The Forever Girl by Alexander McCall Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

she might have seen one of the women before somewhere, but she could not be sure. People like that kept to themselves, to their own circles; they disliked the expatriates, only tolerating them because they were useful to them; they needed the banks, and trusts, and law firms because without them all they had were mangrove swamps, some beaches, and a reef.
    George had said something to her that she had missed while being distracted by the newcomers.
    “Sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
    “I said: how long are you and David going to stay?”
    She sipped at the drink he had bought her: a gin and tonic in which the ice was melting fast. She shrugged. “Until he retires. Which will be … heaven knows. Another twenty years? Fifteen?” She put down her glass. “And you?”
    “I’d leave tomorrow.”
    She was surprised, and her surprise showed.
    “Are you shocked?” he asked.
    “No, not really. It’s just that I thought you were so … so settled here. I’ve always imagined that you and Alice are happy.”
    For a moment he said nothing. She saw him look out of the window, past the line of white sand on which the hotel lights shone, into the darkness beyond, which was the sea. Then he said, “I only stay because these people – my patients – depend on me. It’s an odd thing. I could say to them that I was packing up and leaving, but somehow I can’t bring myself to do it. Some of them actually rely on me, you know, and that wouldn’t be easy. So if you said to me: here’s your freedom, I’d go tomorrow. Anywhere. Anywhere bigger than here. Australia. The States. Canada. Anywhere that’s the opposite of a ring of coral and some sand in the middle of the Caribbean.”
    She stared at him. “You’re unhappy?” She had not intended to say it, but the words slipped out.
    “Not unhappy in the sense of being miserable. I get along, I suppose. Maybe I should just say that I’d like to be leading another life. But then, plenty of people might say that about their lives.”
    She looked at his hands. She thought they were shaking. No, perhaps not.
    “And Alice?” she said.
    He looked back at her. “She’s not too unhappy,” he said. “She doesn’t like this place very much – she’s bored with it. But in her case, there’s something else that is far more important. You see, Alice is completely in love with me. Completely. Not as most wives are with their husbands – they’re friends, they rub alongtogether out of habit and convenience. With her, it’s something quite unlike that. She lives for me. I’m her reason. I’m her … well, I suppose I’m her life.”
    She whispered now. Nobody could hear them, but the intimacy of the conversation dictated a whisper. “And you? How do you feel?”
    He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could give you a different answer, but I can’t. I don’t dislike her, but I’m not in love with her. Not like that.”
    “Like me,” she said.
    For a moment he did not react, and she wondered whether he had heard. In a way, she hoped that he had not. She should never have said that. It was a denial of her marriage. It was an appalling thing to say. David had done nothing to deserve it – but then Alice had done nothing either. They were both victims.
    Then he spoke. “I see,” he said. “That’s two of us, then. Trapped.”

7
    David came home from the office at nine-thirty that night, which was two hours after Amanda had returned from the Grand Old House. She had collected the children from Margaret’s care and settled them in their rooms. They were full of pizza and popcorn washed down, she suspected, with coloured and sweetened liquids. But they were tired too: Clover had played basketball with Margaret’s niece and Billy had exhausted himself in various energetic games with the dogs. They took no time to drift off, and were both asleep by the time she went down the corridor to check up on them. She liked to stand in the doorway