moving the child seat and tidying up all the dolls on the backseat ruined the moment before it had even begun. Instead I just fantasised about it.
But it’s not just my fault that there’s been so little to report on that front these past two years.
Elisa
22.
At the bottom of a drawer, tucked away in an envelope, there’s a photograph. It’s an enlargement of Raoul and me taken during a Software International company outing. We’re not gazing into each other’s eyes and we’re not hand in hand on a beach backlit by the setting sun. We were on a survival weekend in the Ardennes: a team-building exercise. As I took so many photos for the company, I was invited. Naturally I went.
I’d expected Lydia to be there, but I wasn’t surprised she stayed home. Survival is not really her thing.
Raoul and I spent every minute together. It was a relief to be by his side without feeling Lydia’s eyes on my back.
I take out the envelope.
It’s a good photo. We’re in a canoe in high spirits, riding the rapids. The foam splashes around us and we may capsize at any moment, but we’re both smiling, paddles in hand. I’m up front and Raoul is behind me. He looks tanned and burly, in his element. He sits diagonally of the lens and smiles over myshoulder, his face close to mine, at whoever is standing on the riverbank taking the picture.
Later, when I saw the photo it struck me that we were smiling in exactly the same way, high on adventure and danger. If Lydia had been in my place she’d have had a poor facsimile of a smile. Her expression would be anxious. That’s what I tell myself.
The picture is so precious to me. I wish I could hang it in a nice frame and look at it all day.
I put the phone down and stretch. These days I force myself to go to my studio, but all my work is backlog. I don’t take on any new projects. I can’t focus. Will I ever regain that tingling feeling I used to get when I was busy doing my job? Will I ever enjoy doing anything again?
Sunlight falls through the window, onto my computer screen, bleaching out the colours and text. The layer of dust stands out even more than usual. I draw a line in it with my index finger, then a downwards arch, and another, until a large L appears in the dust.
‘Lydia,’ I whisper. ‘Where are you?’
In the middle of the night, somewhere between sleeping and waking, a voice whispers inside my head.
‘Do you remember,’ the voice says, ‘do you remember the holiday at Benidorm? All those drunken idiots there. You taking photos of them striking poses for us. How we laughed. We were happy then, weren’t we?’
I’m dreaming, I must be dreaming because then we’re in Benidorm, swimming in the sea, the sun bathing us in a bright warm light. Every evening we have dinner on the terrace of a small restaurant, a ceiling of vines above us.
Even after Lydia was married and had Valerie, we still went away together once a year. To the Maldives, the Canary Islands, Crete, Curaçao…
‘This is so wonderful,’ I say as I float on my back in the warmsea. ‘Why can’t it stay like this forever?’
Lydia swims in circles around me. I feel the water shifting with each stroke, I hear her breath.
‘One day it will be like this forever,’ she promises. ‘Nothing can separate us.’
She talks some more, but her voice fades away. I try to catch her words. By then I’m fully awake.
It’s 1:20. My skin is gooseflesh and I’m shivering.
The duvet, which seemed too thick when I got into bed, is no longer warm enough.
I switch on the lamp, get out of bed and put on flannelette pyjamas over my thin nightdress. I even put on a pair of socks, but under the duvet I’m still not warm enough. Could I be getting the flu?
The clock turns 2:00. It turns 2:45.
I push thoughts of Lydia away. Think of something else. Raoul. Walking through the Bergse Woods. Apple tart with cream in the restaurant. The way we consoled each other. But then I feel his hand on mine again
But it’s not just my fault that there’s been so little to report on that front these past two years.
Elisa
22.
At the bottom of a drawer, tucked away in an envelope, there’s a photograph. It’s an enlargement of Raoul and me taken during a Software International company outing. We’re not gazing into each other’s eyes and we’re not hand in hand on a beach backlit by the setting sun. We were on a survival weekend in the Ardennes: a team-building exercise. As I took so many photos for the company, I was invited. Naturally I went.
I’d expected Lydia to be there, but I wasn’t surprised she stayed home. Survival is not really her thing.
Raoul and I spent every minute together. It was a relief to be by his side without feeling Lydia’s eyes on my back.
I take out the envelope.
It’s a good photo. We’re in a canoe in high spirits, riding the rapids. The foam splashes around us and we may capsize at any moment, but we’re both smiling, paddles in hand. I’m up front and Raoul is behind me. He looks tanned and burly, in his element. He sits diagonally of the lens and smiles over myshoulder, his face close to mine, at whoever is standing on the riverbank taking the picture.
Later, when I saw the photo it struck me that we were smiling in exactly the same way, high on adventure and danger. If Lydia had been in my place she’d have had a poor facsimile of a smile. Her expression would be anxious. That’s what I tell myself.
The picture is so precious to me. I wish I could hang it in a nice frame and look at it all day.
I put the phone down and stretch. These days I force myself to go to my studio, but all my work is backlog. I don’t take on any new projects. I can’t focus. Will I ever regain that tingling feeling I used to get when I was busy doing my job? Will I ever enjoy doing anything again?
Sunlight falls through the window, onto my computer screen, bleaching out the colours and text. The layer of dust stands out even more than usual. I draw a line in it with my index finger, then a downwards arch, and another, until a large L appears in the dust.
‘Lydia,’ I whisper. ‘Where are you?’
In the middle of the night, somewhere between sleeping and waking, a voice whispers inside my head.
‘Do you remember,’ the voice says, ‘do you remember the holiday at Benidorm? All those drunken idiots there. You taking photos of them striking poses for us. How we laughed. We were happy then, weren’t we?’
I’m dreaming, I must be dreaming because then we’re in Benidorm, swimming in the sea, the sun bathing us in a bright warm light. Every evening we have dinner on the terrace of a small restaurant, a ceiling of vines above us.
Even after Lydia was married and had Valerie, we still went away together once a year. To the Maldives, the Canary Islands, Crete, Curaçao…
‘This is so wonderful,’ I say as I float on my back in the warmsea. ‘Why can’t it stay like this forever?’
Lydia swims in circles around me. I feel the water shifting with each stroke, I hear her breath.
‘One day it will be like this forever,’ she promises. ‘Nothing can separate us.’
She talks some more, but her voice fades away. I try to catch her words. By then I’m fully awake.
It’s 1:20. My skin is gooseflesh and I’m shivering.
The duvet, which seemed too thick when I got into bed, is no longer warm enough.
I switch on the lamp, get out of bed and put on flannelette pyjamas over my thin nightdress. I even put on a pair of socks, but under the duvet I’m still not warm enough. Could I be getting the flu?
The clock turns 2:00. It turns 2:45.
I push thoughts of Lydia away. Think of something else. Raoul. Walking through the Bergse Woods. Apple tart with cream in the restaurant. The way we consoled each other. But then I feel his hand on mine again
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