Read Online Exposure by Talitha Stevenson - Free Book Online Page B

mean?' one of them said.
    He felt crushed by detail, by the equal importance of other people's lives and the contingency of all his accomplishments. His heart went fast as he tried to think of an aspect of his life that existed independently of his blind faith in it.
    It occurred to him that he could just
not go back to work
—ever. And would it matter to the stars in his gap-year shots of Tanzania? Would it disturb for one minute the thick-set horses in his book on the Mongolian planes?
    Worse than the content of all these thoughts, though, was the suspicion that, as ever, he was the last person to have them. He had a desire to cover his ears—as if people were laughing at him for his slowness—but he lowered his arms in time and lit another cigarette.
    Â 
    It was just three weeks later that he got into his friend Ludo's car and discovered Arianne on the back seat. Ludo had said he was going for a drink with a few friends and that his 'mad cousin' would be there.
    Ludo's family was a sophisticated mess, spread out in the most picturesque-sounding cities in Europe. Luke had imagined a Eurotrashy cousin called Philippe or Sasha, who smoked Gauloises Légères; someone with a manicure, a ski-tan, a cashmere jumper. But instead there was Arianne.
    She had bleached her hair blonde. She slouched sulkily in a cloud of honey and jasmine scent, her worn-denim-clad knees resting on the back of the driver's seat. She moved them over a little to give Luke room.
    'Cheers,' he said.
    'Cheers'? He never said 'cheers'. It was a depressing, flat beer and stale smoke word. Darts competitions and rain. Cheers? That was not him. It was not even anyone he knew.
    They set off and he thought about introducing himself. What was called for was an ordinary exchange. He must simply tell her his name and ask her what hers was. This was what people did—ordinarily. But how could it be an ordinary exchange when he already knew her name?
    Arianne
... Just the name filled him with dreams, with adolescent nostalgia. There in his mind were all the unattainable French girls of his early teens. Unchanged in his imagination, they sprawled out like kittens on the white beaches of Cap d'Antibes; they wriggled off their bikini straps and flipped expertly on to their fronts. He remembered the agony of watching them flip-flopping at high speed through the beach bar where he languished podgily with his bottle of Coke. They had an edible smell of coconut oil and you wanted to lick it off, but you knew they would smack or scratch you if you tried. They cried out in delectable fury, '
Oui, j'arrive! J'arrive
!' to friends, who waved by the pedaloes a little way off.
    Arianne was a holiday name, which made his mouth water for the taste of pear juice and croissants, for the flavour of every breakfast he had ever sleepily consumed on sand-dusted hotel terraces while his parents consulted maps. His memory had preserved a deep blue sea just beyond the edge of a terrace, blinding white tables chequering a lawn, a sense of complete faith in the world.
    He watched Arianne's face out of the corner of his right eye. She was busy sending a text message and paid him no attention. Again, he felt condemned to invisibility as he had in the bar. And again he let himself enjoy it, like a peeping Tom—or a plump boy at the beach club. It was so odd to return to this adolescent role! Particularly given that now, of course, he could get any girl he wanted.
    Arianne had milky-coffee-coloured skin, and the new blonde hair looked almost metallic against it. It had been cut in a 1920s-style bob and it swung into her face as they turned a corner. She pushed a supernaturally gleaming strand behind her ear. In profile her mouth protruded, forming a sharp little curve at the top of her lips; her upturned nose seemed gently to echo the shape. But then, as if to save her face from bland, girlish prettiness, the jaw was strong—almost masculine. She had long, muscular