Sleeping Arrangements

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said abruptly, and walked straight past.

  As Jenna entered the room, Hugh was staring blankly down at the table.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘All ready to have your tongue burned off?’ She put down the dish and grinned. ‘Joke! It’s not that hot. I was quite easy with the chillies. In fact, there’s Tabasco in the kitchen if it’s too mild. It all depends what you like …’ She reached for a spoon. ‘How much do you think Chloe wants?’

  ‘Actually,’ said Hugh, looking up as though with a great effort. ‘Actually, I don’t think Chloe’s coming back.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jenna, hand poised on the lid handle. ‘Right. So—it’s just you, is it?’

  Hugh gazed silently around the empty table. Then he looked up.

  ‘You know what, Jenna, I think I’ll take a rain check, too. I’m sure it’s absolutely delicious …’ he gestured to the dish ‘… but I’m just not that hungry.’

  ‘I see,’ said Jenna. For a few moments she stared down at the dish, her spoon still poised above it. ‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘I expect it’ll get eaten up tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Hugh, getting up from his chair. ‘I know you went to a lot of trouble …’

  ‘Oh, that’s no problem!’ said Jenna brightly. It’s your holiday—if you don’t want to eat, you don’t want to eat!’

  ‘Thanks for seeing it that way,’ said Hugh. He gave her a rather taut smile, then left the room.

  As the door closed, Jenna’s smile disappeared. In silence, she looked at the carefully laid table; the untouched food; the crumpled, discarded napkins.

  ‘Well, great,’ she said aloud. ‘That’s just great. That’s just fucking … excellent.’

  She sank down into a chair and stared morosely ahead for a few minutes. Then she reached out and took the lid off the chilli dish. The words HAPPY HOLIDAYS, FOLKS! spelled out in peas and sweetcorn, stared jauntily back at her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Chloe woke up to a still, dim silence. She lay in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, allowing the fragments of thoughts and dreams floating around her mind to separate themselves out and slowly sink to rest in their correct places. Bits of memories, tail ends of emotions, half-thought-out wishes, all slowly sinking into their places like silver balls in a game. Only when she was sure that moving her head would not dislodge any of them did she allow herself to sit up and survey the empty room.

  Light was filtering in through the wooden blinds, covering the tiled floor in stripes. As she stared at the pattern she noticed a piece of white paper placed in the centre of the room, presumably for her to find. A note from Philip, she thought detachedly, and wondered whether she wanted to read it. She assumed that he had spent some portion of the night by her side—but she couldn’t be sure of it. After leaving the dinner table the night before, she had gone straight to their bedroom. Finding it empty, she had taken a long bath, and read several chapters of a book of whose plot she could not now remember any detail. Eventually she had switched off the light and lain with her eyes open in the dark. At some point, probably sooner than she thought, she had fallen asleep.

  A muted flash of anger went through her as she remembered the frustration she’d felt at having no Philip to talk to. She had sat, heart thumping, mentally composing arguments, lifting her head at every sound of footsteps. But Philip had not appeared. The longer she waited, the more determined she had become not to go and find him. If he didn’t wish to be with her—well then, that was his decision. If he wanted to get drunk and pick fights, that was his decision also.

  With a sudden briskness, she got out of bed, picked up the note and scanned it.

  Dearest Chloe,

  You deserve a day without me. I’ve taken the boys down to the coast. Have a lovely time and we’ll talk this evening. I’m sorry.

  Philip

  Chloe stared at the familiar writing for a second, then crumpled the note in her hand. This letter was a cue for wifely fondness; for a rueful shake of the head and forgiveness. But she could feel none of it. All she could feel was irritation.

  She opened the blinds and looked down at the garden. The flowerbeds looked immaculate from above; the pool was a gleaming blue; the loungers were spread out invitingly. But Chloe knew she didn’t want it. She didn’t want any of it. Her gaze rose further, to the mountains, and she felt a sudden longing to be out. To be away from this house and its occupants; its tensions and frictions and claustrophobic concerns. She wanted to be herself, anonymous, in this foreign, rugged countryside.

  Swiftly she put on an old cotton frock and a pair of sandals. She rubbed sun cream into her skin, picked up a sunhat and poured the water from her bedside jug into an Evian bottle which she put into her basket.

  As she walked down the stairs, the house was still and quiet, with no sign of life. She felt like Alice, walking through a charmed land with its own rules. If I can just get out of the gate without talking to anyone, she thought superstitiously. If I can get out of the gate … then everything will be all right.

  She closed the heavy front door behind her and began to walk down the shaded driveway towards the main gate. Her mind began to blank out and she was aware of nothing but her footsteps, one after the other, like a hypnotic ticking.

  ‘Hey! Chloe!’

  Chloe’s head jerked up in shock and she peered around, heart thudding, looking for the source of the voice. But she could see no-one. Was her own head mocking her? Was she going mad?

  ‘Over here!’

  Chloe saw Jenna’s face peeping over a hedge, and felt a dart of relief, mingled with annoyance.

  ‘We were just playing hide-and-seek,’ continued Jenna. ‘Weren’t we, Octavia?’ She grinned down at an unseen Octavia, then looked curiously at Chloe’s hat and basket. ‘Are you going out?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Chloe reluctantly.

  ‘Oh right. Where are you headed?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Chloe. She forced a pleasant smile, and before Jenna could ask any more, raised her hand in farewell and carried on down the drive.

  The road outside was silent and empty, shimmering in the searing heat. Chloe crossed, and began to walk along the edge, scuffing the sandy earth, not bothering to think where she might be heading. She came to a bend in the road and paused, looking first at the road, curving in front of her, then at the mountainside, which sheered down sharply to her left. She only hesitated for a moment. Stepping over the barrier, she began to walk, then run, down the slope of the mountain. As she gained momentum she found herself slipping on the dry, sandy soil, moving faster and faster, nearly losing her balance altogether. At a small rocky outcrop she stopped for a few minutes, panting slightly. When she glanced back up to the road, she was shocked and exhilarated at how far she had come in such a short time. Already she felt a sense of escape, a sense of liberation. She was out; she was free.

  She perched on a huge white boulder and looked around the dry, silent countryside. The arid soil was scorched by the sun; shrivelled bushes grew in the shade of bare, twiggy trees. In the distance she could hear the bells of goats being led to feed; looking around the sparse vegetation, she wondered what on earth they were going to eat.

  The bells died away and she sat again in silence, letting the sun beat down on her head. On impulse she picked up a stone and threw it as hard as she could, down the mountainside. She threw another, and another, feeling her shoulder almost wrench out of her socket. As each stone skittered down the mountain and disappeared from view she felt a strange, powerful release. She reached for another, then stopped herself. Three was enough.

  She sat for a while longer, taking occasional swigs from her water bottle, allowing her mind to roam idly. Letting herself become part of the landscape. A small lizard ran across the top of the boulder she was sitting on, then ran back. The third time it ran across, it took a short cut across her hand—and she felt an unexpected dart of pleasure at being accepted so easily.

  Eventually s
he stood up, stretched, and continued walking, deliberately taking the difficult path; deliberately setting herself challenges. The sun was hammering down on her head—hotter even than it had been yesterday, she thought. Soon her legs began to ache and her arms to sweat. But still she continued, striding more and more quickly as though trying to beat her own record. She felt almost feverish, as if she had to get as far away as possible. Over the mountains, into another land. She was barely aware of her surroundings, barely aware of anything save the rhythm of her steps, the in and out of her breath, the sweat on her brow. Then, as she idly glanced up, following the flight of a butterfly, she stopped in shock.

  Up to her right, out of nowhere, had appeared a cluster of stark white houses, crowned by a bell tower. The village they had passed on the way up, of course, she realized. What was its name? San something. San Luis. For a few moments, Chloe was too thrown to move. She had not meant to visit San Luis; she had meant to lose herself in the mountains. But now she felt overlooked. Someone at one of those dark slits of windows would be watching her, wondering what that mad woman striding about the mountainside below was doing. Perhaps even sending for the local doctor.

  A motorbike roared past on the road above and she jumped, feeling foolish. She took a few steps forward, trying to regain her rhythm, then stopped again. Some new thoughts were twining about in her mind. The sun was high overhead; it must be nearly noon. There would be a restaurant in San Luis. A cool glass of wine, perhaps a plate of chorizo. Marinated mushrooms. Prawns steeped in garlic. Suddenly Chloe felt ravenous; it occurred to her that she had had no supper the night before and no breakfast this morning. Hastily she checked in her bag for her purse, then turned her steps upwards, towards the village.

  Amanda had been up for most of the night with Beatrice. As Hugh crept out of their bedroom that morning, the two of them were fast asleep on the bed, covered by a rumpled sheet. He drank a quick cup of coffee in the kitchen, then headed out to the swimming pool. It was empty apart from Jenna and Octavia, paddling around together in the shallows.

  ‘Morning, Mr Stratton,’ said Jenna cheerfully. ‘Is Beatrice OK?’

  ‘Asleep,’ said Hugh. ‘So’s Amanda.’ He sat down on a sunbed and looked around. ‘So—where is everyone?’

  ‘All gone out,’ said Jenna. ‘Philip’s taken Sam and Nat down to the coast.’

  ‘Not Chloe?’

  ‘No. She went for a walk.’

  ‘Ah.’ Hugh paused. He picked up one of Amanda’s magazines, left over from the day before, and flicked through it, an intently interested expression on his face. He stopped at a feature on glass sculptures and read the first three lines. Then he put the magazine down. ‘Did you see which way she went?’ he asked casually.

  ‘’Fraid not,’ said Jenna.

  ‘Right.’

  The sun seemed to grow hotter on Hugh’s head. He sat quite still for a minute, paralysed by indecision. At last he looked up.

  ‘I think I’ll go and stock up on a few things,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the car. You won’t be needing it, will you?’

  ‘God, no!’ Jenna laughed. ‘If we need a car, we’ll make one. Right, Octavia?’

  ‘Excellent.’

  Hugh paused a few seconds later; then nodded at Jenna and walked as slowly as he could manage round the side of the car. As he opened the door he could hear Octavia shouting, ‘Bye bye, Daddy! Bye bye!’ Feeling slightly sick, he got in and started the engine.

  When he reached the road he paused. A woman could only walk so fast. If she wasn’t in one direction she had to be in the other. He glanced from one side to the other and decided that Chloe, being Chloe, would have taken the uphill road.

  As he pulled out of the gates, a boy leading his goats up the hill yelled something at him. Frowning slightly, Hugh checked all his dashboard lights. He looked in the rearview mirror: the boy was still yelling. Hugh shrugged, put down his foot and moved into third gear. The car roared up the hill and he leaned forward, searching the landscape, hunting for Chloe.

  Chloe walked along the cobbled streets of San Luis, feeling as though she had entered an enchanted place. On either side of her the houses rose in stark whiteness, punctuated by tiled roofs and wrought-iron balconies, by heavy studded doors and colourful flowers in pots. The town was set almost vertically up the steep mountainside; as she walked up a silent road towards the main square, she felt her legs beginning to ache.

  Chloe stopped for breath and glanced about her. The street was empty save for a thin dog sniffing at the pavement; the entire town could have been deserted for the number of people she had met. But she could hear them. Voices high above her called to each other, and in the distance she heard the faint thrum of music. Taking a deep breath, she pushed her hair back and continued walking up the cobbles, past closed door after closed door. As she turned the corner, two old women in floral dresses came by, and she smiled at them hesitantly. The music was growing louder now; she must be nearing whatever centre the place had.

  A sound caught her attention and she turned; the next moment, with no warning, a motorbike was zooming up towards her. The two teenagers riding it called out something to her as they roared by. She had no hope of hearing it, let alone understanding it, but she nodded back and kept on walking, towards the music which was becoming louder with every step.

  She cut through a tiny shaded passage, turned another corner—and stopped in amazement. She had entered the main square of the village. The bell tower she had seen from the mountainside towered over her on the opposite side; in the middle of the cobbles a large carved lion’s head gushed water into an ornamental stone basin. Leading away from one side of the square was a street full of shops, displaying brightly painted plates, huge hams and fig trees in pots. She stood quite still, looking around, feeling slightly dizzy from her steep walk. Here is a town, she found herself thinking, ridiculously. Here is a church. Here’s the steeple. And here are all the people.

  From the arid silence of the mountainside, from the muted tranquillity of the cobbled village streets, she had entered an atmosphere of sound, of colour, of activity. She could smell garlic and roasting meat in the air; could hear raised voices calling to each other, resonating off the white walls. A group of old men was sitting at a table outside a small café; a woman holding a baby was shouting up to a man leaning over a balcony. As she stood, silently looking at the scene before her, two young men came to the lion’s head fountain, stripped off their shirts and began to wash their faces and chests, talking to each other in short bursts of Spanish. One glanced up, saw Chloe watching him, and winked. She felt herself blushing, and quickly turned away, pretending to examine a richly painted tile set into the wall of a house.

  There were only a few tourists wandering aimlessly about, identifiable by their pale skins and baseball caps and cameras. A red-haired man in trainers was looking at a notice on the door of the bell tower, guidebook in hand, while his wife stood slightly away, staring ahead with blank boredom. After a while the man turned away and began to walk towards Chloe, his nose still in his guidebook.

  ‘The place to eat, apparently,’ she heard him saying, ‘is Escalona. About half an hour away. Or we could eat here …’

  Go, Chloe thought silently. Please go.

  ‘No, let’s go,’ said the wife eventually. ‘We might as well.’ Her gaze drifted uninterestedly around the square. ‘There’s nothing much here, anyway. Where’s the car?’

  As the British couple wandered out of the square, Chloe cautiously began to walk across the cobbles, making for the street with shops. She passed the stone fountain where the two men who had been washing were now sitting in the sun, letting the rays dry their bodies. The man who had winked at her smiled and called out something—probably some sexist remark which in Britain would have infuriated her. But in Spanish, everything sounded romantic; what they were saying could have been poetry. Without quite meaning to, she felt herself respond to the men’s attention. Her pace slowed down a little; she felt her
hips beginning to move more fluidly beneath her dress, in time to the music which she could still hear pulsing in the distance from some invisible source.

  As she began to walk down the street with shops, a Spanish woman in a strapless dress walked past, holding a loaf of bread. Her skin was brown and smooth; the dark red of her dress clung to the curves of her body and her legs moved smartly over the cobbles. Chloe stared in fascination at the woman: at the poise of her head, the confident tilt of her chin. She looked, thought Chloe, as though she revelled in herself.

  The woman disappeared into a shop whose window was full of brightly coloured dresses, ruffled skirts and decorative shoes. Chloe took a few curious steps towards the shop, then stopped with an inward plunge of dismay as she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass. She felt quite shocked at what she saw. A woman of indeterminate age, in a faded linen dress, her feet clad in utilitarian sandals. She was wearing clothes which represented quiet good taste in England. Natural fibres, muted colours, flowing lines. Here, in this setting, they looked like bits of old sacking.

  Staring at herself, Chloe had a longing for colour. For brightness. For the poise and confidence and beauty which seemed to come naturally to Spanish women. She pushed open the door and blinked a few times, adjusting to the light. The woman in the red dress came sashaying towards Chloe and smiled. Chloe politely smiled back, and reached for a blue cotton dress hanging up nearby. She looked at it for a few seconds, then caught the woman’s eye.

  ‘Very nice,’ she said.

  ‘It’s nice, yes.’ The woman had a lilting voice with a very faint Spanish accent, like etching on glass. ‘It’s nice. But you would suit something … Hmmm, let me see.’

  She surveyed Chloe silently for a moment and Chloe gazed back, feeling a slight tingle of anticipation. As a dressmaker, she had become used to scrutinizing others; to fitting others; to making others beautiful. These days, she rarely had time to study herself objectively, to see herself as others saw her.