Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

I woke up with my eyes open and didn’t remember sleeping. He kissed the back of my neck. Happy birthday. How does it feel to be twenty-nine? I told him that it felt the same as yesterday, but that might have been a lie. I said that Ruth would be here in an hour. He said that he didn’t want to be in the firing line. I told him there were no gunmen.

Ruth understands that things have changed.

He got up, walked to my side of the bed, and crouched. But do you understand that things have changed, Enola? I brushed his hair back from his face.

He showered, and I checked my phone for birthday messages. Louise had sent an e-card: an animated image of animals dancing in a forest. Darling Girl . Mum had posted a card, which arrived yesterday with some information about the vegetables. I wasn’t expecting him to get me anything.

When we were both ready, I walked him to the door, and he said that he’d be over later. Are you sure that you don’t want to do anything? I told him that I had no money. He said that it was his treat. I said that he had no money. But it wasn’t just the money. I didn’t want to celebrate. I wasn’t unhappy, but I wasn’t happy either. We had been back together for a month and it did feel different, but I was waiting for it to change, waiting to say or do the wrong thing. And now with my book waiting for Diana’s verdict, everything in my life was about waiting. Even twenty-nine was just waiting to be thirty.

This time last year I was making your birthday cake, he said, squeezing my breast.

There was a knock at the door and he made “pew pew” gunshot noises. I reached behind him to open it, and Ruth stood there with balloons and prosecco. It was awkward while they registered each other and then he said: Well, have fun.

We will, Ruth said, closing the door behind him. She pinned a birthday badge on my shirt and said that she couldn’t believe a whole year had passed. It’s going to be 2016. Isn’t that insane? She held up the prosecco. Breakfast cocktails?

I’m working, Roo!

Meh. The bankers won’t notice if their coffee art is squiggly.

T HE SHIFT MOVED PAINFULLY slowly. I drank three coffees and continually refreshed my inbox in the hopes of an email from Diana. Halfway through the afternoon, Virinder approached in a long gray coat and tartan scarf. He appeared almost every shift with a compliment, a bad joke, and a generous tip—regardless as to whether I made a coffee or just filled up his copper water bottle. ( Copper is amazing for you, Enola. )

I could smell his clean scent as he placed a neatly wrapped present on the counter. His cheeks were blushed from cold, and his thick hair looked starched.

Happy birthday!

How did you know?

Ruth. But the badge gives it away, he said, nudging the present. I asked him what it was, and he said it was a surprise. I told him that I didn’t like surprises, and he said that it wouldn’t bite. I thanked him and asked if he wanted coffee. He held up a pink portable cup and said that he was doing his bit for the environment. Then he winked and said that he would see me later. I told him never to wink. He laughed. You love it, really.

The square present was wrapped in dark blue textured paper with gold constellations. The sort of paper that costs three pounds for a slice. I wanted to keep it, but Steph wouldn’t reuse paper; she would rip it and probably forget to recycle.

I peeled the paper, and the scent of someone’s summer emerged, fresh and lovely. It was a candle, and on the back was printed: T O LIGHT WHEN YOU’RE WRITING YOUR BESTSELLER.

T HE DAY FINISHED , AND he returned to my flat at six in gym clothes. I had changed and taken off my makeup. He removed his headphones, and I could hear the music for a second before he stopped the track.

How was work? Best birthday ever?

The best, I replied, matching his dryness.

I went to hug him, but he said that he was sweaty. Let me get showered.

I took a blanket onto the balcony and waited for him. I thought about Dad. I had been thinking about him more and more recently. Perhaps it was because I was getting older and he was getting further away. It had been twenty years this month. Twenty years ago, Mum, Dad, and I went to a meat restaurant in Nairobi. We ate crocodile. Dad and Mum fought in the car on the way back. I had a stomachache. A few days later, Dad was dead. I couldn’t see the stars tonight—you could rarely see them in London—but I knew they were there. The same ones from the grassy bank in Watamu. The same ones from the roof of the car in the Mara. Everywhere and all the time. Invisible but there, there but dead: the gravestone I couldn’t put flowers on.

This is how I feel.

I am heartbroken, always. I am endlessly sad.

The door slid open, and he handed me a box of chocolates. Sorry it’s not a cake. I told him that he couldn’t have any.

(the “playful” piece)

He said that he wouldn’t dare ask. He told me that I looked pretty. Twenty-nine agrees with you. I told him that I wasn’t wearing makeup. He said that he preferred me without it. I said that my makeup wasn’t for his approval.

(the “sparky” piece)

He pulled me close to him and said that it was freezing. Shall we go in? I told him that I just wanted to sit here.

(the “independent” piece)

He got out his vape, and the mint wafted toward me. He told me that he was doing better at quitting this time. Who’s the candle on the table from?

My mum.

(the “dishonest” piece)

He accepted the story, which meant that he didn’t understand the damage between me and Mum. Which was my fault. But this truce between me and him lasted only as long as we kept everything sweet. Nothing real could survive.

He kissed my neck. So, anything else you’d like for your birthday?

I looked at the night sky and imagined all the comets and stars that existed above the layers of pollution.

R UTH , E MILY , AND I lay on the corner sofa. Ruth was nursing eggnog with the consistency of rice pudding that she had made herself. Emily was drinking tea, and I had one of each drink. A tree by the upright piano filled the room with the warm, spicy smell of pine.

I loved Christmas here: the cake Catherine made months ago that Jon complained never contained enough cherries; the pillowcase stockings; the card games when Ruth cheated and Emily stormed off. Growing up, Catherine hosted a holiday party during which Emily would wear something straight off the mannequin in the Oxford Street Topshop window and Ruth and I made cocktails from the dregs of drinks. My grandparents referred to Ruth’s family as “bohemian,” which they never had a real answer for, but it was clear what they meant.

How is the relationship going? Emily asked.

I answered that he was being lovely but that something felt off. Perhaps you’re realizing that you don’t love him, said Ruth.

How do you feel? asked Emily, as if to accuse Ruth of speaking for me. Which she wasn’t, but my position as middle sister precluded me from taking sides. I said that I didn’t know how to be without him, but I didn’t know how to be with him anymore either. Emily laughed and said that our generation was so dramatic.

Ruth rolled her eyes. We are the same generation, Em.

Ruth, my two children are downstairs doing a jigsaw with my husband. You live in a warehouse with eight other people. We are not the same generation.

The door to the kitchen opened, and we could hear potatoes sizzling and smell the hot goose fat. I took a sip of eggnog, and Ruth nudged me. How is it?

Delicious. Is it meant to curdle? I said without swallowing. Ruth giggled.

Relationships take work, Emily continued. You have to persevere if you want something to last.

Ignore her, Enola. She’s talking to me, said Ruth.

Excuse me? snapped Emily.

You’ve not met him, Em. He’s not one of Samson’s accountant friends. He’s not normal.

Catherine shouted from the kitchen: Emily, Ruth, Enola … dinner’s ready!

A FTER DINNER , I HELPED Catherine clear while everyone watched a film. I rinsed the plates, and she put them in the dishwasher. There, all done, she said, passing me the towel. I went to leave, but she told me to wait. I have something for you. She took a photo from the miscellany drawer and pressed it to her chest.

I didn’t want to give you this in front of everyone in case it upset you, but… well, you never are upset, are you, sweetheart? You’re always so strong.

She handed me a photo of my dad.

My dad.

My legs grew weak, and the lights appeared brighter.

We were standing under a tree in the garden. My body was bent to his, and my lips were curled under in a cheeky grin. Dad looked younger than I remembered him, in beige shorts and a beige shirt. Behind us the table was set for Christmas.

Catherine said that it was the Christmas we spent together with some friends. I doubt you’ll remember them—Brian and Debbie, I think? They had a boy Emily’s age.

I wish Mum had kept our photos, I said.

I hate her I hate her I hate her

I know, sweetheart. But it was all very hard on her and she had her reasons for handling the situation the way that she did.

The situation . Catherine had that look that grown-ups got when they spoke about Dad. I told her that it had been twenty years last month. Did you know? Catherine said that she wasn’t sure on the day. I told her that I wasn’t either. I just remember it was after my birthday. She looked at me in that way again. I told her that I was okay. Every day is the anniversary of something, right?

Twenty years since he died. Twenty-three years since he stubbed his toe on the sofa. Twenty-seven years since he burned the toast. It all hurts.

I wanted to tell her how much I appreciated the photo and how much I appreciated her calling my name when she called for dinner, but part of me worried that if I did she might stop doing it.

Just then Evie charged in and wrapped her arms around my legs. Nola, she said, come watch Frozen ? We’re doing Elsa makeup! Ruth entered with her face covered in glitter.

Yes, let’s cover Aunty Nola in this shit too.

Catherine said Ruth’s name sharply. Evie whispered, “Shit,” in my ear. Ruth laughed, and Catherine shook her head. Evie wobbled out of the kitchen with Ruth following, arms stretched to catch her.

I asked Catherine if I could keep the photo, and her chin jutted. Of course! It’s for you! But just don’t mention it to Jon—he didn’t think I should give it to you.

She hugged me and said that she was proud of me. Her jumper was thick wool, and she smelled like the potpourri she put in the decorative Christmas boxes around the house, the ones that she’d let me fill with her when I was little, generously allowing me to correct her when a box contained too many cinnamon sticks or not enough orange segments.

When she pulled away, she moved my hair from my eyes and asked how my book was going. I replied that I still hadn’t heard back from Diana. She said that it was probably a busy time of year. Keep the faith and please try to spread some of your passion to Ruth?

R UTH WAS WAITING IN the corridor. She grabbed my elbow and asked if she was being a shit friend. Do I listen enough? Her brown eyes were wide. For me, Christmases here were safety, but Ruth found them hard. She and Emily were very different. I liked to think of myself as the middle sister, but in actuality Ruth held the complex middle role.

Roo, you always listen.

Because Emily doesn’t know the whole story. She doesn’t know how hard it’s been. She hasn’t had to watch you cry over him again and again!

I indicated for her to keep her voice down, because Catherine was still in the kitchen.

Ruth said that she was worried that he hadn’t changed. It’s a short time for someone to change, you know? I told her that she was probably right, but I needed him. She told me that I didn’t. You’re enough by yourself, Enola. You’ve always been enough. I fingered the photograph in my pocket. I told her that even if she was right, I still felt like I needed him. Ruth lowered her gaze as if she were trying to protect her argument and said that there was a difference between needing someone and feeling like you need them. I told her that if a hypnotist told her that she was starving she would still eat a sandwich.

You’ve just described mind control.

The calories would be real.

But if you know that it’s just mind con—

Nola! Come onnn! It’s Ellssssa! Evie ran from the living room and stretched my cardigan. I detached her hand from the fabric and told her I would be there in a second. Ruth shuffled her feet. She was wearing the penguin slippers that Emily had bought her for Christmas. I told her not to worry because she was a great friend.

And you would tell me? Because you can be too generous with people, Enola.

I sighed. Fiiiine. Last week you came over with a croissant for yourself and not for me. That was shitty. Ruth grinned and took my hands. One sleeve of her Christmas jumper lifted to reveal her wrist, where delicate letters read: LOST AT SEA .

Later, Jon would get the port, and we would watch old Christmas specials with a box of chocolates. Then, when it was time for bed, Catherine would turn off the lights, and I would go to the spare room and study the photo of my father.