I went into the nearest liquor shop and bought six bottles of Chardonnay at 2,99 a pop, walked blindly, ran, bottles clanking, the bag cutting into my palms, and the city darkening with electric light, entirely invisible. I locked my door behind me and sank down, screwed the cap and slugged, slugged, slugged, half a bottle in half a minute, one bottle in a whole. It rolled across the grimy carpet and the bag crinkled and the second screw cap came loose in my hand and the flesh at the inside of my wrist was red and itching. I tottered toward the bed and put my headphones on, loud as they’d go, “Mad Rush” by Philip Glass and Vivaldi’s “Summer” recomposed by Max Richter, a storm of sound and fury and the screw cap in my hand flaying my right arm until the blood dripped and the booze hit and I lay on the floor, stretched out, car lights traveling across the ceiling, my dad my dad Pappa what would he think of this, heart chunking out a sagging beat and my body turning thick and my thoughts oozing like treacle beneath the plinths and down the outside of the house, first floor to ground all covered in black syrup glittering like that dick who wrapped the Reichstag and a Paris bridge. My phone rang from somewhere. I let it go unanswered. I should have said this and that, clever things that would have hurt you deeply, you and my mother, whose love should have been a given.

  I woke up at four the morning after, half on the sofa, half on the floor. The light outside, filtering in, was gray. Crusts ran from the corners of my eyes into my hairline. Blood dried. Dawn faded to day. Sozzled students bellowed and brayed from the street below my window. The anger had faded, and my childish self-pity had exposed itself for what it was.

  I’d met you on my first day of school, and now for the first time I wondered if perhaps I’d met you too soon. Perhaps I should have made some other friends, people I wouldn’t have got along with quite so well, but at least a few of whom would have stayed so that when one went away, I wouldn’t have been as completely alone as I was now.

  When I checked the time again, it was nine, and my mother would be on the plane to Berlin. She’d sent me an email with her new address earlier that morning, adding that she’d hoped I’d calmed down a little and that neither her relocation nor my reaction to it would alter our relationship if she were to have any say in the matter. She said to call her if I had any questions. She hadn’t written anything at the end, just the automatic signature “With kind regards” in a lighter gray and her full name in the company font.

  I dragged myself back to bed, pulled the covers over my head and drank the rest of the wine. My arm stung. The sheets were sticky. Kids sang and skipped on their way to the playground, their parents telling them to slow down, cars passed, and the bikes, so many bikes, all old and making a racket. I heard the students wake and make their way down the street, laughing and shouting and singing, too, but different songs than the children’s. I pondered whether you’d used me, whether this is what people meant when they said someone had hoodwinked them: laughter and joy in the beginning, confidences and something closer than friendship, and then just as suddenly the novelty wearing off, the shine fading.

  The bottles were empty. I took a shower and drank from the tap. The sun went down again. I made a pot of coffee and drank it, one mug after the other, and sat staring out the window.

  I didn’t sleep. Didn’t move for hours. Not until my arm began to throb and I got up to wipe it with disinfectant, cover the worst of it with plasters. I combed my hair in the morning and listened to the music that the girl in the room next to mine put on, her chatter with her boyfriend. The smell of bacon and burnt bread. I made another pot of coffee, drank until I couldn’t stop shaking and looked at the room I’d been living in for the past two years—the unmade bed in the corner, the desk buried under books and papers and a laptop with two missing keys, the TV on a tiny table squashed in between the bed and the empty fridge—and couldn’t spend another minute there.

  The library was airy, white walls and large windows, and although nobody spoke a low hum of people typing, reading, making notes meant it wasn’t silent. I was lucky to snatch an empty seat and as my old laptop started up I looked up at the books on shelves soaring several floors toward a square skylight and the blue sky and the squeezing feeling against my sternum that didn’t let up. When I looked back down, there he was, sitting behind a laptop opposite me and flashing me a smile. It took a while before I could smile back, but the rest of it went exactly as you’d expect, and more or less as I’ve written it. I told him about my coursework, and he told me about his company, and then when I should have said goodbye I told him on a whim I’d be in the library the next day.

  And I was.

  “Do you think it was a sort of… precursor?” I ask Stella quietly. “That evening after Harry and my mother left? I mean the—” I break off, and rub my thumb over the inside of my wrist.

  Stella understands. “What do you think?” she asks.

  “With the benefit of hindsight.” I shrug. Obviously.

  “Had you done it before?”

  “Just a few times. Superficially. Nothing major.”

  “And when?”

  “First time when my father died,” I say. “Then, every few years. Don’t really know the reason. Just, whenever something went wrong. Or scared me.”

  “Did it make you feel better?” she asks. “For however short a while?” she amends when she catches my frown.

  “No.” I’d never really taken to it. Just a beginner, didn’t have the guts to take it any further.

  “And that final time?”

  “Don’t remember,” I maintain. “Not until a few days afterward.”

  “How did you feel then?”

  It’s easy, this one. “A failure.”

  He was wrapped around me when I woke up. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. The rhythm told me he was still asleep. I stretched, wriggled my toes against his, rolled my shoulders back, made the joints crack. Pulled up the duvet. He smelled lovely. Felt lovely, too.

  The light that came through the curtains was dark blue. I could hear the baby next door crying. The swoosh of a shower curtain.

  Andrew had rented an entire apartment for the seven weeks he’d spend in Utrecht. I’d spent the better part of the past five weeks there with him. It was warm, clean, an amalgam of polished marble floors and gleaming countertops and all of it fucking huge, frankly. There were pictures of his family on the fridge. They were all smiling in restaurants, in parks, at graduations, shindigs in fancy bars.

  I closed my eyes and thought about how he put his music on every morning while making us breakfast, how beautiful his smile was and his hair as it hung wet over his forehead after he’d taken a shower. Definitely didn’t think about you, how I hadn’t heard a thing since that final text you sent. Didn’t think about my mother either, her new life in Berlin.

  I woke up again when Andrew tightened his arms around me. “Morning,” he rumbled, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Oh, you smell good.”

  “So do you,” I whispered.

  He kissed my neck, my shoulder. “Coffee?”

  “Yeah. Please.”

  “Hang on.” He slipped out of bed, left the bedroom. The light had changed to a pale gray. Next door, the baby had stopped crying.

  “Here you go.” Andrew came back with two mugs. I sat up and put my pillow against the headboard, leaned back, reached for the mug. “What’s that?”

  I looked down. He was staring at the fresh scars on the inside of my wrist. I’d seen him notice those before. He’d never asked though.

  “Nerves,” I shrugged, and colored. “Sometimes when I feel anxious, I…” I mimed with my other thumb. Took the cup and sipped. Andrew got in next to me, pulled the duvet up.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked.

  “No. Stings and itches, sometimes. It’s fine.” I yawned, and rubbed my eyes. Another sip. “You make a neat cup.”

  “Thanks very much.”

  We quietly sat beside each other for a few minutes.

  “Baby next door’s sleeping through the night already?” Andrew asked.

  “Think so. I heard her earlier, but it was already getting light by then.”

  “Figures,” he grumbled. “Just as I’m about to leave.”

  I took another careful sip. “I spoke to the mother yesterday. She’s really friendly.”

  “I know. Sorry.”

  I looked at him. “What for?”

  “It’s a dickish thing to do, complaining about a crying baby.”

  “It is, a little.” I smiled.

  “Hey.” He kicked me, gently, beneath the covers.

  “You’re okay,” I conceded. Emptied my mug. “Want another?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  I went into the bathroom first, peed, washed my face. I put the ground beans into the machine, pressed the button, checked my phone while I waited.

  Nothing.

  “What are you up to today?” Andrew asked as I slipped back into bed and handed him his coffee.

  “I’ve got a class at noon, but I’m thinking of skipping.”

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t hand in my paper.” I realized he was looking at me. “Couldn’t concentrate,” I explained.

  “Is it to do with your mother leaving?”

  “I guess. How about you? What are your plans?”

  “I need to call my parents.” Andrew scratched the back of his head, yawned. “They offered me the use of the house in Cambridge when I get back, but I’d rather stay in London for the moment.”

  “Is it nice? The flat you have there?”

  “You’d like it.”

  I looked at him. Andrew was smiling, biting his lip. I felt a flutter that started in my belly and ended up tingling everywhere.

  “Would I?”

  “I’m leaving next week.”

  “I hadn’t forgotten.” The prospect had been torturing me, but I’d been determined not to let on. It wasn’t cool to be this desperate, not after only a few weeks.

  “You could come with.”

  I lowered my mug.

  Andrew shrugged. “I don’t want to say goodbye to you.”

  “No,” I agreed. First you, then my mother, and now Andrew? “Neither do I.”

  “You could come with,” Andrew said again. A delicious warmth, everywhere.

  “What would I do in London?”

  “You could figure something out. Perhaps get an English degree there?”

  “Perhaps.” I didn’t feel like starting over.

  “Or you could get a job somewhere. Do an internship.”

  “You know,” I said with a smile, “we’ve only known each other for five weeks.”

  “Feels longer.”

  “I’ve never met your family,” I offered, one final show of resistance.

  “They’d love you.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t help it then: I broke out in the biggest smile for him.

  Andrew pulled me against his side, kissed the top of my head. “Of course. My mother’s been planning a dinner party for when I come back. I’ll introduce you. I haven’t had a girlfriend for two years, they’ll be over the moon.”

  I thought about my own room, the mess I’d left, the silence. I thought about you.

  Too much, and much too soon. Looking back, that seems painfully obvious. But again, I try to imagine what would have happened if I’d stayed in Utrecht, in that room. Alcohol, of course, and probably much too much of that. The scratching. The isolation. Would I really have been any better off?

  “Oof,” Gerald groans.

  I look round. He’s put a hand on his abdomen, fingers flexing, shifts his weight on the kitchen chair.

  “Are you sure you’re well?” I frown.

  “Oh, fine. Just a bit of a… stomachache. Sensitive bowels, you know. Runs in the family.”

  Realization rushes toward my cheeks. Please, tell me I didn’t. Fuck. Gerald groans again.

  “Can I get you anything?” I ask, as evenly as I can. Shit, shit, shit… Don’t tell me I got the bowls mixed up. “Imodium or something?”

  “Oh no.” Gerald pats his belly. “Thank you, but I’ll give it a few more hours, see if it gets any better.”

  I’m bright red, try to hide by scrutinizing the recipe: “Sieve the flour, cocoa powder and the salt in a bowl.” I open drawers and cabinets. Here are the cups and saucers, the plates, the pasta and the rice, here are the tins of tuna and apricots and peaches and—

  “I um… I need the lavatory.” Gerald scrambles to his feet and hurries out of the kitchen.

  The loo door closes, a pause, then a splurt and a high note.

  “Oh.” I scrunch up my face. A groan, then the tinkle of the toilet roll holder spinning. I tiptoe toward the kitchen door and close it. My hands on the wood for a moment longer, sliding down toward the lock, fingers touching metal. I don’t want anyone here with me. The key’s in between my fingertips—but I don’t turn it. I press against the wood with both hands, as if to shut the door more shut than it already is. Close it closer?

  Put the bowl on the scales. The flour spills. I shake the cocoa from the packet, brown clouds landing on my hands and on the countertop, sticking to the residual fat from the chicken, the chorizo, the olive oil I used for the salad and the mozzarella, and a few drops of blood, too, I guess. My blood, or the cat’s? Where is the cat?

  “Fran, darling.” Evan strides from the garden through the back door, pocketing his phone. “Where’s the key to that splendid liquor cabinet of yours?”

  I put down the salt shaker. Evan’s eyes are red, the collar of his shirt has turned dark with sweat. “Are you all right?” I ask him.

  “Splendid.”

  “Was that Rosalie on the phone with you just now?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Evan says. “The key?”

  “Are you sure you should?”

  “No, but we all do stupid things, don’t we?”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Franca, please, just—for the love of god.”

  “Fine.” I open the drawer, rummage through the knickknacks. Why do we even have a cabinet with a lock on it? Andrew thought it’d look cool, but it just makes you look like a knob, really. I retrieve the key and hold it out to him. “Just don’t—”

  “Thank you.” Evan strides out of the kitchen, leaves the door open behind him. I stare after him, then follow him into the dining room, where he’s already pouring a glass of something.

  “Evan?”

  “What’ll you have?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Nothing for me.”

  “Harry?”

  I turn round. You’re on your own, seated at the table. I hadn’t noticed you.

  “Oh, I’ll join.” You give me a careful look. “Bad idea, but too late now.”

  “Here.” Evan passes a glass to you, raises his own. “To new flames.”

  I frown. “What’s that?”

  “I spoke to Rosalie just now.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “She’s found herself a new boyfriend,” Evan says after swallowing. “Found him before she’d ditched me, as it turns out.” He sniffs, empties the glass. “A Woolf scholar. Christ, another one of you lot.”

  “Sorry,” you and I mutter simultaneously.

  “Yeah.” Evan pours himself another, drops the bottle on the table.

  “Look, why don’t you sit down,” I try.

  “It’s the last one,” he promises. “Hand on heart.”

  “Let’s go outside. Sit by the pond, you can calm down.”

  “She’s left me for some other shit!” Evan cries out, and he’s not the Evan I know anymore, but someone much, much younger. “Sitting down won’t change that!”

  “I know, but—”

  “She’s been seeing him for two months! For Christ’s sake, how is that helped in any way by my—”

  “Sit down, mate,” you say, stepping forward as I take a step back. Evan comes back to himself, turns recognizable again.

  “Sorry.” He takes a deep breath, rubs his face. “Sorry.” He squeezes my arm and wanders through the double doors into the garden.

  Another groan sounding from the hallway. The flush of the toilet.

  “We’re going to need more bog roll,” I murmur.

  I feel the warmth of your gaze on my face. “You speak differently,” you say after a moment.

  I turn my head as well, look at you. “Different how?”

  “Your English, it’s more like a… a posh person’s version of colloquial. You used to speak like you’d stepped out of a nineteenth-century novel. Now you’re all like…”

  “Like what?”

  “Like ‘bog roll’.”

  “Oh.”

  We both drink. I look outside. Evan’s plopped down flat on the grass, rolling the glass between his hands. Andrew walks into my line of sight, stops beside Evan, looks down on him. They talk, but I can’t hear the words.

  I pour a glass of whatever Evan’s drinking and take it back with me into the kitchen. I unwrap two tablets of dark chocolate, put them on the chopping board, hack them into rough bits. Whatever. I might be more inclined to allow for your judgment on my life if you’d had your own affairs in order. Turn on the oven, wash my hands, take a pan and boil water, measure the sugar, butter, chocolate, open a tin of condensed milk, tip it all in. Stir, and turn the flame down to “slowly heat into a smooth mixture.” I stir, and stir, and stir, and take a sip of my drink—whatever it is, it’s delicious.

  Gerald shuffles in. He puts a hand on the table as soon as it’s within reach and shakily lowers himself down onto a chair. “I’m very sorry,” he says hoarsely. “I must have caught a bug or something.”

  “Are you sure I can’t get you anything? Or call someone, to come pick you up?”

  “Oh, there’s no one who’d drive out at this time of night to come and pick up my sorry arse.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27