Page 87 of The Elements

Whether it was my argument about Jacob’s late mother, my suggestion that he would one day be able to express to Rebecca how he’d been present when she most needed him, my refusal to book him a five-night stay in a Dubai hotel, or the exasperated tone of an unimpressed airline representative telling us that the doors would be closed in the next sixty seconds with or without us, Emmet finally agrees to board the plane.

Throwing his hands in the air, he offers a series of furious expletives and storms ahead of me, taking his seat without another word.

This time, we’re on opposite sides of the cabin so don’t have to interact during the flight, which is probably for the best. Once we’re in the air, I stand up to look across and see that he’s immersed in another film, a blanket pulled over his body so only his eyes and the top of his head are visible.

With the exception of a couple of trips to the bathroom, when we pass by without even acknowledging each other’s existence, neither of us leaves our seats until we land in Ireland just over seven hours later.

It’s early afternoon when we arrive at our hotel in the center of Dublin.

As we’ve been traveling for twenty-four hours, I’ve reserved a room here for the night, so we can rest before undertaking the final leg of our journey.

When we step inside, Emmet stares at the two single beds with a frown before turning and asking for his key.

“Here,” I say, handing him one of the cards the receptionist gave me when we checked in.

“What’s my room number?”

“I’m sorry?”

“My room number. Or is this one mine?”

It takes me a moment to understand what he’s getting at.

“It’s both of ours,” I tell him. “We’re sharing.”

He drops his head low and groans in despair, as if he can’t quite believe that I’ve brought this latest indignity to his door. He sounds like he’s in actual pain.

“For fuck’s sake, Emmet,” I say, raising my voice and allowing myself to grow crankier now that our flights are behind us. “It’s just for one night. What does it matter? We’re going to be fast asleep in a few hours anyway.”

“I don’t like sharing rooms.”

“You share a room with Damian all the time.”

“That’s different. He’s my friend.”

“Well, feel free to go downstairs and book a separate one for yourself if you have a spare four hundred euros in your wallet. But if you don’t, then pick left or right and maybe lay off the complaining for five minutes, all right? Cos I’m tired, jet-lagged, and have had enough of it.”

He opens his eyes wide in surprise. This is the first time I’ve displayed any annoyance since shaking him awake in North Bondi some twenty-seven hours ago, and perhaps he’s realized that he’s lost any power he had over me now that we’ve finally arrived on the other side of the world.

The truth is, I haven’t the energy for any more of this behavior.

It doesn’t help that the closer we get to the island, the more anxious I’m growing over whether this has been a good idea or not.

Particularly as there’s still something I haven’t told him.

We each take a shower, and while I emerge in a towel, planning on changing in the room, he takes his fresh clothes with him into the bathroom so he can dress in there when he’s finished.

It displays a curious need for modesty considering I see him in his swimmers on the beach on a regular basis.

But it’s different circumstances, I suppose.

Lying on my bed, idly scrolling through my emails, I notice his phone charging by the side table, and hearing the sound of running water, I can’t help myself.

I reach for it and go straight to his photos.

None of the recent pictures are in any way incriminating, although, to my surprise, he’s taken a photo of me while I was asleep on the Sydney–Dubai leg, where I look rather at peace, a half smile on my face at whatever dream I was having.

Moving to his messages, I can see this same picture has been forwarded to Damian, only edited so a drawing of a penis emerges from my forehead, which in turn has led to a series of nonsensical emojis from his friend. Despite myself, I laugh.

When he reappears fully dressed, his hair wet, I suggest a walk around the city, and he looks at me as if I’ve proposed that we go salsa dancing.

I read this as my cue that it would be in both our interests to spend a little time apart, so tell him that, regardless, I’m going out to explore, will probably find somewhere for a meal later and will text to see whether he wants to join me.

“So you won’t be coming back here first?” he asks, and I shake my head, happy to leave him in peace.

“No. And if you’d prefer to just stay in and order room service, that’s fine too. I mean, it’d be a shame to miss out on seeing some of Dublin, but if you need some alone time—”

“I do,” he replies quickly.

“OK,” I say, knowing exactly how he feels.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he adds as I reach for my jacket, perhaps feeling an impulse toward harmony now that he knows he won’t have to be in my company for a while. “In Dubai, I mean. I was just tired. And a bit nervous.”

“It’s OK,” I say, not wishing to revisit that moment. “I’ll see you later.”

As I leave, I notice a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the inside of the door and pick it up.

“Shall I put this outside?” I ask and he nods.

“Thanks.”

Although Rebecca was born in Dublin, and lived there until moving to England in her early twenties, I’ve never been to Ireland before and wander the city center, glancing idly in the windows of shops, before entering a bookshop, thinking I could probably do with buying a couple more thrillers to get me through the days ahead and the eventual flight home.

The gods are clearly intent on tormenting me, however, because as I step inside, I’m confronted by a tower of Furia’s novels on the New Releases table.

It’s piled high—it really is turning into a global phenomenon—with a sticker on the front proclaiming that it’s “soon to be a major motion picture” as opposed, I assume, to a minor one.

Unlike the edition I saw in Sydney Airport, this one is resplendent in hardcover and bears a different jacket. As I study it, a young woman pushes a trolley laden with books toward the next table.

“Have you read that?” she asks, and I shake my head. “We can’t keep it in stock.”

I glance down. There must be thirty copies here at least, so clearly they can.

“What’s it about?” I ask.

Of course, I know exactly what it’s about, but I’m interested to know how she’ll describe it.

I remember Furia once telling me of a creative writing tutor who had asked this question of his students about the books they were writing, but insisted that they reference neither the plot nor the characters in their reply.

She turns her head in the direction of a staircase, giving my question some thought.

“I think it’s about selfishness,” she says finally, then nods, apparently satisfied by her response.

“It’s a love story, I assume?”

“Why would you think that?” she asks. “Because it’s written by a woman?”

“No, because most novels are.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I do,” I say. “Art is generally about love, one way or another, don’t you think? Every book. Every song. Every film. All of us trying to live with it. Or get over it. Or wonder why we’ve never had it. Not necessarily love in a sexual sense. Love between parents and children. Love for a place.”

She remains silent, considering this. Her expression suggests she’d like to contradict me but can’t quite decide how.

“Who’s the selfish one anyway?” I ask. “In the book, I mean.”

“They all are,” she replies. “The main characters—she’s a drover, which is—”

“I know what a drover is.”

“You’re Australian?” she asks, and I nod. I might not have been born there but I have permanent residency, after all, so I consider myself a native now. “I can hear it in your accent,” she tells me. “Anyway, she breaks up a marriage. Although it was an unhappy marriage.”

“And that makes it OK?”

“Well, it’s more complicated than that. There are three people at the heart of the story, and they hurt each other at every turn.

But they’ve all been hurt themselves in the past, so somehow we forgive them.

In the end, the reader just wants everyone to survive and be happy.

And of course there’s the unreliable narrator, which is what everyone talks about. ”

“And do they?” I ask.

“Do they what?”

“Survive.”

“That would be giving it away.”

“I just want to know if things work out for them,” I say. “A writer once told me that was the reason she wrote fiction. To give people happy endings.”

“Sorry, no spoilers,” she tells me. “You’ll have to finish it to find out.”

I arrive back at the hotel much later than intended, check on Emmet, who’s in a deep sleep, before going down to the bar, sitting with Furia’s book before me, unable to open it.

I drink more than I should—perhaps my body is out of sync after the last couple of days—before eventually making my way a little unsteadily toward the elevator.

I suspect that tomorrow morning I might regret not having gone straight to bed.