Page 13 of People In Love
He stands there, looking at her. Weeds pushing through the concrete at his feet. Overgrown grass, cars mounted on the kerb. No one awake. No one watching.
And he unclips his bag and drops it to the ground and moves forward and kisses her, right there, on the night of her engagement party, with her fiancé – her good, generous, desirable fiancé – asleep inside, just feet from them. And he tastes how she’d always expected, of strawberries, and summer, and her hands go to his hair and it is thick and coarse and she tugs on it as he lifts her, moves her backwards so that she’s up against the outside wall, takes her feet, just slightly, off the floor, and his chest is so firm and so solid against her own and nobody has ever picked her up like this before, like she weighs nothing, and she wraps her legs around his hips and she is not thinking about how he left, how she stayed, how they never were, she is only thinking of now, of this, of the touch and the heat of him, but of course, none of this happens. Of course it goes through her mind but this is Bren, and her, and they are polite and awkward and never face their true feelings, could never be so remotely bold or morally questionable, haven’t seen one another in twelve years, haven’t touched each other since the week he left, and flashes of thoughts,like this, hot and burning, are all that she has: all that there will ever be, between them.
So no. This does not happen.
Cars parked, stars out.
No movement, towards her, from her oldest friend.
He simply clips his other rucksack strap into place, the one across his chest. That firm, solid chest she has not touched.
Night, Nora, he says, ignoring her question. Congratulations, by the way.
And then he leaves her. Again.
THREE
You wake, your head heavy as an anvil. Dry mouth, full heart. Please, Nora, you say, from your side of the bed. Legs tangled, warm as toast. Don’t ever let me drink again.
You just need caffeine, she says into the pillow, and you deduce that this meanssheneeds caffeine, so you drag yourself to the kitchen to make coffee and the actual toast, take it back to her to eat in bed; Sunday morning prerogative. Soft light through the window on the duvet. What a great night, you say. Stupendous. Something niggling at you, though: did you lose your own shoe?
It’s in the bathtub, for some reason, Nora says.
You laugh at this, and she does too, but only a little. Like her mind is elsewhere. You kiss her bare shoulder, leave a smear of butter on her skin from your mouth.
Tell you what, you say. Having everyone there, last night?
Almost everyone, says Nora.
Having everyone except your stubborn feminist of a mother there last night, you say, got me pretty jazzed for the actual wedding.
You don’t tell her you’ve been jazzed about the idea of it, for years; don’t tell her you’ve often thought about what your wedding day might look like, even when you’d agreed you wouldn’t have one. Fleeting thoughts, over the past decade, like how it might feel to win the London Photography Prize. How you’d fare in old age, or with fatherhood. Just musings. Pictures in your head.
Yeah? Nora says, as she props herself up to eat her toast. Crunch of her teeth, crumbs on the sheets.
Yeah, you say. You had any thoughts?
Not really, she says, dabbing at the fallen crumbs with her finger. Have you? And you say a few, actually, and take your notebook from beside the bed and flip to the notes you’ve been making since she said yes, by the river that lunchtime, yes yes yes.
Oh, she says, a note of surprise, on seeing your black biro scrawls. Wow.
Nothing major, you say. Just brainstorming locations and stuff. I’ve been to some real stunners with work, over the years.
She nods, her hair mussed from sleep. I figured we’d just do it locally, she says, as she brushes it behind her ears.
And we can, you say. I just don’t know of anywhere around here, really. Unless we look into, I don’t know, a room above a pub or something. But that doesn’t seem special enough. Or veryus.
A gallery could be cool, Nora says, as she sweeps yet more crumbs off the duvet. Like I say, I’ve not really thought about it. But I guess something … different, would be nice. Intimate.
Different and intimate, you write in your notebook, before saying okay, that is awildlyunclear brief, but you accept the challenge. She smiles at you, then, that soft Nora smile. Slight gap in her front teeth, speck of burnt toast on her chin.
Affordable, she clarifies. And handmade.
Got it, you say, as she puts the plate down on her bedside table. Interesting you say that, you tell her, because I was talking to Clara andTJlast night, and her cousin bashed out this glorious day in under three months, apparently, all because they were willing to move on a cancellation. They said it was the most relaxed wedding they’d ever been to. Tenth of the price, too.
Nora nods again. Sips her coffee. You do the same, enjoying the dark roast, hint of blackberry; just the right amount of milk. Then she sighs. Her skin radiating heat, like it does in the night when you wake, sometimes, and she’s twitching in dreams.
Bren came last night, she says.
