Read by Susan Moisan
The engine hums continuously. Water shushes against the boat’s side. Occasional chatter from other passengers floats above. The slopes around the lake are hazy in the afternoon sun. The nearest are covered in dark green cypresses and pines. Red-rooved houses clutter the foothills. In the distance, misty mountains stretch away like 2D props in a cardboard toy theatre, layers of backdrop.
The odd house or church pokes lonely out of the scenery half-way up a hill. Pylons pepper the horizon: the modern fir. Above, the sky is white nothing, a lightbox for the occasional prominent storm cloud, slightly threatening. When the boat pauses at a stop, the shush-shushing of the waves stops too and the engine sounds more ominous rumbling alone. Thunder is forecast tonight.
Peter is asleep on the table. His midge bites are bright pink against his pale skin. There is a constellation of bites near his elbow, near where his arm hair darkens to a gingery brown. He is wearing a pale blue t-shirt, the back slightly damp from sweat. The sleeve of it is pulled up revealing his armpit. His head is on his arms, blonde hair like messy bear fur, face hidden. When I look at his body, even covered in mosquito bites, I want him both intensely and tenderly.
His phone vibrates on the Formica table and I pick it up quickly so it doesn’t wake him. He burrows his head into the crook of his arm and shifts slightly on the seat, then stills. I move to put the phone on my lap in case it vibrates again, and it’s then that I notice who the message is from, and what it says. I feel my heart speed up and the blood rush to my face. I look around to see if anyone’s watching me. No one is looking. The water continues to lap against the side of the boat. The nearest people are two tables away, talking and laughing in low murmurs. I look down at the glowing face of the phone.
“Fuck”, I think. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
It’s her name, of course. The message is short enough to fit into the preview box that has flashed up.
“Hey! Keep thinking about last Saturday … Wow! Xxx”
A smiley emoticon winks at me at the end of the message. Fuck.
Last Saturday. What was happening last Saturday? I try to calm down. The air suddenly feels colder. I shiver and look for a scarf to wrap round me but Peter is sitting on it.
Last Saturday… I can’t think straight. I feel sick. I look up at the sky.
A plane flies overhead in a perfect line against the bright blue. It’s flying low, leaving a trail of cloud behind it. The trees on the bank shimmy in the breeze, shaking their leaves.
Last Saturday… I was visiting a friend, staying overnight. I’d spoken to Peter briefly at the end of the evening, he was in a bathroom, his voice echoing against the tiles. He’d told me he’d been out to a party, she had been there.
I still feel nauseous. I sigh and put the phone back on the table. I don’t care if it goes off again and wakes him. I am fed up. With him, with her, but mostly with myself. I focus on breathing in the warm salty air. I try to imagine I have not just read that message.
We’ve had a lovely lunch. Sometimes, in groups, I feel invisible to Peter. This lunchtime he looked at me a lot. Maybe it was the heat of the unfamiliar sun, maybe the feeling of freedom that we, in particular, always get from being on holiday. On the way back to the boat, when we stopped at a local shop to buy water, hebought me a small carved wooden boat and presented it to me on the pavement outside, where I stood holding his sunhat. The boat sits in my bag now, tucked in the pocket on the inside.
So much seems to be about what you pay attention to. Texts that are not replied to, stories about flirty girls, Facebook posts from other women. Maybe I need to bring my attention to the other things: the weekend away, the armchair he bought me to make my study more comfortable, the admission that he was scared that we’ve been together this long, the fact that he’s been keeping track.
I let my gaze rest on the phone again. I wriggle angrily on the plastic seat of the boat. The pits of my knees are starting to sweat. I’ve met her, a couple of times. She’s pretty, in a floaty, ethereal sort of way. Her hair is wavy like a pre-Raphaelite painting, although her face is bigger and less even than a nymph’s. She’s tall too, nearly as tall as him, and she’s funny. She looks at him a lot when they’re together, gazing at him adoringly.
It is her I mind the most. Perhaps because I can see why he finds her so attractive, despite all his protests about not fancying her. She has things I nearly have, but not really. An easy grace, an ability to banter in big groups, a confidence in her own attractiveness.
I can see why he married her.
The phone vibrates again in my lap. At the same time, he stirs by my side and turns his head to face me, eyes open. We gaze at each other for a moment. I feel both frustration and desire. Whatever the message means, it doesn’t change that.
“Your phone’s just gone,” I say, and hand it to him. I get up from the sticky seat and walk slowly down the aisle to the exit to the deck, as he calls my name behind me.
(c) Lucy Maddox, 2013
Lucy Maddox loves to write both fiction and non-fiction. One of her short stories was longlisted for the Jane Austen Short Story Award (2009) and another published in the anthology Hush (2012).
Susan Moisan graduated from Drama Studio London. Credits: Lady Agatha Proudcock in Oswald's Return (OSO Arts Centre); We Are Gods (White Bear Theatre); Hatchepsut in Zipporah (George Wood Theatre, Goldsmiths) Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing and Central Film School's short film The Factory. She has also played a number of roles in new writing for radio.
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