Eurythmics.
‘Sweet dreams are made of this,’ she said.
He looked up. ‘Sorry?’
She indicated. ‘I didn’t even know there were eight different types of pie.’
He turned to look at the sign. ‘I guess,’ he said, ‘that they’re including savoury pies and puddings, so—’
‘You see, that’s why you’re in education,’ she said. ‘Do you want a drink?’ He indicated his full pint. ‘Snacks? Small pie?’ He was fine, and she walked towards the bar, imagining his eyes on her or perhaps the maps. Conceptually, the room was an incoherent mix of old English button-down chairs and modular airport furniture but she didn’t care: she felt flirty and provocative, leaning across the bar, arranging her hair to make it fall just so as the young man listed all the flavours of crisps and, whether it was the soft-porn or swimming, she was reminded of the erotic ambience of even poorly reviewed conference hotels. Her first night with Neil had been in a place like this, a team-building exercise in the Cotswolds, constructing bridges with planks and oil drums as elaborate foreplay, every look and touch charged, until later that night, after the karaoke, a text with his room number. The way her heart had raced. Afterwards, they’d lain in bed and laughed about it: was this team-building? Maybe best if she didn’t tell anyone …
‘And to drink?’
She wanted a vodka martini, very dry with a twist, but the house ales were Shepherd’s Finger and Peaty Glen. She ordered a gin and tonic and – why not? – a bag of chardonnay vinegar crisps, crinkle cut, carrying her glass by the rim, like a coupe of champagne, the crisps held lightly in one armpit, Wuthering Heights in the other. Michael had his head down so she settled at a nearby table and tried to read but it seemed as if Frankie Goes to Hollywood were telling Heathcliff to relax and so—
‘What’s the route like tomorrow?’
He looked up, alarmed. ‘Are you walking with me?’
‘No, don’t worry, I’m done with walking. I’m heading back to York with them.’
‘That’s a shame. I don’t think it’s going to rain. Patterdale’s two valleys over so that’s two climbs, but not like today … You okay?’
She was puckering her lips. ‘Wow. These crisps are incredibly acidic. Do you want one?’
‘Uh, no. Lots of streams to cross but the descent into Grasmere will be—’
‘Ow!’ She slapped the flat of her hand on the table. ‘It feels like a manufacturing fault. I think my mouth might be bleeding.’
‘So if they’re faulty—’
‘—like battery acid—’
‘—and you’re bleeding, perhaps you should stop eating them.’
She laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Go on.’
‘The thing is, in the afternoon you have to do it all again, up over five hundred metres to Grisedale Tarn …’
She could feel her interest leaching away. ‘How was it last time?’
‘I’ve never done it before. I’m just reading the map.’
‘Show me,’ she said, joining him, ‘how to read a map.’
She knew perfectly well how to read a map but it was fun to see his enthusiasm, and she found herself stealing little glances as he talked about contour lines, the difference between footpath and bridleway, and how to estimate time with the joint of a thumb. It was all fantastically boring, of course, or rather the subject was boring but the speaker was not. She liked his voice, reassuring, the kind of voice used to sell funeral plans on afternoon TV (‘savoury pies and puddings’). She liked his profile too, handsome in an old-fashioned way, someone from a sepia photograph whose only mistress is the sea, and it was pleasant to sit and sip her gin, their hips and elbows touching, distracted only by the ulcers on her tongue.
‘What does this mean? “Here be dragons …”’
‘I’m boring you, aren’t I?’
‘You’re not. Really, you’re not.’
A moment, and here were Cleo and Anthony. She scraped her chair away.
Because this was a three-star hotel, the pies came garnished with bracelets of green pepper and old-fashioned cress. Marnie had resolved not to sulk about the early departures, so they talked about school and teased Anthony gently for his braininess. Cleo ruffled his hair, kissed his head, stroked his arm in the extravagantly maternal way she sometimes used to demonstrate their closeness and modernity, and Marnie thought that, though she loved them very much, there were times when she wanted to flip the table over. Being with other families sometimes felt like indoctrination, as if she were attending a symposium on what family life could be. Here’s what you might have had if you’d made better choices, here’s where you might have poured your love. Again, the presumption of envy galled her more than envy itself. She had her moments but there was much about being child-free that she cherished. Was it any wonder that she’d withdrawn, when so often her friends behaved with the showy self-satisfaction of a wealthy family who’ve invited the poor cousin for Christmas?
Did Michael feel this too? Perhaps they should have talked about that rather than contour lines. For the moment they ate factory-made desserts piled high with aerosol cream, and then the boys went to play pool, leaving the two friends together, turning their glasses.
‘D’you think you’ll see him again?’ asked Cleo.
‘Conrad? He said he’d call but—’
‘Or you could call him.’
‘I do believe,’ said Marnie, sipping her drink, ‘etiquette requires it is the prerogative of the person who fled, rather than the person who is fled from—’
‘He didn’t flee. And you’re doing it again.’
‘What?’
‘You know what.’ There was a shout from the pool table as Anthony made some improbable shot and Michael reeled with mock indignation. They were comfortable together, Michael at ease, unpatronising, Anthony visibly fond.
‘Can I ask – and I’m not interested – but can I ask, why didn’t you think I’d get on with Michael?’
‘Um, well, he can be quite serious, reserved.’
‘I can be serious. I can talk to reserved people.’
‘But messed-up, you know, had a bit of a breakdown, had to take some time off, and the separation’s hard.’
‘But even so …’
‘I don’t know, I thought you might like someone a bit more London, more outgoing, I thought it would do you good to have fun for a change.’
‘I do have fun.’
‘Sorting out your cutlery drawer.’
‘I have fun!’
‘You barely left your flat for three years!’
‘No one did! It was against the law!’
‘Not for three years, and it started well before that.’
‘So what about the woman who was going to come? What did she have?’
‘Tessa? I don’t know, she was more outdoorsy.’
‘I can be outdoorsy! Christ, just because I can’t name trees. I can name trees by the way.’
‘You can tell if it’s a tree.’
‘More than that! And we can talk. We actually get along quite well. He’s funny, isn’t he? He has a sense of humour?’
‘He’s … wry.’
‘Wry. Well, wry’s good, I can work with that.’
‘Great. Well, go for it! Dive in!’
‘I’m not going to “dive in”! I just wanted to check, is there anything … wrong?’
‘No!’ said Cleo. ‘I really don’t think there is,’ and Marnie was reassured, though she wished it had been said with more conviction.