Behind the farm house were the mountains, in front of him
the terraced foothills covered in olive, almond groves leading down to the Mediterranean .
Dick sat on the millionaires terrace in the afternoon sun,
bare legs, sandaled feet outstretched, a white burgundy in an ice-bucket on the
outdoor table beside him.
He was alone.
He was thinking about things that had happened and things
that shouldn’t have happened, how things build up a bearing of their own and
how the past could not be gotten away from.
He thought about Jackie and how he had hurt her, he thought
of Nicole and what he had done, or not done to her. And that maybe he deserved nothing from
either of them, and that they wanted nothing from him anymore.
He remembered what he had written to Jackie that had been cruel
and unthinking, and only now was he struck by how rotten it might have made her
feel.
And he remembered Nicole and the evening he took her out in
his boat with the intention of having her, how they had sat opposite each other
in the stern cabin, how he had an overwhelming desire to take her that came before a sudden realisation of how old he felt, and how young and unspoiled she was; how
clumsy his attempt at wooing her.
This was his country, his villa in the foothills of the Alps
with views to the sea, his sun terrace, his infinity pool, his sports car in the
driveway, his sail boat, his life, and he had no one to share it with.
He blamed Jackie, he blamed himself. He wanted to blame Nicole, but realised he
couldn’t. He hated her for her cheerful
indifference, her youth and beauty. He loved her with every good part of him; he couldn’t quite bring himself to accept she
didn’t love him the same in return.
Dick would sit for hours with the view of the Mediterranean and pointlessly wish for things to be different. For all his money he had no clue what to do –
his future was tied to his past, and the present was everything and meant
nothing.
No comments:
Post a Comment