Outside, there was a queue of waiting taxis. I climbed into the back of one and directed the driver to the Grand Palace. It had always amused and upset me in equal measure that Bangkok, and what I’d seen of Thailand in general, seemed to be completely overstaffed. In any shop, even if you just went in for a packet of peanuts, there was always one person to guide you round, then another to work the till and a third to bag your purchase. Labour was so cheap here, it was a joke. I immediately felt bad for thinking that, then reminded myself that this was why I loved travelling: it put things into perspective.
The driver dropped me at the Grand Palace and I followed the hordes of tourists, many of them bearing telltale red shoulders that spoke of a recent arrival from colder climates. Outside the temple, I removed my hiking boots and placed them with the variety of flip-flops and trainers other visitors had left by the steps, then walked inside. The Emerald Buddha was supposed to be over five hundred years old and was the most famous statue in Thailand. Yet he was small compared to the many other Buddhas I’d seen. The brightness of the jade and the way his body was shaped reminded me of a bright green lizard. His limbs were fluid and, to be honest, not very accurate. Not that it mattered – ‘he’ was a beautiful thing.
I sat down cross-legged on one of the mats, enjoying my time out of the sun in this big, peaceful space with other human beings around me, probably contemplating their navels too. I’d never been one for religion, but if I had to pick one, I liked Buddhism best because it seemed to be all about the power of nature, which I felt was a permanent miracle happening right in front of my eyes.
Star often said that I should sign up to become a member of the Green Party when she’d listen to me rant on for ages after watching some TV programme on the environment, but what would be the point? My voice didn’t count, and I was too stupid to be taken seriously. All I knew was that the plants, animals and oceans that made up our ecosystem and sustained us were so often ignored.
‘If I worship anything, it’s that,’ I murmured to the Buddha. He too was made of earth – of hewn mineral turned to beauty over millennia – and I thought he’d probably understand.
Given this was a temple, I thought I should put in a word to Pa Salt. Maybe churches and temples were rather like telephone exchanges or internet cafés: they gave you a clearer line up to the heavens . . .
‘Hi, Pa, really sorry that you died. I miss you much more than I thought I would. And I’m sorry if I didn’t listen to you when you gave me advice, and all your words of wisdom and stuff. I should have done because look how I’ve ended up. Hope you’re okay up there,’ I added. ‘Sorry again.’
I stood up, feeling the uncomfortable lump of tears threatening the back of my throat, and walked towards the door. As I was about to step outside, I turned back.
‘Help me, Pa, please,’ I whispered to him.
Having bought a bottle of water from a street vendor, I wandered down to the Chao Phraya River and stood watching the heavy traffic chugging along it. Tugs, speedboats and wide barges covered with black tarpaulin continued about their daily business. I decided to get on a passenger ferry and go for a ride – it was cheap and at least better than sitting in my miserable hotel room back at the airport.
As we sped along, I saw glass skyscrapers with golden temples nestled elegantly between them, and along the riverbanks, rickety jetties connected wooden houses to the stream of activity on the water. I took my trusty Nikon camera – Pa had given it to me on my sixteenth birthday, so that I could, as he’d put it, ‘take pictures of what inspires you, darling’ – and snapped away. Star was always nagging me to move to digital photography, but me and technology didn’t get on, so I stuck to what I knew.
After getting off the boat just past the Oriental Hotel, I walked up the street beside it and remembered how I’d once treated Star to high tea in the famous Authors’ Lounge. We’d both felt out of place in our jeans and T-shirts, with everyone else dressed up to the nines. Star had spent hours in the library looking at the signed photographs of all the authors who had stayed at the hotel in the past. I wondered if she ever would write her novel, because she was so good at putting sentences together and describing things on paper. Not that it was any of my business any more. She had a new family now; I’d seen a light in her eyes when I’d arrived home a few weeks ago and a man she called ‘Mouse’ had been there in our apartment, gazing at her like an adoring puppy.
I sat down at a street café and ordered a bowl of noodles and a beer just for the hell of it. I wasn’t good with alcohol, but given I was feeling so awful, it couldn’t really make me feel much worse. As I ate, I thought that what hurt the most wasn’t the fact that Star had a new boyfriend and job, it was that she’d withdrawn from me, slowly and painfully. Perhaps she thought I’d be jealous, that I wanted her all to myself, which just wasn’t true. I loved her more than anything, and only wanted to see her happy. I’d never been so stupid as to think that one day, what with her being so beautiful and clever, a man wouldn’t come along.
You were really rude to him when he came to the apartment, my conscience reminded me. And yes, I had minded him being there, and, as usual, I hadn’t known how to hide it.
The beer did its job and blunted the sharp edges of my pain. I paid, then stood up and walked aimlessly along the road before turning into a narrow alley that had a street market. A few stalls down, I came across an artist painting a watercolour. Watching him sitting at his easel reminded me of the nights I’d sat on Railay Beach in Krabi with my sketch pad and tin of paints, trying to capture the beauty of the sunset. Closing my eyes, I remembered the peace I’d felt when I’d been there with Star, only a year ago. I wanted it back so much it hurt.
I made my way to the riverbank and leant over the balustrade, thinking. Would it be turning chicken to head for the place I’d felt happiest before going on to Australia? I knew people on Railay Beach. They’d recognise me, wave and say hello. Most of them were escaping from something too, because Railay was that kind of place. Besides, the only reason I was going to Australia was because of what Georg Hoffman, Pa’s lawyer, had told me when I’d been to see him. It was somewhere to head to, far away from London.
So, instead of spending twelve hours flying in a tube to a place where I knew no one, I could be drinking a cold beer on Railay Beach by this time tomorrow night. Surely a couple of weeks or so wouldn’t hurt? After all, it was Christmas soon and it might be less awful to spend it in a place that I knew and loved . . .
It was the first time in ages that I’d actually felt anticipation at the thought of doing something. Before the feeling vanished, I hailed the first taxi I saw and directed it back to the airport. Inside the terminal, I went to the Thai Airways ticket desk and explained that I needed to delay my flight to Australia. The woman at the desk did a lot of tapping on her computer and told me it would cost about four thousand baht, which wasn’t much in the scheme of things.
‘You have flexible ticket. What date you wish to rebook?’ she asked.
‘Er, maybe for just after Christmas?’