He points at the floor, where the big clear-glass windows throw a crisscross of shadow and sunlight.
Light, he says. The Enlightenment was literally all about light.
While he walks around looking at things I clamber up onto the altar rock. I fold my legs under me and lean backward, arching my back until my neck touches stone. Then I do a few more poses: the bridge, the upward bow, the lying hero. I did yoga for about six months and I’ve still got all the moves.
What are you doing? Edward’s voice says.
Offering myself for ritual sacrifice.
That altarpiece is by Henry Moore, he says disapprovingly. He sourced the stone from the same quarry Michelangelo used.
I bet he had sex on it.
I think it’s time to go, Edward says. I’d hate to be banned from this particular church.
We get a taxi to the British Museum. He speaks to someone at the admissions desk, a red rope is lifted, and somehow we’re in a part of the museum reserved for academics. An assistant unlocks a cabinet and leaves us to it. Put these on, Edward says, handing me some white cotton gloves and pulling on a pair himself. Then he reaches into the cabinet and takes out a stone object.
This is a ritual mask made by the Olmec people. The first civilization in America to build cities. They were wiped out three thousand years ago.
He hands the mask to me. I take it, scared I’ll drop it. The eyes are almost alive.
It’s amazing, I say. In truth, it isn’t really my kind of thing and this isn’t my kind of place, any more than the church was, but I’m happy to be here with him.
He nods, satisfied. I make it a rule to only ever look at one thing in a museum, he says as we retrace our steps. Any more, and you can’t appreciate what you’re seeing.
So that’s why I don’t like museums, I say, I’ve just been doing them all wrong.
He laughs.
By now I’m getting hungry, and we go to a Japanese restaurant he knows. I’ll order for us both, he announces. Something simple, like katsu. English people get scared by real Japanese food.
Not me, I say. I’ll eat anything.
He raises his eyebrows. Is that a challenge, Miss Matthews?
If you like.
He starts me off with some raw sushi—octopus, sea urchin, various kinds of shrimp.
I’m well within my comfort zone here, I tell him.
Hmm, he says. He speaks to the chef in a fluent torrent of Japanese, clearly letting him in on the joke, and the chef grins at the prospect of serving the little gaijin girl something she won’t be able to handle. Soon a plate is brought over with a pile of white gristle on it.
Try some, Edward says.
What are they?
They’re called shirako.
Experimentally I put a couple in my mouth. They burst between my teeth, oozing a briny, creamy goo.
Not bad, I say, swallowing, although actually they’re pretty gross.
They’re the fish’s sperm sacs, he says. In Japan they’re considered a delicacy.
Great. But I think I prefer the human kind. So what’s next?
The chef’s specialty.
The waitress brings over a platter containing a whole fish. With a shock I realize it’s still alive. Only just, admittedly—it’s lying on its side, feebly raising and lowering its tail, its mouth working as if it’s trying to say something. The whole of the topmost side has been cut into thin slices. For a moment I almost balk. But then I just close my eyes and go for it.
The second mouthful, I keep my eyes open.
You’re an adventurous eater, he says grudgingly.
Not just eater, I come back at him.
There’s something you should know, Emma.
He looks serious, so I put down my chopsticks and pay attention.
I don’t do conventional relationships, he says, any more than I do conventional houses.
Okay. So what do you do?
Human relationships, like human lives, tend to accumulate the unnecessary. Valentine’s cards, romantic gestures, special dates, meaningless endearments….What if we strip all that away? There’s a kind of purity to a relationship unencumbered by convention, a sense of simplicity and freedom. But it can only work if both parties are very clear about what it is they’re doing.
I’ll make a mental note not to expect a Valentine card, I say.
And when it’s no longer perfect, we’ll both move on, with no regrets. Agreed?
How long will that be?
Does it matter?
Not really.
I sometimes think all marriages would be better if divorce was obligatory after a certain time, he muses. Say three years. People would appreciate each other much more.
Edward, I say, if I agree to this, are we going to go to bed?
We don’t have to go to bed at all. If bed is difficult for you, I mean.
You don’t think I’m soiled goods, do you?
What do you mean?
Some men…My voice trails off. But this needs to be said. I take a shaky breath. After Simon found out about the rape, I say, we stopped making love. He couldn’t.