The Trawlerman, стр. 53
She took a photograph of herself against the southern fringe of England and sent it to Zoë:
Bill’s not the only one running away from home x
Her phone buzzed a second later:
?????
I’m on a day trip to France. Back this p.m. Remember to tell BS what I said. I love you xxx
She waited for another message, but there was nothing.
‘Texting your boyfriend?’
‘My daughter.’
‘Starfish girl. I’d like to get to know her.’
She raised her eyebrows; he raised his hands, in mock self-defence.
‘It doesn’t mean I’m asking you to move in with me.’
‘I’m not sure I like the view from your house, anyway.’
‘You prefer a nuclear power station?’
‘You barely notice it,’ she said.
He laughed.
They found a place out of the sun and sat together in the shade. ‘It’s good to see you smiling,’ he said.
‘I sometimes wonder if I’m ever coming out of this.’
‘You will,’ he said. ‘It’s just about allowing your brain to put things back where they ought to be.’
‘You make it sound like I’ve just put my socks away in the wrong drawer.’
At the ferry terminal they picked up another taxi. The ferry was half empty and they didn’t have to wait long, but the drive was disappointing. The Calais seafront was flat, cluttered with bland post-war concrete flats that looked out over half-hearted post-industrial spaces. They pulled up in front of an unprepossessing apartment block that looked much like the one Jill lived in in Ashford.
‘Is this it?’ She peered sceptically up at the cream-painted block.
‘This, believe it or not, is one of the best seafood restaurants on this coast.’
‘You recall that last time I was at a restaurant I had a total meltdown.’
‘And this time you will be fine. You’ll see.’
She offered to pay for the taxi, though she had no euros. He said, ‘It’s my treat.’
‘The car was your treat. And the ferry.’ How long, she wondered, had he been planning this?
‘You pay for the meal, then,’ he said.
‘Expensive is it?’
‘Très.’
They caught the lift to the fourth floor. Terry’s French was shaky, but at least he tried. ‘La table pour Monsieur Neill.’
The maître d’ pronounced his name ‘Nile’, but led him to a table by the windows that looked out over the Channel. They sat either side of a crisp tablecloth and looked at the menu. He had booked tickets and a table for her without asking; she was unsure how she felt about it. She tried to remember the last time she had gone out with a man who had behaved like this. Her ex, Zoë’s father, had never planned anything at all. She had had a long affair with a senior officer in London; he was married. In many ways, that had been her most successful relationship. What she had enjoyed about it was the lack of commitment; nothing had ever been planned. It had all been about snatched moments. They had slept with each other whenever chance had provided the opportunity. Since moving to Kent, between her daughter and her new job, she had never had time for men. Now here was a man who had organised everything. When he had asked her out it had felt spontaneous, but the longer she was with him the less comfortable she felt. She imagined telling Jill about it, complaining that he picked a restaurant without consulting her. Jill would think her unease ridiculous. Jill loved men who bought her stuff.
She looked up at him, frowning at the menu. ‘The lobster casserole is supposed to be amazing,’ he said.
She looked down the ‘Plats’ menu and found cocotte de homard.
‘Now I said I’m paying, you’re getting the most expensive thing on the menu?’
‘Naturally.’
When the sommelier arrived Terry asked, ‘Red or white?’ When she said red, he ordered a Pic Saint-Loup, and only after the waiter had gone said, ‘Is that all right?’ She tried not to mind. She should be enjoying herself. When the waiter approached she wondered what she would do if he tried to choose food for her too, but he didn’t. She ordered in French, picking the monkfish and bass tagine.
She should relax, she told herself. He was controlling, but weren’t most men? It was lovely to be somewhere completely different.
‘Why the police?’ he asked, out of the blue, settling back in his chair.
‘My dad was a copper. Sweetest man you’d ever meet. I idolised him. My counsellor would say I was still probably trying to get his attention.’
‘My father was a surgeon,’ he said. ‘Probably the same.’
The wine came. It was delicious. The entrées arrived after the first glass and they were exceptional too. She had scallops, which Zoë would have disapproved of, and enjoyed every soft mouthful. As they ate, looking over the water at the ferries that came and went from the port, the day turned a rich hazy grey.
He talked about university politics and how he’d been glad to escape them. She began to relax. The wine helped. She talked about Zoë, how she said she didn’t want to go to university because she could learn everything she needed on a computer these days and she didn’t want to end up fifty thousand in debt.
‘Wise girl.’
‘I worry about her. She can’t seem to make friends with people her own age.’
‘People her own age are overrated. I used to teach them.’
‘And you don’t miss it at all?’
‘God, no. You do, though, don’t you? Miss your job.’
She didn’t answer.
‘You should learn to miss it less. That way happiness lies. That’s what I found.’
When the monkfish came, she ate it in silence, watching the ships.
‘Did I say something wrong?’
She shook her head. The tagine was rich and full of subtle flavour, and she tried hard to enjoy it.
The waiter approached, asked them in English whether the meal was OK.
‘Are you sure nothing’s wrong? You’re very quiet.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She put down her fork. ‘I just don’t react very well to people telling me what I should and shouldn’t do.’
The alcohol was in Terry’s