Page 49 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

It was Osric’s turn to grow crisp. The gloves were a handsome pair of plum suede, brand new. “What’s wrong with them?”

Fairhrim observed the gloves as though they were a pair of dead birds lying on the table. “There’s enough sorrow in this world without you inventing more.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Why have you stuffed loo roll into your shirt?”

“It’s a cravat.”

“Youlook like an aunt.”

The waiter returned and inserted himself among the explosive ingredients that were Osric and Fairhrim. Between them he placed Fairhrim’s coffee things, and thus prevented the two of them from doing each other serious injury.

Fairhrim resumed the manner of a loving wifeling. Osric slipped his hand along the back of her chair, ostensibly in affection but really to threaten strangulation. Fairhrim pinned his advancing hand with a glare that all but drew blood, and held the skewer in place until Osric withdrew his hand and brought it back to his lap. It wasn’t clear to Osric afterwards whether it was her will or his that had moved it.

“Are you going to walk along the lake today?” asked the waiter. “Bit cloudy, but it looks like the rain will hold off after all.”

“We should,” said Osric, who thought a walk along the lake would be an excellent occasion to drown Fairhrim. “As soon as you’ve had your coffee, belovedest.”

“I’d be overjoyed,” said Fairhrim. “Be a lamb and pass me one of those gaufrettes.”

Osric was a lamb. Fairhrim was “belovedest.”

The waiter stepped away, at which point Osric’s affectionate wife called him a room-stealing, unprincipled cad, and he called her a whingebag.

Osric fished out another cantaloupe sphere. Fairhrim pushed away her coffee.

With the air of a woman who has things to do, Fairhrim asked, “Have you finished fiddling with your balls?”

“Almost,” said Osric. “Not to sound kinky, but I do like being watched.”

There was a delicious silence.

“At least one of us will have a happy ending,” said Fairhrim.

“Coffee not good?”

“Oh, it’s lovely. Try.”

Osric tried. He choked. “Foot broth.”

“I didn’t want to suffer alone,” said Fairhrim. “May I have one of your balls, as a palate cleanser?”

Osric slid his glass towards her. “You may even have both.”

Fairhrim put his balls in her mouth. Osric awaited the verdict. She said, “Not unpleasant.”

Damned with this faint praise, Osric, out of etiquette rather than desire, offered Fairhrim his arm. She, who would rather hold a grudge than his arm, hooked one pointy finger at his elbow.

They descended the few steps from the terrace down to the lake and promenaded among the elegant crowd. Banners danced in the breeze; couples lay upon the lawn; vendors offered ices and spun sugar and fresh fruit, beaded with water.

Fairhrim’s stiff walk at Osric’s side was suggestive not of matrimonial bliss but rather that she was the victim of a parasite who had attached itself to her as its host. Osric studied the dockside in search of the most discreet place to push her into the water.

Fancying something sweet to rid himself of the lingering taste of foot broth, he stopped by a trolley selling pink heart-shaped lollies. Hereached for a coin. The vendor, under the delusion that Osric wished to purchase the lolly for Fairhrim, placed it in her hand, and said, “Sweets to the sweet.”

Osric bought a second lolly with a false smile.

“That,” said Osric, as he and Fairhrim left the trolley behind, “wasn’t for you.”