Page 50 of What It's Like in Words
I don’t need a cheerleader either.
I hadn’t been able to say the right words to comfort him in a long time. I didn’t know whether Steph managed, but from me, every word I said about his book or his career or his life was an attack. I apologized for asking him to come, and he shook his head like he was disappointed that he had agreed to it. I thought about what he’d said in the airport about prioritizing himself in a relationship. Come on, I said. I’ll make us some food.
He whistled and made a face.
Fine, I’ll get us a pizza.
His eyes shone, and instantly I was better than the person I was at the party because he wanted me again.
He held my hand, and when I smiled, he told me to calm down. It’s a hand hold, not a proposal. I told him that I couldn’t wait to get him out of his wet clothes. Honey, he said. Do you mind if we don’t? I really don’t feel sexy. Can we just eat pizza?
We hadn’t had sex for weeks, but I just wanted to be close to him, and his hand in mine felt as intimate. We passed the bus stop, and I threw Scott’s card in the bin. And Diana?
Please send me your manuscript when it is finished.
I would tell him soon; I would. But not yet.
IWAS CLEANING THEfront of the coffee machine, and Ruth was slicing tomatoes. There were seeds covering the counter from where she had missed the chopping board. I told her that I was sorry it didn’t work out at her new job, and she replied that she wasn’t passionate about it. I asked her what she was passionate about, and she held up a limp, wet slice of tomato.
I’m serious, Roo! We only talk about me lately.
That’s because you’re the main character.
Ruth, look at you. You are clearly the main character.
We were wearing the same uniform but Ruth made it look like an outfit she had designed. Her hair was in a scarf and she was wearing a mood ring on each hand.Half of me is enthusiastic and half is pensive, she had said when I pointed out that the stones were different colors.
Ruth told me that she wasn’t like me; I had known what I wanted to do since I was seven. I said that wasn’t a good thing. She paused her chopping and said that I was on the cusp of something. I can feel it, Enola. I asked if she thought that Diana was only interested in my book because of Amy. She said that an agent wouldn’t have time to humor me. Besides, who cares? The important thing is that she reads it.
After the eleven o’clock rush, I went on my break and wrote a few hundred words, some I was proud of, others not, but the choosing was mine. When I returned, Virinder was at the counter talking with Ruth. I watched him. His eyebrows were fixed in surprise, and when he left, he inexplicably ran up the escalator. I put my apron back on, and Ruth told me that he was asking about me. I said that there was something in the air, because this man had hit on me at Amy’s book launch too. Ruth said that it wasn’t the air; it was because of my book.
How do you figure that?
When a person takes care of one problem area, the other problem areas take care of themselves.
I asked where she heard that. She said that she was told it by a dermatologist about skin care but insisted that it applied to life. Then she asked if I had told him about Diana yet. I replied that I hadn’t found the right moment. She said that there shouldn’t be a right moment to tell my boyfriend good news. I told her that it was complicated. He’s having a hard time at the moment. Ruth hung up her apron and tore off the end of a baguette.
Tell him to buck up, she said. It shouldn’t make him feel less to see you thrive. Just tell him, Enola.
I will!
When?
Thrown, I agreed to tell him tomorrow and Ruth went on her break.
WhywasI nervous about telling him? Things had settled; it had been six weeks without a proper fight. He might be angry if he found out that I had kept it from him. He would say something like:Do you think I’m that pathetic or jealous or insecure?Yes, there was every danger thatnottelling him might lead to a bigger argument. I wiped up the tomato seeds and imagined a world where he was proud of me.
CHAPTER 15
Because I had unlocked the door and put music on, I felt his hands before hearing his voice. He kissed my cheek. There was cider on his breath. He must have had a productive day, because he was in a good mood. I felt my unease release; when he was happy, we were happy. I told him that I was making risotto. My friend Fiona, who came third onMasterChef, gave me the recipe. He sniffed and asked what she had said to put in it.
Sage, leeks, celery.
Don’t put sage in that.
He watched me chop. Make sure they’re all the same size. And is that the pan you’re using? I asked if that was wrong, and he laughed. It was a valiant effort but I’ll make it. He hooked a finger in my belt loop and steered me to the sofa like I was a shopping trolley.
I listened to him chop everything apart from the sage, and the weight of my own thoughts and feelings lifted. The sun was setting through the glass, and he was moving around my kitchen, singing to the music and proffering cooking advice: You have to salt them before you fry them, honey. This was what I wanted: our bad bits gone. The sizzling of onions. Laptops left on the table at night. I remembered how Dad would cut the bruises off pieces of fruit before handing them to me.
