end-of-summer morning sun and a cup of Italian Arabica. I try to put myself into her head, but I canât imagine howsheâs feeling. Unlike my own, Gemmaâs travails are, as she noted so bravely the previous day, her own doing. Whereas I can blame others (Venezuelan bus companies, ginger-headed landlords, the Virgin Mary) Gemma has to wake up each morning knowing that the reason she feels so miserable is because sheâs made herself feel miserable.
The sunshine liberates me and I realize Iâve been feeling cooped up. I donât understand why, when she lives next to a park, Gemma wonât leave the house. Iâve never liked interiors, preferring the open spaces of the great outdoors, even in London. I like to move (hence my career choice). The broken ankle is a severe strain on my psyche, on my basic nomadic need to relocate. Only another couple of weeks, I tell myself forcefully.
I look around the sixty-foot-long garden. Itâs big for London, an advantage, I suppose, of moving to one of the more extraneous boroughs. It is, like most of the house interior, a mess. A hole has been dug for some uncertain purpose, which is now filled with rainwater. Concrete slabs lie like gravestones in the far corner. The only feature of any discernible beauty, as far as Iâm concerned, is a mature tree by the back fence that must have been planted when the houses were originally built, sometime at the end of the nineteenth century.
I love trees â they seem so stable, so sure of themselves with their confident spreading branches and unseen solid roots â so unlike people in their steadfastness when faced with adverse elements. I often mention them in my travel articles:
The majestic plane trees line the Cours Mirabeau like ancient courtiers saluting the Sun King
.
A hillside of ochre aspens, nodding lazily in Coloradoâs early autumn breeze, is more beautiful than any Van Gogh
.
I sat beneath a venerable palm tree, laden with voluptuous dates, and wondered how many sheikhs, spies and scorpions had sat in its benevolent shade before me
.
This tree, I notice on closer inspection, is a walnut, laden with green fruit. I imagine the legions of meaty testicular nuts, lurking inside their fleshy feminine cups, and shiver slightly. I have a sudden urgent desire to see Molly. I want to have sex with her, to feel her, to hold her close to me, despite my comedy ankle plaster.
But I canât be selfish. First, I need to cheer up Gemma. Such is my role, I feel â somewhere between Activities Counsellor and Court Jester. I hobble back inside.
âFancy some brunch?â
I open one of the newly installed cupboards. Itâs empty, apart from a couple of small screws that seem lonely and lost in the large vacant cabinet.
âThereâs no food,â she says in a monotone voice, as I open the next cupboard.
âI could go and get some. Eggs, bagels, smoked salmon. You love smoked salmon.â
She doesnât reply.
âWhereâs the nearest shop?â
âIâm not hungry, Ian.â
âYou need to eat.â
âNo I donât.â
âJust some scrambled eggs,
à la
Thompsonâ¦â
âI donât want anything, thank you!â
A phone rings. Itâs my mobile, coming from my jacket. I want to answer it, in case itâs Molly, but I donât wantto make Gemma feel unwanted. The phone continues to ring.
âWell, fucking answer it!â
I snatch for the jacket and extract the phone. To my disappointment (which I try to conceal), itâs my mother.
âIâm a little busy right now, Mum.â
âOh.â
I glance at Gemma, who is gazing out at the empty street.
âCan I help with anything?â I ask my mother, feeling guilty.
âNo. I just wanted to see how you were doing, you went off in such a hurryâ¦â
âIâm fine. Iâm at Gemmaâs, sheâs just not feeling very
The sunshine liberates me and I realize Iâve been feeling cooped up. I donât understand why, when she lives next to a park, Gemma wonât leave the house. Iâve never liked interiors, preferring the open spaces of the great outdoors, even in London. I like to move (hence my career choice). The broken ankle is a severe strain on my psyche, on my basic nomadic need to relocate. Only another couple of weeks, I tell myself forcefully.
I look around the sixty-foot-long garden. Itâs big for London, an advantage, I suppose, of moving to one of the more extraneous boroughs. It is, like most of the house interior, a mess. A hole has been dug for some uncertain purpose, which is now filled with rainwater. Concrete slabs lie like gravestones in the far corner. The only feature of any discernible beauty, as far as Iâm concerned, is a mature tree by the back fence that must have been planted when the houses were originally built, sometime at the end of the nineteenth century.
I love trees â they seem so stable, so sure of themselves with their confident spreading branches and unseen solid roots â so unlike people in their steadfastness when faced with adverse elements. I often mention them in my travel articles:
The majestic plane trees line the Cours Mirabeau like ancient courtiers saluting the Sun King
.
A hillside of ochre aspens, nodding lazily in Coloradoâs early autumn breeze, is more beautiful than any Van Gogh
.
I sat beneath a venerable palm tree, laden with voluptuous dates, and wondered how many sheikhs, spies and scorpions had sat in its benevolent shade before me
.
This tree, I notice on closer inspection, is a walnut, laden with green fruit. I imagine the legions of meaty testicular nuts, lurking inside their fleshy feminine cups, and shiver slightly. I have a sudden urgent desire to see Molly. I want to have sex with her, to feel her, to hold her close to me, despite my comedy ankle plaster.
But I canât be selfish. First, I need to cheer up Gemma. Such is my role, I feel â somewhere between Activities Counsellor and Court Jester. I hobble back inside.
âFancy some brunch?â
I open one of the newly installed cupboards. Itâs empty, apart from a couple of small screws that seem lonely and lost in the large vacant cabinet.
âThereâs no food,â she says in a monotone voice, as I open the next cupboard.
âI could go and get some. Eggs, bagels, smoked salmon. You love smoked salmon.â
She doesnât reply.
âWhereâs the nearest shop?â
âIâm not hungry, Ian.â
âYou need to eat.â
âNo I donât.â
âJust some scrambled eggs,
à la
Thompsonâ¦â
âI donât want anything, thank you!â
A phone rings. Itâs my mobile, coming from my jacket. I want to answer it, in case itâs Molly, but I donât wantto make Gemma feel unwanted. The phone continues to ring.
âWell, fucking answer it!â
I snatch for the jacket and extract the phone. To my disappointment (which I try to conceal), itâs my mother.
âIâm a little busy right now, Mum.â
âOh.â
I glance at Gemma, who is gazing out at the empty street.
âCan I help with anything?â I ask my mother, feeling guilty.
âNo. I just wanted to see how you were doing, you went off in such a hurryâ¦â
âIâm fine. Iâm at Gemmaâs, sheâs just not feeling very
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