Authors: Grace Wynne-Jones
This morning I caught a taxi into a nearby town. I need
to get away from Holo for a while and just be a tourist. A
person in a brochure.
Susan was still dozing when I left the chalet, so she didn’t
notice me splashing on her aftershave. Funny how many
women prefer men’s perfume to their own these days.
Susan’s aftershave is an expensive one that does not seek to
charm so much, as to assert a certain attitude. At least that’s
what I make of the ads for it in the Sunday supplements.
They feature black and white photos of an angry, unshaven
young man in his underpants. He’s tearing at a croissant in a bedroom that looks like a disused factory.
So now I and Susan’s aftershave are sitting in a nice, posh,
hotel foyer. I needed to get out of the heat, and this hotel is
cool and comfortingly familiar. The kind of place Bruce and
I frequently stayed in on holidays.
Occasionally Bruce had to go off on business and leave
me alone. It was a weird feeling, being left alone in those
hotels. In the more touristy places I often didn’t feel like
I was in another country at all, but in a realm of Jacuzzis
and chips. A sort of mental stopover where one might have
nightmares about not getting a suntan or missing the coach.
A place where the tennis courts waited and Sky Television
b
eamed ads across Europe inviting you on a family visit to
Sellafield.
I remember how one night, alone in some hotel, I started to
switch television channels in an almost compulsive manner. Grazing through the frequencies with a dejected fascination.
Then I chanced upon a hearty German programme about
penile length. Since there were a lot of Germans in the hotel
I tried to turn down the volume – the walls between the
rooms were not particularly thick. But I must have pressed the wrong button on the control because, for half a minute,
sounds of simulated orgasm blared from my room. The next
morning the fat man from Huddersfield sneaked an interested
look at me in the corridor, as he and his wife waddled down
to the breakfast buffet.
I’m sneaking looks at my tanned skin. My tan does look
good. There’s no doubt about it. It makes me feel different.
Exotic. Cosmopolitan. Sexy too – but that’s pretty much par
for the course at the moment. I think this sex stuff will go
away if I ignore it. But like a drunk at a party, it will loiter
for a while, testing my resolve.
My resolve isn’t as firm as it was, actually. It’s not really convinced any more by my arguments. I think it’s pissed off
with me about Charlie. It thinks I made a big mistake there
– that I should have shared his bed – his life. ‘I don’t care
what you do any more,’ it seems to be saying. ‘I’m going for
a beer.’ This, of course, is rather unnerving. It also has the
effect of making me want to act out of character. It occurs
to me that if I act out of character for long enough I may
become someone else.
Sensible middle-aged women do not, of course, think such
thoughts. That’s why it’s so important to keep myself busy. I
must ignore the hypnotic pendulum of my emotions as they
swing between propriety and whoredom. I must spend today
looking at the sights and shopping. I’ve bought a guidebook and am determined to be very earnest about it all. I’ll be one of those people who finds little shops down alleyways with ethnic bargains. I’ll brag about it too.
But I’m not going to start just yet. I’m having some wine and
tapas
first. I’m lingering without intent. I’m foreign. Legitimately in between. Time is slipping by softly and unobtrusively. My watch has ceased to panic and I’m feeling rather smug. Yesterday I managed to breach one of my own boundaries. Yesterday I managed to stand up on my windsurf board.
This was, of course, not something I expected. As I clambered onto the board and attempted to stand up I knew that, at any moment, I would slosh back into the sea in an ungainly fashion. Then, just as I was wrestling with the sail, I looked over at Al, a very handsome blond man on the course. He was bending over for some reason and I couldn’t help appreciating the beauty of his bum. So taken was I by Al’s posterior that I quite forgot that windsurfing is something I, Jasmine Smith, cannot do. Before I knew it a gust of wind caught my sail and I was skimming along just like you’re supposed to. I was incredulous. It was great. I didn’t want to stop.
‘If only Cait Carmody could see me now,’ I thought with deep amazement. ‘If only everyone 1 know could see me now.’
Someone is seeing me now – in this hotel foyer. I’m becoming aware that a man straight across from me, on another sofa, is studying me with interest. He’s quite handsome, in a worldly sort of way, and probably in his late forties. I smile politely at him and then I pretend to be looking for something in my handbag.
I take out a used envelope, and my Eurovision Song Contest biro, and start making notes about nothing so he
will see that I have a life of my own. That while I may enjoy
lingering looks from strange men in foreign hotel foyers, I do
not depend on them.
Only he’s not getting the message. He’s come over and is
standing in front of me. He’s gesturing towards my sofa and
saying ‘May I?’ in a French sounding accent. And because I
don’t know what to say, I say ‘Yes’. Then I stare hard at my envelope as though his relocation has nothing to do with me
and people switch sofas in hotels all the time; as though,
having traversed oceans and entire continents, their wander
lust must somehow find an outlet.
Only he will not be ignored. He leans forward – lifts my
empty glass and says ‘You ’ave another – yes?’ and I’m just
about to say ‘No’ when a waiter appears. ‘A whiskey and a…’ The strange man smiles at me helplessly. He has smooth olive skin and mischievous knowing eyes. His hair
is quite long – past his ears – and there are tiny daisies on his
expensive blue shirt.
‘Red wine,’ I mutter
‘And a red wine
for ze lady,’ he says.
Well that’s that then, isn’t it?
As I’ve said before, being accosted by strangers is not new
to me. They tend to want to discuss some problem and I’m
a good listener. I don’t butt in and tell them what to do, but
at some point in the conversation I usually manage to insert
the name of a relevant organisation or support group. I’ve
built up a long list of them in my diary.
I look at this man and wonder what his problem might be,
only he doesn’t seem to have one. It seems he wants to listen
to me. It seems his appreciative looks were not just a cover
for some more prosaic purpose.
‘Oh well – why not!’ I find myself thinking. ‘It’s just a bit
of harmless fun.’
After my second glass of wine I unwind a bit, and after
my fourth I’m growing friendly. I’m growing friendly and
not bothering that my linen skirt is riding up past my golden
knees and my handbag is sprawling wantonly under the table.
I’ve never behaved like this with a strange man in a foreign
hotel before. It’s quite exhilarating. Of course I’m going to
have to leave any minute, but it’s nice to be frivolous for a
while, to flirt.
Women do this when alone on holidays. I’ve read about
it in glossy magazines. For newly separated women skiing seems to be the ultimate statement – negotiating some snowy peak with glamorous ease. But this foyer friskiness isn’t too
bad either. No one could call this moping. Women in foreign
films behave like this. The kind of films Bruce raves about.
I never really understand those women but they have style.
An unlikely style. I like their improbability.
‘Jasmine.’ Serge’s lips decant my name like vintage Bor
deaux
. Even though he’s French, his English is perfect. He’s
in Ibiza on business. ‘Jasmine’s a lovely name,’ he says. ‘How
did you get it?’
I tell him the story of my mother and the man who gave
her the jasmine blossom in Greece. ‘So anyway my mother
took this as a sign and called me Jasmine…I’m glad he
didn’t hand her a bougainvillea.’
Serge finds the bougainvillea bit enormously amusing.
He’s virtually crumpled up with mirth and I’m rocking around a bit myself. Then he reaches towards a vase on the table beside us and picks out a pink rose, which he
places behind my ear – brushing a stray hair gently from
my face while he does so. And as he leans close to me I
realise something. I realise we are both wearing the same
aftershave.
‘The name Rose would suit you too,’ he says seductively.
‘A beautiful little rosebud, ready to blossom. Jessica – I
have some champagne in my room. Share it with me. Let me
open your petals and kiss them – one by one.’
‘You just called me Jessica!’ I’m sitting bolt upright, startled.
‘I am so sorry, my dear.’ Serge does not look shamefaced.
‘You are Rose to me. May I call you my Rose? My Rambling Rose?’
‘This hasn’t happened for a year,’ I say, adjusting my skirt.
‘What?’ asks Serge, somewhat irked by this change of theme.
‘It’s over a year since someone’s called me Jessica. It used
to happen a lot. I’d say it’s happened at least twenty times.’
‘Really,’ Serge says glumly. ‘Well, maybe you were a Jessica
in another life.’
‘That’s what my friend Susan says.’
Then Serge takes my hand and starts talking about my
petals again, only I’m not listening.
‘What is a Jessica?’ I wonder. ‘What is a Jasmine – or a Rose?’
It must be significant in some way – people’s lax attitude
towards my name. It feeds into a wider belief about myself and my existence – and that is that people frequently get me
wrong. They are frequently so wide of the mark about me
that I might as well be Beerbelly Bert from Ohio. And the thing is, I know I’m not entirely blameless in this regard.
Along with being a bit of a social chameleon I have, to
use AA terminology, co-dependent tendencies. I will guiltily
secrete all evidence of my presumed self if a more compelling
version comes along.
Or I used to.
I turn, straight-eyed, to the man I have just met.
‘Look, Serge, cut the crap about the petals will you? I am
not Jessica or Rosebud or Rose. I’m Jasmine Smith, and I’m
forty and three-quarters.’
Funny that I used the fraction. I haven’t done that since I
was a kid. Serge gives me back my hand and runs one of his
own through his stylishly greying hair.