‘Takes some getting used to,’ says the woman. I nod, and stand beside the bench, keeping my eyes on the sea. ‘Can’t take too long to settle in, though. We’ve only got a week. I’m Kay, by the way.’
‘I’m Marianne.’
‘I’ve already got half my declaration done in my head. As soon as I found out I had a place, I was thinking it over. You?’
I haven’t considered this – the writing of my own declaration. ‘I don’t know. I think it might come easily to me, though. I love reading.’ How smug that must sound. The breeze picks up. The sun is completing its inexorable trajectory into the sea.
‘I wonder what the food will be like,’ says Kay. She pats the square of bench beside her, and I perch on the end.
‘I think we have to cook it ourselves.’
‘Really? Crap. I live on microwave meals back home.’
‘I’ll cook, if you like. For us. Or anyone.’
‘Can I tell you something?’ says Kay. ‘It’s not the kind of thing I’d usually tell a stranger. I know we’re meant to be getting used to the seclusion, saving up all the private stuff for the declaration.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t have been a nun. This place is already too quiet for me. Have you handed in your phone yet? I did that first. I thought – if I don’t do it now, I never will.’
‘No, I haven’t done mine yet.’
‘Really? Can I check my email?’ She holds up one hand; she has bitten fingernails, painted purple. ‘Actually, no. Scrap that. I bet you don’t get reception out here anyway.’
We sit in silence. Oddly, I’m relieved that I don’t have to give her my phone. Eventually, I say, ‘You wanted to tell me something?’
‘Yeah. It’s only that when I get back home I’m going to buy a motorbike.’
‘Okay.’
‘I suppose that doesn’t sound like a lot to you. Let’s just say there are reasons why everyone is going to have a meltdown about it.’ She wriggles, and stands up. She’s very thin; her combat trousers hang low on her hips. ‘I’m going to go check out the bungalow. You coming?’
So I stand up too, and fall into a fast walk beside her, keeping pace, negotiating the dishevelled, uninterested sheep and their turds.
‘I bet you’re good at everything,’ says Kay. ‘You look the type.’
There is no reply that can be made to that. I think of how difficult I once found sex. David is the only man I’ve ever really relaxed with. It was difficult to switch off my brain, to stop worrying that I was taking too long, trying my partner’s patience. But he had endless persistence. He ordered some erotic books on the internet, and a door opened for me. I could become the heroine of the book, and do and say the things that I wanted for the first time. Technically, it was pretending to be somebody else, but that had never seemed to bother David.
‘I wasn’t very good at school,’ says Kay. ‘Not great as a mother, either, if I’m honest. My three kids will tell you that, right out. I tried really hard when they were little, but as they get older they stop wanting you to know stuff about their lives, and I never had the patience to whittle away at them. And then, before you know it, it’s all your fault because you didn’t spend three hours a day interrogating them. Besides, when you have three, they form their own gang. You got any kids?’
‘No.’
‘Thought not.’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘I’m good at motorbikes,’ says Kay. It’s as if she’s been starved of the freedom to talk; she unburdens herself, at speed, with relief scored through every word. ‘I’ve got good reflexes, and stuff. I feel free on a bike, free to be good at it. But on a bike it’s not always enough to be good. All it takes is some idiot in a car, not looking at a junction, and you’re dead. Or out of action for a while. I got hit by a car. Old lady who just didn’t see me, and I went right over the top of her sky blue Nissan Micra and ended up in hospital for eight weeks. I promised my mum and the kids – no more.’ She is walking faster; I have to break into a trot to keep up with her. ‘The thing is, I don’t want to be alive just to make them happy. Nothing else does it for me.’
‘Was it a very bad accident?’
She slows down again as she describes, lovingly, the broken bones, the removed spleen, the physical cracks that lead to emotional ones, her kids, her mother, and the men who never stuck around. It is easy to admire her stubborn belief that only a motorcycle makes her free.
The main building comes into view once more, a white bulge on the landscape. The lights are off; the island is beginning to look done for the day. I follow Kay back on to the gravel path, through the rose garden, past the glass doors of reception and down the side path that leads to the bungalows. We don’t speak again, but it’s a pleasant silence; the kind that falls when the curtains go up and the show is about to start.
The bungalow is one of many placed in crocodile formation, on either side of the path. The interior space is divided by stand-alone partitions, on one side, the basic kitchen with a long wooden table at its centre and two benches; on the other side, eight single beds with duvets with faded green cases. Strings of electric lights hang from the exposed rafters. It isn’t homely, but the simplicity is appealing. It’s impossible to think of the place as anything other than a temporary stopping point.
The kitchen is already occupied, the aroma of tomatoes, garlic and onion, keeping each other company.
‘You’ve got in there quick,’ says Kay to the woman standing in front of the oven, stirring a pan. ‘Marianne was going to cook for all of us.’
‘I thought I’d make puttanesca,’ says the woman, with a beautiful roll of the tongue to her Italian. She has darker skin, and long, hennaed hair, falling in corkscrews. ‘There’s enough for everyone. Are you hungry? I’ll put some pasta on.’
‘Great!’ Kay sits down on the bench as if she has the right to be served. ‘Is there any wine?’
‘Some cheap red. I used a little for the sauce.’ She gestures towards the bottle. I come forward and take it, then open the coarse pine doors of the kitchen cabinets, hung at head height on the outer wall, until I find three glasses, then bowls and mismatched cutlery. I bring them all to the table, and pour the wine. Kay takes the first glass.
‘I’ve put my case on one of the beds already. I hope you don’t mind. I’m Rebecca,’ says the woman. She is wearing a loose green dress that falls back from her arms as she reaches up to turn on the extractor fan. The sound of it echoes around the kitchen. I realise she’s older than I first took her to be.
‘I’m Kay. She’s Marianne. I’m usually not that keen on Italian food,’ says Kay, ‘but I’m starving tonight. It smells great. You’re cooking for us too, right?’
‘You don’t like Italian? That’s unusual, isn’t it?’ says Rebecca. ‘I thought everyone liked it.’
‘And Marianne will cook us something amazing tomorrow.’
‘I don’t have to,’ I say, even though my input does not seem to be needed. ‘If you like cooking.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ says Rebecca. She kneels down and retrieves a large saucepan, then takes it to the sink and fills it with water. I watch her complete these homely actions, and wonder who Rebecca would usually be doing them for, and why she feels it necessary to do it for strangers.
Kay carries on talking away, making conversation without needing input. She pours herself a second glass of wine, and I continue to sip on my first until the pasta arrives. It’s tasty; the chopped anchovies and olives warm my throat and then soothe my empty stomach. The act of eating is both painful and satisfying.
Kay talks of a holiday she once took to Siena. I try to listen, but my thoughts are on the holiday David and I once took to Lake Garda. I can’t remember much of it except the very cold water, transparent to a frightening depth, and the time I had refused to get on a pedalo with David because the idea of being together in the centre of that body of water had been unbearable.