Page 69

He appears back beside me with the expression of someone who has just done something he is very pleased about.

"Patrick," I say.

He turns to face me, entirely pleased with himself, the expression of someone who has done a thing and knows it was the right thing. "Yes," he says.

"You requested Cruel Summer from a DJ in a Bali beach club."

"I did." No remorse whatsoever.

"For me." I look at him steadily.

"For you." He holds my gaze. His eyes warm. The grin arriving, the full version.

I look at him.

We are somewhere in the middle of the second song when a man appears beside me.

He is attractive, in the way of people who know they are attractive and are comfortable with it. He says something, I don't catch it over the music, but the intent is clear enough.

I look at him.

I look at Patrick.

Patrick, who has been watching this with the particular expression of someone who has not forgotten what happened at the pool and has learned approximately nothing from it, has stopped dancing.

He steps forward.

He puts his hand on my back, the full Patrick hand, warm and certain and communicating everything, and he looks at the man and smiles. Not coldly. Patrick doesn't do cold. He smiles with all of his warmth and all of his considerable physical presence and says: "He's with me."

The man looks at Patrick. At the hand. At me.

He nods amiably, no difficulty, and moves on.

Patrick looks at me.

I look at him.

"Bram from Rotterdam sends his regards," I say.

He laughs, and pulls me in and we dance, which is not something I do, except that apparently it is now, here, with Patrick, in Bali.

The day after the beach club Patrick announces we are going plane spotting.

"There's a terrace," he says, at breakfast. "Near the airport. Close enough to see the approaches properly. Garuda uses widebodies on some of these routes that I never see in Europe. Batik Air. Lion Air. I want to film it."

I look at him over my coffee.

"Also," he says, "you could be in it."

"I'm not being in your video."

"You know things," he says. "You identified the 737-800 last week from the terminal just by looking at it."

"I've been watching your videos."

He stares at me. "For how long."

I look at the ocean. "A while."