Where are My Shorts?

Marnie has a London wardrobe, a country wardrobe and an island wardrobe – she says you need different colours in different places because of the light. On the island she wears a particular shade of washed out blue – not that hideous pastel colour they call baby blue – a much nicer one than that - and white linen, and straw hats. For London she has black – Jill Sander minimalist black – though it’s all a bit shabby now – and cowboy boots that a rock star gave her. In the country she is all brown and green and a million different layers. Old men stop her there on market days sometimes, and tell her how much they like her felt trilby. She says it’s really worth investing in the best hats and she’s always quite pleased when people notice, even though we see them shortly afterwards, hunting in bins, or waiting for the pub to open.

None of this helps while I’m trying to decide what to take with me for the island, because I’m lazy and hardly ever wear anything coloured. I might pull on a stripey tshirt once in a while, but that’s about it. Otherwise I have jeans and khaki trousers, and many many black tshirts - and a few white things for summer which I can’t find at the moment and it’s driving me up the wall because I’m trying to pack. Where are my shorts for instance? Why have they disappeared?

I pull almost everything out of the drawers, and any of it that looks promising, I put on the bed, leaving the rest in a pile on the floor. When I’ve finished I see what there is: one bikini in a hideous colour, with tacky bits of gold that I think they felt gave it a James Bond look, except it doesn’t, it just looks stupid, but it was the only one that fitted me. Then there’s another, which is more reassuringly black, but the top only stays on if you stand or lie perfectly still. You certainly wouldn’t want to swim in it.

I’ve found the shorts, but the khaki pair fall down the minute you start walking, so they aren’t going to be very practical either. I turn over the waistband to make them tighter, but then it looks as if I have something wrong with my stomach – a tumour perhaps, or a large hernia . The other pair fit me better, but they’re white and completely transparent, which was okay in California last summer, with a long top, but I don’t think they’re going to be very suitable for the island – it’s a very Catholic country and they don’t approve of that kind of thing at all. When I was there last you could only take your top off in the most secluded places. It’s not like France.

I throw it all in a bag, then start to tidy up, because people might want to come and see my house while I’m away, you never know - quite a few have been lately, I think the market might be picking up, and I have had some offers. The thing is, I’m not sure – I don’t really know where I want to go – not anymore – and I suppose I ought to have some idea. In November I had a plan, but I don’t think that’s going to happen anymore.

“Something’s come up – an opportunity – the night before you fly.. I could get away, if you could come over here..make a slight detour…would you..?”

He ends on a question mark; I never feel pushed into anything. I could easily say no if I wanted to.

It doesn’t take much in the way of rearranging – one more cheap flight – not a big deal, and he’s right, it’s a little nearer to where I’m going, though it doesn’t really matter where it is, nor that I don’t speak the language – nothing really matters. It’s a crap little hotel, right next to the airport –the nearest – and they’re always a bit shit, but that doesn’t matter either.

After a while we go out to eat – he says if we go slightly off the beaten track there’s bound to be a little café – bar, something like that – where the locals go – there always is in places like this. He’s right, of course, and it’s nice to be sitting opposite him for a change, with clothes on. I can see his face from a different angle. Everything’s so easy – we talk and talk, and he makes me laugh. He's good company.

Sometimes – often - I have to stop myself though. I want to say “Oh you must come to this place with me – you must meet my friends – we must do this one day” – and of course none of that’s going to happen. I’ve never done this before, and neither has he - he's happily married.

It’s not turning out how I thought it would. But I’m not going to fall in love with him because that would be pointless too. I tell him – I say “I’m not going to”, and he says “isn’t it a bit late?” and I say no, it isn’t, because I’m not going to. And then he doesn’t mention it again, except sometimes when he phones me, but I think it’s just a turn of phrase – a way to end a conversation. I’m not going to fall in love with him.

He drops me at the airport very early the next morning. I don’t think we’ve slept more than half an hour. I look at the daunting check-in queue for the budget airline. This must be how they make the tickets so cheap – no staff. All I want to do is go back to bed – stay there in the little secret world we made. Or be sick. I certainly don’t want to queue for two hours and then get on a plane.

We kiss, and I say “you’re not too tired to drive?” It’s two hours and the roads aren’t all that good here. He shakes his head and smiles and we kiss again. I watch him disappear into the sunrise. I’ll tell Marnie when I get there – see what she thinks. One more cigarette before I go in and face the queue. I’m not going to miss him, or think about him – or anything. There’s no point.