Jamaica, March 2007
They drink Cristal by the pool at noon. They flirt with the waiters. Scottish, maybe, most likely Irish. A lot of Paddies have made the trip, equally as aged and affluent. Louche as a swinger meet.
She's thick, base-tanned, a pixie-cut brunette. In spite of her ostentatious shades, I know she's watching me as I shower off after swimming. I see her as if through a compound eye. The sun makes points of light of her bones. Aloof-seeming, like she's stoned.
The rain comes instantly, huge and warm as tears. They squeal as they run for the terrace. Something falls from her bag. I retrieve it casually. A hard case, grubby with fingerprints. A tan chamois within, faint with musk.
*
She's wary at first. Sharp, nobody's fool. She's well-maintained, politely spoken, cream and sugar in her tone of voice. She asks me where I'm from, what's my line. She believes in eye contact. She compliments my accent. She's interested.
I won't take the money she tries to press on me but I let her buy me a drink. Her nails are burgundy, stark upon the glass she hands me. I've already clocked the rings.
Malcolm and Mel...
It sounds like a cancelled sitcom. He got to go to the Ryder Cup and she got to come here. That was the deal. She talks of him and their boy with genuine affection. She tries way too hard.
Gin warms her. She asks me to explain the rules of cricket to her. Team sports bore her. Tennis is her game. I tell her it wasn't a thing where I grew up, much less cricket. Her line of questioning is thoughtful, a convent girl's. She thinks it's wonderful I got out of Dodge. I thank her kindly.
*
I bring my notebook down to the poolside with me with the best of intentions, but the humidity is brutal. I order coffee and whiskey. I have until noon to file. Quint will get it in some shape or form.
She waves from the opposite side of the pool and calls me over. She's alone. Her friends have gone to the beach. She's feeling a bit rough, so she's passed.
I assure her she isn't interrupting. She's slick with oil and sweat, even her hair. Wraparound shades, a pink bikini...I like her scars, her mottled substance up close. She has an easiness about her, a promise of hygiene and diligence. She's reliable. She's someone who always does the right thing.
I tell her my copy is about England's selection dilemmas. It means nothing to her. She asks me if I ever write fiction. Not since college, I tell her. She's a BA as well. UCD, Class of '75. The holiday is by way of a reunion. They hadn't even known the World Cup was on.
She asks me if I want a pill. The vial is already open, rattling. I wash it down with her water, tasting her on the mouth of her bottle. She watches my lips, like every other white bitch.
*
I file at 11.49. Quint has been sending me passive-aggressive e-mails. The next time I'll be later again. With what they're paying me? Little man can go fuck himself.
Her lounger is empty but now I know where her room is. I drop off my things and head up to the sanitised stretch of jungle to the north of the complex. The site of the old plantation's slave quarters, according to the porter. White matrons want privacy in which to fuck black boys. It's as if white matrons are ashamed.
The air among the trees is a smog of weed fumes drifting from terraces and open windows. I catch glimpses beyond shutters of porn playing on wide screens; the ying and yang of abandoned bodies in motion. I've supplemented the pill she's given me with one of my own. I'm starting to feel it.
I jump behind a palm when I see her up ahead. She dismounts from the golf cart and tips the driver. She's wearing a black vest, a peacock butterfly sarong. She's on the phone to Malcolm. She has that attitude; terse, familiar. Her mouth is tight. She doesn't need it, whatever it is. He goes and ruins