Turning Point by John Francis Kinsella
It was five in the afternoon when Barton awoke and pointed the remote control at the television screen zapping from one English speaking channel to another. Bloomberg reported on the volatility of financial stocks and declining hedge funds with a passing reference to Nassau Investment, a fund Barton had vaguely heard of. The BBC announced Gordon Brown would address the House of Commons that afternoon while CNN reported on the US election primaries.
In short there was nothing very new, leaving Barton to shower and ponder his own future. During the brief period since his planned though sudden departure from London, his new life had been punctuated by a series of unexpected and dramatic events. He had barely had time to consider his personal situation after being caught up and carried along helplessly in a turbulent current of circumstance by what he could only explain to himself as fate. For the first time ever, he had lost control of his life. It was now time to define a plan. It was not easy, he was alone, which perhaps explained why he had so easily attached himself to Emma.
It was just after six when he stepped out onto Taweewong Road where the decibels had risen steeply; a sure sign the bars were warming up for another hot night. He turned onto Bangla Road, described as the pulsating heart of Pa Tong’s nightlife in the guide books. Darkness had quickly fallen and bright neon signs flashed everywhere. The road was closed to traffic, the crowd thin for the moment. Girls beckoned him from the arcade bars, others sauntered up to him, brushing against his arm seductively, flashing their enticing smiles and their perfect white teeth.
Beyond the bars, small dance floors were already occupied by a scattering of lewd males, including a few sexagenarians. All were Europeans, most grinning mindlessly, as local girls — from nearby and more distant villages — slow-danced with them. Other girls gogoed on bar tops to the beat of the music, gyrating their hips in brief bikinis that glowed blue-white in the fluorescent lighting.
He stopped at Soi Vegas, there was a sign pointing to Sala Muay Thai, a small Thai boxing arena with nightly fights, he entered and made his way to the bar ordering a beer. It did not resemble the kind of fight evening he remembered from London’s East End. A desultory combat was in progress accompanied by the sound of hypnotic Thai music in the less than half full hall.
A Thai girl appeared at his side, pretty, but obviously commercial. She smiled and asked his name in fairly good English, responding to the smile he ducked the question telling her he was waiting for a friend. A few moments later he paid for his beer and left.
He continued his exploration; the bars were mostly indistinguishable from one another as were the scantly dressed girls who waved shamelessly to Barton. He paused at the Tiger Disco, one of at least two dozen bars that lined the road, one after the other. The general impression was of a wild party, an amusement park, as the noise of music and voices built up, it was almost deafening, more girls gogoed on more bars, others pole danced before leering drinkers. A few customers feigned indifference to the scantily clad dancers, others laughed raucously, shouting, transpiring, waving their arms to draw attention to themselves, not that the girls needed much encouragement.
It was after eight when he quit Bangla Road, a little disappointed at his own lack of enthusiasm, returning to Taweewong Road. Then, narrowly avoiding a couple of girls in mini skirts riding past on a motorbike, he turned south where he hoped to perhaps find a quieter bar. Instead he found the road was packed with stalls selling every kind of tourist wares imaginable: from tacky souvenirs to clothing, from sunglasses to jewellery, where the bustling crowd of evening shoppers seemed to move in every direction at once.
He stopped at one of the stalls to look at an astonishing display of watches, all fakes. It wasn’t surprising he couldn’t have expected a stall in a night market to be selling real gold Rolexs. He was nevertheless taken back by the outward appearance of quality, picking up a Blancpain he compared it to his own, he was surprised, at first glance it was difficult to tell the difference.
‘Thinking of buying it?’ a voice said behind him.
He recognised the accent; it was Sophie, the French girl from La Boucherie, the restaurant where he had eaten at midday.
‘No, but the copies are quite amazing, everything imaginable.’
‘In broad daylight.’
‘Nightlight.’
They laughed.
‘Out for a stroll?’ he asked.
‘Yes, my mother is feeling tired, it’s been a hectic few days, up early, visiting temples, changing hotels….’
‘I know what you mean,’ he said, thinking of how he over the last weeks he had lived out of a suitcase.
‘And you?’
‘Same thing.’
They moved on to the next stall selling trainers, again all copies.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ he said pointing to a pavement bar.
‘Why not.’
They took a couple of bar stools, ordered drinks and turned to watch the evening spectacle of tourists bargaining with the locals in the general throng of the market.
‘What do you do back home?’ asked Barton.
‘I’m an architect. Interior design.’
‘Are you independent?’
‘Yes, well not exactly, I work a lot with my father who is also an architect. He has his firm in London, Victoria Street, and I have my office there.’
‘Funny that’s where I grew up.’
‘Really, where?’
‘Not far from Westminster Cathedral.’
‘How strange, I went to Grey Coat Hospital Girls School.’
‘Do you live in Westminster?’
‘Not exactly, it’s a bit complicated, my parents are divorced and I live in Biarritz.’
‘That’s not far from Spain?’
‘About twenty kilometres from the border and twenty more to San Sebastian. My mother’s family is Basque.’
Barton racked his brain to recall something about Basques whom he hazily assimilated with the IRA, remembering bomb scares that had more than once delayed his flight to or from Spain.
‘Spanish?’
‘No, Basque.’
‘Ah,’ he said lost.
‘There are Basques in France and in Spain.’
‘I see.’
‘My father is English, well his family is Irish, maybe you’ve heard of his firm in London, Michael Emerson and Partners, they designed the Dubai Bank building?
‘Emerson doesn’t sound very Irish,’ said Barton.
‘No, but my father was originally from Dublin. My mother’s name is Ibarbour, that’s Basque.’
‘So you’re Sophie Ibar…’ he said fumbling over the name.
‘Ibarbour,’ she said laughing at his difficulty with the tongue twisting name. ‘No, I’m Sophie Emerson.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said feeling silly.
‘But I live a good deal of the time in Biarritz — near my mother, and my sister who’s a journalist.’
‘A journalist!’ said Barton.
‘A freelance, she specializes in modern Basque politics, writes for French and Spanish newspapers.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Charlotte — that’s her name — but she prefers Maite, that sounds more Basque. Her real thing is anthropology, social anthropology.’
‘Ah….’
Once again Barton had the feeling he had lived in a bubble, in more ways than one, over the last ten years or more. He seemed to recall anthropologists studied prehistoric men, or was it some kind of missing link with the apes?
Sophie seeing his unease with Basques changed the subject with a gently mocking smile, ‘I also have an apartment in London, Lower Sloane Street, it’s not very big, but it’s convenient, central and easy to get to the office. What about you?’
‘Well,’ he said looking for a suitable reply, ‘I’m in business.’
‘Yes, you said you were based in Bangkok.’
Barton thinking quickly remembered his squash partner in Bangkok and said, ‘I’m into investment, property, hotels
, here in Thailand and Cambodia.’
‘So you know Cambodia, that’s where were going to next.’
‘Not really, it’s my partner, who handles Cambodia,’ he said getting in deeper.
‘And you’re on holiday here?’
‘Just a few days, checking out the rebuilding after the tsunami.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry but I’d better be getting back,’ she said looking at her watch, ‘my mother’s alone.’
‘No problem, I’ll walk back with you.’
Barton left Sophie at the hotel.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘I’d like that,’ Sophie replied.
He then strolled along the beach enjoying the warm evening breeze looking forward to meeting up with her again.
The following morning from his terrace he spotted Sophie taking breakfast alone on the poolside terrace. Quickly slipping on his shorts and a tee shirt he made his way down to join her.
‘Where’s your mother?’
‘She’s a little tired. She’ll be down shortly.’
‘She not unwell I hope?’
‘No not at all, just taking it easy before we start travelling again. Have you had breakfast?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Join me then.’
‘Thanks,’ he said sitting down.
A waiter appeared taking his order for coffee and fresh fruit juice then pointed to the buffet.
‘What are your plans for the day?’ he asked trying to read the title of the book that lay on the table beside her.
‘Houellebecq,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Michel Houellebecq — The Possibility of an Island.’
Barton looked non-plussed.
‘I picked it up at the airport. He lives in Ireland.’
‘Who?’
‘Houellebecq.’
‘Oh, my grandparents were Irish,’ he replied for want of something better to say.
‘What are my plans for the day?’ she said amused at Barton’s discomfort. ‘Well, nothing special, I can’t really leave my mother alone. I suppose we’ll stay on the beach. I would have liked to try a jet ski.’
‘What’s the problem?’
She laughed, ‘I’ve never tried it before.’
‘I’ve had plenty of practice in Spain, if you like you can I can show you.’
Her face lit up, ‘I’d love that.’
‘Great.’
‘Once my mother is fixed up on the beach.’
‘Good.’
An hour later they were speeding across the turquoise bay with Sophie hanging on to Barton as the jet ski bounced over the waves.
Notting Hill Gate
In short there was nothing very new, leaving Barton to shower and ponder his own future. During the brief period since his planned though sudden departure from London, his new life had been punctuated by a series of unexpected and dramatic events. He had barely had time to consider his personal situation after being caught up and carried along helplessly in a turbulent current of circumstance by what he could only explain to himself as fate. For the first time ever, he had lost control of his life. It was now time to define a plan. It was not easy, he was alone, which perhaps explained why he had so easily attached himself to Emma.
It was just after six when he stepped out onto Taweewong Road where the decibels had risen steeply; a sure sign the bars were warming up for another hot night. He turned onto Bangla Road, described as the pulsating heart of Pa Tong’s nightlife in the guide books. Darkness had quickly fallen and bright neon signs flashed everywhere. The road was closed to traffic, the crowd thin for the moment. Girls beckoned him from the arcade bars, others sauntered up to him, brushing against his arm seductively, flashing their enticing smiles and their perfect white teeth.
Beyond the bars, small dance floors were already occupied by a scattering of lewd males, including a few sexagenarians. All were Europeans, most grinning mindlessly, as local girls — from nearby and more distant villages — slow-danced with them. Other girls gogoed on bar tops to the beat of the music, gyrating their hips in brief bikinis that glowed blue-white in the fluorescent lighting.
He stopped at Soi Vegas, there was a sign pointing to Sala Muay Thai, a small Thai boxing arena with nightly fights, he entered and made his way to the bar ordering a beer. It did not resemble the kind of fight evening he remembered from London’s East End. A desultory combat was in progress accompanied by the sound of hypnotic Thai music in the less than half full hall.
A Thai girl appeared at his side, pretty, but obviously commercial. She smiled and asked his name in fairly good English, responding to the smile he ducked the question telling her he was waiting for a friend. A few moments later he paid for his beer and left.
He continued his exploration; the bars were mostly indistinguishable from one another as were the scantly dressed girls who waved shamelessly to Barton. He paused at the Tiger Disco, one of at least two dozen bars that lined the road, one after the other. The general impression was of a wild party, an amusement park, as the noise of music and voices built up, it was almost deafening, more girls gogoed on more bars, others pole danced before leering drinkers. A few customers feigned indifference to the scantily clad dancers, others laughed raucously, shouting, transpiring, waving their arms to draw attention to themselves, not that the girls needed much encouragement.
It was after eight when he quit Bangla Road, a little disappointed at his own lack of enthusiasm, returning to Taweewong Road. Then, narrowly avoiding a couple of girls in mini skirts riding past on a motorbike, he turned south where he hoped to perhaps find a quieter bar. Instead he found the road was packed with stalls selling every kind of tourist wares imaginable: from tacky souvenirs to clothing, from sunglasses to jewellery, where the bustling crowd of evening shoppers seemed to move in every direction at once.
He stopped at one of the stalls to look at an astonishing display of watches, all fakes. It wasn’t surprising he couldn’t have expected a stall in a night market to be selling real gold Rolexs. He was nevertheless taken back by the outward appearance of quality, picking up a Blancpain he compared it to his own, he was surprised, at first glance it was difficult to tell the difference.
‘Thinking of buying it?’ a voice said behind him.
He recognised the accent; it was Sophie, the French girl from La Boucherie, the restaurant where he had eaten at midday.
‘No, but the copies are quite amazing, everything imaginable.’
‘In broad daylight.’
‘Nightlight.’
They laughed.
‘Out for a stroll?’ he asked.
‘Yes, my mother is feeling tired, it’s been a hectic few days, up early, visiting temples, changing hotels….’
‘I know what you mean,’ he said, thinking of how he over the last weeks he had lived out of a suitcase.
‘And you?’
‘Same thing.’
They moved on to the next stall selling trainers, again all copies.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ he said pointing to a pavement bar.
‘Why not.’
They took a couple of bar stools, ordered drinks and turned to watch the evening spectacle of tourists bargaining with the locals in the general throng of the market.
‘What do you do back home?’ asked Barton.
‘I’m an architect. Interior design.’
‘Are you independent?’
‘Yes, well not exactly, I work a lot with my father who is also an architect. He has his firm in London, Victoria Street, and I have my office there.’
‘Funny that’s where I grew up.’
‘Really, where?’
‘Not far from Westminster Cathedral.’
‘How strange, I went to Grey Coat Hospital Girls School.’
‘Do you live in Westminster?’
‘Not exactly, it’s a bit complicated, my parents are divorced and I live in Biarritz.’
‘That’s not far from Spain?’
‘About twenty kilometres from the border and twenty more to San Sebastian. My mother’s family is Basque.’
Barton racked his brain to recall something about Basques whom he hazily assimilated with the IRA, remembering bomb scares that had more than once delayed his flight to or from Spain.
‘Spanish?’
‘No, Basque.’
‘Ah,’ he said lost.
‘There are Basques in France and in Spain.’
‘I see.’
‘My father is English, well his family is Irish, maybe you’ve heard of his firm in London, Michael Emerson and Partners, they designed the Dubai Bank building?
‘Emerson doesn’t sound very Irish,’ said Barton.
‘No, but my father was originally from Dublin. My mother’s name is Ibarbour, that’s Basque.’
‘So you’re Sophie Ibar…’ he said fumbling over the name.
‘Ibarbour,’ she said laughing at his difficulty with the tongue twisting name. ‘No, I’m Sophie Emerson.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said feeling silly.
‘But I live a good deal of the time in Biarritz — near my mother, and my sister who’s a journalist.’
‘A journalist!’ said Barton.
‘A freelance, she specializes in modern Basque politics, writes for French and Spanish newspapers.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Charlotte — that’s her name — but she prefers Maite, that sounds more Basque. Her real thing is anthropology, social anthropology.’
‘Ah….’
Once again Barton had the feeling he had lived in a bubble, in more ways than one, over the last ten years or more. He seemed to recall anthropologists studied prehistoric men, or was it some kind of missing link with the apes?
Sophie seeing his unease with Basques changed the subject with a gently mocking smile, ‘I also have an apartment in London, Lower Sloane Street, it’s not very big, but it’s convenient, central and easy to get to the office. What about you?’
‘Well,’ he said looking for a suitable reply, ‘I’m in business.’
‘Yes, you said you were based in Bangkok.’
Barton thinking quickly remembered his squash partner in Bangkok and said, ‘I’m into investment, property, hotels
‘So you know Cambodia, that’s where were going to next.’
‘Not really, it’s my partner, who handles Cambodia,’ he said getting in deeper.
‘And you’re on holiday here?’
‘Just a few days, checking out the rebuilding after the tsunami.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry but I’d better be getting back,’ she said looking at her watch, ‘my mother’s alone.’
‘No problem, I’ll walk back with you.’
Barton left Sophie at the hotel.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘I’d like that,’ Sophie replied.
He then strolled along the beach enjoying the warm evening breeze looking forward to meeting up with her again.
The following morning from his terrace he spotted Sophie taking breakfast alone on the poolside terrace. Quickly slipping on his shorts and a tee shirt he made his way down to join her.
‘Where’s your mother?’
‘She’s a little tired. She’ll be down shortly.’
‘She not unwell I hope?’
‘No not at all, just taking it easy before we start travelling again. Have you had breakfast?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Join me then.’
‘Thanks,’ he said sitting down.
A waiter appeared taking his order for coffee and fresh fruit juice then pointed to the buffet.
‘What are your plans for the day?’ he asked trying to read the title of the book that lay on the table beside her.
‘Houellebecq,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Michel Houellebecq — The Possibility of an Island.’
Barton looked non-plussed.
‘I picked it up at the airport. He lives in Ireland.’
‘Who?’
‘Houellebecq.’
‘Oh, my grandparents were Irish,’ he replied for want of something better to say.
‘What are my plans for the day?’ she said amused at Barton’s discomfort. ‘Well, nothing special, I can’t really leave my mother alone. I suppose we’ll stay on the beach. I would have liked to try a jet ski.’
‘What’s the problem?’
She laughed, ‘I’ve never tried it before.’
‘I’ve had plenty of practice in Spain, if you like you can I can show you.’
Her face lit up, ‘I’d love that.’
‘Great.’
‘Once my mother is fixed up on the beach.’
‘Good.’
An hour later they were speeding across the turquoise bay with Sophie hanging on to Barton as the jet ski bounced over the waves.
Notting Hill Gate