‘Dunno,’ he shrugs. ‘Didn’t really think too much about it. I was just trying to . . . capture the moment. I guess I wanted some of me in there, cuz once you’re travelling by yourself it’s like the whole thing’s a dream. And unless you get some proof of it . . .’
      He tails off. He takes the photo out of her hand. He looks at it for a long time.
      ‘I think I wanted proof that I was there.’
      I take another sip of my tea. It’s gone cold. I stand it near my foot. Later, when we get up to leave, I will knock it over. I will apologise. Will will tell me it really doesn’t matter. Alice will look at me like I’m a prick. I will go over the top and offer to buy him some carpet shampoo. She will say, ‘Fuck’s sake, it’s just tea. It’s not blood.’
      ‘So I end up at the coast, at this beach. God knows where. I book into a little guesthouse and there’s none of the usual tourist shit around for miles. It’s really quiet and I’m having a whale of a time – on the beach every day, smoking Gauloises, having a read. I even buy myself some trunks, to go swimming in the sea.’
      I can’t see where this is going. I’m waiting for the point and doubting there is one. Maybe this is nothing more than some sort of dodgy courtship ritual. I wonder if she’s even listening to him or whether she’s already off ticking mental boxes:

 Would he be a good fuck?
 Would he be faithful?
 Would he give me space?
 Would he do as I ask?
      She passes me one of the beach. Blue waves. White sand. A bird, frozen in the sky, angled towards the sea.
      There is only one photo left in his hand.
      ‘So it’s my last day before I need to get back on the train and I want a photo of myself on the beach. But there’s no one around to ask, no couples or families or anything. It’s a ghost beach. It gets to the afternoon, I’ve just been swimming in the sea and I’m drying myself off, and I really should be going, when along comes this old geezer walking across the sand dunes.
      ‘I call him over. Pardon, monsieur! Excuse moi! And he hobbles down the slope towards me. It takes him ages. He must’ve been at least in his seventies. He’s this local fella, with a plastic bag of groceries. Je voudrais une photo, I say, showing him the camera, you know, photo, like that, and he seems to understand. So I go and stand where I want it taken. I only have one picture left on the camera; it needs to be exactly right. So I get myself positioned with the sea behind me and I place him a couple of metres away. And just to make sure he gets it all in, I convince him to kneel down, too. I mean, I feel really bad cuz he’s so . . . well, old, and it takes him fucking ages, but finally he manages it. So I go, Okay, Monsieur! and wait for him to take the picture.

4

  

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