She is lying facedown in the duvet when the phone rings again. Fingers pressed into her eyesockets, making slow circular movements, pulling the skin on her cheeks up, pulling her eyelids down.
You’re getting very close.
Fuck off.
I think you’d be actually be happier if you let go. Don’t you think? It’s like the tide going out. You’re fighting against an inevitable flow of nature.
Fuck you.
Look at yourself. You’ll wash up exactly where you belong. Exactly where you’ve always been. Nature is neutral.
…
She holds the phone and with the complicated sequence of haptic pulses resonating through her hand she looks at his name on the screen and the photo of him. There he is, sitting at a small wooden table with a thumb and forefinger wrapped around the neck of a brown beerbottle, smiling at her. The evening sun on the left side of his face, his blonde hair under a cap, tucked behind his ears, the six-month beard, untrimmed at the edges. Porto. They had been together for three years and they thought they were very long term, very grown-up. Thought that time was getting on. Imagine. Drinking beer and reading novels on a slow Portuguese evening, waiting for Amie and James to join them.
The phone stops ringing, the image vanishes and a missed call notification appears on her lockscreen. She lies there pinching her bottom lip. Amie and James. Intrusive memory of James sneering at her. You’re pathetic, he says, and she feels a faint, horrible little reverberation of how it felt to be told that, a little pulse in her nervous system, recalling how it fired and fired and convulsed and shuddered that night. That whole thing was her fault. No it wasn’t. Yes it was. You didn’t know how to control yourself back then.
Her memory turns to the smell of James’ aunt’s apartment, that affluent dusty aroma. Elderly art deco place with chipped terracotta floor tiles, darkwood furnishings and high ceilings, patchy plaster, cool air. Tall narrow windows with french balconies, looking down over the red rooftops, glimpses of phosphoric sunlight flashing on the blue water. Much like the view from her hiding place now, she realises. A mirror image. Summer, she thinks. Unthinkable. Again she recalls that musk — incense, lignin, coffee, damp walls. This is what being rich smells like, she’d thought involuntarily. She was still putting together her frames of reference.
And you’ve been here all summer? Gary asked.
Yeah, James said. She’s going to sell it sooner rather than later, we think, so we’re just trying to make the most of it.
In their room was a desk with his three monitors, coffee cup, packets of menthol vape. Sorry about the work stuff, he said, picking up his laptop from the bed. A view of the narrow alley at the rear, a small dog dosing on the shaded front slab opposite.
Gary on the train to the airport, his backpack joggling in his lap, East Sussex rolling by the window. Checking his watch again.
You okay? she asked him.
Yeah, yeah. I’m really glad we’re doing this. It actually feels weird that you haven’t met them. Like it feels like you have.
She smiles. You’ve said that before. A few times.
Have I?
James came to pick them up from the airport in a Peugeot hatchback with a huge dent in the passenger-side door. So she met him for the first time under the blazing midday sun, there in the car park, leaping from the vehicle to grab the suitcase from her. His face had filled out since his profile picture and he was wearing the sort of flimsy, pink-plastic sunglasses that small children wear. Boardshorts, crocs, Strokes t-shirt, signet ring. Instant waft of nonchalant charisma and car sweat. He stooped to hug her. Delighted to finally meet you, he said.
Same to you, thank you so much for having us.
Then he grabbed Gary by the hand and pulled him in. You old bastard, he said. I can’t believe it’s you.
James drove quickly along the highway, thumping a hip-hop playlist from his phone, the bass drowning out most what was said between them in the front seats while she took her first look at Portugal through the rear windows. First time abroad since Trinidad with Dad, what, five years ago? Hoardings with Portuguese graffiti, warehouses. Stands of eucalyptus.
We don’t keep in touch as much as we should, Gary had said. But when we get together it’s always like old times. If it hadn’t been for her in those first six months at uni I’d have lost it, I think.
She was scrolling her Instagram. Gary! she laughed. This girl is so hot!
He drank some of his pint and shrugged. She’s attractive, but she’s not my type.
Don’t try that shit. I’m onto you, pal.
She was a close friend.
I’m sure. Tell me about the sexual tension.
There wasn’t any!
Oh don’t lie!
She wasn’t a jealous person by nature. She didn’t cling. That was something she liked about herself.
Were you friends with James at uni?
Not really, we were in different circles. We got to know each other when he and Amie started dating.
So did James come along and ruin everything?
Stop it.
It’s okay if you loved her. In fact this whole thing would be boring if you two weren’t at least a little bit in love. Did you fuck?
No.
Ohh. Well I can wear a blonde wig and you can do me from behind if you like?
He snorted and put his head in hands. I don’t know why I’m laughing, he said. You’re an idiot.
They were drinking bottles of Super Bock at the dining table when there came the sound of heavy keys in the front door, and then there she was. Blonde and good-looking, just like in her tagged photos. Just like her parents and her two brothers. Athletic. A family of hikers, skiers. A jade-green shirt, a thin gold chain, a pair of loosefitting ochre trousers. Carrying a big paper bag, apparently from a bakery. Oh my god, she said, dumping the bag in the kitchenette. You actually came!
Then she was holding her by the wrists, her keys still in her hand. Hi, I’m Amie, she said, it’s great to meet you!
Sandalwood perfume. Straight white teeth.
Great to meet you too.
They hugged and she felt strong ropes of hard muscle around her shoulders. And when she hugged Gary she looked at the arm around his waist and the keyring dangling from her hand. She hadn’t quite expected to feel like this.
Why did you want her to want him?
Shut up.
Maybe it was fun. Or maybe you just wanted to ruin something.
Shut up.