“What do you mean ‘robot man’?” she asked, her voice high and hysterical to her own ear.
“His dancing, last night,” John said, still holding her arm as he helped her sit down, and the boat finally reached an equilibrium.
“Right,” she said, clearly flustered. She quickly turned to Richard.“Well, Captain, this punt boy might look the part, but can he steer? I don’t want a dunking, I know there are water rats in here.”
“If you fall in, I will jump in and save you from the water rats,” John said, his voice teasing.
“Promise?” she asked, and they shared a smile. John seemed far lighter this morning, the sharp edges of last night’s conversation dulled by daylight and sobriety. As he moved to the back of the boat and pushed off from the bank with the long punting pole, Chloe rearranged the canvas cushions and made herself comfortable in the low wooden seat. They were soon gliding along the middle of the river, following the slow procession of boats downstream. The water parted with barely a ripple. She watched John work the pole, muscles shifting beneath the linen of his shirt, brow furrowed in concentration. There was a rhythm to it—push, glide, adjust—that was strangely captivating. Watching John punt, Chloe had a strong sensation of déjà vu. They had done this before. But it was also new. She couldn’t put her finger on the exact feeling. It was like hearing a song you knew every word to played on a different instrument, in an unfamiliar key.
“What?” he asked self-consciously, and she realized she must have been staring.
“You look like you were born to do that,” she said.
“Don’t watch me, you’ll put me off,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her.
The river was calm, and the sun reflected off the water and into Chloe’s eyes, so she cupped a hand over her brow. “Here,” John said, offering her his hat.
“No, I like you in the hat.”
“Is that because Charles Ryder is your favorite literary character?” he suggested.
“No, it’s giving more Mole fromThe Wind in the Willowsvibes,” she giggled now, as he frowned in mock hurt. “What? Moley’s cute!”
“Wow. Here I am trying to re-create some Evelyn Waugh fantasy for you, and you’re sitting there picturing me as a rodent?” He feigned offense and offered her the hat again, eyes sparkling with humor. “No, take it. You’ve ruined it now. I mean, if we’re goingThe Wind in the Willows, I’d at least hope to be Badger or Toad. But Mole? Way to dent a guy’s confidence.”
She took it, smirking. “Okay, fine, you can be Badger, Badger’s much sexier,” she said, and now their eyes met, and something zinged between them. This conversation had taken a strange turn.
Chloe placed the hat on her head, then leaned back in the low wooden chair and closed her eyes, enjoying floating along the river with the warmth of the sun on her face. She watched willow tree branches overhead, a kingfisher swoop into the water beside them. “I could get used to this,” she said, as Richard came over to nestle his nose into her arm. She let him crawl onto the seat beside her, then hugged his warm velvety body to her with one arm.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry about last night, for having a go at you,” John said, his tone serious suddenly. “I don’t know why I brought all that up, about the play. It was so long ago, I’d had too much to drink.” She looked up at him, but he was avoiding her gaze.
“That’s what reunions are for, aren’t they?” she said. “Dredging up the past, making people question every decision they’ve ever made.”
His mouth twitched into a smile and Chloe was glad he’d brought it up. She didn’t like the idea of there being any bad blood between them, of John thinking poorly of her. She realized, quite suddenly, that of everyone here, it was him she most wanted to reconnect with.
“Honestly, I’m glad you said something. I’m sorry I wasn’t a good friend back then,” she said. “You were right, I was self-involved and immature. Everything that happened withBack to Brideshead…I still cringe thinking about it.”
“I think we probably all cringe when we think about our twenty-year-old selves,” he said, expertly pushing the quant pole into the riverbed.
“Sean was friendlier at breakfast,” she said, and John nodded.
“Give him a chance. Just because he’s a writer, it doesn’t mean he’s great at expressing himself. Fame doesn’t make you any less insecure.”
“What would he have to be insecure about? All his fans vying for his attention?” she said, and it came out sharper than she’d intended.
“Maybe it’s not the approval of the masses he’s after,” he said, drumming his fingers on the pole.
“Don’t be so cryptic, John.”
“I just know, even now, when it comes to scripts, to his work—he respects your opinion.”
“Good, because I have a script to show him, that’s one of the reasons I’m here.” John looked surprised. “NotwhyI’m here,” she clarified, shifting her attention down to Richard. “But we work in the same industry, so…” She petered out, not sure whyshe’d brought this up. “It’s not even a good script. He won’t want to do it.”
“Why don’t you show him one of your own scripts?” John suggested.
“I don’t have any,” she said, feeling she could be honest with John now. “I haven’t written anything new in years. I think any talent I might have had evaporated when I didn’t have Sean to bounce ideas off.”
“He might say the same about you,” John said with a heavy sigh. Then his expression shifted to one of amusement. “Poor you, you lost your muse. Just like Toad, ‘Poor me, I crashed my racing car.’ ” John raised a goading eyebrow.
