I am already in a mild panic when the doorbell rings at 6 o’clock. I open the front door to find Constance there.
“Hey, handsome,” she says. I turn round to look at my wife.
“I forgot to tell you she was coming for a drink,” my wife says.
“I’m here,” Constance says. “Deal with it.”
Constance and my wife chat at the kitchen table while I lean against the sink, staring into space.
“Why is he standing there with that look on his face?” Constance says.
“He’s nervous because he’s going on holiday tomorrow,” my wife says.
“I have trouble savouring the unknown,” I say.
In theory, it should be our most stress-free holiday in years. None of our children is coming: the youngest is in Italy, the middle one somewhere between Prague and Berlin, and the oldest staying home with the dog. Because we’re travelling with friends, I haven’t had to hire a car. I might not even need to drive. But none of this matters; I can focus only on what might yet go wrong.
“Where are you going?” Constance says.
“Greece somewhere,” I say.
“He has no idea,” my wife says.
The next morning I’m standing next to an airport gate with my wife and our friends. Not for the first time, I find myself the topic of conversation.
“He looks troubled,” our friend says.
“He always looks like that,” my wife says.
“I’ve just realised I forgot my hat,” I say.
“They have hats there,” she says.
“But I have my own hat,” I say.
“I hate that hat,” my wife says.
“I’ll be right back,” I say.
When I return 10 minutes later, our flight is still 15 minutes from boarding, but I am out of breath.
“No hats,” I say. “Basically I’ve been for a run.”
“Shut up about hats,” my wife says.
The next day the four of us drive to the Greek coast. The trip so far has been trouble-free, except the moment the previous evening when, as chief navigator, I directed our vehicle into a pedestrian district in the middle of Athens. My friend was terribly understanding; the pedestrians, less so.
But today the sun is out, the road is straight and there seems to be precious little to worry about.
“Is it weird not having your children with you?” our friend says.
“It’s great,” my wife says. “This could be our life from now on.”
“In 300 metres, slight right,” my phone says.
“Slight right,” I say, “coming up.” My wife’s phone rings. It’s the youngest one.
“Hi,” she says. “How’s Italy?”
“Beta, lambda, alpha, chi,” my phone says. “Omicron pi omicron.”
“What the fuck was that?” the driver says.
“What do you mean, you don’t have any money?” my wife says.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Upsilon delta alpha,” my phone says.
“I think it’s given up pronouncing place names,” I say, “and it’s spelling them out instead.”
“So where am I going?” the driver says.
“Did the machine actually eat your card?” my wife says.
Early next morning I am standing up to my waist in a clear blue pool under a flawless sky, inching toward the deep end with my toes, while repeating the same words in my head: you are on holiday.
“What are you doing?” my wife says.
“Nothing,” I say. “Getting in.”
“Just dive in,” she says. I take another baby step.
“This isn’t your business,” I say.
“Dive in, you pussy,” she says.
