By this point, Monica, still standing beside Julian’s table, felt very much like a naughty schoolgirl being told off by the headmaster. Or rather, she felt how she imagined that would feel, as she had, obviously, never been in that position herself.
“May I?” she asked, gesturing at the chair opposite Julian. He tilted his head slightly, in a half nod. Monica sat down and took a moment to gather herself. She was not going to be intimidated. She pictured her mother.
If you feel anxious, Monica, imagine you are Boudicca, Queen of the Celts! Or Elizabeth I, or Madonna!
Mother of Jesus? she’d asked.
No, silly! Far too meek and mild! I meant the pop star. And her mum had laughed so hard the neighbors had banged on the wall.
So Monica channeled Madonna and turned an unwavering stare on the rather imposing and slightly cross man opposite her.
“You’re right, I did pick up your book, and it was written for you, but I didn’t post it on your wall, or on the Admiral.” Julian raised one eyebrow in an impressive display of skepticism. “I only made one copy, and put it in the window.” She nodded over at the empty space where the poster had once been. “This is a photocopy. I didn’t make that. I wonder who did.” The question gnawed at her. Why on earth would someone steal her poster?
“Well, if it wasn’t you, it must be someone else who’s read my story,” Julian said, “otherwise how would they know where I live? Or about the Admiral? It surely can’t be a coincidence that the only gravestone sporting a copy of your poster was the one I’ve been visiting for forty years?”
Monica’s unease increased as she realized that if someone else had read Julian’s story, they must also have read hers. She mentally filed that thought under “too uncomfortable to think about for the time being.” She’d no doubt revisit it later.
“So, are you interested?” she asked Julian. “Will you teach an evening art class for me? In the café?”
Her question hung in the air for so long that Monica wondered if she should repeat it. Then, Julian’s face wrinkled like a concertina, and he smiled.
“Well, since you and, it seems, someone else, have gone to so much trouble, it would be rude not to, don’t you think? I’m Julian, by the way,” he said, proffering his hand.
“I know,” she replied, shaking it. “And I am Monica.”
“I look forward to working with you, Monica. I have a hunch that you and I might just become friends.” Monica went to make his coffee, feeling like she’d just been awarded ten points for Gryffindor.
NINE
Hazard
Hazard looked out at the crescent-shaped beach, fringed with palm trees. The South China Sea was a perfect, Tiffany blue, the sky cloudless. If he’d seen this on Instagram he’d assume it’d been photoshopped and filtered. But, after three weeks here, all this perfection was starting to get on his nerves. During his morning walk along the beach (before the sand became too hot to walk barefoot), he’d found himself longing to find a dog turd lying on the white, powdery sand. Anything to break up the monotonous beauty. Hazard often felt the urge to shout for help, but he knew that this beach was like deep space; no one could hear you scream.
Hazard had been to this island before, five years ago. He’d been staying on Koh Samui with some friends, and they’d taken the boat over for a couple of days. It was too far off-grid for him, and he’d been keen to get back to the bars, clubs, and full-moon parties of Samui, not to mention reliable electricity, hot water, and Wi-Fi. But, hidden among the endless grubby and sordid flashbacks of one-night stands, drunken inappropriate texting, and rendezvous with dodgy dealers in dark alleyways, the memory of this place shimmered, like an oasis of tranquility in the inhospitable desert of his recent history. So, when he’d finally made the decision to clean up his act and sort his life out, he’d booked a one-way ticket out here. Surely, this island was too far away from anything for him to get into any trouble, and cheap enough for him to be able to survive for months, if necessary, on his last City bonus?
At one end of the small beach was a café—Lucky Mother—and at the other end, a bar called Monkey Nuts (after their only bar snack). Strung between the two, like a row of pearls, but without the sheen, were twenty-five huts, erected among the palm trees overlooking the sea. Number 8 belonged to Hazard. It was a simple wooden structure, not much bigger than his father’s garden shed.
There was a bedroom, almost entirely filled with a double bed, draped in a large mosquito net riddled with holes large enough to admit whole coach parties of hungry insects. A small bathroom with a loo and a cold-water shower was tacked on to one side, like an escape pod clutching on to the mothership. The windows were little more than hatches, lined with more mosquito netting. The only other furniture was a bedside table made from an old Tiger beer crate, a single bookshelf, housing a motley and eclectic collection of books bequeathed to Hazard by travelers who were moving on, and a few hooks on which Hazard hung the assortment of sarongs he’d picked up in town. He wondered what his old mates would think of him parading around all day in nothing but a skirt.
Hazard was swaying gently in a hammock hanging between two supports at either end of the wooden deck that ran the length of his hut. He watched a small motorboat moor up on the beach, collecting the fifteen or so day-trippers from Samui, leaving only the residents behind. The sky was turning stunning shades of red and orange as the sun dipped to the horizon. Hazard knew that in a matter of minutes it would be dark. Out here, so close to the equator, the sun made a hasty exit. There were none of the drawn-out, showy, and teasing good-byes he was used to back home—it was more like lights out in the dorm at boarding school.
He could hear the Lucky Mother generator crank up, and he caught the faintest whiff of petrol along with the sound of Andy and Barbara (a Westernized approximation of their Thai names, Hazard assumed) getting ready to produce the evening meal.
It had been twenty-three days since Hazard had last had a drink or a drug. He was certain about this, because he’d been carving a tally on the wooden base of his bed, like a prisoner of Alcatraz rather than a tourist in one of the most beautiful corners of the earth. That morning, he’d counted four little batches of five, and three extras. They had been long days, punctuated by waves of headaches, sweating, and shivering, and nights of the most vivid dreams, during which he relived his wildest excesses. Just last night he’d dreamed he was snorting a line of coke off Barbara’s taut, tanned belly. He could barely look at her at breakfast.
Hazard was, however, starting to feel better, at least physically. The fog and tiredness had begun to recede, but they had been replaced by a tsunami of emotions. Those pesky feelings of guilt, regret, fear, boredom, and dread that he’d always magicked away with a shot of vodka or line of coke. He was haunted by memories of secrets spilled for the sake of a good anecdote, of girlfriends betrayed for a quickie in a nightclub toilet cubicle, of disastrous trades made off the back of a chemical sense of invulnerability. And oddly, in the middle of all this horrible introspection he’d often find himself thinking about the stories in that green notebook. He had visions of Mary trying to ignore Julian’s models, Julian shredding his canvases in the middle of the night, Tanya splattered over the pavement, and Monica handing out muffins and dreaming of love.