Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict (23 page)

Deepa laughs. “At a loss for words?”

I can only nod and smile. Sailboats bob in the shimmering vastness like children’s toys while other, sail-less boats speed through the waves. An astonishing juxtaposition of old and new, for the sailboats could have come from my own world, while the ones without sails or oars are as foreign as a carriage without horses. Equally fascinating are the wheeled machines, with one wheel in front of the other, upon which scantily clad men, women, and children glide happily along curved pavements that straddle the sand.

And then, as if the magnificent display before my eyes were not enough, another winged machine not unlike the ones I saw earlier soars past, high up in the sky. If only my father, who marveled at the ascent of the aerial balloons in Bath, could see such a miracle.

And in that moment, it is as if the floor has fallen away and I am unmoored; I am almost overcome with the momentousness of witnessing such marvels, of being in a time, in a world, where such things are possible, and indeed where they appear to be everyday facts of life, if I am to judge from the nonchalance of the other diners who face the windows and doubtless see the same spectacle that is before my own eyes. Courtney’s eyes. If it weren’t for Courtney’s eyes, I would not be here seeing these wonders. And in this moment, I am fervently grateful to her for allowing me a glimpse of her world.

“Are you going to look at the menu, or do you already know what you want?” says Deepa.

In truth, I am unable to take my eyes off the windows long enough to focus on the menu.

She laughs. “I’m too hungry to wait. How about I order for both of us?”

I smile my assent. And she does. Drinks, too. “The orange mar garitas are to die for,” she says.

The drinks arrive, along with a basket of rolls that smell as if they have just emerged from a hot oven. I slather one of the rolls with butter, which melts as the knife touches the bread, and I close my eyes as I chew the first bite, it is so good.

Now I must taste the drink as well, and I take a large swallow. Delicious and like nothing I have ever tasted.

“Careful, darling.” Deepa smiles. “That’s some serious stuff. You might want to eat the whole roll before you dive in.”

But I can’t help myself. The margarita is so delicious, so tart and sweet and salty and refreshing, that I drain the entire glass before I have even a second bite of the bread.

“Or maybe not,” says Deepa, laughing.

F
ortunately, the waiter returns to place a plate of food before me, and I take a large bite of something called a hamburger, which is dressed with a sharp yellow melted cheese and fried onions.

It’s heavenly, but it is also too late. I am already in liquor.

“So,” says Deepa, putting down her fork. “Any ideas what kind of work you want to do?”

“Ah. An interesting question. If only I had an answer.” The waiter puts another margarita before me, and I take a healthy swallow of it before I see Deepa shaking her head at me, and I put it down, feeling sheepish. “My mother says I should have gone to law school. Or had an MBA. Or had children. But it is too late for any of that, it seems.”

Deepa laughs. “So she crushed you between the rocks of guilt and fear. A technique my own mother has mastered.”

“I suppose it was a little like Scylla and Charybdis. But what would she say, I wonder, if she knew that Wes offered me work?”

Deepa arches an eyebrow. “Did he? What sort of work does he do?”

I shrug and start to giggle. “I have no idea.”

“I seem to recall it’s something to do with computers.”

“Indeed.” I think of Wes’s big hand covering mine as he showed me how to use the mouse. I take another sip of the drink and giggle.

Deepa moves the glass away from me. “I believe you’re a little drunk.”

I put my hand over my mouth, mortified.

“So are you going to work for Wes doing who knows what?”

“Certainly not.”

“Good move,” says Deepa. “Too complicated.”

“My thought exactly.”

“Yeah,” she says, taking a sip of her margarita. “He fancies you.”

I almost choke on my food and cough so hard that Deepa reaches over and thumps me on the back with the flat of her hand.

“You okay?” she says.

I reach for the margarita glass and take a large swallow. I nod.

“Anyway, if you work for him, he might feel too awkward to do anything about it, and he’s too cute to pass up for a job, if you ask me.”

“You really think he . . . ?”

“Oh, come on. Anyone can see how he looks at you.” Deepa gives me a sly grin. “You’re blushing. Does that mean you like him, too?”

Is it possible that Wes really does have a regard for me which is more than kindness and friendship? But that would mean Wes truly does not know the extent of my history with Frank. No matter what those books in Courtney’s rooms implied, no respectable man would ever connect himself with a woman who had . . . And even the books themselves warned of the consequences of giving oneself to the wrong man too soon.

“Courtney? You look like you’re a million miles away.” She smiles at me kindly and places a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry if I hit a nerve. It’s none of my business.”

“No, not at all.” But I can feel myself blushing even more and occupy myself with the view through the windows and the parade of smiling, scantily clad people walking, riding two-wheeled machines, and gliding on boots with wheels.

“How about we stop looking at the world through glass and experience it instead?” She gestures to the waiter. “I’m thinking a walk on the beach, maybe a swim?”

Now she has my attention in full. “But I had no thought of entering the water.” I scan the beach for bathing machines, but there are none. Nor are there dippers leading ladies and gentlemen into the water for their three immersions. “How would we?” Yet scores of people apparently see the lack of bathing machines and dippers as no deterrent to their pleasures, as they run into and out of the waves entirely unattended and without an apparent thought to modesty. Indeed they are frolicking, splashing, and even swimming whilst wearing tiny bathing costumes which barely cover their most intimate parts, and most of which appear to expose more flesh than would the one Wes showed me when first I awoke.

Despite the disagreeable thought of wearing such a garment, the apparent delight the sea bathers take in their exercise makes me long to join in the fun. And I did so wish to bathe in Brighton, though my mother deemed it improper to bathe in a place where men and even a few of the women, some said, immersed themselves in the nude. No matter that I would of course don the long and singularly undaring flannel dress favored by the great majority of sea bathers. No matter that the beaches were separated as to sex, and the bathers were anything but visible to the shore from the protection of the bathing machines, which, now that I think on it, is a perfectly absurd name. The very idea of calling a horse-drawn box from which to undress and descend into the water a “machine” is as ridiculous as imagining the nearly naked sea bathers on this beach desiring to hide their bodies behind one.

I can only imagine my mother’s face if she could see what I am seeing. Yet no one here appears to give the sea bathers a second look, except, that is, for one Venus-like lady who emerges from the sea in a scant costume divided into two sections, seawater streaming from her willowy form. More than a few male heads turn to admire her.

Well, fortunately, I have no such costume with me. “I have only these clothes,” I say to Deepa.

She arches an eyebrow. “You’re not getting off that easy. Come on.” And, quickly settling the bill, she takes me by the hand and leads me into a women’s restroom, where she opens the large, shiny white bag she has been toting and pulls from it two quite diminutive garments, one bright orange, the other a pale yellow. She holds up each one against me.

“What do you think? I couldn’t decide which bathing suit I wanted to wear, so I brought both. I’ve even got an extra sarong with me.” She pulls out two long bolts of varicolored fabric. “I’m taller than you, but this one’s got little ruchy-stringy things that adjust the fit.” She indicates the pale yellow one. “I think you could wear it just fine.”

“But I—” The thought of parading into the sea in such a state of undress makes my stomach clench with fear.

“Come on,” she says, “you’ll look great in it.” She waves the bathing suit before my face. “And with this tied around your waist,” indicating the yellow-and-white length of fabric she referred to as a sarong, “you’ll be absolutely gorgeous.”

I hold up the sarong against my waist. I suppose a full-length, makeshift skirt makes the tiny straps and backless form of the bathing suit a little less objectionable. A very little.

“Try it on,” says Deepa, waving me into one of the little stalls.

After much maneuvering and Deepa’s coming to my rescue, I am now wearing the yellow bathing suit, the sarong tied round my waist. I almost cannot believe I am going to leave this room with a bare back and bare arms, but Deepa tugs on my hand in a manner not to be resisted. Wearing the sunglasses and ducking my head, I allow Deepa to lead me out of the building and around the back to the beach, where she kicks off her shoes, and so do I, and then we are making our way across the sands.

We weave our way through children playing and clusters of men and women, young and old, lying or sitting on large, brightly colored blankets, reading books, eating, chatting, or simply watching the waves.

As we get closer to the water, I feel a thrill of anticipation, for I have never been in the sea, never even so much as put a toe in the ocean.

And then, Deepa pauses to remove her sarong, which she spreads upon the sand, anchoring it against the breeze with her shoes and the large white bag. She starts off towards the water, then turns and looks at me questioningly. But I am rooted to the spot. Does she expect me to remove my sarong and follow her?

Deepa strides over, a big smile on her face, and before I can protest, she actually unfastens the knot of my sarong and takes it from me.

“No!” I cross my legs and put my hands on my thighs in a feeble attempt to cover myself.

“What’s wrong, Courtney?” she says, her eyes kind. “Are you okay?”

“I . . . I . . .” I am so frozen with fear, despite the heat, that I cannot form a sentence.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“All these people, and I—” I look down at my nearly naked state and raise my eyes to Deepa.

“Darling, who made you so ashamed of that gorgeous body of yours? You look fabulous. And you’re still wearing twice as much as almost anyone on this beach. It’s the most modest suit in town.”

She gives me a dazzling smile and holds out her hand to me. “Come on, let’s get that body of yours into the ocean. Then you won’t care what you’re wearing.”

And then the delighted laughter of the sea bathers rises over me in a wave, and I am giving Deepa my hand and running with her towards the wide ocean and the azure-blue sky and we are in the water to our ankles, the sand pulling at our feet. We wade in deeper, still holding hands, like two little girls on their school holidays. And soon we are waist-deep, and we are jumping with the waves and laughing our delight. Deepa says, “Come on, let’s swim out,” and I say, “I don’t know how,” and she looks at me a long while and laughs and says, “And this from the woman who hit her head in a swimming pool,” and she lets go of my hand and plunges into the waves. A big wave is about to break over my head when I find myself diving into it and emerging with strong clean strokes that transport me across the water, and all at once I realize I am swimming. I, who have never swum in my life, am swimming as well as any sea creature. And I swim and swim and float on my back and glory in the azure-blue sky with the soft white clouds and the sun warming my face and the water cooling my back. This is heavenly indeed.

Twenty

A
fter I have no idea how long, so enchanted am I by the lovely buoyant waves and sparkling sea, Deepa swims back to me and suggests we take a “breather.” I swim effortlessly to shore and emerge from the waves, seawater streaming from my hair and skin, and give only a passing, habitual thought to modesty as I make my way to the sarongs which are now our blankets. Deepa stretches out on her back upon her blanket and puts on her sunglasses. I do the same beside her, the bright strong sun drying me and lulling me into a near doze. Oh, how I love the sea.

Deepa offers me water from a large bottle she has in her white bag, and as I take a long drink, I am fascinated by the sight of two structures off in the distance to our right, one a gigantic turning wheel, the other a tubelike thing that snakes along what I suppose must be a rail. Both are stationary yet moving structures, some sort of machines. I dare not inquire as to what they are but am relieved from my suspense by Deepa, who says, “Ah, yes, the Ferris wheel.”

Named after Edward Ferrars, perhaps?

“First time I rode it,” she says, “was when I was an eighteen-year-old girl on my first trip to America with my parents.”

“How exciting,” I say.

Deepa takes off her sunglasses, and her eyes have a faraway look. “I had sneaked out of our hotel on the beach to meet a guy. He was all of twenty years old, very exotic, though as it turns out, he was no more exotic than I am. Anything American was exotic to me. Anyway, he took me to the pier. And when I looked out at that vast expanse of ocean from the top of that wheel, the tanned arm of this golden California boy round my shoulder, I was instantly in love.”

“And so you married him?”

Deepa laughs. “I fell in love with L.A., you silly girl. Not him. I was all set to go to university in England, but I decided to apply to school here. Eventually, my parents gave in, I graduated from USC, and they’ve never stopped regretting it.”

“And you?”

“I love it here. Especially now without the unhappy marriage. Which was to an entirely different guy, I might add, and years after I took my degree.” Deepa smiles at me. “You know, I’m glad you and I met after my divorce. That you’re part of my new, postmar riage life. A new friend for a new life.”