The Swan

My friend Wendy reminds me to write. Her emails come in, the writing effortlessly elegant. She writes the way she sees the world, and she observes everything. Today is a gift. Rain was forecast, but there are wispy, lazy clouds across the Norwegian blue sky, and while my daughter sleeps I am here on the deck, looking at the ocean, surrounded by clothes, the sound of crows, seagulls, a blackbird in the cherry tree, and small sparrows who fly by in packs of three or five. Miraculously, my brother has left PG Tips in a jar, so we don't have to suffer through tasteless Twinings. Tea. Best drink of the day. There are two worlds; this sweet, peaceful morning world on a island devoid of holidaymakers as the season is over, with its quiet solitude, and the world of interrupted sleep and the anxiety of the news, to which, it seems, I am addicted. Turn off your phone. Turn off your phone. Breathe. My beloved is anxious, as he always is before film festivals. His head is full of work, too much work -- and he is a perfectionist and the best in the industry at what he does -- and I have to remind him to breathe and to go check on the tomatoes. No-one would know this. Outwardly he is elegant and smooth and charming. But underneath, he is paddling madly. The publicity swan we call it. Everything unruffled above the surface of the water.