Page 55 of What It's Like in Words
Enola?
I wished she would stop saying my name like she was trying to remember it.
No, thebadger, the others are gluten-free.
Mum?
She snapped that she was trying to do a million things at once, so I told her to hang up then. She made a long “ooooh” sound and suggested that I go for a jog. I replied that I hated jogging, and she told me to pick a different activity. Milton was just a turtle, Enola. There was a click as the phone was put down, then it was picked back up and Mum said that they were going to watch a film and she would speak to me next Wednesday.
I hated how she said that casually, like it was an arrangement that I had co-orchestrated. And fuck her for telling me to choose an activity. I couldn’t grow vegetables in a high-rise. Before I could stop them, the words flew from my mouth: You never asked me where I went on holiday.
You went on another holiday?
No, the one back in March.
She asked me why I was bringing it up now. It’s June, Enola. Was I supposed to have asked you? I told her that it would have been a logical thing to ask. Fine, she said. Where did you go on holiday?
Kenya.
She went very quiet and then said: You’re an adult, Enola, you can go on holiday wherever you want. Then she hung up and left me with all the same questions: Why do you hate me? And why did you leave me? Although presumably the first question answered the second.
AFTERIPUT THEphone down, I waited for him. The doorbell went around eleven, and he was holding a bunch of pink tulips with a yellow reduced sticker. Since the fight he had been making more effort:putting kisses at the end of more frequent messages; asking about my book; suggesting plans rather than responding to them. But he would have hated it if I made a fuss, so I thanked him like it was an everyday occurrence that he bought me flowers. He walked to the kitchen and turned on the strip light. I asked him how work was, and he said that he had written a new chapter.So, he was writing this evening.
That’s great. How is it?
He shrugged, but I could tell that he was happy, which meant that we wouldn’t argue. As he showered, I put the flowers in the vase on the kitchen table. If I had asked him earlier “which work,” then he might not have bought me flowers. Did that mean that I was finally getting to know him or making the wrong compromises? Either way, the flowers were beautiful.
When he got into bed, I clung to his arm like I was going into space. He didn’t try to have sex with me. He never wanted to have sex anymore. He had seen my ugly pieces: the mess, the tears, the violence. But he kissed the back of my neck, and I held my pain as if it were a balloon that might pop. His breathing changed, and I was left alone in the dark with my balloon. I just had to keep him happy. He would stay with me as long as I made him happy.
CHAPTER 17
I knew that we were going to fight as soon as we met at Victoria station. Before he said hello, he ranted about an author who had been nominated for a prize, and something in my body signaled like an alarm. I hadn’t seen him for a while because of our schedules, and I’d missed him at the weekend because of Amy’s wedding. It had been hot for weeks, and the forecast kept promising rain; London was fat and overdue.
We went to a self-serve wine bar that Ruth suggested. Everything was good at first; he put his palm on my back, which was bare in a black halter top, and we tried samples of different wines and laughed at the “notes.” But then his voice and movements became bigger; his energy like a cat’s before it knocks something off a shelf. He noticed a couple with two full glasses of wine. The man was swilling the glass and wafting the scent toward his nose.
Marching to the Argentinian reds, he decanted wine from an expensive bottle, gargled it like mouthwash, and announced that it tasted like piss. The woman looked embarrassed. But I couldn’t tell who she was embarrassed for.
We’re ruining their date, I said lightly.
Fuck them. Who comes to a bar like this and has justoneglass ofonewine?
I looked at them: his hand was on her knee; they weren’t laughing but they were talking, nodding, widening their eyes. They were sweet, actually.
He tried a Malbec and said that it tasted like tomato juice. I told him that Amy’s dad got the wine for her wedding from France.
He moved to another bottle.
Oh, and I didn’t tell you! In his speech, the best man made a joke about her feet—
He said that he preferred the lighter reds.
So, you know that basic best man’s joke about a woman’s feet being small so she can reach the kitchen sink? Well, he actually made that joke. Like he had googled what to say at a wedding!
He said that for someone who apparently didn’t enjoy weddings I certainly enjoyed talking about them. I apologized, but he rolled his eyes and said that he was joking. Then he suggested the pub for a proper drink. I told him that I was getting a headache, but I knew that we shouldn’t continue drinking; I could sense the argument, like the rain.
We waited at the bus stop. It was still hot, but the wind was stirring. He got out his phone, and I knew who he was texting because when it rang, he didn’t answer. I told him that he could take the call, and he thanked me for the permission. Before the silence could sharpen, the sky burst. Water bounced off warm tarmac, and the smell was invigorating! It reminded me of rainstorms in Kenya. Something came over me and I grabbed his hand. Let’s go! But he took his hand back.
What are you doing?
