Page 26 of Such a Good Couple
‘When I said we should hang out with some gays, I didn’t mean in an edifying, educational way.’ Clara was griping as Annie, following the blue dot on her phone, led them down P-town’s main drag, Commercial Street, to the town hall where they were to meet their tour guide, Geraldo.
‘Will you relax,’ Annie muttered, steering them around the hordes of tourists. ‘The TripAdvisor reviews promised camp anecdotes about Provincetown’s history and a walking tour of all the hottest bars and clubs.’
They’d managed to dodge Conor, Ollie and the kids for the whole morning, spending three hours being pampered by the onsite holistic therapy team. The facials, massages and pedicures had been somewhat relaxing, though Clara had asked every single one of the therapists whattheythought ‘I had such a good time, Ollie. The best yet’ could mean.
Annie consulted the maps app. ‘I think we’re here.’ They’d come to the red-brick square in the centre of town, presided over by the town hall. The girls scanned the crowd.
‘How will we recognise him?’ Maggie asked, just as a striking man in his late forties, dressed in breeches, knee-high socks and an elaborate shirt appeared on the other side of the concourse ringing a large brass bell.
‘Eh, without much difficulty!’ Annie giggled, heading towards him. ‘Geraldo?’ she called.
‘Annie Sweeney? Party of three?’ He grinned and gave a neatlittle bow by way of greeting. ‘You all look ravishing.’
‘Back atcha,’ Clara said. ‘But are you not fecking roasting?’
‘Irish! Three cailíns!’ He pronounced ‘cailíns’ like ‘cawlins’. ‘I love it! Saoirse Ronan was just here on vacation a few weeks ago.’
‘No way!’ Clara replied.
‘Okay, ladies, let’s stand over here in the shade and I can give you a rundown of P-town.’
They headed over to a bench underneath a beautiful elm tree and Geraldo stood before them. ‘Right, firstly I’m going to give you a little potted history about the pilgrims and how the town got its very grand motto of the “Birthplace of American Liberty”. Then,’ an impish twinkle appeared in his eyes, ‘I’m going to give you all the best gossip. How P-town became a mecca for artists and writers and celebrities from the 1920s right up to today. Aaaaand lastly, we’ll conclude our tour with a little P-town tradition: the tea dance.’
‘The tea dance? Sounds sedate.’ Clara was shooting Annie a vaguely accusatory look. In her current agitated state, Clara was obviously gunning for something a bit wilder.
Annie just glared back.She can organise the fucking day if she’s going to be bolshy about it.
Then Annie felt bad. It was a fairly huge deal to find out that your husband was maybe cheating on you. Annie turned to Geraldo. ‘A tea dance sounds a bit more formal than we were thinking?’
‘Ha, just wait.’ He laughed. ‘The tea dance is legendary. It’s three hours of dancing andmayhem. Strictly adults only.’
‘Ohhhh, okay.’ Clara was perking up. ‘I can tolerate the history bit so.’
It was nearly 2.30 p.m. when Geraldo announced, ‘Some lunch is in order before tea dance time!’
He led them to a restaurant called Bayside Betsy’s just a few doors down from The Canteen where they’d eaten the night before.
‘We cannot have anyone going in to the tea dance on an empty stomach; it would be certain death by debauchery.’
‘Can we sit inside, please?’ Annie was wilting in the relentless heat of the afternoon.
‘Annie identifies as an ageing goth,’ Maggie informed Geraldo.
Inside, Annie ordered shrimp linguine and sparkling water, though she was starting to wonder if it was time to quit being so careful; it didn’t seem like this was going to be any different to all the other months she hadn’t gotten pregnant. Especially if Conor had yet to even ejaculate inside her.
As Geraldo filled the others in on the annual P-town Bear Week celebrations coming up soon, Annie examined the gallery of black-and-white photographs arranged on the wall across from their table.
The largest of them showed what looked to be a house of sorts out on its own, barely standing on spindly supports above sandy scrubland. There wasn’t a straight line in the little hut and the overall impression was that, rather than any formal construction having taken place, instead weathered old slats of wood had somehow drifted together on the wind to create this rudimentary dwelling.
‘What’s that?’ Annie interrupted, pointing at the photograph.
‘Ahhh well, you’re way ahead of me on the history tour! I was just about to get on to the dune shacks. Have you ever heard of them?’
They all shook their heads.
‘Wait, is that,’ Maggie squinted at another picture on the wall, ‘Eugene O’Neill?’
‘Absolutely! America’s best playwright, if you’re into beingdeeply depressed after a show. Good eye, Maggie.’ Geraldo looked impressed.
