The answer was addressed to James, and not to her. “Billy Lee’s. It’s mostly seafood, but you can get other things. He has this incredibly ancient chef – he’s ninety or something like that, and he comes out and speaks to everybody and asks them whether they’d like to come and help in the kitchen. And when they say yes, as they tend to do, he says that it’s the washing-up he was thinking of, and everybody laughs.”
“That’s where we’re going?” asked James.
Again the conversation was between James and Judy. “We thought you’d like it,” Clover interjected.
James turned to her. “But of course I will.”
“I didn’t know whether you liked Chinese food.”
He smiled. “But don’t you remember? We went for that Chinese meal in Cayman – a hundred years ago. Remember? It was Ted’s birthday party – we were about twelve or something, and Ted’s mother took us all to that Chinese restaurant near the airport and they had made a massive cake for Ted. Don’t you remember?”
It came back to her. She remembered wanting to sit next to him, but he had been with other friends and she had watched him over the table. He had been her hero, the object of her admiration, her longing. It was well before she had an inkling of what love was like, but it was there, already planted, its first tender shoots about to take root; which would take over her life, she now thought.
For a moment she was back there. “I wanted to sit next to you,” she said. The remark came unbidden.
James looked surprised. “To me? At Ted’s party?”
Judy was watchful.
“Yes,” said Clover. “I wanted to sit next to you, but you always seemed too busy for me. You wanted to be with other people.” She stopped herself. She had not intended to say any of this.
James was abashed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … to ignore you, or whatever it was I was doing.”
Judy now entered the conversation. “Boys don’t like girls at that age. They want to be with other boys. Look at groups of kids. The boys all talk together and so do the girls.”
“Oh, I know,” said Clover. “But they can still be friends, can’t they? And lots of people are. Lots of people have best friends of the opposite sex when they’re young.”
Judy looked doubtful. “I don’t think so. What do you think, James? Did you have a best friend?”
He picked up his glass. Clover noticed the pattern in the condensation where he had held it. His hand. James’s hand. “I had a friend called Ted,” he said. “I don’t know whether you’d remember him from Cayman.”
Judy shook her head. “No, I don’t. We left so long ago.”
“He’s a friend of Clover’s too. I suppose that Ted was my best friend for a long time. We went to different places, though, when we were sent off to boarding school.”
“Ted’s gay,” said Clover. She felt a moment of doubt, and wondered whether she had unwittingly betrayed a confidence: had Ted talked to James about that? She thought that he made no secret of it, but was not sure now that he had mentioned it.
James did not react. “Yes,” he said. “Of course he is.”
Clover thought she knew what Judy was thinking. Judy would be imagining that this was the thing that she – Clover – had failed to spot all along. James was not interested in her because of a very simple reason, and you, Clover, didn’t pick up on it because you were too obsessed by him to see the glaringly obvious truth. Talk about naïveté!
But it was not true – it simply was not true. Ted and James had never been boyfriends because … She hesitated. Ted had confessed to her that he saw James in that way but had never hinted that his feelings were reciprocated. And James had had various girlfriends, which pointed the other way, except, of course, if he were repressing something.
“Women,” said Judy, “like to have a best gay friend. He’s no threat. You can talk to him.”
“Of course,” said James. “Whereas you can’t talk to straight men, can you?”
There was a sardonic note to his remark, and Clover watched its effect on Judy. The other woman had to think quickly. “You can,” she said, adding, “If they allow you. Straight men have barriers.”
“Oh?” said James. “Do we?”
Do we, thought Clover. And she wanted to say to Judy, “That settles that.” But then it occurred to her that it did not. It depended on the sincerity of the we. Or the possible irony.
Judy looked at her watch. “I reserved for about twenty minutes from now and we need to go.” She turned to Clover. “How should we get there, Clover? What do you think?”
She was taken aback by the question, and it occurred to her that in entrusting Judy with the story of her subterfuge she had created a hostage. She did not think that Judy was about to reveal her secret to James; rather, she thought that she was playing with her here – taunting her with the possibility of exposure.
“It’s up to you,” she said evenly. “I forget how we did it last time. Taxi?”
Judy grinned, acknowledging that Clover had batted back the verbal grenade.
“Taxi, then,” she said.
They made their way to the restaurant. James was clearly excited to be in Singapore and asked Judy a series of questions as they made the taxi journey. Judy seemed to enjoy the attention; she knew the city well and he listened attentively to what she had to say about it. Clover sat back and stared out of the window. Everything was going wrong, and it was all Judy’s fault. Somebody on their course in Edinburgh had once described Judy as selfish, and Clover had defended her; but the criticism must have been justified, as she was selfish here; an unselfish friend would never have suggested accompanying her as Judy had done.
In the restaurant, Judy paraded her knowledge of the menu and her few, mispronounced words of Chinese, patiently received by the staff.
“I’m trying to remember what we ate when we came here,” said Judy, picking up the menu. “Do you remember, Clover?”
Clover looked at the selection. “You had far too much,” she said dryly. “You felt sick. Remember?”
This brought a sharp glance, and Clover bit her lip. She would have to tolerate Judy, because a word from her could spoil everything. She did not trust her.
After the dinner, they picked up a taxi directly outside the restaurant. Judy asked James the name of his hotel and then said, “It’ll make sense to drop you first. It’s on our way.”
James accepted. And then to Clover, “I’ll call you. Are you free on Friday evening?” That was three days away.
Clover noticed Judy staring at her, and wondered whether she assumed she would be included in the invitation. “Fine,” she said quickly. “I’m free.” She stressed the I.
“I …” began Judy, but James cut her off.
“Maybe you should come round to the hotel,” he said. “We could go out somewhere from there.”
She noticed that the remark was very clearly addressed to her and that it excluded Judy.
James turned to Judy, and said, apologetically, “School reunion time.”
Judy made a carefree gesture. “Of course. Clover will know where to take you, won’t you, Clover?”
“Yes,” said Clover. “No problem there.”
They dropped James off at his hotel and continued their taxi journey home. The tension in the atmosphere was palpable, although the niceties were observed.
“A good evening,” said Clover. “Thanks for the recommendation of the restaurant.”
“You’re very welcome,” said Judy icily.
“What did you think of him?” asked Clover.
“He’s okay,” said Judy. “Average. I can’t see why you’re so keen, frankly, but chacun à son goût, as they say.”
Clover chose her words carefully. “I thought you took quite a shine to him.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Well you were wrong,” said Judy. “I like them a little bit more mature. But I suppose one has to take what one gets.”
They reverted to silence.
Their dinner together had been on a Tuesday. That Wednesday, Judy had to attend a family lunch party with Singaporean relatives on her stepmother’s side. It was the birthday of an aged uncle, and she explained that although she would have liked to invite Clover she would not inflict the extended family on her. “They’d give you no peace,” she said. “They love asking questions. And you’d have to eat and eat in order not to appear rude.”
Clover did not mind. She wanted to visit the Asian Civilisations Museum.
“Sure,” said Judy. “You can go there.”
“And I could take us for dinner tonight. Somewhere … Maybe you could choose.”
Judy looked doubtful. “Our lunch will merge into dinner,” she said. “Sorry.”
“Oh well …”
“We could do something tomorrow,” said Judy. “I have to meet some people, but we could go and have tea in Raffles. Everyone’s ancient, but it’s the thing to do in this place.”
The suggestions were made without enthusiasm, and Clover decided that there might be a good reason for Judy’s having received so few visitors. Judy was bored, she decided, and any visitor, she felt, would be sucked into her vortex of boredom. It was a state that Clover recognised from people she had known in Cayman: the boredom that comes with having money.
They both spent Thursday afternoon in the flat. The weather seemed particularly sultry, and they cooled down with a swim after lunch. There was a group of Russians staying in one of the flats, and they were in the pool too, shouting exuberantly. One of the men made a remark in Russian that was clearly directed against Judy, and was censured by one of the Russian women, who wagged a disapproving finger at him.
“These people are ghastly,” said Judy in a loud voice. “Don’t worry: their English isn’t good enough to know what ghastly means. They’re disgusting.”
They went inside to escape the Russians and the heat. The air in the flat was chilled and Clover felt her skin tingling to its touch. Judy said that she was going to go to her room to read. “We can meet some people for a drink tonight,” she said, “since your friend seems to be too busy.”
“He said he has to work in the evenings,” said Clover. “He won’t be free until tomorrow.”
“Of course,” said Judy. “I forgot. Work.” She sounded as if she didn’t believe it.
“He does,” said Clover. “They work all hours. They just do.”
“Yes,” said Judy. “Okay. They work.”
Clover went to her own room and lay down on the bed. She picked up the magazine she had been reading and began to page through it. She dozed off.
She awoke twenty minutes later. She was thirsty – the effect of the dehumidified air. She sat up on the bed. There was a telephone in the kitchen and it was ringing insistently. She heard Judy open the kitchen door to answer the phone. The door closed behind her. She heard her talking, but could not make out what she was saying. There was laughter.
The conversation seemed to last about ten minutes. Then she heard Judy come out again.
“I’m going out to get some stuff for the kitchen,” Judy called out. “I’ll be about an hour or so. If you want to go down to the pool again, remember to take your key.”
Clover replied that she would remember. The front door was opened and then clicked shut again.
Clover left her room and went into the kitchen. There was a large bottle of Badoit water in the fridge, and she poured herself a glass. She finished the glass and poured herself another half glass.
The telephone rang again. She hesitated. She could let it ring because it would be for Judy and not for her, but she was a guest, and guests had certain responsibilities.
She picked up the receiver.
“I’m sorry to call back,” said a voice. “I forgot to give you the address to pass on.”
It was James.
“James?”
There was a silence at the other end of the line. “Is that you, Clover?”
“Yes.”
He sounded surprised. “But Judy said you were out. I called a couple of minutes ago and she said you would be out all day.”
Clover said nothing.
“You still there, Clove?”
“Yes, I’m here. I’m surprised she said that. I was here all the time. In my room.”
“Oh well, I called – the first time – to tell you about a change of plan. I’ve found a fantastic place for tomorrow. I gave her the name of the place but not the address. That’s what I phoned back about.”
“I see.”
“It’s just that I thought it would be easiest for us to meet there because I’m going to be near the restaurant. We have a meeting a couple of blocks away and it would save me going back to the hotel.” He paused. “Would that be all right with you?”
“Of course.”
“I suppose she thought you were out.”
“I suppose so.”
She wrote down the details and he rang off. She returned to her room and waited for Judy to come back.
“Did James call?” she asked.
Judy did not flinch. “I don’t think so,” she said. She had several shopping bags with her and she placed these on the kitchen table. “Were you expecting him? I thought he was working.”
Clover shook her head. “No,” she said. “I just wondered.”
She decided to go for a swim in the pool by herself. She slipped into the water and swam slowly across to the other side.
They went out that evening with Judy’s friends – two young men of about their age – both Australian – and a slightly older woman from Hong Kong, a barrister who had just started her practice. Clover enjoyed their company, but could not get out of her mind her distrust of Judy. One of the Australians whispered to her during the evening that he found Judy difficult. “How well do you know your friend?” he said.
“Not all that well.”
He grinned. “Careful,” he said.
“Oh yes?”
He winked. “Yes. Very careful.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Men,” he said. “She likes men.”
Clover smiled. “So?”
“Other women’s,” he whispered.
That night, Clover dreamed of her mother. It was a very clear dream, in which she was sitting with Amanda in the garden in the Caymans. Her mother was wearing her tennis outfit and a blue headband.
“Darling,” said her mother, and then stopped.
Clover said, “I know what happened. I know who you loved and how hard it’s been for you.”
Her mother stared at her. “Do you really?”
And then she woke up. She thought of her mother, and the insight that she had had in the dream came to her, as knowledge now. Her mother loved her father. Suddenly she wanted to speak to her; to give her the forgiveness that a child may feel he or she must give to a parent – a forgiveness that usually comes only much later, when we come to understand that our lives have at heart been much the same life led by our parents, even if led differently in their externals.
She closed her eyes. The air conditioning was humming and a clock beside her bed ticked loudly. It was clear to her now. Her mother had survived it, and she would too. You can love and not be loved in return. You can live without the thing that you want above all else; you can be free of it. We all have to do that; we all have to make a compromise. She would let James go, as people everywhere gave up on the unattainable. And in giving up, there was a certain freedom, for herself as much as for him. The pursuer abandons the pursuit and the quarry gets away; both are free, for the moment. Let some other girl – anybody … but maybe not Judy – have him. He did not want her, and it was foolish, and ultimately self-defeating to carry on thinking that things could be otherwise.
She steeled herself to say goodbye. She would not say it in so many words, of course, but she would say it nonetheless, in any of the other ways in which goodbye could be said.
The rest
aurant was busy, and they were asked to spend some time waiting for their table in the small bar. It was an intimate place, and they had to sit close to one another on an upholstered bench.
“Your friend, Judy,” said James.
“Yes,” said Clover.
He shook his head in amusement. “At that restaurant – you know when you went out to the Ladies?”
“Yes?”
“She turned up the flirting. Full blast.”
Clover said that she was not surprised. “But you didn’t respond?” she said.
“Of course not,” said James.
“She’s not your type?” asked Clover.
James shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s because …”
She waited.
“It’s because I’ve always loved you,” he said.
33
Amanda had suggested it.
“Picnics should be spontaneous,” she said.
Clover thought about this. “Everything should be spontaneous – sometimes. Kissing people. Eating chocolate. Dancing.”
That reminded Amanda of a newspaper headline that she had read about: Dancing breaks out. Dancing, like peace, could break out – could overturn what was there before – when people decided that they had had enough. “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
They went to the place they always went to. Amanda parked the car in the shade of a tree, as it was mid-day, and if she did not, the car would be a furnace on their return. The heat pressed down like an invisible hand, seeming to hold down even the surface of the sea, dark blue and sluggish. There was the shriek of insects in the air, an ever-present tinnitus, that Clover now realised she had missed. In Australia it had been birdsong; in Scotland it had been the sound of the wind; here it was the chorus of insects that had always been there, a background sound to her childhood.
They did not bring much with them – a plastic sheet that they had always used for picnics and had never replaced in spite of the scars it bore; a thermos flask of iced water; a couple of bread rolls into which Amanda had tucked a slice of ham and the mayonnaise that she knew her daughter liked. It was too hot to eat, but she thought a picnic required at least a nod in the direction of food.