Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
Rupert’s eyes slide from me to Frank – to the bedraggled state of us.
‘What are you doing here? How did you…?’ I start, then stop.
‘Find you?’ His eyes linger on Frank for an instant too long. ‘I was texting you and you weren’t answering, so I asked someone at the airport where the island hospital was.’ His voice gets progressively slower and flatter as he speaks. Then he adds, ‘And I’m here because Harriet is my daughter and I decided you don’t get to tell me what to do.’
He’s wearing his pale pink trousers and navy-blue and white polka dot shirt. And he is looking at me in a way that says everything he ever knew about me has just been called into question.
‘You’ve seen Harriet?’ I pull out my phone and see there’s actually a bunch of missed texts from her.
He nods. ‘I have. I didn’t need an appointment. Didn’t have to contact her secretary.’ I’m about to say, Oh, must we do the sarcasm? When he adds, ‘Funny, I imagined you’d be by her side, given she’s, you know, lying in a bed attached to machines and drips.’ His gaze rolls over Frank again, then returns to me. ‘Bit of a case of the pot calling the kettle black, actually… Isn’t it?’ Then he says to Frank, ‘Who are you, by the way?’
‘It’s not what you think.’ I don’t say it defensively, but I wish I hadn’t said it at all.
Frank says, ‘I wish it was what you think.’
Rupert suddenly appears to be on the brink of an explosive reaction, but it never quite materialises. ‘My God,’ he says in horror. ‘He’s an American.’
I tell him Frank is Aiden’s father.
‘Ah.’ He hangs his head like the wrongly accused in the dock and who has just been issued a life sentence. ‘I see…’ When he eventually looks up, he meets me squarely in the eye again. ‘So this is why you’ve wanted no communication in three months. Because you’ve been getting it on with the dad.’
Frank says, ‘Whoa! Easy there!’ Then adds, ‘Fucker.’
‘No,’ I tell him. Perhaps it’s because I know I did get it on with the dad that it comes out so lamely. ‘That’s not the reason at all. This is… er… this is nothing.’
It’s only once I’ve said it that I realise how it sounds. I shoot a glance of regret to Frank, but he won’t look at me. Instead, he says, ‘She’s right. It’s really nothing.’
The wind suddenly kicks up – like it only went away for a couple of hours to mess with us. I have never experienced anything so bizarre. I am standing between two people, one who represents the almost entirety of my past, and the other who is probably nothing more than my intoxicating present. And I should be pulled, as though they each have hold of a hand, and my arms are almost coming away from my body, yet I am leaning in one direction. One direction. I cannot speak, cannot even think another thought, for fear it will break the force of gravity.
‘Well, this is fun.’ Rupert picks his hair off his face, his shirt sleeve flapping like a sail. ‘I’ve always wanted to come to Santorini during an EF5 tornado with my wife and her boyfriend.’
Frank shoots back, ‘Hey, my son’s the boy. I think you’ll find I’m a man.’
Rupert says a curt, ‘Glad you clarified that.’
I listen to them like they’re a game of ping pong. Rupert’s face has turned unhealthily red, and I remember again that this is the man I’ve shared most of my adult life with, and I feel a bit bad for him.
I’m still standing beside Frank. And Rupert is still standing on his own over there. I can’t bring myself to walk over to him, but I take a step forward into more neutral territory.
‘Anyway,’ he is saying to Frank, ‘I would like to spend some time alone with my wife right now, if you don’t mind. You know, my wife, not anyone else’s. What about you, Moira? Would you like to express an opinion on it?’ His blue eyes make contact with mine, the slight bunny quality of his teeth, that I used to find so endearing, made all the more mammalian by the fact that they’re chattering with the cold, like he’s grinding down fibrous vegetation.
Frank says, ‘Yes. Let’s hear Moira’s opinion on what she wants right now. I think that would be a great idea.’
‘Yes,’ Rupert chimes in, like he’s a willing participant in ganging up on me – as though this is all my fault. ‘Who would you like to be with right now, Moira? Your husband whom you’ve been married to for twenty years? Or your lover whom you’ve known for all of two minutes?’
His pomposity almost pushes me over the edge. ‘For God’s sake,’ I groan. ‘I told you he’s not my lover.’
Frank says, ‘Sadly.’
Rupert calls him an insolent Yank. He takes a step forward, peacocking himself up for the punch he must believe he’s really going to swing, until he realises he’s never swung one in his entire life, so maybe best not to start now.
Frank gives a mocking laugh, then starts walking across the pool deck and I want to run after him. As though he hears my inner panic, he says, ‘Going to leave you to it, Ma’am.’ His wet clothes are still clinging to his body, his white T-shirt outlining his flanks, the navy shorts revealing the hair stuck down on his legs. He sends us a curt salute. ‘You know where I am if you need me.’
‘Need you?’ Rupert scoffs. ‘Why would she need you? Her life is in some sort of jeopardy, is it? By being with me, the man she’s married to?’
Frank turns, rubs the back of his head, tiredly. ‘Rupe, I’d let your wife decide her own needs at this point, if I were you.’
Rupert bigs himself up again. ‘You know what? Fuck you, and the horse you rode in on!’
Frank throws up his hands. ‘What did the horse do?’
‘I’m going to take a shower,’ I say to Rupert when we go upstairs. I don’t want him here with me in my room, but he followed, leaving me little choice. I walk into the bathroom and lock the door. I remember we used to joke about never locking a bathroom door in case someone banged their head or had a stroke in the bath. Now, both those options feel preferable to the idea of him maybe walking in on me and seeing me naked.
First, I park myself on the toilet lid and read Harriet’s three messages.
Dad’s here! Did you know? This whole thing has become a shitshow!
Are you there? Did you know he was coming?!
I’m not mad. You don’t have to hide from me.
I text her back and tell her my phone was accidentally in silent mode. A harmless lie, I suppose. I tell her how I urged him not to come, but he was so worried about her.
It’s okay , she writes back. No worries. I’m fine. Suppose we had to see him at some point!
I tell her I’ll see her shortly, and then I run the water until it’s almost too hot and stand under it for what feels like forever.
When I walk back into the bedroom, he’s unpacking his bag, laying out shirts and jumpers and neatly folded rolls of underwear on top of my bed. Rupert is the only man I’ve ever heard of who folds his knickers.
‘You can’t stay here,’ I say.
He appears to process this. ‘Why not? It’s your room, isn’t it? We’re paying for it, aren’t we?’
‘Maybe. But you can’t stay in it.’
There’s a bewildered silence. Then he says, ‘Well, where am I supposed to go?’
I tell him there are plenty of hotels around. Besides, when Harriet gets out this afternoon, she might want to stay here with me. ‘There isn’t room for three of us,’ I say.
He kicks up a big ‘I’m hard done by’ protest, but I tell him I’m going to dry my hair, get dressed, then I need to get some lunch.
He stands there clutching a ball of socks. ‘Well, do you think I can at least come with you for food? I haven’t eaten since four a.m.’ As if on cue, his tummy rumbles loudly and he grimaces.
‘Okay,’ I say. But I tell him he has to wait for me downstairs; I just need him out of this room.
He starts putting his clothes back into his travel bag.
I walk back into the bathroom. I hang onto the sides of the hand basin, stare at my chalk-white face in the mirror, my bloodshot green eyes. I am riddled with tension, until I hear the click of the door.
We go to the same taverna Frank and I went to last night. A young Greek guy – perhaps the son – looks Rupert over like he’s a speck of fluff, as we walk in. Rupert orders a beer and chicken souvlaki. But I suddenly can’t face food, so I just order a tea. We talk about Harriet, and I tell him my suspicion is that all this urgency about suddenly wanting to live on the other side of the world is motivated by her not wanting to be on the scene while our marriage falls apart.
He pecks away at the corner of the beer bottle’s label. ‘But that’s not happening now, is it? I mean, you’re coming home.’ He says it like he’s so sure of it – sure of me.
‘Why would you assume that?’ I ask.
He stops mutilating the label and looks up. ‘But you have to come home. I mean, where else are you going to go? Back to America?’
I tell him I haven’t thought it all through yet.
His face drains of its colour. ‘But… You can’t go back to America. You can’t legally work there.’
‘OTs are sought-after in the US,’ I say. ‘I’m sure I could get a work visa. Or I could work on my business plan.’ Then I add, ‘Besides, I’ll have half the proceeds of the house.’
‘The what?’ He almost coughs up his beer.
‘Why wouldn’t I? I worked hard for twenty years. I paid half the mortgage. Maybe it’s time to cash out, reap the rewards of my investment.’
His eyes almost pop out on stalks. ‘Well, I can promise you that half the money from the house won’t get you very far!’
‘Should be okay when you factor in the maintenance support.’
His jaw hangs open. To wound or be wounded; there’s got to be a better way.
‘You can’t divorce me, rip me off just because?—’
‘Rip you off?’ Anger makes my heart pound.
‘Sorry.’ He sighs. ‘It was a proverbial…’
‘Rip you off?’ The couple next to us look over. I tell him I need to go to get Harriet, that we’re done here.
‘Please don’t just get up and leave.’ He puts out a hand to stop me. ‘Besides, I want to come with you to bring Harriet back.’
‘I need to see her alone,’ I say, reaching under the table for my bag. Then I say it one last time. ‘Rip you off.’
‘Moy…’ He stands, glances helplessly at his abandoned food. ‘It was an unfortunate choice of expression.’
I start walking to the door. He hurries after me. ‘I’m not bothered about who gets the house or how we divide the money. I don’t want you to leave me. I’m very unhappy without you. My life isn’t the same.’
My heart is empty except for a rogue, fault-line crack of profound sadness.
‘No matter what you may think of me… I want you to give me another chance. I need you to give me another chance, Moira. Please.’ His hand reaches for my arm.
I clearly have one more in me.
‘Rip you off,’ I say again.
‘I want you to watch something.’ He is hurrying after me up the street.
‘Go away!’ I say, quickening my pace. ‘What part of “we’re done here” do you not understand?’
He catches up to me. ‘Will you watch this, please?’ He sounds out of breath.
I stop while he fiddles with his phone. What on earth is he doing?
The wind is back. It seems to spot you stepping outside and performs a massive encore, in case you’d forgotten how much you’d missed it.
‘Here.’ He thrusts his phone under my nose, the screen facing me. ‘Please. I wasn’t going to show it to you. Only if I really needed to. But this might… This might help clarify things.’
I find myself staring at the face of a woman. Someone around my own age. Overly made-up. Lipstick too pink. Eyeshadow a 1980s frosted baby blue. Unblended blush on the apples of her cheeks. ‘Who’s this?’ I ask, no longer knowing if my life is real or make believe.
He blows out a big breath. ‘Dagmara has a message for you.’
I must need a smack to my senses. He presses play. In an Eastern European accent, the talking head says, ‘Hello, Moira. This is Dagmara. I want you to know that nothing happened between your husband and me. Nothing. Okay?’ She stiffens, shoots a glance off camera like she’s looking for approval, and then the video ends.
I gawk at Rupert like he’s sprouted a second head. ‘Are you bloody kidding me? You had your girlfriend record a message for me? What are you, nuts?’ I start walking down the street. He bullets after me again.
‘She’s not my sodding girlfriend. She just told you the truth! Nothing happened! ’ He grinds the last words out. ‘If you had listened to her entire message, which I edited, because I knew you’d have a short attention span, you’d have heard her say that she knew I was married, yet she decided to make a play for me anyway. That she wasn’t proud of it – ashamed, actually – but?—’
‘Get away from me, you freak!’
I think I’m walking the wrong way, so I turn to go the other, and then…
A guy appears out of nowhere and grabs Rupert’s arm. The young Greek guy from the restaurant. ‘You left without paying,’ he says.
Rupert looks up at him. Way up. ‘Who are you?’
The big guy says, ‘In Greece, food and drink not free.’
Rupert stares at the enormous hand gripping his arm. ‘Look, if you don’t remove that thing…’
‘You’re going to do what?’
Rupert looks to me for help. I have a horrible feeling he’s about to stammer – a childhood affliction that got almost entirely stamped out with years of speech therapy. ‘… Cause a lot of trouble for you with your boss. That’s what I’m going to do,’ he adds.
The big Greek guy doesn’t move his hand. Instead, he leans into Rupert’s ear and says, ‘Thirty-five euros.’
Rupert almost squeaks. ‘Thirty-five? That’s highway robbery! We only had a beer, a tea and a shitty souvlaki.’
The guy leans on him again. ‘I would pay it and shut the fuck up, if I was you.’
Rupert digs in his pocket then hands over two twenties. The guy takes the money and turns to go back inside. Rupert shouts, ‘Wait! What about my change?’
I suddenly realise what direction my hotel is in and start walking.
I hear his feet hurrying after me. ‘No change! Can you believe this? Disbelieved, divorced, and almost left for dead by a Greek bouncer. How does this stuff happen to me?’
I try to walk quicker but the wind pushes me back. I hug my arms to my body, my hair lashing my face.
And then he says, ‘He called me Rupe. No one’s called me Rupe since I was at Eton.’
It takes me a moment to realise we’re not still talking about the Greek bouncer. I stop, turn, look at him. His nose is running down the right side, a bubble poised on his nostril. ‘His name is Frank Lewis,’ I say. ‘He wrote the world’s most romantic movie, and novel, and he lives in a beach house in Malibu.’
‘What’s that got to do with him calling me Rupe?’ he asks.
‘Nothing.’ I pluck my hair off my face and hold it down. Beneath us, the grey Aegean Sea whips up in a frenzy. This island suddenly feels like the place where nineteenth-century poets meet grim deaths.
‘He didn’t really write the world’s most romantic movie and novel, did he? You were just saying that to be…?’ He gives me his best puzzled look. ‘Actually, why were you saying that, if I might ask?’
‘Because it’s true.’ I tell him he wrote Love for Lara , and I tell him he’s a good guy. Then I say, ‘I think you’re missing something.’
‘Talent, perhaps?’ He upturns his hands as though appealing to me for reason. ‘Fame and fortune? An ability to seduce you with my words? Yes, Moira. Clearly, he’s got all of that, and I’ve got none of that. So that makes him worthy of you, and me not worthy of you…’
I shake my head. ‘No. Your bag. You must have left it in the restaurant.’
He looks down at his empty hands. Then he says, ‘Faack!’