We pulled over along the hiker’s trail. At first Keung kept the engine running, but Vivienne told him to turn it off. She and I walked a little way down the road to the vista point. On a balding patch of grass next to a sign asking people not to litter stood a metal bench that had been painted bright green. A plastic rail ran along the side of the hill. Another sign: No Climbing. We sat next to each other on the bench and looked down at the city. Millions of edges, grey, blue and white. Some early lights. I felt a little sleepy and leaned lightly against Vivienne’s arm. Her shawl tickled my cheek.

“We’re in a black and white movie,” I said, yawning.

“Oh it’s not that bad,” she mused, though I hadn’t meant it like that. “It actually reminds me of English weather. Everyone complains about it being grey all the time, but once you get used to it…” She searched for the words. “It has an almost grudging kind of beauty, if that makes any sense.”

“It’s so grey,” I nodded sleepily.

“And so defiant in its greyness,” she said. “After a while, you can’t help but appreciate its conviction.” I heard satisfied amusement in her voice.

“It is pretty,” I murmured.

We sat for some time, saying nothing. It got colder. A little more of the light left the city. Soon it had the hushed glow of old silver, like a weird treasure that has been locked away in a chest for decades. I turned to look at Vivienne, and in the bluish half-light she appeared softer, a little unformed. But more or less the same.

She asked me if I was feeling any better, and I said yes. She nodded, and we looked at the lights scattered over our darkening island for a while longer. Then she turned to me with a funny sort of smile.

“When your father gets angry—I mean, really angry—do you know what I do?”

I shrugged, but I knew. You shout. You scream. You start on the gin.

“I laugh. He hates it when I laugh at him. When I saw the crabs on those cufflinks, I almost died. Your father, when he gets really hot and bothered, his face turns bright red and he balls his hands into these pathetic little fists, and I can’t help thinking of a crab thrashing about in a pot of hot water—”

She stopped herself then, and looked at me as if she had done me some terrible wrong.

“We ought to go,” she said, getting up and straightening herself. As she smoothed the length of her shawl, she managed a smile, and before turning towards the path, she waved her palm at me as if beckoning a small child or a pet.

“Come now, Audrey,” said Vivienne. “Visiting hours will be over soon.”

Wedding Night

WEDDING NIGHT

I.