Goodbye Again Read Free

badly to her and long separated without her ever bothering to divorce him. I just said, ‘Divorce is such a bore, and so bad for the children. Who wants to put even more money in the hands of the bloody lawyers?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Unless one wants to marry someone else.’
    ‘Of course.’
    Her face had brightened, perhaps at this idea of happy second chances. We’d got to the big table. ‘There’s some good red wine. A Châteauneuf, or even better, a white Châteauneuf.’
    ‘A small glass of white would be lovely,’ she said judiciously. Ipoured her a glass, another for myself. ‘Canapés?’ I asked. ‘Awful word. Titbits is much better. Though you Americans say “tidbits”. The old puritan ethic. But you’re right, that was the original seventeenth-century spelling of the word in England.’ I picked up a dish, then another. ‘Some cheesy things, salami and anchovies, and olives. I love olives.’ I offered her a bowl of big, purply black Greek olives.
    ‘So do I!’ She was suddenly excited, picking up one delicately, but unable to restrain the wolfing enthusiasm with which she ate it. ‘Kalamata!’ she said joyously, as if the Mediterranean fruit had released all her earlier inhibitions, her cagey, decorous formality. She was indecorous now, putting a hand almost roughly to her mouth, voiding the stone but not putting it aside, gazing at it as if it were a jewel discovered.
    ‘I love olives.’
    ‘Have another one.’ I took one myself. She looked at me, startled, as if waking from another dream.
    ‘No. No, I won’t.’ Controlled again, reverting to her earlier mood.
    ‘Go on, for goodness sake, if you like them!’
    She looked at me again, seeming to draw confidence and daring from my gaze. ‘All right, I will!’ She took another olive, then a third. ‘I’m sorry to be greedy.’
    ‘You’re not. Expected thing to be at an Irish wake … and thirsty.’ I raised my glass. ‘Happiness,’ I said. ‘I don’t care for “Cheers” or “Your health”. I’d prefer a good whack of happiness, whether I’m cheery or healthy or not.’
    She raised her glass and took a fourth olive. Gorging on the juicy fruit, fingertips becoming purple, our rapport changed: we might have been old friends. People were pushing around us, chattering , she had to raise her voice. ‘I do have some excuse, being greedy with the olives. I’m doing a book about them.’
    ‘About olives?’
    ‘Yes, olives and olive oil. The history and culture of the fruit, the different lands and landscapes which nurture it, its culinary, medicinal and other uses.’
    ‘That sounds like the stuff they put inside the jacket.’
    ‘Yes, it is. Just that.’
    ‘Someone’s actually going to publish it?’
    ‘Yes, in New York. I’ve done several other books. I travel round different countries, meeting the chefs, the cooks, making notes. Then I write it all up when I get back. Travel, comment, cookbook.’
    ‘Tremendous!’ I meant it, but I could see she thought I was being ironic. ‘Where do you get back to?’
    ‘New York … I have an apartment there. With frequent trips over here since my father became ill.’
    ‘Well, we’ve all got to drop off the perch sometime. Make room for the rising generation. World’s chock-a-block already, isn’t it?’
    I took another gulp of wine, swaying slightly. I realized she was astonished by this drunken, tactless comment. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been under the weather recently. Forgive me.’
    I shepherded her away from the crowd round the drinks table, towards one of the big mullioned windows looking over the bay. We stood there silently, looking over the bright summer view, the unexpected clump of palm trees at the end of the garden, the crescent beach with its bathers and deckchairs to the left, the boathouse with my father’s old motor cruiser, the Sorrento, inside to the right and the blue waters of the bay straight ahead.
    ‘It’s supposed to be like the Bay of Naples,’ I