The cloud made me think of Niall, just as once before, from the riverbank in Dijon. Then and now I was preoccupied with him.
Niall was invisible to me; he existed only through Sue, her descriptions, her reactions.
I wondered what he was really like, whether he was as unpleasant as Sue made out. The odd thing was that we had much in common, because we were attracted to the same woman. Niall would see and know Sue much as I did, her sweet nature when happy, her evasiveness when she felt threatened, her irrational loyalties; above all he would know her body.
And Niall, of course, would know me only through her. How would she portray me to him? Impulsive, jealous, petulant, unreasonable, gullible? I would prefer to think that Sue described me in the way I saw myself, but I had a feeling that this would not survive translation. She had a way of conveying only the unpleasant qualities in someone’s character, and in this way kept alive the sense of rivalry between us.
The beach was beginning to repel me; I felt like an intruder, entering a living diorama and interfering with its natural balance. There was still no sign of Sue, so I dressed and walked up the cliff path, heading for the hotel. At the top I glanced back: the beach now looked more crowded, the rows of changing tents had vanished, and out in the breakers a number of people in wet suits were riding the surf.
I left a note in the hotel room telling Sue that I had gone for a meal, then walked down into the busy streets to find a café. I deliberately passed a few, hoping I would see her somewhere around, but there were so many people I knew I could easily miss her.
I was tired of traveling; I had been in too many different places, slept in too many different beds. I began to wonder what was in the mail for me at home, if any jobs were being offered. I had almost forgotten what it was like to feel the weight of a camera on my shoulder.
I found a sidewalk café and ordered Coquilles Saint-Jacques with a carafe of white wine. I was irritated with Sue for leaving me like that, for not being at the hotel, for not telling me what was going on. But it was pleasant there in the sun, and after the meal I ordered more wine. I decided to sit out the rest of the afternoon in the café. The drink was making me drowsy. I was looking forward to going home and being with Sue in London. In spite of everything we still hardly knew each other.
Unexpectedly, I saw her walking down the street on the other side. I had been staring lazily in that direction, and my first impression was that she was walking with another man. I sat up at once, craning to see better. I must have been mistaken: she was on her own, but she was walking in that way people do when they are with someone else. She walked slowly, kept turning her head to the side and was not looking where she was going. By every appearance she was deep in conversation with someone, but I could see nobody with her.
She reached the street intersection and paused, but not for a gap in the traffic. She was frowning, then she shook her head angrily. After a few moments she walked on, turning the corner and heading away from me.
I had not finished my wine, but I left the table and followed her, intrigued by her behavior. I briefly lost sight of her, but by the time I had turned the corner I could see her again, for all the world in the middle of an argument with her unseen companion. I found it touching to catch her in this unguarded moment. She appeared to be about to halt again, so I turned and walked away from her. I returned to the street crossing, then walked quickly along the main road until I found another side street. I hurried along this, and at the next street I doubled back in her direction. When I came around the corner she was standing still, facing toward me. I walked up to her, hoping for a sign that her mood had changed, but she merely gazed blankly at me.
“There you are,” I said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Hello.”
“Have you finished shopping? Or do you want to do some more?”
“No, I’m through.”
She was not carrying any purchases. We walked on in the direction she had been going before; it was clear that it did not matter whether or not I was with her.
“What shall we do?” I said. “It’s the last night of our holiday.”
“I don’t care. Anything you like.”
Irritation rose in me again. “All right, I’ll leave you alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s obviously what you want.”
We had stopped walking and were facing each other. “I didn’t say that,” she said.
“You didn’t have to.”
I turned away from her, angry with her passivity. I heard her say, “Richard, don’t be difficult,” but I walked on. When I reached the corner I looked back. She was still where I had left her, making no effort at conciliation. I felt that had to come from her; I made an exasperated gesture in her direction and walked away.
I returned to the hotel and went to the room. There I had a shower and put on fresh clothes, then lay on the bed and tried to read.
She returned late in the evening, after ten o’clock. As she entered the room I pretended to ignore her, but was acutely aware of her as she moved around, putting down her bag, slipping off her sandals, brushing out her hair. I watched as she took off her clothes and went into the shower cubicle. She stood in the shower a long time, and I lay on the bed waiting for her. It felt then as if everything was over, that even if she made one of her about-faces and became loving and affectionate and sexy again, I would reject her. There was something insurmountable between us, whether it was Niall himself or simply something he embodied. I could not stand these sudden withdrawals, her obstinacy, her irrationality.
At last she emerged from the shower, and stood at the end of the bed toweling her hair. I stared frankly at her naked body, finding it for the first time unappealing. She was too thin, too angular, and with her hair wet and swept back from her face she had a plain, vague expression. She caught me watching her and bent forward, toweling her hair from the back of her head; I could see the bony ridges of her spine.
With her hair still damp she pulled on a T-shirt, then turned back the sheet and got into the bed. I had to shift position slightly to let her in. Sitting up, the pillow propped behind her, she regarded me with wide eyes.
“Get undressed, come to bed,” she said.
“I don’t want to just yet.”
“You’re angry with me.”
“Of course I am.”
She drew a breath. “If I tell you the truth, will you forgive me?”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me the truth this morning?”
“Because I had to do something, and you would have tried to stop me. And you could have, if you’d tried. It’s Niall—he’s here, in Biarritz. I’ve spent the day with him. But you knew that, didn’t you?” I nodded, shocked by the news confirming the inevitable. “I saw him this morning while you were taking the car back. He said he wanted to speak with me alone. I’ll never see him again after this. That’s the truth.”
“What did he want?” I said.
“He’s unhappy, and wanted me to change my mind.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I’d made up my mind, and that I was with you now.”
“And it took all day to say that?”
“Yes.”
I still felt cold toward her, unforgiving of the truth. Why wouldn’t she act on her decision? I said, “What I want to know is how the hell he followed us here.”