Fine. I can speak freely. ‘Sorry I was so long. But mission accomplished.’
‘So you’re all set?
‘Nearly. I’m getting a spray-tan done this evening. The lightest shade. Just to take the pasty edge off my ancient body. And … I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but what harm? I got waxed yesterday.’
‘Oh? You mean …?’ He moves his eyebrows towards my groin.
‘I usually work a nineteen-seventies vibe down there. Hugh likes – liked it. You probably think that’s revolting.’
‘No, I – Actually, let’s not have this conversation. So you’ve made your peace with your repulsive body?’
‘There’s nothing I can do about it. I am the age I am, I’ve lived the life I’ve lived. And he’s no nineteen-year-old either. He’s forty-two. It’s funny, Alastair, I don’t want him to be like, you know, David Gandy, all abs and muscles. That would intimidate the daylights out of me. But I don’t want him to be flabby and … you know. I want him to be the same level of decrepit that I am. Well, maybe not quite as bad as me.’
‘So where’s this thing going down?’
While I’d been out, Josh had texted: Sarah Hotel, meet at bar on top floor at 7.
‘Sarah Hotel,’ I say.
‘Whoa!’
‘I know. Fancy, right?’
‘I’ve never stayed there but, yep, fancy. Spendy. He likes you, Amy!’
Anxiety spasms through me. ‘Oh, fuck, now I’ve the fear. But what’s the worst that can happen?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Well.’ And these are thoughts that have tormented me since I threw out my invitation on Saturday morning. ‘I might lose my nerve entirely, and develop vaginismus, thereby locking Josh Rowan out of my hidey-hole.’
‘That would be grim.’
Grim is right. I lose myself in a picture of Josh slamming his blood-engorged penis up against me like a battering ram. I feel ExcitedHorrifiedScaredTurnedOn.
‘Or Josh might find my forty-something body so slack and gross he won’t be able to get it up.’
‘That won’t happen. No offence, Amy, but men, most men … Well, you’ve heard the saying that we have enough blood to run a brain and a penis, but not at the same time. Anyway, you’re fine. You’re cute. I’m sick telling you.’
‘Alternatively,’ I speak over him, ‘it might be okay, by which I mean, just okay. Nothing special. Something neither of us could be bothered to repeat, and that would also not be pleasant. I’ve spent a year and a half giving him a lot of space in my head. I’d be morto if there was no substance to it.’
‘Then again, it might be amazing,’ Alastair says.
‘Word! Like Derry said, this isn’t Josh Rowan’s first rodeo. Surely he knows how to show a girl a good time.’
‘It doesn’t work like that,’ Alastair says. ‘You wouldn’t believe the bad sex women put up with. The number of girls I’ve had to rehabilitate –’
‘No, please, Alastair, shush now. Anyway, I’m not looking for hot monkey sex or – or – or nimble-fingered technique –’
‘You want romance.’
‘I need a narrative. And I need to believe there’s a future for me, after Hugh.’
‘With Josh Rowan?’ Alastair sounds alarmed.
‘No. Just a future. I don’t know exactly what I mean, but I need to check that I still exist. And don’t tell me that I do.’
‘Wasn’t going to. Like I said, Hugh leaving has fucked with your sense of self. It takes time to process that. You’re flailing around, looking for other markers.’
‘Is that what this is? And, morally, is that okay?’
‘Not ideal. Josh Rowan is a human.’
‘One I like.’ My tone is heated. ‘One I fancy.’
‘Who has a wife.’
‘Yeaaaaah.’ There was no arguing away that shameful fact.
70
Tuesday, 15 November, day sixty-four
In the lift up to the top-floor bar, a gang of fabulous types pile in, looking like they’ve come straight from a yacht in Portofino.
I stare at my new shoes – black Rock-stud wannabes with needle-thin heels – and try to blind myself to the sun-kissed limbs, the gorgeous floaty dresses and the effortless glamour of my fellow lift-goers.
Nervy giddiness has propelled me through the flight from Dublin, a day of meetings, having my hair blow-dried into foxy waves, buying the shoes that were I-can’t-think-about-it expensive, getting fake eyelashes done in Shu Uemura (the application was free; I had to pay for the lashes, but they’re reusable so it was a bargain really, except it wasn’t because any time I do fake lashes myself, they end up stuck so far from my lashline they look like rows of shark’s teeth), haring back to Home House to dump my bags and change into a floaty cold-shoulder top and satin skirt, and getting a taxi to the Sarah Hotel.
The lift doors open to reveal a phalanx of hostesses, armed with iPads. They make me think of riot police. Over their shoulders, in the bar, everyone looks fabulous and I hope that with my gold-dusted collarbones, my tumbling hair, my glossy mouth and my too-high shoes, I’ll fit in.
‘Josh Rowan,’ I tell the woman who blocks my path.
Oh, and here he is, making his way through the teeming revellers, looking a little Portofino-ish himself, in an inky-blue slubby sweatshirt and slouchy jeans that I suspect are new. We exchange a queasy complicity.
‘I saw you,’ he says. ‘It’s so busy in here I thought it best to come and get you.’
With an apprehensive smile, I let him lead me through the jostling crowds to a low booth, almost a pod, with two tapered, high-backed seats facing each other, like an almond sliced in two, across a narrow table.
I clamber into the cocoon-like chair and it’s too squashy to sit upright in. But when I lean my elbows on the table, it tilts me far too close to him, so my face is about four inches from his.
An iPad with the drinks menu is slid in front of me. It’s one long list of whiskies. ‘God.’ I’m grateful to have something to say. ‘It’s real.’
‘What is?’
‘A couple of weeks ago they said in Style that the modern drink is whisky, but this is the first time I’ve seen it for reals.’
Without much interest, he scans the list. ‘What’s it to be? A thirty-year-old Macallan?’ His tone is a little mocking. ‘A rarer-than-rare Laphroaig?’
‘Water,’ I say.
He’s surprised. ‘You sure?’
‘I’m not getting drunk. I don’t want to convince myself that this is anything other than what it is.’
‘Which is?’
I don’t know yet. ‘Let’s see.’
He flags a waiter and orders. Then he asks, ‘Amy? How come we met on the beach on Friday morning? Sixth sense?’
‘No such thing. It’s just an amalgam of our other five senses. We know stuff, even if we’re not aware we know it. A long time ago you told me you often wake early.’ Then I realize another thing. ‘And you’d told me you liked beaches, cold ones.’
‘So did you come out looking for me?’
‘I didn’t know, not consciously anyway, that I was hoping to meet you. But lower down in my layers, I had all the information.’
‘So there are no accidents?’
‘I think …’ I’m struggling to form my thoughts ‘… that we’re responsible for our actions. We choose them. Even if we think we don’t. Anyway, Josh, I brought condoms.’
He gives a bark of slightly scandalized laughter. ‘So did I.’
I clamp my hand on to the back of his wrist. ‘Josh …’
He waits.
‘I’m … God, how do I say it? I’m traditional. In bed. I hate saying this but I don’t want any unpleasant surprises. For either of us.’
‘Okay.’
‘Are you? Traditional?’
‘I’ve never really … Yeah, I suppose I am.’
‘Oh, Josh, that’s a big relief.’ I smile widely. ‘Right, let’s do this.’
He laughs. ‘You had me at condoms.’
‘Sorry. Not very romantic. It’s nerves.’
He slides a plastic card across the table. ‘Room 504. Fifth floor. Go ahead. I’ll just sort things out here.’
I head for the lift, fizzing with a nervy paranoia. Can people guess what’s going on? But even if they do – and why would they? – what would they care?