Is this love, p.15
Is This Love?, page 15
I thought about turning forty the next day, and remembered the first time we’d celebrated my birthday. Mine was the first of our birthdays we’d been together for, and I had been overwhelmed by the effort you’d made for me. In the morning, over a long breakfast, we had lolled under the duvet as you produced one beautifully wrapped box after another from underneath the bed. I remembered, vividly, how happy we’d been that morning, the weak winter sun pouring in on us in our chaos of torn paper and spilled food. You had enjoyed, almost as much as me, the new clothes you had put me in, not taking your eyes off me when I got up, finally, to dress. You told me how gorgeous I was. And you took me out for lunch, walking with your arm tightly tucked around my waist, holding me in against the cold weather. Against the outside world. It was just me and you, strolling around the East End with eyes only for one another. It was perfect.
It’s hard to remember cold weather when you’re in a hot climate. It’s hard to recall the feelings, the sensation of an icy blast of air when you’re covered in a thin film of your own sweat. But I could feel it, then, the chill on my cheeks that day as I thought back to how we were. Six years less one day ago, wrapped up in you as we made our way through London together.
My birthday walk had ended at a boutique hotel in Shoreditch, where I’d followed you in feeling bewildered and then smiled, wider and wider, as you’d checked us in and I realised why we were there. I hadn’t known you’d been in cahoots with Zed and Nancy, and that all my friends were waiting in the bar behind the reception, the one you entered via a secret knock, ducking down to slip into the otherworldly speakeasy beyond. It had turned into a raucous, indulgent and very, very long night. It, too, was perfect.
You’d made the day magical. I was absolutely and utterly under your spell.
I got back to my room to find the intern sprawled on the bed, still plugged into her phone. Let’s get some dinner, I said. More a statement than a suggestion, but she was pliant enough, and we found somewhere not-too-touristy to eat where I paid for the food to allay my guilt at treating her so shittily. When we got back to the room, I said I was exhausted and went straight to bed, praying she’d get the hint. She did. She stayed by the pool for an hour or so then slipped in beside me, keeping a safe distance. By then, it was my birthday. I was forty. What a tragic fucking start to middle age.
I slept off and on until around 5 a.m., then got up and dressed and went out, pacing up and down streets, wallowing in my misery. I hoped that you’d contact me. I yearned for it. I was seven hours ahead of UK time so you’d have until tomorrow, Cambodian time, to send me a message. Just a text. It was inconceivable that I wouldn’t hear from you on this day, when we’d spent so long talking about what we’d do when I finally hit the big four-o.
It had saved you a pile of money, leaving me, I thought drily. No need for presents, or parties, or a trip somewhere spectacular. But I’d never wanted any of that. This year, I just wanted to hear your voice. It was the only thing I wanted.
I was due to meet another driver at 9 a.m. who would take me up to Kbal Spean, a sacred riverbed into which hundreds of figures had been carved, millennia ago. I got back to the hotel room and forced a smile at the intern, who asked if she could join me on the trip. I couldn’t think of any reason to say no so, silently cursing my own lack of imagination, I nodded and headed back to the car.
We drove out of town and up towards the jungle. I laughed as the driver explained that Kbal Spean had been a secret until only fifty years earlier, when a French ethnologist had been led up to the site by a local hermit. I found the image of that exchange hilarious. I imagined talking to you about it, making you laugh by picturing the scene. Why did the hermit decide to share his secret? How did the ethnologist find the hermit? Isn’t that the point of hermits? That you don’t know where they live?
When we reached the car park where we’d start the trek up to the riverbed, the intern handed me a small, wrapped parcel and wished me a happy birthday. I was touched, and taken aback. As I unwrapped the book she’d chosen for me, I told myself to stop behaving like an arsehole, and be nice. It wasn’t her fault that all I could think of was you.
But it was harder than I thought. I wasn’t at my best when I felt obliged to be in someone’s company, when I felt crowded in. I knew I’d made it happen, I’d invited her to join me. I was selfish and arrogant and needy, and I was using her to make me feel a tiny bit less lonely, and sad. I had to sort myself out, and I had to let her down gently. I had to grow up a bit. It was time I started acting my (considerable) age.
It struck me how stupid I was being. I was at an ancient and beautiful site of archeological wonder, worrying about a one-night stand. I was ridiculous. I forced myself to smile at the intern, and thank her for my book, and fall into step beside her as we began the steep trek up through the jungle. I told myself to look forward to the evening, when we could drink and it would feel easier. To stop being so selfish, just for a little while.
It was an incredible place. After we’d walked up to get above the curve of the river, we followed it back down slowly, spotting the intricately carved scenes that sat below the surface of the water as well as in the rock face on either side. I concentrated on taking photographs, using it as an excuse to wander off and explore. Butterflies darted around above my head, and there were frogs and lizards blinking their way in and out of the river. It was magical. I was delighted to take it all in, and even more pleased when the intern vanished from view, leaving me in my own company. I resolved to be clear with her about going our separate ways as soon as possible.
I’d completely lost her by the time I made it back down to the car park, where I was courted by a number of stall-holders keen to sell me their fabrics and carved miniature deities. I thought about buying you one, fantasising about coming home to you, from this trip, telling you all about my adventures.
Well, most of them.
I sat under the tarp by the drinks vendor and let the daydream play out until the intern appeared, bursting my bubble. Where did you go, she said. I shrugged. I didn’t realise she’d been looking for me. Sorry, I think I must have wandered off. Shall we get out of here?
We were driven on to a temple, Banteay Srei, which the driver told us was dedicated to the Hindu god Shiva, adding that he’d wait in the car until we were done looking round. It was hard to take it all in. Red sandstone walls and sculptures rose from the ground in a riot of patterns and shapes. It was so intricate and beautiful. More than a thousand years old, surviving not only nature’s but humankind’s assaults on it. It was the evidence I’d been looking for of my own insignificance, of the inexorable progression of time, of things greater and more permanent than my tiny, stupid, heartbroken reality. I went my own way, weaving in and out, smiling. I’d found, fleetingly, the distraction I was looking for.
When we got back to the hotel, I forced myself to have an adult conversation with the intern. I tried not to show that I was desperate to get rid of her. I asked her what her plans were for the next part of her trip, and felt huge relief that she got the hint. She said she was going to head off the next afternoon, after seeing Angkor Wat. Maybe we could go together the next morning and then she’d leave me to it?
I said yes, very quickly, feeling a bit giddy that it had gone so well. It meant I could relax into the evening – my birthday – and not worry about any awkward let-downs on my part. I was suddenly much cheerier. I told her to get ready to go out, it was time to start celebrating.
We went down to Siem Reap’s main strip, and found a bar with a pool on the terrace, where we drank a couple of beers and watched the sunset. I had messages to respond to from people back at home, sending me love, imagining me alone as I saw in my fifth decade. I didn’t disillusion them.
We went for dinner when it got dark, and I was touched that the intern had arranged for the restaurant to bring me a special dessert, my name written in chocolate sauce across the plate, flowers and sparklers adorning the cake. I didn’t deserve it, I knew that. It was almost overwhelming to have someone do something so thoughtful for me. I was really touched. I was also really quite drunk.
Determined not to do anything stupid again, I suggested we call it a night pretty early. We went back to the hotel and I took myself straight to bed again. In the close confines of the room, I felt suffocated; desperate, again, to be on my own. It wouldn’t be long now, I reminded myself.
I woke up around 4 a.m., the usual jolt into reality. I didn’t want to be around when the intern woke up, and in spite of what I’d said the night before, I didn’t think I could do another day with her. It took all of my energy to act like I wasn’t falling apart and I had run out of steam.
An idea popped into my mind and as soon as I’d thought it, I knew I was going to do it. It was horrible of me, but I was delighted by it. I got out of bed and got dressed as quietly as I could, grabbing my camera and wallet and sneaking out of the room like a burglar, anxious not to make any noise.
I got out to the road and hailed a tuk-tuk, instructing the driver to take me to Angkor Wat. I was going to watch the sun rise at the temple. Alone. I didn’t care that I’d promised to go later that day. As the tuk-tuk picked up speed I felt euphoric, free. I was escaping a confinement of my own making, and I was being a total bastard. It felt fantastic.
The driver stopped, indicating that I was to get out. There were a few other people ahead of me, and I started following them into the darkness. I couldn’t see a thing, and was glad that they’d had the foresight to bring their phones, using them to light the path ahead. I got to a lake, where vendors were selling coffee and pastries, but I wanted neither. I walked round the shoreline to find a spot away from the small gangs of people already in place, waiting. It was surreal. I could just about make out some tall trees on the other side of the water, and felt irritated that I would have such a poor view of the temple, with them blocking my way. I tried to work out where else I could go, but it seemed that this was the vantage point everyone was sticking to. I decided to trust the crowd, and settled into position, watching the moon set, waiting for the sun to rise in its place.
When it did, I slowly realised that the trees I’d been so annoyed by were actually the temple I’d come to see. As the sun inched its way up over the horizon, these magnificent sandstone monuments came into relief, bulbous turrets rising above the walls beneath them. There was a collective murmur of delight as the pinks and blues of the sky became reflected in the water in front of me. I turned around to see how many were enjoying the same view, and blinked in disbelief: hundreds of people stood behind and beside me, hugging the shore of the lake and lined back as far as I could see. It was a crazy moment. I’d been engrossed in the sunrise, assuming myself to be among a small group of pilgrims, a tiny few that had made it here so early in the day. It made me laugh out loud to see how wrong I was.
I spent a while longer watching the light take over the sky. To my right side, a teenager was filming her reaction to the spectacle. She’ll be so glad to look back on that in twenty years’ time, I thought. The wonder of Angkor Wat, visible as a blurry backdrop to her grinning face.
I walked away from the lake and into the ruins of the temple, veering away from people as much as I could. It was impossible at first, but as I moved from Angkor Wat out to the temples of Ta Prohm and then Angkor Thom, it was easier to find my way out of the crowds. At the last of these ruins, Preah Khan, I found myself suddenly unable to continue. I could not stop thinking about you, and the mess we’d made of our marriage, and a sadness that felt profound and absolute descended. I couldn’t walk any further. I peeled off the path to sit among the stones, away from the tourists and the locals. And there, finally still, I began to cry. I sobbed. It felt like it was beyond my control, a weeping that flowed out of me, unendingly. I couldn’t stop it, and I didn’t want to: I sat among those ancient stones and let the pain and fear and regret pour out.
I was there for a long time. Finally, I decided I had to get myself together. I considered my situation: I was alone among the ruins of a temple more than a thousand years old, and I was crying over a woman. For fuck’s sake. Life had to be about more than this.
When I got back to the hotel that afternoon, the intern had gone, leaving me a terse message saying she’d headed out of town, via the temples, and would maybe see me back at Phnom Penh before I flew home. I knew that was not going to happen.
I took a seat by the pool, taking a beer with me from the fridge in my room. I felt pleased with myself. I’d been enough of a shit that, finally, I’d been left alone. I wanted to think about you, without distraction. I wanted to know why you hadn’t even sent me one miserable message on the occasion of my fortieth birthday. Would that really have been too much for you?
I felt a now-familiar anger rise in my chest. I went to collect my phone from beside the bed, deciding that I was going to make contact with you, right now, no matter how long it took. I had your work mobile – you hadn’t blocked me on that – and so I dialled the number, over and over again. Then I texted: I told you that I was away, and when I got back I was going to stay in the flat again, that we could share the space while we worked things out. I was sick of living out of a bag and we owed it to each other to end things better than this. Then I dialled again.
You picked up. I couldn’t believe it.
Hello? It’s me, I said.
I know. What do you want?
The tight anger in your voice was so familiar.
I wanted to speak to you because something significant happened today and you weren’t there. And I’m far away from all the things that used to be normal, and all I can think about is you. And everywhere I go, and everything I look at, reminds me of you. I sit down in a café and I wish you were with me so we could take our time, play a game of Scrabble, watch the world go by. I eat in restaurants and at every other table are couples, smiling at one another, and I am filled with envy. I’ve been to ancient temples and spent every minute there wishing you were with me, experiencing it all, sharing an adventure. I came away to think about the reasons life is valuable, and the only thing I can think of – the only thing I know to be true – is that life is valuable when you have someone to share it with. I still don’t want any of this. I still can’t quite make it real in my head. I love you. I want to come home.
Silence.
OK then.
OK then what?
We can meet up when you get back. But don’t think anything has changed. It hasn’t. You brought this on yourself.
Don’t you miss me at all? Do you even know what day it was yesterday?
Of course I do. But I didn’t think it was appropriate to send you a message.
Right. Of course. That would have been a ridiculous thing to do, to send the person you’re married to a text on their birthday. Their fortieth birthday.
Silence.
OK then, I’m going to be home in just over a week. I’ll come home then. We can talk? It’s all I want to do, just talk. I think we owe each other that.
I’ve got to go.
Don’t you miss me at all?
Yes. I do miss you.
Then your voice, which had softened, tightened back up again. I could almost hear the process of you shutting me back out.
I’ve got to go.
I still love you.
I was ecstatic. You’d spoken to me, and you’d agreed that we’d see each other. You’d said you missed me. Things were going to be OK. I could breathe again.
It was the happiest I had felt for a long time. I went out to eat, and for a change I didn’t mind sitting alone. I knew that there was a lot of sorting out ahead for us – I’m not stupid – but I could handle it, I could live, if you were willing to do it with me.
That night, I slept for six hours, longer than I’d managed for months. In the morning, I took a flight back down the country to the coast, where I’d planned to spend the second part of my trip. From there, I took a boat out to a tiny island, arriving on a wooden pier in the blazing heat with my wheely case, which I had to drag along the beach to my hut. I would be fine here for a few nights, I thought. How could I not be? The island was a tropical paradise, less than a mile long and half that in width. The white beach I had arrived at was lined by fewer than a dozen ‘resorts’: a smattering of huts and pods, with beach bars fronting their sleeping quarters and at the very end, a restaurant up on stilts for all the honeymooning couples to watch the sunset from. Naturally, I was the only person there alone, but I resolved to make the best of the beautiful setting, and start to make positive plans for the coming months.
I was in suspended animation during those few days. I walked round the island each morning, spending the afternoons lying on the beach, reading, and the evenings on the verandah of my hut or at one of the beach bars, occasionally sharing a drink and some small talk with other holidaymakers. In front of one of the resorts, someone had constructed a wooden swing, suspended over the green-blue sea, big enough for two and hung at such a height that you could swing your legs in the water below it. One morning, early enough that I had the beach to myself, I entertained myself by trying to capture a photo of me swinging on it. I set up my camera on the sand, switching it onto timer, and then sprinted through the shallows to get to the seat before the shutter clicked. I failed, every time, but I found the series of shots of my back, the swing in the distance, hilarious as I scrolled through them. It would have made you smile. I was excited about showing you them, when we did finally get to speak. It would help dispel the tension and the distance between us if I made you laugh. My being an idiot had always amused you.
I was almost sad to leave the island at the end of my stay, but I was ready – more than ready – to get home. I took a selfie, standing in the mirror in my hut on my final morning. I looked tanned, and tired. I was forty. I was going back to my old life, and I didn’t know how things were going to work out. But I was glad I was going, and glad too that I’d come away. Maybe I’d been right after all, that getting away would put things in perspective: but not for me, for you. Nothing had ever changed for me – I had always wanted one thing: to have you back. And now you had broken your silence.
