Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

There was a current running through me, and I couldn’t sleep, so I watched a television show where people showed doctors the parts of their bodies they were embarrassed by. I wasn’t sure if there was power in revealing your flaws publicly, in close up, under indiscriminate white lighting, or whether these people were masochists. I hid the parts of myself that I didn’t like and sometimes I wondered how much of me was left visible after that. But he liked me, he wanted me, he was happy with me. Ruth was wrong. This is what happiness looked like: a week’s worth of day and night outfits rolled up in a suitcase that had been packed for two weeks. When he saw it, he had teased: Jesus. How many clothes do you need, honey?

After the show finished, I watched a movie about a tsunami and when there was nothing left to distract me, I texted my mother:

I’m going on holiday tomorrow, so I’ll miss Wednesday’s chat.

I would tell her that we were going to Kenya if she asked, which she wouldn’t.

Ruth wasn’t the only person who tried to repair the relationship between me and my mother. My grandparents used to drop hints in the same unsubtle way as Amy, who had recently started attempting to set me up with David’s friends. We would be eating cheese, and Gran would say something like: You know, Enola, they have great cheese in France! But I hated it the most when Catherine did it because it made me worry that she just wanted her spare room back.

I went onto the balcony and looked out over the cold, sharp city. Now that the trip was real, the daydream of us on the beach, him in his trunks, both of us happy and golden, had been replaced by something violent and awful: a plane dropping out of the sky, a car crashing into a tree, a wave washing our happiness away. I shut my eyes and fantasized about being killed in a tsunami. He survived and, finding my name on a list of the dead, collapsed, weeping about how much he loved me. Then I went to bed and masturbated to a video he’d sent of him making bread from scratch.

T IREDNESS HOVERED IN THE terminal. Teenagers slept on backpacks by the windows, and couples in bejeweled tracksuits had their children riding suitcases like ponies. He was in old jeans with a hole in the crotch, because he said that they were comfortable for the flight. I was in a loose blue playsuit for the same reason. I wanted to smell the perfumes in duty free, but he pointed to the champagne bar: Come on!

We sat on high stools at the black marble bar in our raggedy clothes, while the only other patrons looked like oligarchs. I commented on how one woman was wearing fur, and he laughed. Fuck it, I’m on holiday. Two glasses of the cheapest champagne were handed over by an unsmiling Polish woman. We clinked our glasses, and he looked happy. I touched his smile lines, and he didn’t stop me. Then he said: You know, I’ve never been on holiday with a partner before.

This was the first time that he had spoken about his past relationships, and I wanted more information. I knew the answers to the questions that writers were supposed to ask about their characters: What does he have for breakfast? ( Whatever he made for dinner. ) What is his favorite color? ( He always wears blue or black. ) What items does he carry in his pocket? ( Gum, cigarettes, keys. ) But I didn’t have the answers to any of the big questions.

What about your ex—what was her name? I asked, scrolling on my phone so that he didn’t think I was too interested.

Jessica.

And you guys never went away together?

He curled his lip and told me that she wanted to. But she worked a nine-to-five, so the concept of freelance was alien. I asked what Jessica did. He drank half his champagne in one gulp and ignored the question. To be honest, Enola, it got to the point where it was too difficult. She was a lovely girl, but in the end, she just needed help that I couldn’t give her. Steph always says I have crap taste in women, he added with a wry laugh.

I didn’t like the way he said that, but who was I to judge? He was so straightforward. Perhaps she was challenging.

I asked when they broke up, and he said two years ago. It occurred to me that he might have easily said “the day before I met you.” I asked whether he had dated much since, and he said he had been on a few but that he always lost interest after date five.

What were you looking for?

Someone to blow me away.

He grinned, and I was unsure whether he was trying to appear as if he was joking to cover up the fact that he was serious or trying to appear serious when he was only joking. Either way, I was relieved to have made it past date five and into an airport.

I waited for him to ask me about my exes, but he didn’t. I was keeping mental lists of the things that he told me in an effort to know him. Pinning snippets on a wall in my head, clues linked with red thread on a true-crime-podcast murder board. But was he doing the same? It wouldn’t have been a long answer: Adam at university; Ben, who was here on a temporary visa; and Thomas, who ghosted me after three months. I hadn’t been on holiday with any of them, apart from a long weekend in Amsterdam with Adam wherein I realized I was more interested in the museums than in Adam.

Oh, I said. That reminds me. You’re invited to Amy’s wedding.

Why? he asked, frowning.

I told him that it was just for the evening do. He said that Amy didn’t really want him at her wedding. I told him that I did, keeping my tone nimble so that if I needed to, I could tell him that I was only joking.

I hate weddings, honey…

Me too! I said, because I didn’t want him to think that I was trying to get him to a wedding so that we could organize our own.

I told him there was an open bar, and he said that I should have led with that. I pictured him in a suit. Me in a dress that I hadn’t bought yet. Both of us at the bar, laughing about how much we hated weddings, but then there would be a moment, during the first dance, maybe, where we both just knew.

I told him that we’d have to book a hotel, and he put his glass down and wrung his hands like he was going to deliver important information.

You know, honey, something my dad always said, that people need to prioritize themselves in a relationship.

I laughed but his face was flat. But surely if two people always prioritized themselves, then the relationship would be a disaster?

Ah, he said, as if he’d solved a puzzle. But if two people both getting what they want out of a relationship is a disaster, then I would argue those two people aren’t compatible.

So, you’re saying…

I’m not coming to Amy’s wedding.

All right, we should go, he said, finishing his champagne. I tried to finish mine, but it fizzed up and spilled down my chin. I told him that I wasn’t a fan of champagne, actually.

Did he repeat that to himself? Enola, not a fan of champagne.

As we walked into the terminal, I started to feel dizzy. An announcement told us to go to the gate, but he searched the board like he needed to see the information himself.

We’re boarding. How did we miss that?

The orange letters were blurry. He called me a lightweight. But it was more than that. My heart was racing. I thought about my words to Ruth: It’s just going to be a fun holiday. For the first time, this felt like a mistake, and more than anything, I wished that Ruth were here. I was going back to Kenya with a man who didn’t know that I didn’t like whiskey or that I faked more orgasms than I had; who didn’t know that I was only pretending to write my novel when he was writing his, and who didn’t know the truth: that I was desperately, painfully, consumingly in love with him.