Faraway People

English voices penetrated the babble of the hotel lobby. Looking round, Maurice saw Suzannah stride purposefully towards the lounge, laughing and gesticulating with a younger couple. She'd landed a catch.

He found them drinking cocktails. Suzannah introduced Nigel, tanned and powerfully built, and Debbie, slender and pale. He guessed they were in their late thirties. He felt ancient.

Nigel embarked on a self-centred monologue, punctuated by gently teasing interjections from Suzannah. Nigel smiled throughout the verbal sparring. Debbie sat close to him, silent, looking anxious.

Maurice sat back, admiring Suzannah's art. She was his social saviour. Without her, he'd have been marooned on his island of shyness. He was glad they worked well together, despite or because of their differences. She was strikingly attractive though reluctant to believe so, a vivacious party animal by night but morose and foul-mouthed if woken too early.

Waiters hurried to the table with drinks, multi-hued concoctions that Maurice rejected in favour of the weak local beer. The others sucked the syrupy goo through black straws. Their smiles grew wider, their laughter longer. With a twinkle in her eye, Suzannah prompted Nigel to resume his narration, and he recounted an improbably hard childhood followed by military service and his present job in construction. Maurice broke his silence to ask what line Nigel was in. He replied that he specialised in home improvements and extensions. Debbie made a rare contribution, saying Nigel worked really hard and often didn't get home until after midnight.

Maurice remarked that most builders he'd known in England began work early and left site mid-afternoon, but Nigel was already explaining he had to see clients most evenings. Looking away from Maurice, he took a quick drink and offered cigarettes to the ladies. By then Maurice had sussed him. He was no builder; he was a salesman. Maurice pictured him in the home of a would-be customer, his forceful nature, perpetual patter and intimidating appearance likely to drive people into signing a midnight contract, just to get him to leave.

Maurice guessed Suzannah had caught on too when she lured Nigel into describing his and Debbie's house. He was quick to detail its splendours. She responded by leaning forward, smiling and showing her cleavage, appearing to hang on his every word. She glanced at Maurice.

"You must write about Nigel and Debbie in your next book," she said. Nigel looked across: he asked what kind of books Maurice wrote. Maurice explained he wrote travel stories, works of fiction into which he introduced some of the characters he and Suzannah met.

Throughout these exchanges, Debbie had been hanging onto Nigel's brawny arm. Maurice saw Suzannah whisper in her ear while giving her what he guessed was a "girls-only" nudge. Debbie squeezed Nigel ever tighter and replied softly that he was indeed a big boy, good to have around in the event of trouble. Nigel stepped in again, describing some of the tricky situations he'd resolved and the fights he'd forestalled. Maurice was wondering how the old country would survive Nigel's absence when Debbie softly ended the session by reminding her loquacious man that they really should go unpack their bags.

*

Suzannah led the way to the bedroom. She poured two glasses of whisky: a bedtime dram relaxed Maurice's stiffening muscles. She helped him get comfortable on the bed and took her drink and cigarettes outside. There she smoked late at night, and there Maurice enjoyed the morning sun while she slept.

"You've got to lampoon those two," she called, laughing.

"For sure I'll do that. What a pair!"

"They won't be talking about us."

"What do you mean?"

"They know nothing about us. They never asked a single question. He's so self-obsessed."

"He did ask what sort of books I write."

"Once I'd mentioned it, he couldn't not ask, could he? I'll bet he doesn't remember what you said."

The conversation paused for a few seconds.

"Anyway," she said, "get writing tomorrow morning. You call me your Muse, but sometimes I think I'm your bloody nurse."

She laughed again and looked at Maurice through the open door. Her eyes sparkled and the subdued lighting reflected off her gold earrings. He stuck out his tongue at her teasing and lay back on the pillows. As he dozed he heard her say that if Nigel and Debbie were half as well-heeled and clued-up as they claimed to be they wouldn't be staying in this two-star hotel.

She was probably right, but her words made Maurice wonder how people saw him and Suzannah, an elderly man with bad posture and a younger woman of tremendous verve. They probably thought, "He must be rich." Well, Maurice had never been rich by western standards, though compared with much of the world's population he was financially comfortable.

Suzannah had found him beside a beach with a blank notebook. That's where it usually started. Like her predecessors, she'd approached him. He couldn't say why: he thought himself no catch. He didn't dress smartly, preferring an old, loose-fitting lightweight suit that washed easily and dried quickly. And yet women would saunter up, smile, and all it took was hello, bonjour, ciao or even salaam alaikum, and conversation ensued. Maurice never encouraged them, but more often than not they wanted to stay. Later, in an intimate moment, they would blame it on his eyes, though that didn't explain the reason they paused in the first place, in defiance variously of training, culture or religion.

Next afternoon, beside the hotel pool, Suzannah tossed the sunscreen bottle Maurice's way. He started at her feet, worked his way gently round her slender ankles and onto the relaxed muscles of her calves. She squirmed ever so slightly as his fingernails trailed slowly over the creases behind her knees. He shuffled forward to massage her thighs and she turned her face towards him, softly sighing as his fingers stroked ever higher. Finishing her back and shoulders, he whispered his pleasure for the time they spent together. She murmured sleepily, and a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. She looked gorgeous.

As soon as she'd found him, he'd begun writing again, basing his stories on conversations she initiated with strangers. It brought them closer together. They didn't target particular individuals or couples, nor did they aim for a tally of encounters per week. Maurice illustrated each tale with cartoons of the characters. In the background of every frame he placed a tall, leggy figure in high heels and a short skirt, a cigarette in one hand and a wineglass in the other, a tribute to his inspiration, his Suzannah.

*

Maurice woke in an empty room. It was an event he'd foreseen in theory but failed to forecast in real time. Instantly he realised he should have guessed: the previous day she'd tidied around her side of the bed, and that night she'd drunk less than usual. Another woman would have known.

He understood that she had unresolved issues. He knew she missed her mother and sister. Within his short-lived regret, he accepted the manner of her leaving. Neither of them had got upset. There was no pleading for a change of heart, no pathetic entreaty to delay. On the table her note read, "Thanks Tash. Til we meet again. Kisses. Suzannah". He shrugged his shoulders and packed his bag.

He flew to Athens and transferred to a basic beachside lodging far to the north, near to where he'd stayed many years earlier. Each evening he sat at a table beneath the trees, his notebook unmarked. The urge to write persisted, but his inspiration had flown.

Sitting lost in thought as evening crept across the sea, Maurice suddenly realised the waiter had brought his bottle of wine and was halfway back to the café. He glanced up as a woman walked along the shore, her movements lithe and flowing. She passed from sight, and he stared again at his idle pen and barren pages. Minutes passed.

*

"Hello! Good evening!"

She spoke in lightly accented English. Maurice stood and raised his hat.

"Madam. Good evening."

"Such old fashioned English charm, my good sir."

She was mocking him. He decided to play along.

"Your servant, madam. May I introduce myself?"

"There's no need. I have a name for you. I acquired the knack after reading Paul Theroux. He's a travel writer. You may have heard of him."

"I'm charmed, madam, but you have the advantage over me. May I know your preferred name, and, of course, my own?"

She smiled, seeming pleased by his participation in her game.

"I am Thalia."

"And I?"

"You are Raggy," she said with an impish smile. "It's short for Raggy 'Tache, your most distinguishing feature."

Maurice bowed, consistent with his role in the charming interlude but also to hide his surprise that his new name should be so close to that given him by Suzannah.

He raised his head and looked straight into her eyes. Her smile never faltered, though he heard the intake of breath as her lips parted the merest fraction. Before she could speak, he gestured to the seat opposite and invited her to share the wine. Never moving her gaze from his, she sat in silence.

"I write and sketch. My subjects are the people I meet. None know the role they've played in my work. They never see their names - I change those - and I alter locations and dates too. It's discreet, anonymous, and, for me, something of a fetish. I shall include you."

She raised her eyebrows, regaining her composure.

"Tell me more," she said.

Maurice idly rolled his pen between thumb and forefinger. He knew they'd be spending time together.

*

A month later they launched a new product range, postcards that featured sketches of Thalia and Suzannah in dialogue on the foibles of travellers they'd met, unwitting subjects who'd become someone else when far from home. The brand was trademarked "Faraway People".

Through her work as an interpreter, Thalia understood the humour of many nations. She took Maurice's drawings and wrote country-specific dialogue. The striking illustrations with witty and waspish epigrams sold well, but Thalia envisaged a more lucrative market.

Her travels with diplomats - predominantly male - occasionally threw her into the company of their bored or frustrated consorts, and from those encounters she found herself privy to juicy gossip, whispered complaints, confidences and confessions. A tabloid newspaper would have rushed to print, but Thalia crafted a different game. She began offering a confidential product to selected individuals who had deliberately disclosed or inadvertently let slip a personal secret, a morsel of gossip. She devised bespoke artwork and text - "Any Size From Business Card To Wall-Hanging" - which Maurice produced. Some clients kept the salacious material for private use, while others wanted postcards or visiting cards - what an Old World concept! - which they could slip into the hand of a special friend.

Maurice was amazed. It would never have occurred to him that anyone might pay premium prices for the thrill of thus hinting at saucy secrets. He admired her business acumen and the highly developed sense of comedy and mischief. He loved the archness with which she could entice women to follow her lead.

One day he heard a client ask Thalia, "Are you two married?"

Thalia replied, "Oh no, though I can imagine the horrors of being too married, if you know what I mean," and with a conspiratorial smile she slid the conversation onto a distinctly salacious plane.

Another time Maurice overheard the answer, "Well, we have been together quite some time, but we've never actually told each other our family names. I feel it's best not to know too much. We confine our personal exchanges to intellectual stimulation and body fluids."

She couldn't have used lines like those with people as dumb as Nigel and Debbie. Maurice wished he were sharp-witted enough to think the way she did. He didn't doubt for a moment that his tendency towards ponderous verbosity annoyed her, yet she seemed content, and one day she referred to him in a casual aside as her Muse.

"That can't be right," Maurice muttered under his breath. "That's always been my line. Maybe it's time I packed my bags."

***