Chancers Read online

  You might worry that I’m going to sell my apartment and buy a one-way ticket to Thailand (not likely). I worry that I’m going to show up some day and find the Graham I knew in Montauk (not all bad, but you were obnoxious when drunk) or the Graham I’m probably lucky I didn’t know whenever you hit bottom. For all your openness, you’ve never really talked about what made you decide to put your life back on track.

  But you have to give me credit for believing that you are trying to do that—and believing that you can. I feel like I reconnected with you somewhere on the path to rebuilding your life, but that’s also nervous-making because you seem really vulnerable right now. It’s really intoxicating to be on the receiving end of all that attention, but I don’t want to take advantage of your generosity or feel like you’re doing things because of me, because that puts a lot of responsibility on me.

  I guess the last thing I want to say is that even though I can’t promise that this is forever (and you can’t either), I think it’s worth taking a chance. So here’s what I’m supposed to tell you: just relax and see what happens. Having a stress-free solo life has its benefits, but then you’d be missing out on snow angels at 5:00 a.m. And I’d be missing out on all the good things I’ve gotten since entering Graham’s world…not the least of which is remembering what it feels like to get so close to someone that when they’re across the room that’s too far away.

  xo,

  -s-

  Even then, I knew Graham would notice that I didn’t use the word love. But I was relieved when he wrote back saying, “It’s probably about the nicest, most honest letter I’ve ever got. I won’t go on except to say ‘thank you’ and I’ll relax and we’ll just take it as it comes. No seeing other people though—can’t do that one. Also, I’ll tell you whatever you want—I’ve not hidden or lied about anything.”

  It was hard to imagine Graham keeping much to himself. The nights we were apart, usually during the week, we’d talk on the phone for hours. Or rather, Graham would do most of the talking and I’d listen, the battery of my cellphone heating up as he described whatever he’d done that day: scanning negatives for his website, replacing the faucet in his kitchen sink, painting a bookshelf he’d found. He was in an industrious phase, hoping to impress me with all his accomplishments, but he got sidetracked easily—in life, and on the phone.

  A discussion about his website would lead to a story about the friend who was helping him with the redesign, a bass player in a band that was about to become famous. Which would remind him of the first few times he saw them play, in small bars on the Lower East Side, but now they were playing concerts all over the world. That would segue into an anecdote about the time he took Michael Jackson’s portrait—Graham had a picture on his refrigerator of the two of them, their arms casually slung around each other’s shoulders. And then he’d promise to send me a song he’d just thought of, “All I Want,” by Joni Mitchell, which I had on a cassette somewhere but he wanted me to listen to it again, and really pay attention to the lyrics.

  Instead, after we hung up, I got an email saying, “Just listening to your slightly exasperated breathing, occasional sighs and sweet voice makes me want to be naked with you.”

  The Joni Mitchell song arrived in my inbox a couple of days later, when he remembered he’d been meaning to send it. I actually didn’t need to listen it; my friends and I had played that album in college so I already knew the lyrics—about love bringing out the best in us—and I already knew that’s how Graham felt.

  Although I loved all the emails he sent, loved listening to him talk, his stories and jokes spilling out like a waterfall fed by some infinite source, I had trouble keeping up with the flow. He had a lot of time on his hands, I told myself—and tried to tell him, explaining why my messages were less frequent, sometimes curt. He was taking time off after a few years of well-paid assignments, but I had to work.

  The truth is, I was a bit jealous of his ease with feelings, and his way with words. He was a photographer; he was supposed to be the visual one. I made my living as a writer; I should’ve been more expressive.

  But I couldn’t always find the right words when I needed them; like a photograph developing in a darkroom, I needed time before I could reveal myself. And to some degree, I was holding back because of everything he’d told me about his past—the drinking, some drug use, a stint in rehab, a bad breakup.

  I can’t say I was certain he’d put all of that behind him, but I did believe him when he said he’d never lie to me. Graham held back so little, I didn’t think he was capable of hiding anything.

  And so, worn down by his pleas that we go away somewhere, I relented. In late January, barely a month after we first got together, we booked a trip to Hawaii—using Graham’s miles.

  Honestly, when he picked up the phone to call United, I thought there was no way he’d come up with free tickets to Honolulu, over Valentine’s Day, booking just two weeks in advance. But he was smiling as he told the representative that he wanted to surprise his wife with a holiday, spinning out some tale about an anniversary, his Scottish accent working its usual charm.

  When he put his hand over the receiver and told me she’d found two seats in business class, leaving on February 11, how could I possibly have turned him down?

  CHAPTER THREE

  February 2006

  Kauai, Hawaii

  I’m pushing past some tangled vines to get to the edge of the cliff when I hear Susan’s voice behind me.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she says, coming up the trail and stopping.

  “I just want to get a little closer,” I tell her, holding up my camera. “I like how the clouds split the blue of the sky and the blue of the ocean.”

  “Then use a zoom lens. It’s a straight drop down to the Pacific.”

  I’m not afraid of heights—growing up in Scotland, my pals and I would dare each other to climb just about anything: the sides of quarries, old oak trees, abandoned buildings—but Susan gets vertigo so all week she’s been nervous about where I’m taking pictures.

  “Alright,” I say, backing up through the brush. “I suppose if I fall you’re not going to scramble down the cliff and save me.”

  Susan laughs and pulls me back onto the path. “Like I told you, if you get in trouble swimming I may be able to help you, but I’m not cut out for any rescue missions that involve heights.”

  That’s one of the things I like about her: She’s really practical and sensible, then she’ll do something impulsive, like surprising me on New Year’s Eve. I’d already fallen for her the day I took her picture, flirting with her from the get-go, but she’s been kind of hard to read. I was hoping the trip to Hawaii might bring us closer—and it’s been brilliant so far. Sun, sand, sex, Susan: all the S’s I wanted. But I still get the feeling she’s holding back a bit.

  After another half hour of ups and downs along the trail, we make it to Hanakapiai Beach, the farthest we can go without a permit. There’s a sign nailed to a tree that says, DO NOT GO NEAR THE WATER. UNSEEN CURRENTS HAVE KILLED 82 VISITORS. It’s got white painted hash marks counting all the people who have died.

  “That’s a bit ominous,” I say, wondering who’s been updating the tally. The ocean is so rough there’s nothing but white foam swirling around the rocks—black boulders that are round and smooth from getting pummeled constantly.

  Once we eat our packed lunch, I take a few pictures of Susan—quite the outdoor type in her blue Patagonia jacket with a bandana tied around her hair. I like how Susan looks so tiny standing next to some palm trees with the huge cliffs in the background. My dad always says a picture means nothing unless it’s got scale.

  “You know there are palm trees on the west coast of Scotland,” I tell her.

  “That sounds like the beginning of one of your jokes.”

  “It’s true. They grow there because of the coconuts brought up by the Gulf Stream. You see them in all these little fishing towns, next to guys in big wool sweaters unloading
their boats.”

  “I’m going to have to google that later,” Susan says, looking a bit skeptical as she points to the sky. “Actually, we should start heading back soon. I think we’re about to get drenched.”

  By the time we’ve packed up and hit the trail, the clouds have rolled in and the rain is really beating down. The streams we crossed earlier are now torrents rushing down the hills and the path is like melted chocolate. I’m using a broken-off branch to keep my balance and Susan is hanging on to me most of the way.

  Normally, I don’t like getting caught in the rain but in Hawaii it hasn’t really bothered me. City rain always feels dirty, but here it’s warm and sort of cleansing—like it’s washing away all the crap of the past few years.

  Back at the condo, I sit naked on the bathroom floor, watching Susan shower and shave her legs. I love how she’s so meticulous, maneuvering the razor around her ankles and pulling it up over her knees. Just as I step in to join her, red mud from the trail dripping down my legs, she grabs a towel and starts drying off.

  “Don’t go,” I tell her, leaning in for a kiss.

  “You can try that again after you’re clean,” she says, teasing me with a quick squeeze before hopping out.

  “Listen—between swimming and showering and getting rained on all week, I haven’t been this clean in ages.”

  —

  THE NEXT DAY, we fly to Honolulu and check into a hotel in Waikiki. It’s finally sunny out, so within minutes Susan has changed into the blue bikini I bought her and we’re heading down to the beach. There are stands renting equipment for every water sport you can imagine—even those Hawaiian outrigger canoes.

  After we walk for a while, Susan picks a place to spread out our towels and opens her book, giving me a chance to escape.

  “I think I’ll pop into town for a bit,” I tell her. “I need to buy some more film.”

  “Really? This might be our last sunny afternoon at the beach. Can’t you just buy it at the hotel later?”

  “I shoot medium-format film so I have to get it at a photography store. I found one that’s not too far from here.”

  “Okay,” Susan says, taking off her T-shirt and wriggling out of her skirt. “But you never know what might happen when you leave your girlfriend alone in a bikini.”

  “I won’t be long,” I promise. “Don’t let some bronze surfer steal my spot.”

  But by the time I find the store and get the film, it’s been forty-five minutes, so I’m sweating and anxious as I try to work out which direction I should be walking. I’ve got one more stop before I head back to Susan, who’s probably wondering what the fuck happened to me. She left her phone in the hotel room, so I can’t call and tell her I got a bit lost.

  I look at the directions I scribbled on a piece of paper, decide to turn right, and finally find the street I want. This is definitely not the touristy part of Honolulu. After a few more blocks, I get to the address I wrote down, open the door, and wait for my eyes to adjust.

  The girl up front has that Bettie Page look, except with ear gauges and more severe bangs. I ask how long it’ll be, telling her I’m in a rush.

  “I’ve got an opening at seven,” she says coldly.

  “You can’t squeeze me in before that? I’m supposed to be meeting my girlfriend and I’m already late.”

  She tells me she’ll check with Nikki, walking over to a skinny girl with bleached blond hair. When she comes back she seems to have warmed up to me a bit. “You’re in luck—Nikki can take you in a few minutes. I just need you to sign the consent form and pay up front.”

  I sign without reading it, hand her the cash, and sit down between a guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a woman who looks old enough to be my mum. These tattoo parlors are all the same. I got my first tattoo when it was still illegal in New York—a friend told me about an underground parlor run by two rockabilly guys in the East Village. Now it seems like tattoo parlors are everywhere you go, and even housewives are getting little flowers on their ankles.

  I flip through one of the binders full of designs—lots of bluebirds, hearts, and tribal patterns—the sound of tattoo guns buzzing in the background. Once Nikki finishes with her customer, she cleans up her workstation and detours to the bathroom, which takes forever. Just as I’m starting to wonder what the hell she’s doing in there—getting high?—she comes out and introduces herself.

  “I’m sort of in a hurry,” I tell her, repeating what I told the Bettie Page girl about my girlfriend waiting. “It’s meant to be a surprise for her.”

  I pull out my drawing—a little S intertwined with a 7, Susan’s favorite number—and show her where I want to get it tattooed, just above my right wrist. I’ve got Liam’s name on that arm and “Mum and Dad” on the other one, written across a ribbon in the beak of a swallow.

  “Well, this shouldn’t take too long,” Nikki says, walking me over to her chair. I watch as she copies the design onto a transfer and places it on my wrist, relieved that her hands seem steady.

  “A little more to your left,” I tell her.

  “You don’t want it centered?”

  “No, I like things slightly off-kilter.”

  She laughs and presses the transfer onto my skin, then prepares the ink for the gun. After a few minutes of stabbing with the needle, it’s done.

  “How’s that?” she asks, smearing the tattoo with a bit of ointment.

  “Brilliant, thanks.”

  “Just keep it out of the sun for a couple days—and the ocean. I hope your girlfriend likes it.”

  “Me, too,” I say, hurrying for the door.

  —

  WHEN I GET back to the beach, I spot Susan where I left her a while ago, her head bent over reading her book. She’s got a blue sarong wrapped around her shoulders and a floppy hat shadowing her face so she doesn’t notice me at first. I plop down next to her, worried that she might be annoyed.

  “Sorry I was gone so long—I got something for you!” I tell her, holding my right arm out in front of her, the ointment glistening where it’s mixed with sweat.

  She doesn’t say anything at first, just stares at my wrist for a few seconds, then looks up. “You got a tattoo,” she says, sort of confused. “I thought you went to get film?”

  “I did get film. I wanted the tattoo to be a surprise. It’s an S—for Susan—with a seven—your favorite number.”

  “Oh…right. The thing is, I don’t really have a favorite number. That’s what I told you when you asked the other day, but you kept pressing so I finally said seven.”

  “Well, lucky seven then. Maybe it’ll bring us good luck!”

  Susan pushes back the brim of her hat and smiles, but she seems unconvinced.

  “Listen, no one has ever gotten a tattoo for me so I’m not sure what to say. I mean, I was sort of hoping you’d get Liz’s name removed from your other wrist, but I guess now we’d better stay together or your next girlfriend is going to have to settle for an elbow.”

  I’m not quite sure how to take this. I think she’s trying to be funny, but it feels a bit like a jab.

  “I’ve been meaning to look into that,” I say, twisting my watch to cover up Liz’s name.

  “Anyway, thank you,” she says, leaning over and kissing my neck. Opening the guidebook on her lap, she points to a map of Waikiki. “Do you remember that pink hotel we walked by earlier? I thought we could stop there on the way back. It’s got a bar out front, right by the beach.”

  “Whatever you want,” I tell her, kissing her on the lips this time. “Unless you fancy going back to the hotel first? Maybe chill for a bit and then go out?”

  “Later,” she says, trapping the hand I’m running up her leg. “I’m starving—I can’t go as long as you do without food. You don’t mind going to a bar, do you? It’s actually more of a restaurant so I don’t think it’ll be a big drinking scene.”

  I don’t really go to bars anymore—it’s a bit boring, not doing the thing everyone else is doing—but I tell
Susan I don’t mind. We only have a couple of nights left in Hawaii so I want her to have a good time.

  By the time we get there, the sun is setting and the bar is lit up with tiki lanterns. The hostess leads us to a table near two chubby guys strumming tiny ukuleles. Susan barely looks at the menu before flagging down a waitress and ordering a mai tai. I decide to try a guavatini, minus the vodka.

  “Do you want to split the pupu platter?” she asks.

  “What’s that? We don’t eat pupu in Scotland.”

  Susan rolls her eyes at my attempt at a joke. “It’s a mix of appetizers: barbecued spareribs, fried shrimp, teriyaki chicken, and some sushi.”

  I don’t eat shellfish, pork, or raw fish, but I tell her that’s fine. I don’t tell her I had a Snickers on the way back from the tattoo parlor so I’m not actually that hungry.

  It doesn’t take long for the waitress to come back with our drinks—garnished with a pineapple wedge, a cherry, and a little paper umbrella.

  “Cheers,” Susan says, raising her drink.

  “Cheers,” I answer, feeling silly clinking my glass of juice.

  She finishes her mai tai by the time the food comes, orders another one, and polishes off most of the pupu platter with her second drink. While she goes off in search of a bathroom, I pick at the teriyaki chicken, opening and closing my pink umbrella between bites.

  To be honest, it is a bit weird being in a bar and not getting drunk. I used to feel like this in pubs in Scotland when I was younger—like I was just biding my time while everyone else was having fun. My brother and sister would tease me ’cause they’d be knocking back pints and I’d be struggling to keep up after a couple of rounds, even pouring my drink into a potted plant once—my sister took the piss out of me for that. But I was running a lot back then, training for races, and hard drinking just didn’t fit in with that routine. Plus I didn’t like how out of control everyone around me got when they were drunk. It usually led to fighting and I hated that hooligan mentality.