back to previous chapterSoulmate: Chapter 2
Page 1 of 8
I don't believe in having arguments in moving vehicles. I like to wave my arms around a lot and pace up and down. I also like to be able to beat a retreat if I'm losing. So, on the drive west out of Oxford, we stuck to small talk.
I asked about the flight, the family (ours and hers), and the bookstore. Lizzie answered all my rapid-fire questions in her usual crisp, measured tones. I talked fast to hide how awkward I felt, compressed next to her. Her breath was minty fresh, and her perfume reminded me of vanilla ice cream. She was the living embodiment of all those TV ads I'd watched as a kid featuring perfect women, who smelt nice and dressed immaculately, who had ideally shaped bodies and hair that was both silky and bouncy, airbrushed women, model women, unreal women. The kind of woman I longed to be on the outside. I shifted in my seat in a vain attempt to inch away from her, then rolled down the window, and breathed in the warm, rushing air.
We turned off the A40 and headed northwest through the Cotwolds, passing through villages of mellow stone. Narrow lanes flanked by a white froth of cow parsley bowed and swayed as I sped the Mini towards our destination.
Lizzie folded her arms across her raincoat. A quick shiver stole over her. My barrage of questions faltered. Something was definitely bugging her, and bugging her enough to occasionally sneak past her ice princess composure. I found it both disturbing and a little fascinating.
I snuck a look at her right hand when she brushed a strand of blown hair out of her eyes. The simple silver band on her ring finger caught the sunlight and flashed. I blinked and saw the image again like a bloodspot burned on my retina.
I asked whether she'd run into any of my friends. It was probably a stupid question as her circles and mine turned in different directions. She had seen Dorsey, but that was no big surprise as my best friend baby-sits Faye regularly. Dorsey normally wouldn't go within an inch of anything cute or cuddly, but she'd become Faye's babysitter as a special favour for me.
"Dorsey took Faye to Provincetown last week," Lizzie announced, her voice tainted with disapproval.
Provincetown is the bohemian capital of Cape Cod, home to artists, writers, a huge gay and lesbian community, and fishing families of Portuguese descent. Here tradition sits alongside the outrageous, and people-watching is a major spectator sport. When I was in high school, I used to drive down to P-town on a Saturday night with a gang of friends, grab a window seat in a pizzeria, and ogle the crowds passing along the main drag, Commercial Road. A sizeable proportion was actually in drag. Imagine a Yankee Mardi Gras. A 'Rocky Horror Picture Show' parade. I love P-town.
"Just broadening her horizons," I offered, knowing full well that Dorsey probably took Faye on a sleepy weekday morning to visit a couple of shell shops, wander out on to McMillan Wharf to see the whale-watching boats depart, and buy some saltwater taffy.
Lizzie's only response was to fold her arms across her ample chest.
We flew past a sign: 'Buckstowe welcomes careful drivers'. Feeling mildly admonished, I slowed the Mini a little, so that our progress through Buckstowe was more in keeping with the stately surroundings. Large,
Page 1 of 8
I don't believe in having arguments in moving vehicles. I like to wave my arms around a lot and pace up and down. I also like to be able to beat a retreat if I'm losing. So, on the drive west out of Oxford, we stuck to small talk.
I asked about the flight, the family (ours and hers), and the bookstore. Lizzie answered all my rapid-fire questions in her usual crisp, measured tones. I talked fast to hide how awkward I felt, compressed next to her. Her breath was minty fresh, and her perfume reminded me of vanilla ice cream. She was the living embodiment of all those TV ads I'd watched as a kid featuring perfect women, who smelt nice and dressed immaculately, who had ideally shaped bodies and hair that was both silky and bouncy, airbrushed women, model women, unreal women. The kind of woman I longed to be on the outside. I shifted in my seat in a vain attempt to inch away from her, then rolled down the window, and breathed in the warm, rushing air.
We turned off the A40 and headed northwest through the Cotwolds, passing through villages of mellow stone. Narrow lanes flanked by a white froth of cow parsley bowed and swayed as I sped the Mini towards our destination.
Lizzie folded her arms across her raincoat. A quick shiver stole over her. My barrage of questions faltered. Something was definitely bugging her, and bugging her enough to occasionally sneak past her ice princess composure. I found it both disturbing and a little fascinating.
I snuck a look at her right hand when she brushed a strand of blown hair out of her eyes. The simple silver band on her ring finger caught the sunlight and flashed. I blinked and saw the image again like a bloodspot burned on my retina.
I asked whether she'd run into any of my friends. It was probably a stupid question as her circles and mine turned in different directions. She had seen Dorsey, but that was no big surprise as my best friend baby-sits Faye regularly. Dorsey normally wouldn't go within an inch of anything cute or cuddly, but she'd become Faye's babysitter as a special favour for me.
"Dorsey took Faye to Provincetown last week," Lizzie announced, her voice tainted with disapproval.
Provincetown is the bohemian capital of Cape Cod, home to artists, writers, a huge gay and lesbian community, and fishing families of Portuguese descent. Here tradition sits alongside the outrageous, and people-watching is a major spectator sport. When I was in high school, I used to drive down to P-town on a Saturday night with a gang of friends, grab a window seat in a pizzeria, and ogle the crowds passing along the main drag, Commercial Road. A sizeable proportion was actually in drag. Imagine a Yankee Mardi Gras. A 'Rocky Horror Picture Show' parade. I love P-town.
"Just broadening her horizons," I offered, knowing full well that Dorsey probably took Faye on a sleepy weekday morning to visit a couple of shell shops, wander out on to McMillan Wharf to see the whale-watching boats depart, and buy some saltwater taffy.
Lizzie's only response was to fold her arms across her ample chest.
We flew past a sign: 'Buckstowe welcomes careful drivers'. Feeling mildly admonished, I slowed the Mini a little, so that our progress through Buckstowe was more in keeping with the stately surroundings. Large,
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