Chapter 43
FORTY-THREE
They call it the June gloom. It’s the band of cloud and fog that sets in during the night and often kicks around until the middle of the next day. The ‘marine layer’ they talk about that whitens out the world and makes the sand blend with the ocean, the ocean merge with the horizon, that obliterates the mountains, and turns people into pencil pops of the colour of their clothing. It has burnt off by the time I drive out to Malibu, so that when I follow the secret path that residents don’t want you to know is there, down to the sand, I can clearly see the parade of homes that line Broad Beach, shielding this rarefied mile of oceanfront from those of us who don’t belong here. I walk straight into the water. It’s as cold as I remember it, and makes me say, ‘Ah…!’ I stand there letting it rush and ripple around my ankles until the shock of it subsides, noting the curious way the sand, which seems so solid underfoot, is swiftly dislodged with the retreating tide, leaving everything teetering and uncertain.
I walk along the pebble-free sand, the soft filter of the sun at my back, a little jetlagged still. Several mansions down, I think I see it. I recognise the enormous rock retaining wall, the glass railing, the dense ground cover with its shiny green leaves and purple daisy-like flower.
I pull out my phone, type my very simple message: You stopped.
Three minutes later – long enough for me to worry he’s going to ignore this one too – I see the little moving dots.
Texting you? Yes. Thinking about you? Never.
I let out a huge, held breath.
How do I know you’re not just saying that because it’s the gallant thing to say?
Because I’m not that gallant. We discovered that. Remember?
A wave breaks over the tops of my feet. I stand still, letting myself feel it. All of it. The sun on my back. The moment.
Didn’t you once tell me that you don’t have sex with married women?
The little dots don’t appear immediately. But then:
It’s complicated.
I start walking down the sand again, getting a little closer to his house .
Tell me.
I see the dots, but this must be a long reply.
I told you I’m a romantic. Going to bed with a married woman – even one possibly on the brink of leaving her marriage to a cheating schmuck – never sat well. I only wanted you when you were sure about me, not when you were still deciding.
But you broke your own rule.
There’s a pause, then:
If you were here, I’d tell you why. But it’s probably best I don’t.
I have moved down the beach like a piece of driftwood, washed up right in front of his house. Of the many places he could be, searching for bridges to nowhere, or riding around in his Porsche, he is sitting there on a patio chair. He has his back to me, his knees are spread and he’s leaning forward with his phone in his hand. There’s an open laptop in front of him on the ledge of the fire pit.
Then my phone pings again.
Guess what? he writes. Our song came on the radio the other day.
I think he means the Louis Armstrong one, but he says, the one we danced to.
I slap a hand over my mouth. By craning my neck over the hump of rock, I can see him side on, see the edges of his smile.
Guess what else? he writes.
Go on.
When I got back to the US, I did a small mathematical calculation. I worked out how long it had been since I first met you, to our last night in Athens.
I am held there in suspense, then he writes:
Six weeks.
Oh my God. It can’t be.
You can’t be in love with someone you’ve only known six weeks: my words to Harriet.
What are you doing right now Frank? I type.
I get such a kick out of watching him as he replies.
Well Moira… you might not believe it but I’m sitting outside writing. You’d be proud of me.
Are you really? I am trying to picture that. A book by any chance?
He tilts his head back for a moment, looking quite happy with himself.
An idea that might turn into a book.
How can I climb these rocks without killing myself? I have a mental picture of me almost getting to the top then slipping, falling to a squealy and inelegant death.
What’s it about ? I ask.
He rubs the back of his neck.
Hard to get into over text.
My heart is flying. A rush of daring zinging in me.
If I were there, would you tell me?
If you were here… among a lot of things I’d do… yes, I’d probably tell you.
Looks like I’m doing it then!
I place one foot on a big boulder and hoist myself up. One large step. Success! Then two… I reach the top, convinced that any second now he’s going to sense my presence and the whole surprise will be blown. But his head stays lowered, his attention glued to his phone as he waits for my response.
‘It’s a shame I’m not here, then,’ I say.
There’s a nanosecond where nothing happens, then his head turns sharply in the direction of my voice.
‘Hello, Frank.’
He shields his eyes with a hand. There’s a beat, and then he says, ‘Moira?’
I scamper down the other side of the rocks, jump onto his patio. ‘Ta-da!’ I fling my arms into the air like I’m hoping for a round of applause.
He says a thunderstruck, ‘What the fuck?’
He doesn’t quickly snap out of his surprise, which is funny.
‘I’ve got two things I have to say to you,’ I say, determined to not let his face, the disbelieving way he is looking at me, throw me off course. ‘Just so we’re abundantly , uber clear… Firstly, I may have left my marriage, but I’m not looking to jump into a relationship with someone else. I still don’t fear being alone, and I’m still not looking for anyone to save me.’
His face remains as serious as a face struggling to be serious can be.
‘And second?’ he asks.
I don’t know if I can say I love you. Not without him saying it first.
Instead, I say, ‘So… what’s this book about? I think you’re obliged to tell me – now that we know I’m here.’
He gets up from his seat, like his brain suddenly commanded his body, takes tentative steps towards me. He’s wearing an untucked white linen shirt, and faded blue jeans, like that first day in his kitchen. And his feet are bare.
‘It’s about a jaded, middle-aged writer, and the woman who makes him believe in something again.’
‘And does it have a happy ending?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘You tell me.’
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