Chapter 17

17

All About You

At first Eva's lack of pain was something she didn't notice at all and when she did, she thought about it as a liberation, released from the burden of her own biology. Childbirth, period pain, endometriosis. She would never have to suffer those conditions. Yet something changed as soon as she was diagnosed. She felt diminished, pitied rather than envied by those who read about her. And that didn't suit her. She began to crave what was denied to her, the body's siren when we're drawn too close to the flame. But I wasn't really paying attention as her craving grew. Burning, throbbing, aching. All she wanted was the gift of pain.

The next morning, in Nate's house, we face each other across the kitchen island, the distance between us as solid as the cool flecked marble beneath my fingertips. I scan his face but it only mirrors the uncertainty he must see in mine. If I am a little distracted, it's not for the reason he suspects. I try to tell myself it was coincidence Tony happened to slam his car door at the moment we kissed. Was he sitting there waiting for us to return?

As I lay in bed last night, Tony's intimations and the sad reality of his words spun around me in the darkness. After my father died, it's true that we became each other's keepers, grief and guilt binding us more tightly than I ever would have wished.

Our past was shaped by one soundtrack. It's there when I run, my body replays it in the tightening of my chest, the fire in my lungs, the struggle to inhale. I know it's there for Tony too. That sound. The rasp of my father's breath, followed by the compressed hiss of his inhaler opening up his swollen airways. Tony and I grew up witnessing the power of this small miraculous invention. Yet the night my father suffered his final fatal attack, when his last barely audible words were, "Help me," we couldn't find a fresh one. Waiting for the paramedics to arrive, we searched through the house high and low but there wasn't one to be found, anywhere.

I catch Nate's quizzical stare, haul my mind, like a dead weight, back to the moment.

"Anna, I—" he starts, his face looks strained, even a little gaunt. "We should talk."

"No, really," I say, flatly. "There's nothing more to say."

There is everything to say. My life is more complicated than he can ever imagine. Nate assumes he took control that evening, cutting short our kiss when we were interrupted, but the exact timing was down to Tony.

I find it hard to meet his eye, follow my finger instead as it traces a faint silver-gray vein on the marble countertop. His hand moves across the stone surface, the edge of his fingertips graze mine. "I should apologize. I feel it's my fault. I had no right to put you in that position and I promise you whatever did or—didn't happen," he falters. "I won't tell anyone and I assume you won't either."

"Absolutely not, no. Forget about it. I have. It's gone." I brush my hand in the air as if to flick it away. "We're working together, let's leave it at that."

"Really?" He searches my expression and I reflect back at him what he most likely wants to see. Relief, indifference.

"Yup, really." I smile, breaking eye contact to rummage through my bag for my notebook. "So. I've been planning a new way into the material and here's how I think it'll work." He takes a moment to recalibrate as I flip through the many pages of dense notes. I stand up and so does he.

"Right," he says crisply. "Shall we make a start?"

Initially, it takes an iron will to concentrate, sitting side by side. I hunch over the desk, legs folded to one side. He leans back, hands clasped behind his neck, our eyes steadfastly fixed on the screen.

"Something like this?" I say, as we scrutinize an unfinished chapter on-screen.

Chapter 3—Meeting You

That first day you came into my office, I heard you before I saw you. Your voice quiet yet forceful, pointed and assured. Delicate, fine-featured, your sea green coat matched the color of your eyes. Long raven black hair skirted your shoulders, kinking up at the ends. You had sloping bangs that fell across your eyes. I remember you would tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear any time you struggled to find exactly the right word to describe your symptoms.

We were used to working with people who were suffering acute pain, where even a featherlight touch to their skin would cause intense agony. You were the polar opposite, your features perfect, your complexion flawless. I couldn't help thinking you were a glowing testament to the potential of a pain-free existence.

"Long raven black hair and her complexion flawless? A little over the top?"

"I don't think it's that bad," I counter. "You've said yourself that she looked absurdly youthful, unblemished by anxiety or pain."

"You know you make her sound a lot more glamorous than she was."

"Wasn't she?" I ask. You only have to look at images of her online, every inch the old-school film noir siren, liberated, desirable and desiring. Why does he want to play that down? When I think I've got closer to her essence, it's as if he's trying to lead me away. But I say nothing. I compromise and slowly we become experts in deciphering one another's micro-responses; a tut, a raised brow or even a cough is a cue for one of us to rephrase or re-angle.

But still, I can't help myself. I am irresistibly drawn to guessing her likes, her tics and preferences. I have a Pinterest board in my mind devoted solely to her tastes: vintage turquoise necklaces, Zelda Fitzgerald, Talitha Getty in Marrakech, Smythson stationery, every dress by The Vampire's Wife. "Eva wouldn't like that," I sometimes blurt out, as if the character I've conjured up on the page is an old friend.

"How would you know?" He throws me increasingly strange looks. "Surely you can't intuit all that from just a fifteen-minute phone interview?"

"I'm a journalist. I can find out a lot in fifteen minutes." I shrug.

When we wired you up with sensors in the Pain Laboratory, your lack of response to pain was strangely mesmerizing. My team fell silent as we observed you chatting, asking questions, oblivious to the burns and pinpricks marking the delicate skin inside your arm.

"Feel anything now?" I asked you, knowing already what the answer would be. In that moment, I realized it was nature's cruelest trick to deny you the privilege of pain.

Nate reads the last line out loud twice, emphasizing the final three words.

"I like that." He leans back. "Was that me?"

"Nope, afraid not. One of mine."

"Really?"

I look up and check the time but Nate's in the zone.

"Come on," he urges. "Next chapter."

That day rapidly becomes a blueprint for the rest and a shorthand evolves. As Eva takes center stage, it is easier for us to bury any messier feelings we may have had, and the more I am able to enjoy this strange little universe we've carved out in the seclusion of his study, intimate but respectful. We inch forward, like a forensic team on its knees picking through the debris, sculpting a version of his past and hers.

It seems to be working. For the first time Priya is content with the updates, and we're hitting our deadlines.

Chapter 13—In Your Thoughts

My love for you began with your brain. I thought about what was inside your head a lot, exactly what made your billion or so neurons so different to the rest. I wanted to see your mind unfold in real time. Not just the mechanics of it all but the originality of your expression, your artistic playfulness constantly mining new ideas, new perspectives.

Of course, beyond your imagination, you fascinated me clinically. That may sound cold but scientists like me are eternally searching for that one medical anomaly who can shed light on their particular area of expertise. And that medical anomaly happened to be you.

Nate tilts his head doubtfully.

"Getting into her brain? Sounds a bit mad scientist."

"Wasn't it?"

"Not in the way you describe here."

"It's staying. It gives you an edge, makes you sound intriguing. The sexual attraction bit comes later."

Chapter 14—Feeling Your Pain

I wonder what would have happened if my research hadn't drawn media interest from around the world. Overnight you were photographed and interviewed by newspapers and TV channels.

The extraordinary attention your story received meant that there was a reason to keep in touch—the media often wanted to interview both of us. I was the one who offered scientific insight but it was you they found compelling.

When you asked to meet me one evening, I knew it wasn't strictly professional, given we'd only just finished our research project. I convinced myself I'd only hook up for a short drink...but four hours later we were still talking.

"And you kissed her that evening?" I ask, aware that I'm more interested than I should be.

Nate leans back, exhales.

"I know it's a delicate subject but I think we really need to include it in this section." I glance at him, offer a reassuring smile.

"Ah, you mean the oh-so-significant first kiss."

"Well, readers will want to know. So what really happened?"

We met in a featureless pub at the end of my road. You told me how you'd always come across as different to people, all your life. How you had struggled to feel the same as everyone else, to feel anything at all.

As I looked at you, the way your eyes glittered, how animated you seemed, I wanted to help. I began to realize the bitter irony of it, that I'd set out to find a cure for pain but now I felt you deserved the very opposite, the chance to feel it. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I hadn't met you for that drink. Would we have drifted apart once the media interest ended? A blank moon hung low in the sky as I walked you to the subway and we shared our first kiss.

"Well?" I said, leaning back, pleased with myself.

"It's good." He deliberates, head tilted. "But not remotely true?"

"Most of it is. You did kiss her."

"We didn't kiss at that point. It was the next time we met, at her apartment."

"But it lends something to the moment. It's still being true to the spirit of it, the significance of every first kiss."

He looks at me. "Every?"

"I meant, mean, your and Eva's kiss," I stumble, sensing his presence next to me, his energy intensifying. Is he about to say something, name what's in the room? For a brief moment I am held by that look in his eyes. His hand, next to the keyboard, almost touches mine and, in a second, I could break the silence, call this out for what it is. He could too. All of a sudden it hits me, that this is how it will be between us, our first kiss, not theirs, burning away, unresolved. I move my hand away, primly, glance at him in profile, jaw clenched, inscrutable. Why would I risk being hurt again?

"Nate—" I sigh, shake my head "—don't let us go there."

"Go where exactly?"

His semi-playful tone irks me, particularly when we're writing about the first time he met his wife. Is it all a game to him? He has so much less to lose than me.

Nate catches my pained expression and lets it go. With concerted effort we focus our gaze on Eva.