Free Saltskin by Louise Moulin Page A

seat and
stepped out of the car.
    One of Gilda's idiosyncrasies was that she could not
stand heat. She slept nude with just a sheet in all seasons,
and as a child she could lie in a cold bath in her snorkel and
flippers for hours. She would swim in the winter sea. She
was cold-blooded, and it was stinking hot, and she just knew
without looking in her mirror that her makeup was running
down her face in clay-coloured streaks. She didn't usually
wear it and her application was amateur; she had piled it
on like the protective camouflage of mud on a soldier. It
didn't suit her. She glanced about her, then ducked and
used the underside of her skirt to blot her face.
    Her outfit was all wrong. Usually Gilda concealed
rather than revealed, for her presence caused waves that
overwhelmed her with unwanted attention. Her energy
magnetised people, male and female. Why hadn't she worn
shorts? She grimaced. Overdressed, overstuffed. A red
velvet dress, for God's sake. Too flashy even for the opera.
    The suddenness of his agreement to meet her and her
uncertainty about his feelings had infected every simple
decision. Too late, can't do anything about it now, she
admonished herself, and headed down the stone steps to
the marina. The steps, steep and shallow, had no rail and
had been built into the stonemasonry of the retaining wall
hundreds of years ago. They were worn in the middle and
it was an awkward descent in her ridiculously high boots.
    The wharf was serene and the fresh sea air lifted her
spirits. She envisioned — willed — what a wonderful day it
would be if only he were here somewhere, but deep down
she could feel the truth like silt in a river. She knew he
probably wouldn't show, but she had to go through the
motions.
    The marina was locked and a guard stood in a cubicle.
    'Hi,' she said to him. 'I'm meeting someone here.
Perhaps you know him — he has brown eyes and probably
a nice tan and he's taller than me. I met him a while ago
in New Zealand and I'm here just for a bit and he said he
would meet me.' The old shame showed in her face, the
inferiority of the jilted.
    'Oh aye, and what's the vessel's name?'
    'Um, I'm not sure. Perhaps you know him through his
name: Allan Hyde?'
    The guard shook his head. 'Nope, but look, I'll give
you the gate codes and you can go in and have a look.'
    'Oh, thank you,' she breathed. He handed her a note
with digits on it. She smiled and hitched her knapsack on
her shoulder. Inside it had toiletries, flash knickers and
other paraphernalia a young woman might carry if she
expected to see her estranged husband, whom she loved
dearly, for the first time in a year.
    She searched for him among the masts and flapping
sails, feeling conspicuous and too tall. This was the scene
in which she imagined them living as a couple. That had
been the plan. They would sail the seven seas, her taking
photos and raising babies to swim before they could walk
and pepper their speech with foreign words. Their children
would eat olives and garlic-covered snails without batting
an eyelid. They would be gorgeous.
    Her heart started to race. Was that him? Could it be?
She moved closer to a super-yacht where a man on deck
was winching down a sail. Was that his back, his adorable
caramel back? Just as she raised her hand the man on the
deck turned and she saw it wasn't him. She felt foolish and
— something else — relieved? She realised that part of her
didn't want to see Allan. That all she wanted was for him
to want her, to relieve the pressure, to vindicate her. Too
much had hinged on her getting married.
    She knew it was time to end the saga. She wanted to be
free. The last few months in London had been great: new
perspective, new city, new experiences, new lovers. Gilda
had discovered she wasn't as broken as she had thought, or
maybe she had mended.
    She walked a little further along the dock, past the white
and blue yachts with their tinted windows and plush décor.
She wandered in a circle as if she were lost