The Half Life of Stars (10 page)

Why is it that people always seem so keen on having sex in hotel rooms? I get it that you don’t have to tidy anything up. I get it that it’s nice to be away from the stresses and strains of home. But all I can think of is the thousand other couples who’ve had sex on this mattress before me. Their fat and thin bodies squelching about on the long deadened springs; their dead, bored and passionate eyes, staring up at this same yellowed ceiling. Their skin is in the fabric, their breath is in the sheets, their semen is spilt on the pink and orange piping that runs along the edge of this flowery valance. Right in the centre of that daisy. There on the corner of that rose. The sex of sailors and prostitutes, of travelling salesmen, and of bored hotel staff who simply couldn’t wait. These rooms always feel crowded to me; filled with the imprint of all the other guests who have stayed there before me.

Thankfully, I don’t get round to thinking about all this until long after Michael and I have finished. He’s quiet now, with the sheets and the blanket pulled tightly round him, sleeping off the strangeness of the day. And I’m wide awake, cursing my insomnia and wondering who last slept in this bed: a tourist, a businessman, some overexcited newlyweds, or a couple scraping the last dying remnants from a doomed and illicit affair.

All these queer lives swirling round us: going on, being lived, going under. And how do you know you’re living the right one? The choices we make, the turns that we take, so often seem abstract and arbitrary. I met Michael at a gig I wasn’t meant to go to; studied languages merely because my first love spoke Spanish. I got married, why? Was I really in love? Was Michael
the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with? Sometimes I think I did it because the sun was out that day; because this man had dared to ask me and a part of me, a shred of me, had thought that no one else ever would. And he’d bought me a ring. A stupid, extravagant, square cut, diamond ring, that made us both laugh when we looked at it. This was a man who didn’t care for the consequences of things, a man whose emotions I could read. A boy who’d spend the very last coin in his pocket (and mine), just to put a smile on my face. I was lost. I was done for. It felt like love.

I’ve made so many poor decisions in my life up to now, I barely trust my own instincts. Sylvie believes in fate but that’s lazy, I think. It’s also unbearably arrogant. What does it mean? That if good things happen to you, you deserved them? That if bad things happen then you invited them in some way? Fate absolves us from responsibility; cures us of any need to change. Everything happens for a reason. Was there ever a more dishonest phrase?

In the sixties we were supposed to tune in and drop out, in the seventies we were meant to run off and ‘find ourselves’. Do people even do that any more? Or are we all too busy, achieving, competing, comparing and pill popping to ask ourselves the questions any more. We are all of us defined so early on. By the place, the position of our birth. By the desires and the quirks our parents press on us. The loud twin and the quiet twin, the sporty son and the smart son, the good and the bad, awkward daughter. I wonder, if I had been home that afternoon when my father died, would things be different for me now? If it had been me comforting my mother instead of Sylvie, if she’d still been sleeping in her cot. Would I love better, know better, judge better, be closer to my family than I am? Can a single event, a simple twist of fate, dictate the way we go on to live our lives?

What if I could start all over again? What if I could wipe the slate clean? If I were allowed to live the life of the guest that was here before me, would I do better than them? Worse? Is there something intrinsic that makes me, well,
me
? Or is it simply a
question of circumstance? If Daniel has left, if Alexi’s notion is correct, is he, in fact, becoming a different Daniel? Was his plan to run away, not from here, not from
us
, but to somehow escape from himself? Did he wake up that morning, see the sky full of snow clouds and decide for some reason that his world was utterly wrong for him? That it fitted him like another man’s suit. That no matter how hard he tried to squeeze his limbs inside the sleeves, there would never be enough cloth to cover him?

This is the reason I’m wide awake. I’m haunted by the imprint of the guest list in this room and by the idea that my brother could actually have done this. I am amazed by him. At turns a little jealous, then appalled. I wonder if he’s on that ship now, and where? I wonder if he’s taken Annie with him. This woman that he loved; this woman, it seems, he forbade himself. And just the merest possibility of this, the slightest hint that it might be true, makes me relax enough to close my eyes. Wherever he is now, whatever he’s becoming, I feel, for a moment, that he’s safe.

‘I joined the navy, to see the
world
! And what did I see? I saw the SEA! I saw the Atlantic and the Pacific, and the Pacific wasn’t terrific, and the Atlantic wasn’t all it’s cracked up to
BEEE!!
’

Michael is singing in the shower; a sea shanty of some sort, I believe. He’s in fine spirits this morning, suffused with a sense of adventure. The adrenalin of last night–the risk of last night–has left him as thrilled as a child. It took us two whiskies, maybe three, to calm down after we checked in here last night, but even the dire state of this hotel couldn’t dull his mood: the wallpaper, stained; the bathroom, unheated; the trouser press and kettle, both broken. He slept exceptionally well on this hard, narrow bed. Made love on it pretty well, too.

‘You managed to get it working, yet?’ he says, towelling himself down. ‘You had any luck with it, yet?’

I have finally managed to get my laptop working; fussed about with the odd connections in these thin, hollow walls and fought for a line to the outside world. I am searching for the names of a shipping line, tracking down the name of a particular ship.

‘I’ve found a number. An agency that books passengers onto freighter ships. You can take these things right around the world.’

‘What are you waiting for?’ he says, excitedly. ‘Are you going to call them? Do you want me to?’

‘I’m on it,’ I say. ‘It’s already ringing.’

The phone rings fifteen, maybe twenty times or more, before anyone picks up the receiver. I’m not hopeful. It’s the second of January, the year’s barely begun, I’ll be lucky to find a useful person there.

‘Ja?’

A German voice. Good, I can do this.

I’d like to travel on a tramp ship, I say. I’d like to book a passage, would that be possible? Of course, he says, no problem. Where exactly is it that I’d like to go? These ships, they are slow, do I realise? They stop in many ports, but usually just for one night. Not much chance for sightseeing trips. Nothing is organised, no tour guides at the other end; no fancy taxis waiting to collect me on the dock. Am I the kind of girl who’s used to taking care of herself? Good, then, yes, it would suit me. It is cheap? Fairly. But I have to be aware, there is no entertainment on these ships. Windows? Of course. A sea view? Perhaps. But just as likely, the view of a giant metal container. I can have my own room but I should bring lots of books, there is nothing much to do but sit and think.

I can take a slow boat to China. Really? I can? Or a banana boat all the way to South America. Well, I’m highly self-sufficient, this sounds fascinating, but China, it’s not really me. The thing is, I’ve heard of one particular ship that takes my fancy. Yes, I know that sounds strange, but the boat is more important that the destination. I am keen on a ship called the
Grunhilde
, operated, I believe, by the Olan line. Are you familiar with this ship? Is she sailing any time soon?

Some minutes pass while he looks at his timetables, then he tells me that he’s sorry, but it won’t be possible. The
Grunhilde
, it seems, is far away. A small tramp anyway, run down, not too comfortable, old cabins, not even a tiny pool. Only room for
two paying customers, the German officers and a small Filipino crew.

Where is she now? Why do I care so much? OK, well, Belize then, he thinks. When did the ship last dock in England? He doesn’t know. Again, he’ll have to check. Ah, yes, not long before Christmas. She was docked for two nights in Southampton. Southampton,
really
? Yes, that’s what he said. Am I deaf?

Where did she go to? Does he have her itinerary? Does he know the exact details of her onward route?

I can hardly manage to get this last part out. I squeak it, it peals from my throat. Waiting for the answer makes the seconds stretch and bow, and Michael is asking me if I’m all right. The German is back to the telephone. He’s lifting it. He’s clearing his throat.

‘On the 14th of December, in the night time, she sailed first for Lisbon.’

My heart turns over. The 14th. That’s the night Daniel left.

‘And then where?’ I say. ‘And
then
? Do you know?’

On to Cadiz, and then Gibraltar he suspects, and yes, then onwards to Tenerife.

Tenerife. No, I can’t see it–Daniel sunburnt on a beach, downing pints of luke warm lager, wearing a sun hat tied from a spotted hankie.

‘Of course, then she crossed the Atlantic,’ he says. ‘Landed, first, in the Bahamas.’

The Bahamas. This I could contemplate. This I could actually see.

‘And where then…where after that?’

‘Well, let me check. Yes, she headed out into the Gulf of Mexico.’

Mexico. Could Daniel be there?

‘No, wait, pardon my mistake. She made one more stop before that. She docked for one night in the port of Miami.’

‘Miami?’

‘Yes.’

‘In Florida?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you
sure
?’

The German is sure.

I’m lying on the bed next to Michael, staring back at this same yellowed ceiling. Michael is rubbing his hand across mine, slipping his fingers in between my knuckles. It feels nice. Safe. Reassuring. I can sense myself getting used to it.

‘What a place to choose,’ says Michael, squeezing my palm. ‘I mean, you hated it, right? When you were kids. It’s not the kind of place you’d want to go back to?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Not in a million years.’

‘Why go, then? What was he thinking?’

I don’t know. I can’t imagine. But he must have had a good reason.

‘Still,’ says Michael, sitting up, ‘Miami’s pretty fashionable these days, isn’t it? I mean, from what I hear. People tell me…you know…that it’s cool. Great music scene. Loads going on.’

‘Michael, he ran
away
. He’s not gone on holiday. He hasn’t gone there to get off with Gloria Estefan.’

‘Of course not. You’re absolutely right.’

My ex-husband is finished with questions, an idea is rupturing in his head. He wants to impress me, he wants to make amends; he wants a stake in the latest strand of this adventure. He’s sitting up now, reaching for the phone, getting a number for the airlines.

‘Two seats. No, not business, economy. Actually, is there anything
cheaper
than economy? Right, right, well sure…I understand. No, not Orlando. Miami. Yeah. As soon as we can. You’re kidding? From Heathrow?’

Michael sits beside me with the phone in his hand, waiting patiently for my answer. It’s a busy time of year, there’s been a lucky cancellation, if we don’t fly today we’ll have to wait the best part of a week. I’m not sure what to do, it’s impossible to know, my brain feels like it’s choked up with sludge.

‘You’ll come with me?’

He nods.

‘You’ll help me look?’

He says he will.

‘You’re
sure
?’

He swears that he is.

‘I owe you this, Claire,’ he says, squeezing my arm. ‘I won’t let you do this on your own.’

‘But won’t it be—?’

‘Awkward between us? No…I don’t think it will.’

I sit up and take a deep breath. Michael takes hold of my hand.

‘Book it.’

‘You’re sure?

I nod my head.

‘Great,’ he says, excitedly. ‘It’s the right thing to do. Shorty, what’s your credit card number?’

The morning dissolves with the rush of it. We race back to London, grab spare underwear and passports and I call up my family from the airport. My mother’s not in. I leave a message. A woeful, inadequate message. Sylvie is home and she’s furious. This is bullshit, she says. You can’t do this, she says. This is typical of you, to walk away. She doesn’t buy the story. She thinks I’ve lost my mind. I should have discussed it with all of them first. Why am I in such a rush? Why can’t it wait a couple more days? The trail’s still warm, what does that mean?

And to top it all off–most important of all–if anyone’s going to look for him, it should be
her
. I’m selfish, she tells me. I’m in cloud cuckoo land. It’s cruel of me to raise everybody’s hopes like this. I’m just doing it for attention. Do I realise that? Am I even aware of what I’m doing?

I don’t get into it with her. I let her cold, flinty voice steam down the telephone line, and tune it out as best I can.

‘I need Kay’s number,’ I say, when she pauses for a breath. ‘The friend that she’s staying with. I forgot my mobile phone, I left it back at the flat. I don’t know her number off by heart.’

Sylvie is adamant. She won’t give it to me. Fine, I say. I’ll get it from Mum. Mum’s gone up to Scotland for a few days, to rest. The stress of it all, the pain of new year; they’ve both gone to stay with Robert’s brother. You’re lying, I tell her. Mum wouldn’t leave, not now. But it seems that she would and she has.

‘What will you tell them?’ I say, weakly. ‘Where will you say that I’ve gone?’

A snort, disarmingly like my mother’s.

‘Easy, I’ll tell them you’ve gone mad.’

She seems to think they’ll believe this. She has no problem with this.

‘I’ll say you’ve got back with Michael, that he’s taken you away. Who knows what your latest crazy plans are.’

My latest crazy plans. Perhaps she’s right. I can feel every atom in my body twisting. This is the moment I almost crumble. Half of me knows the story I’ve just told Sylvie is true, but half of me thinks I made it up. The waitress, the Russian, the tramp ship; the mysterious, unproven affair. I want so badly to walk out of here, past the ticket lines and the check-in queues and the hyped up holidaymakers, and take a taxi back to my flat. I want this all to be over. Because
I
can’t do this, I’m not capable or responsible enough. At some vital stage, in some small but crushing way, I am duty bound to screw this up.