Departures Read Free Page A

him, she noted as he took her hand, and wondered why the realisation left her less comforted than annoyed.
    They followed the man past the Germans to a table towards the far end of the room where a woman sat alone facing the window, her hands folded across the handbag in her lap. She smiled at the man but looked startled when they, too, sat down.
    â€œMy wife,” the man explained. He and Martin shook hands across the table, and Jean nodded politely to the other woman as they were introduced. She didn’t catch their names.
    â€œWe were beginning to think we’d have the table to ourselves for the week,” the man said, looking at his wife. Jean glanced up, surprised. His tone, she was certain, had been faintly hostile, and she felt a vague antipathy surface in response.
    â€œYes, sorry about that,” Martin said pleasantly. “We didn’t have much appetite after the flight, and we couldn’t seem to get out of bed in time this morning.” Jean looked at him crossly. Why apologise? she asked him silently. We’re the ones with our backs to the window. They could have left at least one seat with a view.
    â€œYou’re newlyweds, aren’t you?” Martin asked, reaching for the wine. “Somebody told me you’re on honeymoon.”
    â€œYes, that’s right. We were married last Saturday.”
    â€œHow lovely for you,” Jean said, but no one seemed to notice. She watched the comings and goings of the kitchen staff while the other three chatted about the size of the wedding, the great expense involved, the trials of farmers in Britain today, and the implications of the new Europe,but the exchange was awkward and soon lost momentum. A pair of entrées went past en route to the Germans, whose appetite was apparently insatiable and who greeted their arrival with an appreciative cheer.
    â€œHave you been married long?” the woman asked. Again Jean felt her irritation surface. The query was, of course, entirely innocent; anyone recently married was bound to assume that all other young couples were just like themselves. Nevertheless she found the question intrusive; if the woman had wanted to avoid confrontation she needn’t have phrased it quite that way. She met the other’s gaze head on.
    â€œWe’re not. Married, that is.”
    â€œWe’re engaged,” Martin added quickly.
    â€œReally?” The woman’s expression was so genuinely delighted that involuntarily Jean slipped her hands between her knees. “When’s the wedding?”
    â€œWe haven’t set a date yet,” Martin said easily. Jean’s corroborative smile was tight. “Sometime soon, we hope.” He pulled a portion from the warm loaf at his elbow, offering it to her with his eyes. She shook her head, suddenly conscious of the intimacy which could make speech between them unnecessary. And we’re not engaged, she told him irritably, so don’t tell them we are.
    â€œHow is the food, anyway?” Martin asked.
    The woman grimaced. “A bit rich, actually. We made the mistake of eating Italian the first night—couldn’t sleep for hours afterwards.”
    â€œWe’ve been ordering the European option ever since, though, and that’s been alright,” her husband said. “Just be sure to ask for it well-done.”
    Behind them the conversation was animated, the couples delighting in the discovery of mutual friends and acquaintances and the recollection of experience shared. Atthe table in front the two women had pushed aside their plates and napkins to make room for the brochures they’d collected during the day, pointing out to each other the places they’d just visited and sorting through postcards to decide which to send. Jean found herself thinking of breakfast that morning—the cheese, the fresh fruit, a few rolls from the flight, what was left of the spumante from the previous evening, the kick of her