Last Chance Saloon - Marian Keyes [32]
But suddenly that seemed like a great idea to Tara. The brisk, bracing sea air would blow away the stagnation that cloaked them. A little spontaneity would do them no end of good.
‘The seaside? On the fourth of October?’ He looked at her as though she were mad.
‘Why not? We’ll wrap up warm.’
‘Go on, then,’ he conceded, grumpily.
After the toast débâcle Tara was afraid to have any lunch before they left. Which meant that for the entire journey to the coast she smoked constantly and obsessed about food. Everything she drove past looked like something she could eat. Trees became heads of broccoli. Hay bales turned into giant Shredded Wheats or – even better – baklava, bursting with honey and sugar. When they passed a field full of sheep, her breathing quickened as she thought of a bursting bag of marsh-mallows. The cliff face of a chalk quarry reminded her of a lovely big slab of nougat. Her mouth began to water when they drove by a slick, muddy field. A two-acre chocolate fudge cake, she thought, smothered in chocolate icing. The other vehicles on the road tormented her more than anything. Not just because their tyres looked like liquorice wheels. But those cars with a shiny metallic finish put her in mind of chocolates, as if each car had been wrapped with coloured tinfoil, then a layer of Cellophane. Quality Street on wheels. A red car passed her going the other way. Strawberry Supreme, she thought. A purple car passed. Hazelnut in Caramel. A yellow car passed. Toffee Deluxe. A green car passed. Noisette Triangle. A brown car passed. Coffee Crème.
This happened to her a lot. When Liv wore her green-coloured contact lenses, Tara could never look at her without instantly being put in mind of lime Jelly-tots. When Tara went to Italy and was flying over whitish mountains covered with brown scrub, all she could think about was tiramisu. She’d once visited a friend’s flat and from across the room saw a bowl of sweets. Wine gums, she’d deduced, and promptly asked if she could have one. But they weren’t wine gums. They were crystals, and Tara had had to spend the next half an hour pretending to admire them.
‘I suffer from a food analogy,’ she muttered at Thomas, but he was too busy smoking in the passenger seat and staring out of the window away from her. She hadn’t wanted him to hear her anyway.
After they’d been driving for over an hour Thomas stabbed a finger and said, ‘Look!’ in the general direction of a Little Chef. Tara’s heart leapt with hope. Maybe she’d be allowed to eat something. But, as it turned out, Thomas was pointing at the first sighting of the sea. They went to Whitstable in Kent, and had the pebbled beach entirely to themselves. The day was as damp and misty as it had been early that morning. The unmoving sea was a sludgy colour between brown and grey, and the sky looked as if it had been concreted over. The emptiness and greyness depressed Tara further. Coming here had been a mistake. The two hours they’d spent trapped in the car with each other, smoking their heads off, had been even more electric with tension than their morning in the front room. Despite the uninviting weather she insisted that they get out and walk, hoping that the fresh air would perform miracles. Heads down, they trudged along the gravel and, when they got to a breakwater, stopped. They sat on the damp gravel and stared out at the stagnant sea. As beneficial as looking at a switched-off television. No birds sang.
After fifteen silent minutes they slogged back to the car and returned home. On the drive back to London it started to rain.
12
Fintan and Sandro were having a far nicer day than Tara and Thomas. They’d had a lively, chattery lunch with a crowd of friends at Circus, and now they were at home reading the Sunday papers. Fintan was stretched full-length on their so-hip-it-hurts tan leather sofa, his feet in Sandro’s lap.
Perfectly in tune with each other, they barely needed to speak to communicate.
‘Did you read –’
‘– Michael Bywater?’
‘Mmmmm. Funny.’
‘Mmmmm.’