Read Online I Think of You: Stories by Ahdaf Soueif - Free Book Online
Authors: Ahdaf Soueif
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percent tip and handed over the car keys on—natch—a solid gold key ring.
“It’s really beautiful up in Windermere. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time.”
She didn’t quite say “children,” but she easily could have. And of course she was careful not to mention the name of the hotel or let on if she’d been up here with him.
“If you would just drop me off at the house?”
But he wanted to stop by his college first.
He says she’s finishing a dissertation, getting a Ph.D. Only the way he says it, you’re not sure if it’s a joke or what. (I’m trying to be completely fair here. I’m always 100 percent honest in my journal—otherwise what’s the point of keeping it?) She is good-looking; not a stunner or anything, but okay, with a lot of shiny black hair with a loose wave in it. I think she’s older than me, but I couldn’t tell her precise age; I never can with Eastern people.
Once we get to the college he wants to go for a walk. All it is, is a small-town campus, and we keep bumping into people who know him and all he says is “This is Mandy” and they nod and smile politely anddon’t say “Mandy who?” I’m getting pretty fed up by then: this was billed as a trip to the Lake District, not down memory lane. I don’t say anything, though, because if I’ve learned anything by now, it’s that he moves at his own pace and does what he wants and screw the rest of the world. And if the world objects or has something different in mind, why then, screwing it is just that much more fun. So I trail around after him and smile and say “Uh-huh?” and “Hi” and get madder and madder.
Then I get to thinking he wouldn’t be taking me around this place if he was planning on splitting soon, would he? And so I’m not mad anymore. I can’t really afford to be mad at him anyway. For one thing, he’s paying for this suite. (I’ve never stayed in a suite before. It’s great. Like, now I can’t sleep, but I don’t have to lie next to him in the dark or camp out in the bathroom: I can sit out here in this very beautiful “olde English” room with the fire gently dying in the grate—this is really a room to write poems in. But I must carry on with this because I haven’t been getting much chance lately. Also I feel that this is IMPORTANT and I want to always remember how it felt.)
He’s paying for this trip. He pays for everything. Ever since I met him three weeks ago, I’ve never once had to use my own money. Which is just as well, since all I’ve got is my ticket home and five hundred-dollar traveler’s checks stashed away—what’s left of two yearsof saving. Except not all that five hundred dollars is really mine. There is:
$14Owed to Clark for one week’s rent when I moved out so fast. Unless he managed to sublease the room right away.
$50Borrowed from Jackie in Paris—to be collected when she comes over.
$20Acid in Amsterdam (alliteration!)—for Don when he comes over.
So that really leaves me with $ 416 that I can honestly call my own. Wow! That wouldn’t last two days the way we’re going. He must have stashes and stashes of dough, the way he throws it around. He thinks what you do when you run out of clean socks is go down to Harrods and buy another two dozen pairs. (The reason he runs out of socks is he changes three times a day. I used to think Arabs weren’t very particular about all that, but this guy is paranoid with showers and clean clothes. Also, all his socks are black!) All this shopping suits me fine. He’s always bought me something too. Like the outfit I was wearing this morning. I was right to wear it because it’s called a lady’s traveling outfit, and that’s what I was doing—traveling. I saw her clocking it, right there in the station. I guess it looks kind of new: the creases sharp and the nap all going in one direction and all that. She probably knows the sort ofthing he’d buy as well. You’re not married to someone for six years without
“It’s really beautiful up in Windermere. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time.”
She didn’t quite say “children,” but she easily could have. And of course she was careful not to mention the name of the hotel or let on if she’d been up here with him.
“If you would just drop me off at the house?”
But he wanted to stop by his college first.
He says she’s finishing a dissertation, getting a Ph.D. Only the way he says it, you’re not sure if it’s a joke or what. (I’m trying to be completely fair here. I’m always 100 percent honest in my journal—otherwise what’s the point of keeping it?) She is good-looking; not a stunner or anything, but okay, with a lot of shiny black hair with a loose wave in it. I think she’s older than me, but I couldn’t tell her precise age; I never can with Eastern people.
Once we get to the college he wants to go for a walk. All it is, is a small-town campus, and we keep bumping into people who know him and all he says is “This is Mandy” and they nod and smile politely anddon’t say “Mandy who?” I’m getting pretty fed up by then: this was billed as a trip to the Lake District, not down memory lane. I don’t say anything, though, because if I’ve learned anything by now, it’s that he moves at his own pace and does what he wants and screw the rest of the world. And if the world objects or has something different in mind, why then, screwing it is just that much more fun. So I trail around after him and smile and say “Uh-huh?” and “Hi” and get madder and madder.
Then I get to thinking he wouldn’t be taking me around this place if he was planning on splitting soon, would he? And so I’m not mad anymore. I can’t really afford to be mad at him anyway. For one thing, he’s paying for this suite. (I’ve never stayed in a suite before. It’s great. Like, now I can’t sleep, but I don’t have to lie next to him in the dark or camp out in the bathroom: I can sit out here in this very beautiful “olde English” room with the fire gently dying in the grate—this is really a room to write poems in. But I must carry on with this because I haven’t been getting much chance lately. Also I feel that this is IMPORTANT and I want to always remember how it felt.)
He’s paying for this trip. He pays for everything. Ever since I met him three weeks ago, I’ve never once had to use my own money. Which is just as well, since all I’ve got is my ticket home and five hundred-dollar traveler’s checks stashed away—what’s left of two yearsof saving. Except not all that five hundred dollars is really mine. There is:
$14Owed to Clark for one week’s rent when I moved out so fast. Unless he managed to sublease the room right away.
$50Borrowed from Jackie in Paris—to be collected when she comes over.
$20Acid in Amsterdam (alliteration!)—for Don when he comes over.
So that really leaves me with $ 416 that I can honestly call my own. Wow! That wouldn’t last two days the way we’re going. He must have stashes and stashes of dough, the way he throws it around. He thinks what you do when you run out of clean socks is go down to Harrods and buy another two dozen pairs. (The reason he runs out of socks is he changes three times a day. I used to think Arabs weren’t very particular about all that, but this guy is paranoid with showers and clean clothes. Also, all his socks are black!) All this shopping suits me fine. He’s always bought me something too. Like the outfit I was wearing this morning. I was right to wear it because it’s called a lady’s traveling outfit, and that’s what I was doing—traveling. I saw her clocking it, right there in the station. I guess it looks kind of new: the creases sharp and the nap all going in one direction and all that. She probably knows the sort ofthing he’d buy as well. You’re not married to someone for six years without
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