The Blue Book (26 page)

It is perhaps foolish, but happiness can scare you. The big kind, the real kind – it can be too much like a new country opening round you, strange and wide. You do love it, naturally – you'd be insane not to – you dance in it and it's the best music you've ever felt – but you can still wonder how you've come to be so lucky.

And beauty, you can't be near it without changing and what if you change to suit it and then it goes – then you won't be the right fit for anything else. Or it can be as if saying a lover's name will make them disappear – abracadabra – or as if they might say yours and you don't know what would happen if they did.

It can take a while for you to adjust.

But you can.

You could.

You should.

And your book would love to see you happy – the big kind, the real kind.

So your book wants to play with you.

Just a game.

For company.

For you and your book to be together in a little game.

In this game, you could – if you wanted, you don't have to – you could pick a number between one and nine.

You would usually be asked for a selection between one and ten – that's the standard for many illusions that might trick you. Statistically, you'd be most likely to choose seven in that case. Most people prefer seven – it has a nice corner, was easy to draw when you learned it and hasn't too greedy a value, but isn't too low – it's a number of moderate, comfortable self-esteem.

A magician, a trickster, would tend to pick a three. They favour threes. They favour
three
of clubs – almost worthless, a dark and peculiar card, shows a symbol like a paw print, the sign of an odd beast. This sets them apart from those they deceive.

But you can have any number, any at all between one and nine.

You'll probably avoid seven now.

You don't have to, but you can.

You probably will.

Or not.

What matters is that you know you do have a free choice.

So pick one number.

If you'd like.

Your book can wait.

It would be happy if you'd pick.

And once you have picked – if you have picked – it would like you to multiply your number by three.

And note the answer.

And then add three.

And note the answer.

And – why not? – you can multiply that answer by three once again – by the magician's number – that way you have three threes.

For luck.

There's no such thing, but if it could, your book would promise you good fortune – books have made similar promises before. Your book might have said you could be defended from every harm and that nothing will ever reach you but tenderness.

That ought to be possible and in a book anything at all is possible: once you're tucked up neat inside a story, you can find all kinds of things convincing.

But your book will only give you something honest – the magician's number. The number which can be
Touch me
or
Loss
.
3
.

The magician's number changed your first thought to something else and then again and then again.

It altered your thinking and something which alters your thinking can alter you, alter your world.

If you choose to play.

Just a game.

Where you multiply your number by three, add three, then multiply by three and note your final result.

That's all.

Your book – because it never wants to lie to you – will tell you this.

Or you could pick one of its meanings in the codes, whichever spoke to you the most.

Or you could pick both and the good luck, too.

Why not – you deserve it.

Or our game might have been a type of manipulation when manipulation is usually wrong, although not always – not when it might make you happy, or satisfied, or keep you from being alone.

It's sometimes hard to say what's right, what's wrong.

But because your book doesn't want to trick you, it won't tell you that it knows you, can slip into how you think, has sat quiet in your life and watched you, been with you, has spent this many pages with its voice curled in your head, with its weight against your fingers and working at you. It won't say it predicted your choice long before you first met.

It won't deceive you.

Derek is sitting on the bed in his bathrobe when Beth slips into the cabin. He's entirely awake and alert.

Shit. Say something.

‘Hello.'

More than that.

‘You look better.'

‘I know.' Derek nods as if he's handing over a school report, or some kind of challenging but completed project: here's his health, present and virtually correct, all neatly boxed and polished
.

If I don't tell him now, I'm not sure when I will.

On shore.

But the shore's too far away.

‘Really healthy, Derek . . . Well done.'

Well done?

Well done and by the way I have been with – sounds biblical – another man – Christ, this is giving me a headache – another
man – made love with – trying to make love with – another man
– I think I'm ill – not pleasantly ironic if on a boat full of geriatrics I'm the one who ends up having a stroke – no pun intended.

I have no idea what I'm supposed to say – how to explain that Derek is no longer my concern, not at all, that I look at him and get vertigo because he is so far away.

I could ask for it to be included in the ship's daily newsletter –
GRAND SUITE USED FOR MAKING LOVE
WRONGLY
,
WOMAN TRAVELLING IN CHEAPER
STATEROOM EXPRESSES REGRET
,
BUT RETICENT ABOUT HER REASONS FOR DISCOMFORT
.

Beth concentrates on the
TV
which is currently showing a map of the ship's progress, accompanied by
the kind of charmless music she associates with crematoria.

I think I will hurt him and I think that is hurting me.

WOMAN UNWILLING TO SAY WHO SHE MEANS BY
‘
HE
'
FOR FEAR OF SCREAMING AND THEN BEING UNABLE TO STOP
.

A jaunty orange dot in the Atlantic shows their position and it's not a wild guess to imagine that Derek is willing them fast into port.

WOMAN FOUND REPEATING INTERNALLY
‘I
CAN
'T
TELL HIM
'.
UNABLE TO SAY WHO SHE MEANS BY
‘
HIM
'
FOR FEAR OF FINDING OUT
.

I am not a jolly good fellow.

Derek wants to be back with normality.

And I think I will hurt him again.

Derek hopes to be the way they were, because he
misunderstands what that was. If he knew more, he would
want her much less.

I no longer know what I am: but if I owned something this broken, I'd throw it away.

I should be thrown away.

Derek is no longer seasick, just homesick, but he also seems contented. ‘I do feel a bit . . . you know – good. I slept for a long time.'

And how almost beautiful it is to be this scared – cold, sick, as if something is dying. I haven't felt this much in years.

Like ecstasy.

‘Well if you slept you must have needed it' –
rules of civilised conduct –
and she kisses his cheek and not his mouth
– never kiss a man –
‘Glad you're getting better' –
with another man's spunk –
‘Very glad, love'
– still in your mouth –
‘Very glad to hear it.'

She eases round the cabin to avoid both him and the bed, tries lurking on the sofa.

Not still in my mouth, that's an exaggeration. But it makes itself felt, nonetheless.

Derek's concentration follows her like a clumsy fumble, he irritates, but she doesn't respond.

Another man's semen, seminal fluid, cum, spunk. Which is the simplest part of this.

Beth arranges –
pressure flutters –
her limbs as if she –
in his balls –
as if she has never –
get him to where he can't help it –
as if she has never had limbs –
which isn't fair –
to arrange before –
tastes of home –
they are all shining and distracting.
He tastes of home.

Not an unreasonable rule, the No Spunk Rule.

He tastes of home, he tastes of where I could live and I stole him away from himself and he knew it.

Not an unreasonable rule.

And Derek has to ask, ‘Where were you?' because this is not unreasonable, either.

And it's not as if – ‘
Massage' –
I hadn't prepared an answer –
‘I went and got one' –
good answer, allows me to seem rearranged for an innocent reason –
‘Bloody expensive, but you know . . .'
And I do smell different, but not of cologne, no aftershave – no scent but Arthur's skin –
‘I was tense'
– Close skin on me, hard to catch –
‘Still am, really. Funny'
as if he'd designed himself to be undetectable, to make this easy for me.

‘Well, that's nice, then, Beth.'

Nice. Yes – that is precisely the word I was searching for – this whole week has been, beyond question, as nice as nice can be.

‘Yes.
Nice.
Did me good.'

I could have said I'd been decorating hats, there was a hat decorating class: started more or less exactly when I pulled down Arthur's jeans.

The class not involving cock-licking, just hats. At least that's what I would imagine.

Fuck.

He didn't stop me.

I knew he wouldn't.

And I know I can't be me and I can't be here and I can't have – I can't have.

She turns to Derek without meaning to and he grins. ‘I'm only just awake.' He's glad of her.

‘Yeah, love – you look a bit . . .' –
may I suggest –
‘Drowsy.'

‘They've given me a scopolamine patch. See?' And he shows her the little sticking plaster thing behind his ear. ‘It'll last three days.' He is as bashfully pleased as he might be if he'd grown it.

‘Three days. Wow. Strong stuff then, Derek.'

So he'll be in the way for the duration – transdermally delivered interference. Which means I have to tell him.

I've already said that.

I do have to.

He blinks docilely. ‘And we've only got another two nights on board . . .' and brings back a gentle and genuine smile that she hasn't seen all week. ‘Have you been very bored? On board.'

‘No.' And if she wanted to, she could like the deception. ‘Not bored.'

‘I am sorry, though.' Derek manoeuvres himself across the bed, gently preoccupied because he is testing his reactions and finding them healthy and promising. His robe falls open unalluringly. He gets himself within arm's reach.

And I wish that arms wouldn't.

But he keeps himself delicate, only takes her ear between his forefinger and thumb, strokes her cheek and
she has to let him, because not doing so would be unusual,
and here he is, undeniably Derek – looking and acting exactly as he has at other times when he has been endearing and lovable. But today he isn't.

That's all gone.

She is embarrassed for him.

But I also want to laugh – like giggling at our funeral.

What am I that I'd feel this way?

He is trying to make good. ‘I'm very sorry, Beth. I've been . . . I wasn't the best company and I didn't mean it, but . . . I've never felt that lousy . . .' Which is what people do when it's too late.

‘It's
OK
.'
He needs a shower. Mouthwash. To get away from me.
‘I understand.'
And I'm sorry as well, but saying so would be misleading.
‘You must be hungry. We'll go out and have something to eat.'

‘Do we really have to leave the cabin . . .' and he gives her the foreplay smile, which isn't any more and never will be.

‘Yes, I think we should.' Standing up and away from his hands –
no finesse: I used to think that was honest and maybe it is, but I still don't like it: he has bad hands –
a slight brush of his forearm as she goes, to prevent offence. ‘Fresh air . . .' She holds her back to him, reconsiders the television, apparently fascinated by the details of wind
direction, sea temperature, heading. ‘Then Mila can get in and have a good clean while we're away – she's been waiting to for ages – born to clean, that woman – a natural taker of cares.'

‘Bugger Mila.' And maybe this is who he really is: a mean-spirited man with a sour tone, the one she would end up dreading once they'd married and he'd stopped putting up a front.

Which is a comforting thought – that he was betraying me, pretending, and would have turned out to be somebody else.

He needn't have bothered. Somebody else was already there.

‘Mila was very worried about you and is a nice woman.'
Staying bright and firm. ‘Get a shower and then we'll have a stroll, a bit of food. There's this lovely couple we can maybe hook up with – they've been keeping me company.'

I think I'm shaking.

But Derek slumps back into his mounded pillows, squinting up at her and failing to be charming. ‘You really want to go out?'

‘I do want that, yes – that is exactly what I want.'

No it's not.

Derek sighs, stalks to the bathroom.

The buffet isn't crowded: the dinner rush has passed. Couples are lodged in angles, enjoying shadows – or some passengers are merrily in fours, teams by now, settled into patterns of which they feel protective on this their second-last night. They are delicate with nicknames and jokes, references to shared events and enjoyable complaints, their tiny history together. They are planning they honestly will keep in contact and meet again, go ashore with this extra comfort:
it's always wonderful on cruises who you'll end up talking to.

An American woman in a tentative sweater sits down at a Geordie man's table. He is unpromising.

‘It's always wonderful who you'll end up talking to.' She can say this because she recognises the Geordie from yesterday's lecture – which was about sand – and her announcement of their provenance is desperately confident, unarguable, and so he lets her join him and they shake hands and this will not be the beginning of a romance, or even an acquaintance, but they won't eat alone. They'll demonstrate they can be interesting and entertaining if they wish. They can be at least as wonderful as sand.

Beth scans the tables – recognises the so many faces who have seen her rushing, or weepy, or miserable with a coffee, or outside in the blustery light and staring – seeing the hinge where the world swings – air into water, water into air.

Big-earring couple, still pursuing their week-long pirate theme – surprisingly tattooed Floridian woman who misses her kids – dim, military husband and silently damaged wife – gay guys from the West Country: only one of them joking when he eyes up the Filipino waiters – and Bunny.

‘We should head over there . . .' Beth so relieved when
she sees Bunny that she fears she may just have surrendered
to hopeful delusion.

Derek is trying to slow and incline towards a series of seating options which would mean he has her to himself, but she pretends she doesn't notice and drives on. This makes him less subtle. ‘Do we need to be with strangers?'

‘They're not strangers. They're . . . ah.' Beth waves.

Because Bunny loves waving and ought to have people that she can wave back to every day – Francis and friends and visitors every single day
.

Bunny waves back.

‘This is Bunny.' Beth almost trots Derek along to present him. ‘This is my . . . this is Derek.'

‘Oh, you poor dear.'

Bunny taking Derek's arm and settling him beside her while she gives Beth her instructions. ‘I am going to see how your friend's recovery is progressing and I'll tell him all the best ship's gossip that he's missed.' She deadpans at Derek and then chuckles, ‘Don't worry, I'll make it racy. And Beth will go and fetch you appetising morsels. But you'll have to pace yourself, you know.' An ill person being businesslike about recoveries and weaknesses. ‘Beth will also be very kind and locate my missing husband and then he can help her to carry things back.'

Bunny's in a trouser suit – purple, mandarin collar, a tidy and sensual fit which Francis will like and her favourite jewellery again. ‘I haven't a clue where he is – habitual with him, the wandering off. Watermelon. He's been on a mission for watermelon all day. I should never have mentioned it. By now he's probably insisting they lower a boat to fetch some.' Derek isn't responding to her, so she changes her focus to Beth. ‘What will we do when this is all over?' The sense of a weight returning when she says this, so she adjusts, ‘When we don't have servants . . . poor us.'

Beth kisses her –
with a dirty mouth –
gives her a peck on the ear –
with a lover's mouth and Bunny understands about love –
and reassures because this is expected and can be playful, ‘You'll have Francis at your beck and call. I've never seen anyone more anxious to be becked and called, in fact.'