Page 21 of People In Love
I do, she says. On Mondays I go swimming.
She tilts her shoulder towards him, the one bearing her bulging tote bag. A rolled-up towel pokes out the top, bobbled like it’s washed every week, or else never before seen a drop of fabric softener; his mother would be horrified.
So this is a bad time?
Yes, she says, though she doesn’t sound flustered like she did at the party. More amused; like she’d half expected this.
Here’s a crazy thought, Bren says, as a woman with purple hair emerges from behind the curtain in the café, taking up Nora’s place behind the counter; he has a vague memory of her from the party. You skip swimming today, he says, and I’ll buy you lunch instead.
Or, Nora says, without a beat,youskip lunch, and come swimming.
Skiplunch?
Well. I’m playing it fast and loose with the verbskip. We’d eat afterwards.
I was gonna say, Bren says. The Nora I know never skips a meal.
The Nora you know has a job and a life and a precious one-hour lunch break, she says, looking at her watch. And it takes twenty minutes to get there, and twenty minutes to get back.
And she swims on Mondays, Bren says.
Right, she says; an actual smile from her, then. Tiny gap in her teeth, as the purple-haired woman watches them through the glass shopfront.
Then let’s swim, he says. I’ll buy some swim shorts, at the pool.
It’s not a pool, Nora says, but she’s walking now, which Bren takes to be a good sign. He strides alongside her, has to walk surprisingly fast to keep up.
You mean it’s a lido?
No, she says, but you’re getting warmer.
She is still smiling, slightly. Pleased, he thinks, that she can be the one to surprise him here, to hold all the cards, and for that reason, he doesn’t ask any more questions; lets her guide him onto the tube, then the bus. Loud whoosh of the carriage, voices silenced at points, due to the noise. It’s a little awkward but less so, he thinks, than the other night. Just like being in kitchens, Bren has found that walking or moving – not looking at each other over a table – is always agood way to avoid, or on the flip side, even attempt, a hard conversation.
They chat about normal things, at first. What he’s been up to since Saturday; not a lot. What she’s working on at the café, how great it looked from the outside, she’ll show him indoors, when they get back, if he wants. Off the tube, up the escalator, onto the 189 bus. Bren looking out the window, thinking too hard about what to say next.
I still can’t get over seeing you like this, Nora says.
They pass another bus on the road; Bren leans back, certain it’ll collide with theirs. The London streets are so tight, almost claustrophobic, and he’s not used to this kind of traffic. She lets out a little laugh at this, and it sounds like sun sparkling on water.
He has missed that sound.
It stirs something, deep inside him.
Do I seem different, he asks her, and she seems to consider this; says yes, but also no. He knows exactly what she means, and is about to say so, but then she says you’re still wearing your St Christopher.
He looks down, where the pendant has dipped into the V-neck of his T-shirt.
Course, he says. Hadn’t you noticed that on our calls?
Nora shrugs as a low-hanging tree branch clatters against the bus. I’d noticed you wore a twine necklace, she says, but didn’t realise it was the same one.
More branches thwacking the glass.
I’ve never taken it off, Bren says, and she looks at him sideways; hasn’t looked at him properly since she saw him waiting outside her shop. He sees disbelief in her eyes, but also affection, for the first time since he got back.
Well, that’s a lie, he reasons. I take it off when I go through security.
Skewed laugh, from her, then.
