The Blue Book (6 page)

‘Ahm . . . I'll be hungry once we've strolled.' She looks at her watch. ‘Christ, it's half past nine. Did I sleep? I didn't think I'd slept, but I must have. Anyway . . . Yes. Let me have a shower and then we'll go and check what's what.'

Before she can sit up, he nuzzles his face to her neck. ‘This'll be good, won't it?'

He's a lovely man, can be very sweet-natured and he wants to enjoy an enjoyable thing, a watery jaunt in good company. That's not unreasonable of him.

‘Yes. It'll be good.'

On what Beth thinks of as the Mingling Level she finds herself walking through trails of aftershaves and perfumes she hasn't encountered in years.

And why not? Choose one you like and stick with it. Eau Sauvage. My dad wore that. I'll bet you someone's wearing Hai Karate, too. And there'll be Old Spice and Brut and 4711 and Charlie and Aqua Manda and Tramp and straight Lavender and Lily of the Valley, because you know exactly where you are with them. Yes, you do.

I do not know exactly where I am.

Perhaps I should start wearing lavender.

No, where I am is on a boat.

That's exact.

In an ocean, a wilderness, a chaos – but I am also undoubtedly here and on this boat.

Somebody who, for want of a better term, may be called The Ship's Photographer – not a position Beth would have considered essential – has commandeered
a less-frequented corner near the lifts and has unfurled a
quite extensive backdrop, reproducing the setting sun at sea. Couples are having their photographs taken in front of it – the actual setting sun having disappeared much earlier in more al fresco and unpredictable surroundings.

The photographer gently poses his subjects in a small range of sentimental configurations: the gentleman rests his arm round the lady's shoulders, the lady leans in and lays her hand on the gentleman's chest, the gentleman enfolds the lady from behind, while both peer off beyond themselves into what observers might believe to be a stirring but vaguely melancholy space.

Derek doesn't understand her interest in the proceedings. ‘We shouldn't stay.' He's getting bored. Loathes hanging about, our Derek.

‘They don't mind. They want to be looked at, in fact.'

‘But not by us – by their relatives, or whoever – later.'

‘Why don't you nip off, get hold of a list for what's on in the cinema. I'll stand here and stare at them till you come back and then we'll eat.'

He shakes his head and she can tell that he is wondering
briefly if their journey will be marred by her strange preoccupations. For a moment he hovers, as if his disapproval, correctly applied, will be able to change her mind. She rubs his arm and gives him a smile until he returns it.

‘I just . . . they're endearing, you know? It's endearing.'

‘You don't want
us
to do that?'

‘
Christ
no. Are you insane?' She rubs his arm again. ‘Go and check out the films. I'll be here.'

It isn't true – she doesn't believe the photography's endearing – so many couples unable to touch without also apparently clinging in desperation, the hands slipped over husbands' hearts as if to make sure they're still beating, the oddly unconfident flaunting of savagely younger wives. The singles – grimacing, over-brave, over-dressed. It seems possible to hear them inwardly reciting –
This could be me on the night when I meet my husband / an incredible girl / an utterly boring bastard who renovates properties in Kent . . .

There's only one pair among them who don't depress Elizabeth, to whom she has warmed: older guy, mildly elegant, and a wife who matches and he stands half in his partner's shadow, presents her, because she's still lovely and ought to be first, and he holds her, light as light, to show admiration while letting her be – her being, plainly, very much what he likes – and she rests easy against him and is happy and her face full of the sense that in a moment she will turn and look at him and they'll grin, share the secret of who they are, one with the other.

‘So how are you this evening?'

Fuck.

It's the man from the queue – stepping in from her left and halting as sharply as if a wall had sprung up to fox him.

No wall, though – nothing in his way.

Elizabeth knew she would see him again.

He's the sort to be unshakeable.

She wonders how he managed to approach without her noticing.

Although his feet are apparently fixed, he twitches, shifts, inclines his body, positions himself to obscure the photographer, the backdrop and the subjects: their nervousness, their excuses, their attempts to dilute reality's disappointments.

So he'd rather I looked at him, then – is posing himself instead. As what? Lonely and stealthy. Not a combination I'd recommend.

And we're on this fucking boat for seven days . . .

‘Are you well?' He's changed into jeans and a shirt, but his shoes are still formal – shiny black oxfords – and he seems, if anything, less relaxed – there are flickers and starts of tension in his arms and the rise of his chest.

Looks like an off-duty policeman. Or a soldier – an officer trying to be in mufti – the scruffy isn't scruffy, it's still a discipline, a plan.

He glances at his feet, his shins, then shakes his head. ‘I'm Arthur Lockwood, call me Arthur, and
yes
, I don't dress down well – I'm much better with up, but
still
, at least I don't have . . .' He slows his sentence to the pause where she might help him finish . . .

And Elizabeth would rather
not
help, but it turns out that she does in any case: . . . ‘creases ironed into your jeans.' Her intentions were too fixed on not cooperating.

Thinking summons doing, brings it on – you know that – and what you most forbid yourself is bound to linger, is bound tight. It'll hang about like a bleak and uncomfortable man.

‘Yes, I'd be the type, wouldn't I? The way your husband would be the type to wriggle and pull himself into his jerseys as if he's five and needs his mum to get him through it.
Endearing
, one would imagine.' Arthur Lockwood, call him Arthur, smiles at her with unalloyed sincerity and it is difficult to feel insulted or disturbed by someone who does this effectively and warmly and with care.

‘He's not my husband.'

‘Really? I'd have thought he was. Did you personally know, by the way, that three hundred and sixty-one people have been photographed so far. Not your husband?'

‘No. Three hundred and sixty-one. I'd have thought that was too much, too many. He's not.'

‘I could be wrong. Often am. Well, not often.' He shrugs, shivers like a man with a pain in his neck and flutters his attention beyond her, possibly into a stirring and melancholy space. ‘But when I
am
wrong . . . I do then go
fantastically astray
. If he's not currently your husband then he has,
of course
, lured you off to sea and into all of
this
with the intention of proposing. What I would do. If I were him. Which I am not.'

Elizabeth knew this, knows this: – that Lockwood is not Derek and that Derek has been building towards something – tetchier than usual, more needy and delicate – she hadn't wanted to notice it, name it –
marriage –
but that is almost certainly the destination her partner has hauled on board with them. There is going to be a time when he will ask and she will have to answer
.
No doubt champagne is stored somewhere for just such occasions. ‘I don't think that's true.'

‘He didn't lure you?' Lockwood snaps a wide, clear glance right in at her. He winks. ‘Ah well then . . .
you
lured
him
.' And he bowls his interest away against the wall over her shoulder. ‘How extremely – I'm not quite sure of the word . . .
informative
. Oh, and yes . . .' Lockwood swivels on his heel and Elizabeth follows him round until she catches sight of Derek, who's approaching with a slip of paper in his hand. He holds it aloft – this causing Lockwood to dip forward and near and murmur to her, ‘Like Chamberlain after Berlin . . .' before he strides a pace away and hard into a handshake with Derek which slightly crushes – although it does not render useless – what turns out to be a handwritten list of tonight's film screenings.

‘Hello. Arthur Lockwood, call me Arthur – were you going up to the buffet, because I don't mean this to sound in any way uncomplimentary, but you do both seem to be avoiding the evening's dress code for dining and me, too, of course, to the best of my ability, and so we might go along together, if you didn't
mind
.' He contemplates both of them and Elizabeth briefly believes that if she interrupts him, if she can shut him up, then her fists will unclench and whatever wrong thing is on the way will turn aside and seek out other people, but she hasn't any sense left in her mouth, nothing to tell him, to bundle up against him, and so he digs out at her again, at Derek – these small, harsh movements of his skull, his forearms, each keeping time with the drive of his words, ‘I travel a great deal by boat – freighters, liners – hate to fly – late-onset phobia – very common in middle life – and I can recommend the buffet
experience
– it's
the one consistent, one reliable element
– they're good with
meat
– have a lot of
meat
-eaters on board and they cater for them – excellent
meat
– do you like
meat
? Profess vegetarianism and you'll be the lowest of the low, they will be
stern
and brusque and give you boiled potatoes only and a talking-to . . .'

Elizabeth hears Derek admit that, yes, he isn't averse to meat, and this establishes enough of a connection to mean it's too late for them now.

Far too late.

Beyond saving.

We'll have to go with him.

And they proceed, the three of them together, as if they are friends.They work their way over the softly
untrustworthy floor and then up the softly untrustworthy
stairs, while Elizabeth tells herself –
far too, far too, far too late and we should do anything but this –
and notices she pats at Lockwood's elbow, perhaps because she hopes to make him safer.

Mild shirt and beneath the cloth is bone – the unprotected hardness of bone – he is down to his bone – little bone, big bone, little – bared and taut and listening – there it is, listening – requiring.

And a jolt in the muscle.

Another.

It's waking up.

She raises her hand from him. Folds her arms across her waist as they continue to climb.

It's waking up – it said so.

I noticed it and it knows.

‘The one thing I do love – meat.' Lockwood unloads his tray on to their table and has, indeed, collected a disturbing weight of meat – correctly pink and tender beef – which obscures a more restrained selection of vegetables.

Outside the restaurant's windows are blank water and blank air, this vast cave of night determined to confront them with their own reflections. Elizabeth watches a yellowed version of her body trying to eat lasagne, faltering cutlery, childish mouthfuls. The yellowed Lockwood shovels beef into himself intently, nods and encourages Derek into elaborate descriptions of his business, of how he first met Elizabeth, of other journeys they have undertaken, of his parents and schooling, hobbies. Derek nudges at his food, but barely alarms it. Lockwood consumes. Lockwood swallows in a way that seems near to pain, to choking.

In the end, Derek stops talking, exhausted. He blinks. He is pale, quickly paler than when he sat down, than the minute before this one. ‘Excuse me.' He runs his fingers along the back of Elizabeth's wrist, gets up and walks away – tight steps, the ship adding a minor stagger on uneven beats. The sea is making itself felt.

Lockwood watches Derek go, then lowers his knife and fork, crosses them on his plate.

Elizabeth angles herself to face the window – she can feel him, though – Lockwood – his living and sitting and watching and thinking all prickle on her skin.

There are small rattles of crockery that nag. The ship is beginning to flex, play.

Oh, God.

Whatever that means.

Whatever does God mean?

Elizabeth is dropping fast into a headache and also tired, tired, tired and so hollowed, so indefensible, undefended, when she needs to be something else. When she needs to be she isn't sure of what.

‘Merciless
.' Lockwood waits until she turns to him
and then repeats, ‘
Merciless
.' He is studying the window and
may be commenting on the ocean, which is certainly swelling visibly, tangibly.

‘I'm sorry?'

‘No. No, you're not.' He pushes away his plate and takes a sip from his water glass, rubs his face with his free hand, ‘Will you, Elizabeth . . . Elizabeth, will you fuck him tonight. Will you fuck him and will you say
yes
– will he hear your voice saying
yes
– and will he be inside you, hearing your voice –
yes –
and imagining –
yes
– that perhaps, that perhaps you'll agree to be his wife –
yes
– and his prick in you, moving in you –
yes
– when you tell him will that make him come . . .' He turns his palms down and then up and then down and studies them and seems bemused by his extremely clean, well-tended fingers, his buffed nails.

Elizabeth half stands to get away, but he simply wags his head – quietly, deeply furious – a rage so confined and so injured that it scares her: these quick shadows and signs that it makes in his eyes, the tensions in his face – and she cannot help but sit again. It is clear that even he doesn't quite know what he'll do – that the further she goes from him, the louder he's likely to ask, ‘Do you use protection, or does he come right into you, can you feel it push and run uninterrupted – his semen, seminal fluid, cum, spunk – and his little – what would they be: grunts, pants, hisses? Damp words? Is that how it is with him? Pushing and damp?' As it is, with Elizabeth so near him, he grinds out his sentences, flat and soft, to somewhere beside her, some shape in the air that he can bear to look at, fix. He's unable to bear her.