Rupert Thomson - Soft

The wedding reception was being held in the country, about an hour’s drive from New Orleans. That was all Glade knew. They set off in the convertible at midday, after a breakfast eaten in near silence. Once they left the city suburbs behind, the roads were almost empty, and Tom drove fast, as though impatient to have the whole thing over with. She sat quietly beside him, wearing sunglasses, her hands folded on her lap. It was a hot day. Trees steamed gently in the dull yellow light. Leaves drooped. She saw a lake of pale-blue water, its surface motionless, and dense as mercury. Everything seemed to weigh too much, including the air above her head, and for once she was grateful that he didn’t expect her to talk; she wasn’t sure she could have heaved the words out of her mouth.

At last they turned through a gateway on to a narrow, curving road. She noticed a glimmer of whiteness beyond the thick wall of trees to her right.

‘Is that it?’ she asked.

Tom didn’t answer.

She watched as the trees thinned and fell away, revealing the house, which stood on a gentle slope, the ground behind it rising to a smooth green ridge. The house itself was entirely white, and looked, to Glade, at least, as if it had been decorated especially for the wedding. It had shutters on the windows, a flat roof and a high front porch that was supported by two Doric pillars. On the left side of the house three verandas had been built one on top of the other, and a huge oak tree reached its branches towards their railings, deepening the shade.

Inside, the house was cool and dark, and filled with faces Glade didn’t know, people of all ages. Standing near the bottom of the stairs, she watched a silver tray glide at head-height through the crowd with a steadiness that seemed supernatural. She lifted a glass of champagne from it as it passed by. As usual, Tom had disappeared, and she found herself talking to the father of the bride, a man with flawless manners and hair the colour of ivory. When he learned that she was English, and that she had never visited the southern states before, he linked her arm through his and led her into different rooms. The floors were American elm, a hardwood that was now rare, and the sideboards gleamed with candlesticks, clocks, cigar-boxes. White flowers floated in wide silver bowls, releasing a creamy perfume into the air, almost too rich to breathe. They were gardenias, the first that she had ever seen.

The house was old, he told her — though not by her standards, of course. It had been built in a style known as ‘antebellum’, which, literally translated, meant ‘before the war’. His family had owned the property for more than one hundred and fifty years.

‘Don’t ever lose it,’ Glade said.

He gave her a curious look, moving his head a little to one side, as if he couldn’t quite see her from where he was standing, as if, with that one remark, she’d disappeared round a corner. Which in a way, perhaps, she had. Because she was thinking of the house in Norfolk, the house that had been her home, its pebble-dash walls and its window-frames painted green, the airless dusty silence of the attic in the summer where, lying on your stomach, you could contemplate the mysteries of the back garden — the rows of pear trees bearing fruit with strangely freckled skin and, just beyond the fence, the stream in whose clear water she had once discovered a man’s gold pocket-watch. The house her father had abandoned when his marriage fell apart.

‘I only mean that it’s beautiful,’ she added quickly. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful house.’

The man thanked her, lowering his chin towards his chest in a way that seemed nineteenth century. ‘And if I may compliment you in return, Glade,’ he said, ‘that is a charming dress.’

‘You think so?’ She glanced down at it uncertainly.

That morning, in the bathroom, she had hesitated, but in the end she had no choice. It was a long dress that reached almost to her ankles, the fabric light, and patterned with flowers, not fashionable at all. She couldn’t think why she’d packed it in the first place, but she was glad now that she had. When she walked back into the bedroom, though, Tom took one look at her and asked her what she was wearing.

‘It’s the only thing I’ve got that covers up my knees.’

‘Your knees?’ He was looking at her as if she’d lost her mind. It was a look she was getting used to.

‘You don’t remember?’ She lifted her skirt and showed him.

He turned away, towards the window. He had hardly spoken to her since.

She followed the bride’s father up a wide staircase of dark wood, noticing the slight curve of his spine through his pale linen jacket. On the second floor, in rooms that were used less frequently, the air smelled of walnuts and vanilla. The man talked about his daughter, who was studying to be a dancer in New York. She was the youngest of his children. ‘She must be about your age,’ he said, and looked at her sideways, with his head at an angle, and smiled with one half of his mouth. Through the windows she could see bright pieces of the countryside, their colours almost in relief against the soft gloom of the interior. Then, as they descended, she suddenly felt trapped and breathless. Each sound she heard seemed to have an echo attached to it. And, just for a moment, the staircase and the hallway far below it blurred in front of her, as if she was looking through water. She touched her forehead with the fingers of one hand. It was damp.

‘Are you feeling faint?’ His voice sounded so distant that she thought he must have risen, like an angel, towards the ceiling.

‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘A little.’

‘It’s become rather warm in here. All the people.’ He was trying to be kind. Where they were standing, which was halfway down the stairs, it wasn’t warm in the slightest, and the hallway was almost empty. Still, she allowed him to guide her towards a chair. He told her that he would go and look for Tom. She sat down. Propping her elbows on her knees, she held her forehead in both hands and stared at the floor.

When Tom came, he took her outside into the garden. Though he didn’t complain, she could tell that he resented it. Being seen as somebody whose girlfriend wasn’t well. Having to leave the party, even if only for a moment.

‘I’m all right,’ she said, wishing he would go back in.

‘How much did you drink?’ he asked.

‘One glass of champagne. It’s not that.’

At the far end of the lawn they found a bench, its wrought-iron painted white and peeling slightly. They sat side by side, with their backs to the house. A cedar spread its curiously flat, dark branches above their heads. Tom leaned forwards, forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped together.

‘Talking of drinks,’ she said, ‘have you ever heard of Kwench!?’

‘Kwench!?’ He paused. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of it.’

‘I keep thinking about it.’

He turned slowly and stared at her.

‘I don’t know why,’ she said. ‘It’s not normal, is it, to keep thinking about a drink you’ve never seen. And the colour too. Seeing the colour.’

Tom was still staring at her. ‘Maybe you should talk to someone.’

‘Talk to someone?’ She didn’t follow. ‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. A shrink, I guess.’

She thought about that for a moment.

‘A shrink,’ he said, nodding.

From where they were sitting, the land stretched away to the horizon, and the distance was blue, the same blue as the smoke that rises from a bonfire. Louisiana, she thought. I’m in Louisiana.

After a while Tom stood up. He walked a few paces, hands in his pockets, then he stopped and seemed to be looking at the view. ‘I can’t figure you out, Glade.’