Page 69 of Bare
‘As Mr Cavanaugh for now. As Freddie's art teacher.’ ‘And afterwards, when everyone's gone and Freddie's asleep, stay at my place.’
The line was quiet. Then Rory's voice, rough, the breath after a long hold:
‘Your place. Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay.’ A beat. ‘Neil?’
‘What.’
‘I'm sorry I pushed.’
‘You pushed because you needed to. I needed pushing.’ He looked at the painting. ‘I'm not good at doors.’
‘I know. But you opened this one.’
‘I opened this one.’
‘And tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow you come to my son's birthday party and eat cake and give him a Spider-Man painting and we get through it. Together.’
‘Together.’ Rory's voice had changed, the tension draining, something easier arriving. ‘That's a new word for us.’
‘It is.’
‘I like it.’
They stayed on the line for a minute. Neither spoke. Quiet that follows a repair.
‘See you tomorrow then,’ Rory said.
‘See you tomorrow.’
‘And Neil?’
‘What.’
‘Wear the good jeans.’
‘I always wear the good jeans.’
‘You own one pair of good jeans and three pairs of adequate jeans. I can tell the difference. Wear the good ones.’
‘Goodnight, Rory.’
‘Goodnight.’
Neil hung up. Sat in the dark flat with the phone still pressed against his palm, the Year 9 essay on his table. Romeo and Juliet. He'd been teaching it for twenty years and had never read it personally before tonight.
He closed the essay. Put the pen down.
12
THE PARTY
Saturday morning.Neil woke at six and cleaned the flat like he was preparing for a military inspection.
