hot, really. Close.
He’d asked her to take the first picture almost immediately, as the group was walking across the great expanse of white gravel, the crunch of their footsteps swallowed up by the hot, still air. He’d been asking where else she was visiting while she was here, if she’d been out of Kyoto at all, and she’d said yes, there were day trips organised as part of the package she was on: to Nara, Himeji, Hiroshima. She’d felt awkward mentioning Hiroshima, as if he might have felt some kind of association. Oh yeah, he’d said, I went to Hiroshima, day before last. That was something else. Awesome . And he’d made this long, loud sigh, as if he was trying to clear stale air from his lungs. Not really a fun trip, but you kind of have to, he’d said, looking at her. Waiting for her agreement, which she’d happily given, nodding and saying oh absolutely I think so. Which was when he’d looked round at the first of the palace buildings and suggested getting a picture right there, standing and framing himself against it while she lifted his camera to her face.
And if she does tell someone about this when she gets home, not Patricia but someone at least, she’ll say that this was when she first noticed, properly, what he looked like. There was the moustache, of course, and the sheer solid size of the man. But there was something else, something soft and quiet in his face and his eyes, something that contrasted with his loud talk and his oversized hands. It was nice, looking at him like that through the viewfinder.
They’d changed places then, as the rest of the group moved away, and she’d felt her already flushed face colour further as he’d looked at her through her camera, and wished she’d been wearing a different outfit. Something cooler. Something less pink. And something other than that pair of trousers. Patricia had told her before that they didn’t work – they don’t do anything to help with your size is all I’m saying, she’d said, the only time Elizabeth had worn them in the office – but she’d got up in a hurry that morning and they were the first thing that had come to hand, and the whole outfit had looked nice in the air-conditioned hotel room, had looked cool and elegant and English-roseish. But now, standing for a picture she didn’t want taken anyway, she just felt hot, and pink, and fat. And so why did she even think he might have been interested. She wasn’t seventeen any more. Not by a long way.
The tour guide had already started by the time they’d caught up with the rest of the group. His Imperial Majesty would arrive from long journey in ox-drawn carriage, she was saying, pronouncing ox-der-awn-car-riage very precisely, as if it was essential that they understood. She described the entrance building behind her, with its low flight of steps and receding series of empty rooms lined with painted silk screens and tatami-mat floors.
She’d felt Wade nudging her. How d’you find life in Gainsborrow? he’d whispered. She’d been a bit embarrassed that he was talking while the guide was talking, but still.
It’s Gains borough , she’d whispered back, and he’d put his hand over his mouth and made an apologetic face, which was nice that he thought it was important. Sorry, he’d whispered; how’s life in Gains-bor-ough , splitting the word up the way the tour guide had done with ox-drawn carriage, which was maybe a bit mean but very funny as well the way he did it, and so then it had been her turn to put her hand over her mouth, to hide her laughter. It’s not bad, she’d said, it’s not the centre of the universe but it’s a nice place to live. He’d held up his hands when she’d said that. Hey, he’d whispered, we can’t all live in the centre of the universe, can we? It’d be a bit crowded if we did; and that had made her laugh again, and this time one or two people had turned around to look.
They’d clicked very quickly, that was the thing.