Unnatural Order. Liz Porter

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СКАЧАТЬ given to Caroline’s affairs. As the only single member of the three-woman writers’ room, Caroline had a kind of totemic status to her married friends. They followed her adventures with an intensity of interest which they claimed was pure envy, but which Caroline knew was also composed of equal parts of pity for the lack of security in her life.

      Anna, who had just discovered she was pregnant with her first child, made much of the dullness of her suburban life in comparison with what she called Caroline’s “adventures”. On more than one occasion she had offered to take Caroline’s place on the Greek island holiday on which she had met Karl.

      This holiday, an invitation to spend an all-expenses paid week on Mykonos as the guest of a man she had met only days before, had been the cause of much debate in the office. Rob Davidson was a close friend and a colleague of an old boyfriend of Caroline’s, David Fenton, a former journalist who was now making a huge salary as a public relations man. The two men had dropped into London on their way to Mykonos for two quiet weeks windsurfing. But their plans had been upset by the arrival of David’s fiancée, Julie, a spoiled 25-year-old with no apparent interests beyond her own career prospects as an actress.

      ‘Save me, Caroline,’ Rob had pleaded at their second dinner since his arrival. ‘I couldn’t bear to spend a week listening to Julie ordering waiters around. I’ll die for lack of adult female conversation. Come with me. You’ll have your own room and I promise I won’t lay a hand on you. Just come, it’ll be fun.’

      Caroline had been uncertain. She liked Rob and he was interesting company. Yet she didn’t find him sexually attractive, and the prospect of a week with another couple who spent all their time either bickering or screwing made her squirm. Still, the idea of being flown to Greece for a holiday was irresistible.

      Anna agreed. ‘Go,’ she said. ‘You have to. Most men would want to go to a cheap hotel, get you to pay half, and still try to fuck you. You’ve seen all the travel stuff. The Palace is the most expensive hotel on the island. And you’re flying first class. Do it for me. The only expensive accommodation I have to look forward to is the delivery room at St Barnaby’s.’

      Right now, thought Caroline as she poured more wine into her glass, she would happily swap lives with Anna, as long as she didn’t have to take on her job as medical writer for the magazine. She would take Anna’s rambling house in Hampstead with its volatile boiler and rising damp, Anna’s sociopath cat Arthur and, best of all, Anna’s handsome architect husband, Christopher. She would even happily take on Anna’s pregnancy once the morning sickness was over.

      Anna, in exchange, could have Caroline’s furnished bedsitter with its nasty orange fleck sofa, its dingy wallpaper and the creepy landlord, George, who came round every Saturday to collect the rent and make suggestive remarks. She could also have Caroline’s passionate but irregular encounters with her lover Damian, managed on those rare occasions when he could manage to convince his wife that a valuable client simply had to be seen after hours. Caroline would happily swap these for regular but predictable sex with Christopher. And, best of all, Anna could have all the “adventures”.

      If only the swap could be instantaneous, thought Caroline, as the pilot announced that they were about to land in Lisbon. Then, at the snap of her fingers, she would find herself in Anna’s cool green living room, the one glass of wine a day permitted by the obstetrician in a crystal goblet at her elbow, Christopher at her side, and some BBC drama about the days of the Raj on the box.

      In exchange, Anna would be hunched in Caroline’s economy class airline seat drinking lousy Portuguese wine out of a plastic glass and dreading the onset of her next ‘adventure’.

      As the plane began its descent, Caroline stared out the window. She saw only the reflection of her own almost triangular face with its wide cheekbones and small neat mouth, now pursed into a sulky pout. Her thatch of short red hair, reflected in the glass, looked dark. How would her face look with brown hair, Caroline wondered. She had been dying her hair for so long that she had almost forgotten what she looked like with her own mouse-brown colour.

      The deep auburn looked natural; but no natural redhead had her rich olive skin, bequeathed by her father’s Italian grandfather. She had long given up hope of acquiring a pale and interesting Celtic complexion to match her red hair. In summer her face defied all efforts with hats and sunblock, glowing a smooth and unfashionable golden brown.

      An hour later Caroline was in the airport, leaning back against a wall and watching as an unclaimed red leather rucksack passed her for the umpteenth time. The handful of other passengers who were still waiting for their bags were becoming restless as they watched the near-empty luggage carousel go round and round, but Caroline felt calm and unhurried.

      She glanced at her watch. It was one o’clock local time. Her planned arrival time had been midnight. Perhaps Karl would think she wasn’t coming. Perhaps he had already given up and gone back to the hotel. Then she could check into a hotel on the other side of Lisbon and catch a bus north in the morning.

      A succession of thuds broke into her reverie as another cartload of luggage was dumped on to the carousel and her giant army-style kitbag came into view.

      As she bent to pick it up, a uniformed youth appeared at her elbow.

      ‘Bagagem?’ he asked, as he took the handles of her bag. Caroline shook her head.

      ‘No thank you,’ she said. She could have said it in Portuguese. But she didn’t want to trigger a conversation about her terrific Portuguese.

      I speak English,’ the boy said. ‘Tomorrow, I show you Lisbon.’

      Caroline groaned softly. Not again. She shook her head. ‘My husband is meeting me,’ she said. The boy looked puzzled.

      ‘Marido! Meu marido,’ whispered Caroline, trying to look like a wife with a muscular and jealous husband due back at any second.

      Understanding dawned in the youth’s eyes and he dropped his grip on her bag.

      ‘Adeus,’ said Caroline, as she slung the bag over her shoulder and headed for customs.

      ‘Adeus,’ the boy replied, already focussed on a blond in a crumpled linen suit who was trying to strap a large suitcase on to a tiny collapsible luggage trolley.

      Caroline looked around as she walked past the customs desk and out into the main terminal. There were no familiar faces. Perhaps he really had given up on her. Maybe he’d changed his mind altogether. Or fallen in love with someone else in the meantime.

      As she put her bag down and looked around, scanning the area for blond heads, a movement caught her eye. Turning, she saw a long straw mat unroll. On it, in huge red letters, was written, ‘Welcome to Portugal, Caroline.’

      Then Karl stepped out from behind a pillar, a bottle of champagne in his hand.

      ‘I thought you’d changed your mind. I was starting to worry.’ He pulled her to him. As he stared into her eyes, Caroline fiddled with her bag, torn between admiration for his sense of theatre and a desire to run headlong out of the airport building.

      She could jump into a taxi and demand to be driven as far away as possible. She knew how to say: take me to… That had been lesson one in the Portuguese for Travellers course. Leve-me a Espanha she’d say. Take me to Spain, or anywhere – as far away as possible from here.

      ‘Take these,’ he said, handing her two glasses and popping the cork. Caroline’s cheeks burned as she noticed people turning to stare.

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