Model’s Own
Taking his book, he went down early and sat on a bench by Ullswater. He knew that Marnie’s room overlooked the lake so there was a certain amount of display to this literal beard-stroking, his eyes barely grazing the page. Many years ago, when he’d first arrived at school, he’d taken care to be seen reading in the staffroom, books from Natasha’s syllabus, Orwell and Steinbeck held high, because surely this was what an English teacher would want to chat about in her spare time, totalitarianism and the alfalfa in Of Mice and Men.
But it had worked, it had made an impression, and now here he was, at it again, legs crossed, posturing with a book. Juvenile really, this ostentatious soulfulness, but it was a beautiful evening and this would be his last night in the Lakes. Soon he’d be crossing the great plateau of Westmorland alone and he’d earned this opportunity to walk the shore thoughtfully, book under his arm, hands behind his back, as if presenting a documentary on the Wars of the Roses.
At seven thirty he went indoors, the French windows open to the still bright evening. He’d cleaned his boots and folded down the cuff of his trousers, but even so he felt bumptious and loud as he clomped into the dining room. A waiter approached, all in black, slim and sleek as an eel, and itwas suddenly as if he were at a checkpoint, attempting to cross the border with false papers. If Marnie were here, he’d sail through.
‘Table for two, please.’ The waiter’s gaze flicked over his shoulder. ‘She’s on her way down. But before I sit, I wonder, this sounds eccentric but … I feel a little underdressed.’
The tie that the waiter retrieved from lost property didn’t quite go with his porridge shirt. Thin and glossy it was the only Prada item he’d ever worn and his collar was too soft and frayed to hold it in place, but it was a good joke. He ordered a bottle of white wine, third on the list, to impress. The menu was in English but still required translation. Jus, he knew, was thin gravy and he’d had smears on his plates at home, but what was gnudi, what was the dukkah that came with the duck? He rehearsed jokes in his head and scratched at his beard with both hands where it met his collar, as if he were his own dog.
‘Is Sir ready to order?’
Sir was what the kids called him. It was nearly eight. ‘A few more minutes?’ The room was dimming, the candlelight illuminating the empty chair just so. There were three other couples in the room, none of them walkers, all lost in a pre-erotic reverie, and he wondered if he should remove the tie now. Perhaps she was working or watching TV or having an early night. He might text her but didn’t have her number. Should he try her door? He felt a keen sense of disappointment, like someone who has brought a cake to a party but lost the address, like someone who’s been stood up on a date.
‘Actually I will order if that’s okay.’
The lovers watched him eat alone. First came an amuse-bouche, compliments of the chef, a tiny glass of green froth that tasted like frozen peas blended with cream and was exactly that. Salmon came in five ways, which seemed a lot, five pink piles with an unnatural plastic sheen like display sushi. If Marnie were here, he could refer back to her salmon story, perhaps that would be a way into talking about Natasha. For now, he sipped his wine and tried to balance his book against the salt and pepper, but that wouldn’t work so he simply ate, chewing or rather letting the fish dissolve on his tongue like a lozenge as he stared into space, face set in the expression of someone who has tripped on a paving stone but is incorporating it into their walk. If Marnie were here, they could have ranked each of the five ways. Do it. In reverse order, foam, smoked, confit, skin tuille, mousse. Eat more slowly, he told himself, or there’ll be nothing to do. He had only really expected to eat food that could be held in a folded slice of bread and it felt silly to eat so lavishly alone, a yokel at the court of the Sun King. Between bites, he laid down his fork and looked at his phone. Natasha’s text.Hopeallswell. It was a short drive from her parents’ house to Richmond on the far side of the Dales. He’d be there in four days.
His main course arrived, his third consecutive pie but deconstructed here, the shredded beef stacked in a sticky brown cylinder on the opposite side of the plate from the casing, as if the meat had argued with the pastry. There’d been a craze at school for novelty erasers in the shape of food, and that was what the carrots looked like, sculpted, perfect. The gravy came in an espresso cup, two teaspoons of meaty treacle. Lovers wanted something light before they made their way upstairs, but he could eat all this in four bites, which meant he would have to leave seven minutes between each bite if he didn’t want to be in bed before nine. Perhaps he should let Natasha know he was passing. The lovers drifted off in pairs and as they cleared his plate, he began to draft a text.
All IS well. In fact I’ll be near you Friday
And now Marnie clattered into the dining room and he stood sharply, knocking the table, stuffing the phone into his pocket, pressing the tie to his chest. She looked both elegant and frantic, as if rushing for the lifeboats, apologising from halfway across the room.
‘I am so, so sorry.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘I didn’t feel the phone vibrate, so many fucking cushions.’
‘Really, I don’t—’
‘Why didn’t you come and knock?’
‘I thought you might want a quiet—’
‘No! That’s drinking at lunchtime for you. I was wiped out!’ She scraped the chair and sat, and he noticed that, although she looked wonderful, the lipstick didn’t quite match the edge of her lips, as if she’d applied it while running downstairs.
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Well, I do! It’s our last night,’ she said then, as if correcting herself. ‘Also, I’m starving. What’s the food like?’
‘Delicious but very small portions.’
‘Yes, that’s what I feared.’ He poured her wine and was struck by the lightness of the bottle – he must have drunk three-quarters of it himself – just as the waiter arrived with his pudding. ‘Hello there,’ she said, gripping his arm. ‘I wonder, can you tell me, what is the biggest thing on the menu?’
‘I’m so sorry, the kitchen’s closed.’
‘No! Oh, God, really?’ She peered at Michael’s plate.
‘Chocolate seven ways,’ he said, offering it to her.
‘I’ll need more than seven.’
‘I could bring you a cheese selection?’
‘Yes, please, but don’t select. If you’ve got a wheel of something, that’s great, roll it in. And lots of bread, thank you, sorry, thank you,’ and she drank the wine down thirstily.
‘So,’ he said.
‘So.’ She was here now but he felt the evening had escaped them, too tired and tongue-tied for skittishness, drunk but without the fun of the day. She hadn’t even noticed the tie.
‘So,’ he said, once more. ‘What’s the plan for tomorrow?’
‘Oh, I’m just going to hang out here, strip the breakfast bar. I might even have a massage. I mean no one’s touched the small of my back since, I don’t know, the London Olympics but if I pay someone … Maybe I can get a late checkout. Taxi’s at five and I’ll be back in London by nine. Ready-meal, TV, ennui.’ Her cheese arrived, cold from the fridge, and they managed another half an hour of conversation but the waiter was loitering, resentful of this slow Monday, out of season. ‘He is literally tapping his watch,’ said Marnie, and they caved. They climbed the stairs, groaning at their shared aches and pains, then stood at their doors.
‘Hey, Keats, I’m sorry about tonight,’ she said.
‘That’s all right, Shelley.’
‘I talk at you all day and then it’s your turn and—’
‘Really, you’ve not missed anything.’
‘But thank you for today. It was actually fun. Not like those other hell days.’
‘Careful, you’ll get a taste for it.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. Well. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight. And if I don’t see you in the morning – goodbye.’
‘Goodbye. If you’re ever down in London …’
‘Or up in York.’
‘And I forgot to say, I like this by the way,’ she said, stepping forward so suddenly that he stepped back into his door. She tugged at the bottom of his tie.
‘Ah, this old thing? I borrowed it.’
‘Not model’s own? It doesn’t quite match the shirt but I appreciate the effort.’
‘Prada.’
‘Prada! You should steal it.’
‘Use it as a belt.’
‘Well, it makes a real difference.’ She looked at him appraisingly. ‘You’ve got it going on. What happened? Did you wipe down your trousers with a damp cloth?’
‘I think it’s what the kids call a glow-up,’ he said, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. She laughed and put her hand on his arm, and he thought how nice it felt to make someone laugh again.
‘You see, you can be funny,’ she said.
‘You sound surprised,’ he said, wrenching the tie over his head, catching his ear.
‘Cleo said you were “wry”.’
‘Oh, God, did she?’
‘Merely wry. At least it wasn’t whimsical.’
‘No one wants that.’ He was wrapping the tie around his hand, like a boxer bandaging his knuckles. A moment passed and then he said, or found himself saying, ‘It’s going to be a beautiful day tomorrow. Sunny all day, no wind. And it’s the highest part of the walk, eight hundred metres to Kidsty Pike but gentle, a slow, gentle climb, then around Haweswater, and you’ll have walked the whole of the Lakes, west to east. Just rearrange your taxi to pick you up in town, we can easily make it there by five. You can catch the same train home.’
As he spoke she watched him, her head to one side and he felt his conviction slip. ‘Well. You don’t have to decide now. Just meet me in Reception if you—’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’d like that,’ and she turned and opened her bedroom door.