He took a short nap, and when he woke up, decided to try the beach. On the same shopping spree that had produced the gray Armani shirt, he’d bought a $58 bathing suit, a satiny, bile-colored thing chosen solely for the technologically advanced way it emphasized his crotch. He pulled it on, looked at himself in the tarnished mirror over the hotel bureau, and fell back onto the bed laughing. It was about as appropriate for this beach and his body as a pair of space boots. It made him look like a skinny, jaundiced middle-aged man with a saggy pouch in the crotch that was as erotic as a knobby knee. Age is a sneak, hiding little clues to its presence all over your body, wrinkles and bags and dark circles and creaky joints you’re unaware of until you trip over them just as you’re trying to make a good impression.

It was between seasons, too late for the summer crowds that drifted down from Georgia for the Gulf breezes and the fishing, too early for the German tourists who flocked here in the winter. The beach stretched for miles in either direction, empty except for a few children running along the edge of the green water, screeching and splashing. The water was cooler than he expected and he dove in quickly and swam straight out from shore until he was warm and panting. When he stopped and looked back, the shore seemed impossibly far away. Hotels were lined up along the beach like barricades protecting the rest of the town from the waves. He rolled over onto his back, letting the salty broth of the Gulf buoy him up, and gazed at the blank sky arching over him. Love was a little like swimming, he thought. You float along in effortless comfort, not really taking into consideration that at any moment you could be dragged down under the surface and drown.

Tomorrow when they went to visit Lorna, Jane and Chloe and Tim could photograph the house, take shots of the collected career clutter. He had his questions for Pauline Anderton’s daughter written down in a carefully composed list that narrowed in on those final years after her father had died and Pauline had gone into retreat. Why had she given it all up when she needed the money, finally had freedom, had club owners (albeit owners of minor clubs) hounding her to perform, and one legitimate record company ready to welcome her into their studio? Look how well he’d done, he thought as he paddled back to shore, in the privacy of his hollow room. If his relationship with Russell was the price he ended up having to pay for finishing this project, it just might be worth it after all.