reaction to her lover’s concern was only the beginning, that there were other changes going on, other powers at work, and that she had no control over any of them.
What was she going to become? All she could do was wait and see. Even then, she realized, she would probably be none the wiser, for she would have shed her old self and would have nothing left
to compare the new one with. After all, she wondered, does a butterfly remember the caterpillar it used to be?
17
MARTHA
Martha found a pizza place to eat in that evening. Oddly enough, instead of giving her butterflies in her stomach, nervousness was making her hungry. Upstairs was a takeaway,
where busy white-jacketed cooks prepared orders, but downstairs was a tiny cellar restaurant with only four tables, each bearing a red-checked tablecloth and a candle burning inside a dark orange
glass. Very Italian. Martha was the only person in the place. The whitewashed stone walls arched over to form the curved ceiling, and the way the candles cast shadows over the ribbing and contours
made the place look like a white cave or the inside of that whale Martha had imagined herself entering the first time she passed under the jawbone on West Cliff.
The menu offered little choice: pizza with tomato sauce, with mushrooms or with prawns. When the young waitress came, Martha settled for mushrooms.
‘What’s the wine?’ she asked.
‘We’ve got white or red.’
‘Yes, but what kind is it?’
The waitress shrugged. ‘Medium.’
‘What does that mean? Is it dry or sweet?’
‘Medium.’
Either she hadn’t a clue, or she was clearly taking no chances on offending anyone. Martha sighed. ‘All right, I’ll have a glass of red.’ She hoped it was dry, whatever
the quality.
She lit a cigarette and settled to wait. It was chilly in the cellar, despite the warm evening outside, and she put her quilted jacket over her shoulders. She had used it as a headrest during
her afternoon on the beach, and when she lifted it, a few trapped grains of sand fell on the tablecloth. She swept them onto the stone floor, wincing at their gritty feel against her
fingertips.
She had read until the incoming tide had driven her away from the beach, then she had gone back to the guesthouse for a bath. She had got sweaty sitting in the sun all afternoon with her jeans
on and her shirt buttoned up to the neck. After that, feeling restless and edgy, she had gone walking nowhere in particular for a couple of hours, until hunger had driven her in search of somewhere
to eat.
While she waited for her pizza, she rummaged in her holdall for the smooth, hard paperweight for the umpteenth time that day. Yes, it was still there. She needed to touch it, her talisman, to
bolster her resolve.
At last the waitress returned with a small, thin-crusted pizza and a glass of wine. It was dry: some kind of cheap and ordinary Chianti, but at least drinkable. The pizza was barely edible. The
crust was like tough cardboard, and about six slices of canned mushroom lay on top of a watery spread of tomato sauce – completely lacking in spicing or herbal ingredients – that
dribbled over the edge when she cut into it. Still, it wasn’t fish and chips; she had that, at least, to be grateful for.
She ate as much as she could manage, and soon found herself getting full. A young couple came in, looked around the cavern suspiciously, and took a corner table in the shadows. They held hands
and made eyes at one another in the candlelight. Martha felt sick. She ordered a cappuccino, wondering how that would turn out, and lit another cigarette. She still had time to kill.
The cappuccino turned out to be half a cup of Nescafé with what tasted like condensed milk, all churned up by a steam machine and dusted with a few grains of chocolate. The lovers talked
in whispers, occasionally laughing and stroking one another’s bare arms on the tablecloth.
Martha could stand it no longer. She demanded the bill rather
What was she going to become? All she could do was wait and see. Even then, she realized, she would probably be none the wiser, for she would have shed her old self and would have nothing left
to compare the new one with. After all, she wondered, does a butterfly remember the caterpillar it used to be?
17
MARTHA
Martha found a pizza place to eat in that evening. Oddly enough, instead of giving her butterflies in her stomach, nervousness was making her hungry. Upstairs was a takeaway,
where busy white-jacketed cooks prepared orders, but downstairs was a tiny cellar restaurant with only four tables, each bearing a red-checked tablecloth and a candle burning inside a dark orange
glass. Very Italian. Martha was the only person in the place. The whitewashed stone walls arched over to form the curved ceiling, and the way the candles cast shadows over the ribbing and contours
made the place look like a white cave or the inside of that whale Martha had imagined herself entering the first time she passed under the jawbone on West Cliff.
The menu offered little choice: pizza with tomato sauce, with mushrooms or with prawns. When the young waitress came, Martha settled for mushrooms.
‘What’s the wine?’ she asked.
‘We’ve got white or red.’
‘Yes, but what kind is it?’
The waitress shrugged. ‘Medium.’
‘What does that mean? Is it dry or sweet?’
‘Medium.’
Either she hadn’t a clue, or she was clearly taking no chances on offending anyone. Martha sighed. ‘All right, I’ll have a glass of red.’ She hoped it was dry, whatever
the quality.
She lit a cigarette and settled to wait. It was chilly in the cellar, despite the warm evening outside, and she put her quilted jacket over her shoulders. She had used it as a headrest during
her afternoon on the beach, and when she lifted it, a few trapped grains of sand fell on the tablecloth. She swept them onto the stone floor, wincing at their gritty feel against her
fingertips.
She had read until the incoming tide had driven her away from the beach, then she had gone back to the guesthouse for a bath. She had got sweaty sitting in the sun all afternoon with her jeans
on and her shirt buttoned up to the neck. After that, feeling restless and edgy, she had gone walking nowhere in particular for a couple of hours, until hunger had driven her in search of somewhere
to eat.
While she waited for her pizza, she rummaged in her holdall for the smooth, hard paperweight for the umpteenth time that day. Yes, it was still there. She needed to touch it, her talisman, to
bolster her resolve.
At last the waitress returned with a small, thin-crusted pizza and a glass of wine. It was dry: some kind of cheap and ordinary Chianti, but at least drinkable. The pizza was barely edible. The
crust was like tough cardboard, and about six slices of canned mushroom lay on top of a watery spread of tomato sauce – completely lacking in spicing or herbal ingredients – that
dribbled over the edge when she cut into it. Still, it wasn’t fish and chips; she had that, at least, to be grateful for.
She ate as much as she could manage, and soon found herself getting full. A young couple came in, looked around the cavern suspiciously, and took a corner table in the shadows. They held hands
and made eyes at one another in the candlelight. Martha felt sick. She ordered a cappuccino, wondering how that would turn out, and lit another cigarette. She still had time to kill.
The cappuccino turned out to be half a cup of Nescafé with what tasted like condensed milk, all churned up by a steam machine and dusted with a few grains of chocolate. The lovers talked
in whispers, occasionally laughing and stroking one another’s bare arms on the tablecloth.
Martha could stand it no longer. She demanded the bill rather
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