The night after Guy Fawkes, I call Joel while I’m knee-deep in water in the middle of a marsh to ask if he fancies dinner at the new tapas place in town.
For the past few days I’ve been mulling something over, and now I’m buoyant with excitement about it. All afternoon as I’m trudging around in waders and wellies while the rain pours, I imagine revealing my plan, a beatific smile on my face. I picture myself assuring him that this—this—is why it was the right call not to tell me. Because I’m able to plot a future now that I simply wouldn’t be bothering with otherwise.
•••
In the end, I don’t bring it up until dessert.
Joel seems subdued tonight, distracted. His mind is elsewhere, and I start to worry that perhaps my timing’s all off. I know he’s barely slept lately—he’s been as exhausted this week as I’ve ever known him.
But the evening’s escaping, and I can’t wait any longer.
“I had a meeting with Fiona on Monday.”
Joel turns his dark eyes to me, and my nerves are quelled. Despite the low mood, his expression remains loyally loving. “About your contract?”
“They’ve offered me a permanent role.”
“Cal, that’s... that’s amazing. Monday? Why didn’t you say?”
“Well, I’ve been... The thing is, she’s tipped me off about this cottagethat’s coming up for rent on the far side of Waterfen. An old reed-cutter’s place. She took me to see it yesterday. It’s gorgeous, Joel. We could live there, you and me, and we’d be right on the reserve, surrounded by the trees and the birds and the reeds...”
His eyes meet mine now, but I can’t quite interpret the look on his face. Is he emotional with pride or something sadder?
“Fiona said she could give me a few weeks’ break between contracts too.” I smile, look down at my half-eaten dessert. “They never need much persuasion to save a bit of cash.”
His expression asks me to fill in the blanks.
Here goes.“You remember Dave, the guy who left soon after I started, to move to Brazil? Well, he sent us a postcard.” I slide it across the table to him. “And it got me thinking...”
Joel picks up the postcard, scans it quickly. “You want to do this? Go to Brazil?”
“No. I thought I’d go to Chile, to Lauca National Park. Try to find that bird.”
Joel smiles at me—for possibly the first time tonight—and swigs from his glass. “I think that’s a brilliant idea.”
I spoon up a little morecrema catalana. I’m pleased I decided to have three courses—I mean, there are ninety-year-olds all over the place who’ve eaten cheese and drunk whisky and smoked like chimneys their whole lives. “And I was thinking... once I’m back we can move into the Waterfen cottage, and I’ll work at the reserve.”
He nods—but so slowly it feels almost redundant. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t come back, Cal.”
I do a sort of mental double take. “What?”
Another swig of wine. “I think... you should go to Chile for as long as you want.”
“Yes, a few weeks, like I—”
“And after that, you should go wherever the wind takes you.”
“Well,” I say nervously, “the wind would bring me back here. To you.”
“No.” Though definite, the word sounds wrong, strangely out of context. Like the call of a migrant bird blown off-course.
“No what?”
“You need to live your life, Cal.”
“But I would be—”
“No, I mean, reallylive. Forget about me. Do all the things you want to do, and more.”
