Anyway, I have a new theory. Would you like to hear it? Ignore this paragraph if not.
My theory is that human beings lost the instinct for beauty in 1976, when plastics became the most widespread material in existence. You can actually see the change in process if you look at street photography from before and after 1976. I know we have good reason to be sceptical of aesthetic nostalgia, but the fact remains that before the 1970s, people wore durable clothes of wool and cotton, stored drinks in glass bottles, wrapped food produce in paper, and filled their houses with sturdy wooden furniture.
Now a majority of objects in our visual environment are made of plastic, the ugliest substance on earth, a material which when dyed does not take on colour but actually exudes colour, in an inimitably ugly way. One thing a government could do with my approval (and there aren’t many) would be to prohibit the production of each and every form of plastic not urgently necessary for the maintenance of human life. What do you think?
I don’t know why you’re being so coy about this person Felix. Who is he? Are you sleeping with him? Not that you have to tell me if you don’t want to. Simon never tells me anything anymore. Apparently he’s been going out with a twenty-three-year-old for about two months and I’ve never even seen her. Needless to say, the idea that Simon –
who was already a grown man in his twenties when I was fifteen – is having regular sex with a woman six years my junior makes me want to crawl directly into my grave. And it’s never some ugly little nerd with mousy hair and interesting opinions about Pierre Bourdieu, it’s always an Instagram model who has like 17,000 followers and gets sent free samples from skincare brands. Alice, I hate pretending that the personal vanity of attractive young women is anything other than boring and embarrassing. Mine worst of all. Not to be dramatic, but if Simon gets this girl pregnant I will throw myself out of a window. Imagine having to be nice to some random woman for the rest of my life because she’s the mother of his child. Did I ever tell you he asked me out on a date back in February? Not that he actually wanted to go out with me, I think he was just trying to boost my self-esteem. Although, we did have a very funny phone call last night . . .
Anyway: what age is Felix? Is he an old mystic man who writes you poetry about the cosmos? Or a nineteen-year-old county swimming champion with white teeth?
I could arrange to come and see you the week after the wedding, if convenient –
arriving the first Monday in June. What do you think? If I could drive it would obviously be easier, but it looks like a combination of trains and taxi journeys might work. You can’t imagine how bored I am of rattling around Dublin without you. I quite literally long to be in your company again. E.
9
On Wednesday, Alice and Felix were picked up at Fiumicino by a man holding a plastic pocket with a sheet of paper inside, on which were printed the words: MS KELLHER.
Outside, night had fallen, but the air was warm, dry, saturated in artificial light. In the driver’s car, a black Mercedes, Felix sat in the front, Alice in the back. Beside them on the motorway, trucks overtook each other at alarming speeds with horns blaring. When they reached the apartment building, Felix carried their luggage up the stairs: Alice’s wheelie suitcase and his own black gym bag. The living room was large and yellow, with a couch and television. Through an open archway was a modern and clean-looking kitchen. One of the bedroom doors led off the back of the living room, and another to the right. After they had looked inside them both, he asked which she would prefer.
You choose, she said.
I think the girl should choose.
Well, I disagree with that.
He frowned and said: Okay, the one who pays should choose.
I actually disagree with that even more.
He lifted his bag onto his shoulder and put his hand to the handle of the nearest bedroom. I can see we’re going to disagree a lot on this holiday, he said. I’ll take this one here, alright?
Thank you, she said. Would you like to get something to eat before we go to bed? I’ll look online to find a restaurant if you want.
He said that sounded good. Inside his room, he closed the door behind him, found a light switch and put his bag on top of the chest of drawers. Behind his bed, a third-floor window faced out onto the street. He unzipped the bag and searched around inside, moving items back and forth: some clothing, a razor handle with spare disposable blades, a foil sheet of tablets, a half-full box of condoms. Finding his phone charger, he took it out and started to unwind the cable. In her room, Alice was also unpacking her suitcase, removing some toiletries from the clear plastic airport bag, hanging up a brown dress in the wardrobe. Then she sat on her bed, opened a map on her phone and moved her fingers with practised ease around the screen.
Forty minutes later, they were eating at a local restaurant. At the centre of the table was a lit candle, a wicker basket of bread, a squat bottle of olive oil and a taller fluted bottle of dark vinegar. Felix was eating a sliced steak, very rare, dressed with Parmesan and rocket leaves, the interior of the steak glistening pink like a wound. Alice was eating a dish of pasta with cheese and pepper. At her elbow was a half-empty carafe of red wine.
The restaurant was not crowded, but now and then conversation or laughter from the other tables swelled up and became audible. Alice was telling Felix about her best friend, a woman whose name she said was Eileen.
She’s very pretty, Alice said. Would you like to see a picture?
Yeah, go on.