Page 64 of What It's Like in Words
Nowhere.
He smiled at me and I felt like I had come home. He started telling me about a book that everyone had loved, but he had hated, and my eyes caught the gravestone of a couple who died two daysapart. The wildflowers around it were dead. A shiver ran up my spine and I thought of a phrase we used to say at school:Someone’s walked over your grave. I squeezed his hand to make sure that he was alive, and he squeezed mine back like he was having the same thought, then pointed to the name on the headstone, laughed, and said: Willy.
CHAPTER 20
I woke up with my eyes open and didn’t remember sleeping. He kissed the back of my neck. Happy birthday. How does it feel to be twenty-nine? I told him that it felt the same as yesterday, but that might have been a lie. I said that Ruth would be here in an hour. He said that he didn’t want to be in the firing line. I told him there were no gunmen.
Ruth understands that things have changed.
He got up, walked to my side of the bed, and crouched. But doyouunderstand that things have changed, Enola? I brushed his hair back from his face.
He showered, and I checked my phone for birthday messages. Louise had sent an e-card: an animated image of animals dancing in a forest.Darling Girl. Mum had posted a card, which arrived yesterday with some information about the vegetables. I wasn’t expecting him to get me anything.
When we were both ready, I walked him to the door, and he said that he’d be over later. Are you sure that you don’t want to do anything? I told him that I had no money. He said that it was his treat. I said thathehad no money. But it wasn’t just the money. I didn’t want to celebrate. I wasn’t unhappy, but I wasn’t happy either. We had been back together for a month and it did feel different, but I was waiting for it to change, waiting to say or do the wrong thing. And now with my book waiting for Diana’s verdict, everything in my life was about waiting. Even twenty-nine was just waiting to be thirty.
This time last year I was making your birthday cake, he said, squeezing my breast.
There was a knock at the door and he made “pew pew” gunshot noises. I reached behind him to open it, and Ruth stood there with balloons and prosecco. It was awkward while they registered each other and then he said: Well, have fun.
We will, Ruth said, closing the door behind him. She pinned a birthday badge on my shirt and said that she couldn’t believe a whole year had passed. It’s going to be 2016. Isn’t that insane? She held up the prosecco. Breakfast cocktails?
I’m working, Roo!
Meh. The bankers won’t notice if their coffee art is squiggly.
THE SHIFT MOVED PAINFULLYslowly. I drank three coffees and continually refreshed my inbox in the hopes of an email from Diana. Halfway through the afternoon, Virinder approached in a long gray coat and tartan scarf. He appeared almost every shift with a compliment, a bad joke, and a generous tip—regardless as to whether I made a coffee or just filled up his copper water bottle. (Copper is amazing for you, Enola.)
I could smell his clean scent as he placed a neatly wrapped present on the counter. His cheeks were blushed from cold, and his thick hair looked starched.
Happy birthday!
How did you know?
Ruth. But the badge gives it away, he said, nudging the present. I asked him what it was, and he said it was a surprise. I told him that I didn’t like surprises, and he said that it wouldn’t bite. I thanked him and asked if he wanted coffee. He held up a pink portable cup and said that he was doing his bit for the environment. Then he winked and said that he would see me later. I told him never to wink. He laughed. You love it, really.
The square present was wrapped in dark blue textured paperwith gold constellations. The sort of paper that costs three pounds for a slice. I wanted to keep it, but Steph wouldn’t reuse paper; she would rip it and probably forget to recycle.
I peeled the paper, and the scent of someone’s summer emerged, fresh and lovely. It was a candle, and on the back was printed:TO LIGHT WHEN YOU’RE WRITING YOUR BESTSELLER.
THE DAY FINISHED,ANDhe returned to my flat at six in gym clothes. I had changed and taken off my makeup. He removed his headphones, and I could hear the music for a second before he stopped the track.
How was work? Best birthday ever?
The best, I replied, matching his dryness.
I went to hug him, but he said that he was sweaty. Let me get showered.
I took a blanket onto the balcony and waited for him. I thought about Dad. I had been thinking about him more and more recently. Perhaps it was because I was getting older and he was getting further away. It had been twenty years this month. Twenty years ago, Mum, Dad, and I went to a meat restaurant in Nairobi. We ate crocodile. Dad and Mum fought in the car on the way back. I had a stomachache. A few days later, Dad was dead. I couldn’t see the stars tonight—you could rarely see them in London—but I knew they were there. The same ones from the grassy bank in Watamu. The same ones from the roof of the car in the Mara. Everywhere and all the time. Invisible but there, there but dead: the gravestone I couldn’t put flowers on.
This is how I feel.
I am heartbroken, always. I am endlessly sad.
The door slid open, and he handed me a box of chocolates. Sorry it’s not a cake. I told him that he couldn’t have any.
(the “playful” piece)
He said that he wouldn’t dare ask. He told me that I lookedpretty. Twenty-nine agrees with you. I told him that I wasn’t wearing makeup. He said that he preferred me without it. I said that my makeup wasn’t for his approval.
