Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Nine o’clock and Amy arrived immaculate and loud.

He had been the first to arrive. I had opened the door to find him holding a chocolate cake that he had baked himself. It was the first time I had seen him look nervous.

Twenty-eight! Happy birthday, darling girl!

Thanks, Ames.

David can’t come, she said with a saccharine tone. He really wanted to but he’s hell for leathered at work. I told her that she wasn’t using that expression correctly. She waved her hands and then pulled me in for a kiss. Coats?

On the bed.

I led Amy through the flat, where my friends were spaced around the living room and kitchen. I handed her a plastic flute, at which she looked confused and said: I suppose it saves on washing up. She forced eye contact before clinking my glass. Bad sex for seven years, remember! Then, noticing him, she lowered her voice: I cannot believe you’re dating him! He’s so… and you’re so… She couldn’t find the words for him but concluded that I was “quiet,” “reserved,” and “intelligent.” I told her that those were adjectives people used to describe serial killers.

Do be careful, though, babe, she said. I’ve always said that about your writing. It lacks an identity. I don’t mean that as a criticism, but, well, it does, and he—from what I can tell—is someone who has such a strong identity. Do you remember when he just waltzed into the pub?

He didn’t waltz, Mat invited—

And he didn’t say a word and just shoved his feet on the table.

I know but—

And then he called Chris a cunt.

Chris’s character.

Same difference.

I smiled: So you’re saying you agreed with him?

Her mouth fell slack, and she conceded. Fine, we all know that Chris can be a “See You Next Tuesday,” but he didn’t need to say it!

I wasn’t offended by Amy’s thoughts. I would rather that people had an opinion than think he was just nice . I worried that people thought that about me, because it took me longer to reveal the colors of myself, which he and Ruth and even Amy offered confidently. I was still curating pieces for him. The “funny” piece. The “sexy” piece. The “sweet” piece.

I pointed to the cake on the table and said that he had made it for me. Amy looked confused and replied that perhaps he wasn’t as hostile as he seemed. I replied that he was exactly as hostile as he seemed, and she looked even more confused.

Well, she said, sipping her prosecco, I’m just happy you’re seeing someone. You do know that if you don’t have sex for more than six months, your vagina seals back up? Oh my god, there’s Floo! Floo! Amy opened her arms to our friend Fiona, prosecco swishing from her glass, and I returned to him.

For the first fifteen minutes of the party, he had awkwardly flipped through the recipe books on the window ledge and I had realized, as he muttered things like Thirty minutes, my arse , that he cared about tonight.

He pressed his lips to my hair, then took a swig of beer. Why is she here? he asked, nodding to Amy. She’s like a Stepford wife.

She’s a friend, you know that.

Yeah, but like, a writing friend?

Amy and I were at university together.

You were?

I told you that!

You didn’t.

And she’s not a Stepford wife. What even is a Stepford wife? She’s really talented.

Just what the world needs, he said, taking another swig of beer.

I told him that for someone who didn’t care what anyone thought of him he was surprisingly critical of others.

(the “no-nonsense” piece)

He told me that was because he was always right. Then he pointed to my blinds and said that I had moths. I told him that I knew. He asked why I wasn’t getting rid of them. I said that I didn’t want to bother them.

(the “adorable” piece)

He furrowed his brow. They’re moths , honey, he said, his voice beer-drenched and delicious.

I felt a deep happiness thinking about how at the end of the evening everyone would leave but he would stay. We hadn’t used words to define our relationship, but his directness was a comfort; he wasn’t the sort of person to be anywhere he didn’t want to be. If he didn’t want to be at the party, he would leave; if he didn’t want to be with me, he would leave me. But still, the words would be nice.

So… this is nice… you being here, meeting my friends…

Okay…

Some would say that’s a big step.

Some?

Not me, obviously.

(the “cool” piece)

He rolled his eyes, but I could see that he was fighting a smile. A feeling of warmth rose in me like when I saw a baby otter.

The doorbell went.

It’s Ruth!

She’s late.

R UTH ARRIVED IN AN eighties’ waistcoat, high-waisted jeans, and a selection of gold necklaces. I was wearing a black dungaree dress and a white shirt. She looked like she was in a fashion campaign and I looked like a Victorian ghost.

I went to the kitchen to make her a cocktail and watched them: him on the sofa arm, holding his beer, arm muscles flexed; her, gesticulating, bracelets sliding down her arm. Ruth didn’t curate pieces of herself. I remembered my therapist at school telling me to separate my emotions from myself. Ruth had always been able to do that; her core was fixed.

I joined them and handed her a passion fruit martini. I’m sorry, I used too much syrup!

He raised his eyebrows, and Ruth nudged my arm. Where’s my beer? he asked. Ruth told him to get it himself. I loved how comfortable they were with each other already. He asked if he could change the music. Ruth, have you noticed how crap Enola’s taste in music is considering otherwise she pretends to be cool? And she can’t cook for herself, he said, and laughed. How do you survive, honey? You’re like a baby deer in the wild.

She’s fine, said Ruth. And it’s cooler to like the music you like as opposed to the music that everyone else likes.

He made a face at me. I made a face back. Ruth sipped her martini and told me that it was delicious. He said that it wasn’t kind to lie. I laughed and he laughed.

I wanted him more every day. I was addicted to the details: what his skin smelled like, how big his cock was, the songs he hummed in the shower. I even loved the smell of his cigarettes. Sometimes, when he smoked, I asked for a drag. I never inhaled, but I held the smoke in my mouth and blew it out, imagining a smoke ring.

I pressed my head to his, and it was perfect. He was perfect.

H ANG ON —

I can hear my phone ringing. Fuck. I’m expecting a knock at the door, but what if it’s a phone call? Could it be Ruth calling to tell me how the team-building exercises are going? They asked me for an interesting fact about myself and I told them about the guy I killed in Vegas.

I slide shut the balcony doors and return to the warmth. In the bedroom, my T-shirt is a bad joke by the wardrobe and my phone is still smashed but sentient. It’s not Ruth, but I’m relieved when I see the name on the screen.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Ruth’s mum’s voice is deep and warm.

“Hi, Catherine.” I’m surprised to find that mine is trembling—I realize this is the first time I’ve spoken today.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, “how are you doing?”

“Oh yes, I’m fine, I just… I just have a sore throat,” I lie, coughing. “That’s better!” My voice comes out stronger. “How are you?”

“Can’t complain… Have you heard from Ruth yet?”

Catherine doesn’t know that we’re fighting. I answer that I haven’t, and she pauses, then: “I just hope she gives this job a real chance.”

“She went to Bath for the training day, which is a good sign!”

She tells me that I know her daughter better than she does. “And listen, I wanted to check in with you about Christmas. Are you going to be coming to us? It’ll be a quieter one this year, as Emily and the girls are at Samson’s.”

Will Ruth want me there this Christmas?

“I’ll let you know in the next couple of days, if that’s okay?”

I sit on the edge of the bed, and the photo that Catherine gave me last Christmas stares at me from the wardrobe mirror. Dad’s sloping nose, weak jawline, and protruding ears are mine now. But my eyes still belong to Mum. Pale brown, almost amber, with a dark ring framing the iris. They are reptilian. Mum’s beauty is the first thing people comment on if they meet her, with a note of surprise, like they weren’t expecting her to be. My mum was an actress before she met my dad. She made people admire her for a living. I am not my mother’s daughter.

“Oh, of course. There’s no rush. You know me, I’m just getting organized,” Catherine says.

“Thank you.”

“Your room is always here.”

I remember the first time she said that to me: Don’t call it the spare room, Enola, it’s your room.

I smile. “I know it is.”

But I am not Catherine’s daughter either.

“Are you sure you’re all right, sweetheart? You sound a little down. Do you want to come over for dinner? I’m making that fish dish you like.”

I really want to say yes. I want to be wrapped in that house. The blankets on the sofa. The books in the toilet. The photos by the stairs. When Catherine calls dinner she makes an effort to say my name: Emily, Ruth, Enola… food’s ready!

“Maybe when Ruth gets back?”

“Have you got something on?”

“I’m just waiting for something.”

“A delivery? Anything nice?”

I lie again. “Yes, something nice.”

“That’s good, sweetheart, you should treat yourself. And have you heard anything about your book yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, try not to worry too much. And call if you change your mind about tonight?”

“I will.”

“And did you manage to speak to your mum yesterday?”

“Yes.”

Catherine knows I am lying. She knows me in a different way to Ruth, but she sees through me in the same way.

“Oh, sorry, Catherine, there’s someone at the door. I think it’s my delivery?” One final lie.

She sighs. Ruth inherited the same noise. We say goodbye, and I immediately miss her voice.

I check my messages. Two unread ones from Virinder. His “online” status flickers like a broken lightbulb. There is still nothing from Ruth. I should have realized at my party just how much she didn’t like him, but it’s easier to believe the reality you want.

T HE PARTY ENDED WITH Amy being the first to leave, declaring how much fun she had in a tone that implied she hadn’t expected to have any, and Ruth the last to leave. Any other year, Ruth would have stayed over, but this time he was here.

Ruth zipped up her raincoat and gathered me in. She smelled like passion fruit and Chanel. She told me that she had shifts on Monday and Tuesday. I told her that I wasn’t in until Thursday because I needed to write. She asked me if I was getting much writing done.

Not really. He’s a little… distracting.

She asked if it was nice having him here tonight and if I had met his friends yet. I shook my head, and she then said that he seemed guarded, as if she was agreeing with me, but that wasn’t what I had meant.

Don’t you like him, Roo?

She adjusted the hood of her coat. Look, she began. It’s always weird meeting someone’s best friend, and maybe he was awkward or keen to make, like, a good impression or something. But I’m never going to love hearing someone put you down.

When did he put me down?

What do you mean? The music, the cooking?

I leaned backward to check that he wasn’t listening, but he was on the balcony smoking and the music was still playing. I told Ruth that he was only teasing. You didn’t think he was funny? Ruth said that he was confident and magnetic, but that he didn’t have a nice word to say. I reminded her that he had made me a cake, and she said that he also made sure everyone knew he had made it. I told Ruth that she was being harsh. I like the banter. I hate all that heavy stuff. It’s nice that it’s chilled! She said that banter was good, but it seemed like the jokes were his and not mine. And chilled is good if that’s what you want? But it seems like you really like him, Enola.

Ruth, if you don’t like him, just say you don’t like him.

It doesn’t matter what I think.

It matters to me.

I stepped back and folded my arms. He made me laugh at myself. He took me out of my head. He made everything exciting. My blood was pumping for the first time in years. How could she not see that?

Ruth reached for my arm. I’m sorry, she said. I like him as long as he makes you happy, but if he hurts you, I will kill him. If anyone deserves happiness, Enola…

I told her that I was happy, and she said that she was happy too, then. Both of us were slurring our words. I told her to text when she was home, and she said that she was meeting a date. I told her to be careful. She told me not to worry. Claire is a primary school teacher who cross-stitches. I told her that those were the ones to watch out for.

They’re not, actually, Laa.

I closed the door wishing that Ruth knew me just a little bit less.

I N THE LIVING ROOM , I surveyed the detritus: leftover cake, torn streamers, and half-drunk drinks. The balcony doors opened and closed, and he was in my arms, crisp and cold.

Did you like Ruth?

Yeah, he said. She seems cool.

I wanted more details, but he handed me a badly wrapped present from the inside pocket of his denim jacket. Happy birthday. I looked down at the gift and then up at him. I told him that he had already made me a cake and that this was too much. I wanted to cry, I managed not to, but still, noticing my sincerity, he told me not to be dramatic.

Besides, Steph helped with the cake.

Steph was a name I heard as much as he heard Ruth’s. Patrick—Pat—and Steph were his closest friends. Steph was an actor, and Patrick was an illustrator.

Steph could have come tonight, you know.

She had plans.

Okay, but she could have, if you wanted her to. I’m just saying that I’d love to meet your friends, if you—

Just open the present, Enola.

I hated that Ruth was getting in my head. We hadn’t even been dating a month. I would meet his friends when he was ready.

I tore open the cheap paper to find a CD that he had made. In the sleeve was a piece of lined paper on which he had written a list of the songs. The last song on the list was by Kate Bush and he had quoted:

Keep us close to your heart, so if the skies turn dark, we may live on in comets and stars.

It was the most beautiful, thoughtful gift, and I told him that I would make him one in return. He said that if he wanted to listen to the Dawson’s Creek soundtrack, he would buy it. Then he went to the kitchen, got a bin bag from the second drawer, and began clearing the rubbish.

His affection was there in scrawled black Biro, in a homemade cake, in the fact that he knew where my bin bags were kept. I imagined the party where he and Ruth met and loved each other. That version was so close to this one that it didn’t matter. And it didn’t matter that I didn’t know his exact feelings yet, because mine were weaving over the hole in my chest. I wanted to tell him how much I adored him, but I didn’t; I went to the kitchen and interlaced my fingers with his so that they dangled down by his crotch. He dropped the bin bag and kissed me. The perfect punctuation mark of a kiss, a beat lingering like someone had pressed the sustain peddle on a piano. Then he pulled back and shook his head. Well, this is going pretty well, isn’t it?