Authors: Julie Cohen
That evening, when the other little girls had gone home and Rebecca
was tucked up in bed with her kangaroo, her face still sticky with cake, Alana told him that she’d met someone else, someone who wanted to stay, who would be a good stepfather, who wanted more children. All he remembered feeling was relief.
The next morning he said goodbye. Not goodbye for good, not yet; he’d visit whenever he could, for the next few years. Until he couldn’t bear to do so any
more.
Rebecca was eager to get to her toys, but he held her for a moment longer than she wanted to be held. He closed his eyes and he breathed in the scent of her hair, felt its warm silk against his cheek, her little lithe body struggling to be set free and play, and he felt what he had felt in the moment when she was born. When the midwife had handed her, hot and slippery, into his arms and
she had looked straight up into his eyes as if she knew him already. He had held her and she had curled her tiny hand around his finger and he knew he belonged entirely to her. This grip around his finger that made him want to laugh and cry, to find a dragon and fight it for her, to change the world so that it would keep her safe and happy.
Ginge met him in Camden for a pint. ‘Glad to see you,’
said the big, redheaded tour manager, as soon as Ewan walked through the pub door. ‘I thought you’d disappeared off somewhere.’
Ewan had a sudden, humiliating memory of the letter he’d written, and which Felicity had posted. Thank God that Ginge had never got it. What an embarrassing suicide note. And the cheap whisky, too; that was another embarrassing thing. If he was going out, he would go
out with twenty-five-year-old Laphroaig. For fuck’s sake, some things you only did once, and they were worth doing right.
Possibly it was a good sign that he was thinking about his own contemplated suicide as embarrassing. He wondered what Flick would say.
‘I’m back now,’ he said. ‘Guinness?’
At the table, Ginge raised his glass. ‘To Lee.’
‘To Lee.’ It was easier than he’d thought it would
be, to say Lee’s name to Ginge. But not by much.
‘We missed you at the funeral,’ said Ginge.
‘I couldn’t do it, mate.’
‘What happened wasn’t your fault.’
‘Maybe one day I’ll believe that.’ The pub was loud. It wasn’t something he’d normally notice, but it had been so quiet lately, everywhere except for in his own head.
‘I talked to Petra when we went up there. She’d like to speak to you.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘She doesn’t blame you either. You were the last person to see him. I think she wants to know what happened, from your point of view.’
Felicity had said he should do that, too. Ewan gulped his pint and said, ‘I’ll think about it. So what’s been going on with you?’
Ginge filled him in on the usual: stroppy artists, venue disasters, merch problems. On their second pint, he asked Ewan,
‘So where have you been? You haven’t replied to any phone calls or emails. Or is it just me you’re avoiding?’
‘It’s not you. I’ve been … trying to get my head together.’
‘Any luck?’
‘I’ll let you know when I find out.’
Ginge tugged at the collar of his T-shirt. ‘It’s a big thing. It could have been you on that Texas highway.’
‘I wish it had been.’
‘You should have someone to talk to. You
know? You can’t keep this bottled up. It’ll do you in.’
‘I think … I think I might have found someone.’
‘Ah. I see. You’ve been out with the
women
getting your head together.’ Ginge turned back to his pint, but not before Ewan saw his contempt.
‘Not like that. It’s someone I knew before. She turned up out of the blue, when I needed her most.’
‘And she’s helping you? Not distracting you – helping
you? Because I know about you and distractions, remember. I’ve been your TM enough.’
‘She’s incredible. I’d forgotten how incredible. She makes me feel that I want to be a better person.’
‘Good. Well, that’s good.’
‘Also, she made me sign up for counselling. I’m seeing someone next week.’ It sounded lame, but he knew from experience that if he didn’t tell anyone about the counselling, he wouldn’t
go. And he thought he needed to go, if only because he owed it to Felicity.
‘Even better. That’s a great idea. But listen, I’m always around too, yeah? Always on the end of the phone, or up for a pint. I’m off to Thailand, but not till October. And I can put the word out that you’re looking for studio work, if you want. Whenever you’re ready.’
‘Thanks, mate. Not yet, but maybe one day.’
Ginge
settled his bulk back into the leather-covered bench, making it groan. He wrapped his slab of a hand around his pint. From all appearances, he was getting ready for a session. ‘So, tell me about this girl then. Fit? Funny? Mad? She’s not married, is she?’
THE RESTAURANT IS
my choice. This is not always a good idea; usually I let Quinn decide these things because he is more likely to choose a restaurant due to good reviews and an appealing menu, and I am more likely to choose a restaurant due to a quirky name or having a waterfall in the dining room. This restaurant doesn’t have a waterfall, but it does have a little fountain
in the centre with lotus blossoms floating in it. And it had a good review from
Time Out
Sellotaped to its front window, so I booked it when Quinn agreed to meet me for dinner, and hoped it would turn out to be the best of both worlds.
Now I wish I’d let Quinn choose, because it feels too heavy a responsibility. It seems as if too much is hinging on this dinner, the first we’ve had together since
I left Tillingford. We arranged it the same day Suz turned up and talked about my hurting him, quickly or slowly. The same day I’d spent most of with Ewan. Quinn rang me to see how my hangover was and I asked him if he’d like to come to London for dinner with me in two nights’ time.
When I opened Lauren’s door to him, we both paused, uncertain of what to do. A hug, a kiss, a handshake? He smiled
at me and said, ‘Hello, love, I’m glad to see you,’ and I could tell he was waiting for me to decide, so I kissed him on the mouth, only briefly, anxious that he might be able to taste how I’d kissed Ewan all those days ago. And then, because the kiss had been so brief, I kissed him on the cheek as well to make up for it.
His hair looked much the same and his face was still carefully stubbled,
and he was wearing the blue shirt I liked best, the one that had been washed so many times it was butter-soft, and a silk tie that I had bought him because it was the purple of the foxgloves that grow outside our cottage and went so well with his hair and eyes. He’d said he would come on the train straight from work, but I could tell he’d gone home and changed first, washed his face and hands, brushed
his hair and chosen his clothes, like a man nervous about a first date.
I was glad to see him and then I thought of what I had to say and my hands began to sweat, despite the air conditioning.
Time apart had made me more able to see his features. He was handsome, not the kind of handsome that made you look twice, but the kind of handsome that grew on you with time. I could see the effect of
my leaving him in his face, which was thinner. I could probably see the changes better than Suz could, since she saw him nearly every day. He gave me a bouquet of white roses, their scent clean and pure, their stems wrapped in tissue and plastic film so the thorns wouldn’t bite.
‘I’d forgotten how nice this flat was,’ he said. ‘Lovely and cool, too.’
‘Oh well,’ I said, ‘you know Lauren. I’ll
find a vase for these. They’re beautiful.’
I’d tidied up. Even in a flat as spacious as Lauren’s, even with as few belongings as I’d brought, the clutter had started to show. I’d put away all the clothes I’d put on and discarded, as if I, too, were nervous about a first date. I’d lined up Molly’s cards on a side table. I left all my drawing materials out as a visible display of how much work
I was doing, though I’d put the sketches of Quinn the robin and Ewan the crow into a bedroom drawer.
I’d gone through the flat’s rooms again and again, making sure there were no traces of what I knew was untraceable: every time I’d lain in the bed or staggered onto the sofa, or just stood, transfixed, looking out of the window at the unremarkable street, smelling frangipani and feeling in love.
Yesterday, it happened three times. I didn’t leave the flat at all, partly worried that I’d make a fool of myself in public, mostly wanting to be alone to feel it, to offer myself up to it. Drunk with bliss. At one point it occurred to me that this must be how drug addicts feel – as if the rest of the world is irrelevant next to what they’re experiencing inside their own heads. The drug isn’t
an escape from real life; it
is
real life, so much more real than any other life could possibly be.
Suz and Ewan both asked me if I was stoned, when they saw me afterwards. Yesterday I wallowed in it. I gave myself a full day, which could be why it happened so often, if I was willing the feeling to occur. Ewan texted me once, something silly about practising the ukelele, and I responded in a
dizzy haze. Fortunately I didn’t send it. When I read the text over later, it didn’t make much sense; autocorrect had changed nearly every word I’d misspelled into something irrelevant.
The sight of the text alarmed me. I thought that if I tried hard enough, I could control my actions when I was in the midst of this feeling, but the text is evidence that I can’t. That there’s another me inside,
someone who wants to act on my love. I stared at the text for a long time and then I dialled Dr Johnson’s office. The phone rang on the end of the line, miles away in Tillingford, and I pictured the chain of events I was setting in action: consultation with my GP, an urgent neurology appointment, explanations to Quinn about how I’ve been feeling about another man. Or maybe I wouldn’t have to explain
it to Quinn. Maybe Dr Johnson would run into Molly in Waitrose again and explain the whole thing to her in the bakery aisle.
I hung up before the receptionist could answer.
Today it’s happened only once, this morning when I was doing some laundry, a good seven hours before Quinn came. I sat with my back against the washing machine and closed my eyes until it was over. I don’t know what I’ll
do if it happens while Quinn is with me. I can’t run away from him without explanation. And I can’t bliss out in front of him without explanation, either.
While I filled a heavy glass vase with water, he looked around the flat in the way that he looks at everything. I saw him taking in the straightened cushions on the sofas, the lack of dirty tea mugs, the rugs geometrically positioned parallel
to the walls, the stacks of sketches and pencils, the logged-off laptop. He looked at this, and he looked at me, and he frowned.
‘I had a bit of a tidy,’ I said.
‘It looks like you’ve been able to do some work. That’s good. Does the quiet help?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘How’s my friend Igor coming along? Has he solved the puzzle yet?’
‘All right. Slowly. I’m a bit stuck.’
‘Can I help?’
I shook
my head. ‘What time is it? I made a reservation for seven.’
And now we sit, separated by a white-clothed table, listening to the burble of the restaurant’s water feature. It’s just as well it’s here, because they aren’t playing music and there aren’t any other diners and it helps to fill the silences.
Though it doesn’t.
‘White or red?’ Quinn asks me, looking at the wine list.
‘I don’t mind,
whichever you prefer.’
‘You like white better. Sauvignon or Chablis?’
‘I won’t be drinking much anyway.’ I gesture in a way that’s meant to mean I have to draw and make up stories tomorrow, but really it’s because I want to keep control of what I say. Of what I feel.
Quinn orders a bottle of Sauvignon blanc and the waitress brings us prawn crackers. ‘How are your mum and dad?’ I ask.
‘Fine,
they’re fine. They say hi.’
‘Tell them I say hi too.’
‘I hear Suz came to visit you on Thursday while she was in Town.’
I look up sharply at that, but then I go back to my menu. ‘Yes, it was really nice of her to pop by.’
‘She’s been keeping busy.’
How much have they discussed? Has my entire conversation with Suz about inequality been relayed back to him?
No. Suz wouldn’t do that.
‘I’m
sure she’s been very busy,’ I say. ‘She always works so hard.’
The waitress brings the wine, asks Quinn if he’d like to taste it. She pours us each a glass and takes our orders for food. ‘Do you want a starter?’ Quinn asks me, and I say, ‘If you do,’ so we don’t order one. ‘Maybe dessert,’ Quinn says.
‘So what have you been doing?’ he asks, as he asks on the phone.
I should tell him now. If
I had any guts, if I were strong enough to be fair, I would tell him,
I have met up with my former lover. I have searched him out and kissed him, I have spent the night in his flat on his sofa. He says I saved his life. I’ve felt that I’ve been in love with him for some time. Sometimes when I was with you
.
I would tell him,
I’m so sorry. So very sorry, Quinn
.
‘Working,’ I say, my throat dry.
‘Mostly working.’
‘Have you seen Lauren at all?’
‘No, she’s been in Brussels. She’s due back in September.’
‘I can’t believe how warm it’s been. It’s more like Spain than England.’
‘Yes, it’s incredible.’
‘It’s supposed to last another week, at least. Maybe two. Right through August.’
Quinn is exactly the same as he has always been. He’s the same man who made me laugh when I should have
been crying, the one who asked my permission before the first time he kissed me. The one who took me on a picnic in the rain and who undressed me, back in our cottage, as if he were uncovering a treasure. Dropping each item of clothing on the floor in the puddles made by our dripping hair. The man who swore to love me for ever under a canopy of umbrellas and who slept with his phone next to his cheek
so I could listen to him breathing. He names the flowers in our garden and the features of the moon. Those hands holding his chopsticks, twisting his wine glass and refilling it, have held mine and held me and performed a thousand little kindnesses for my sake.