Page 30 of People In Love
And is she really talking about his mother here, he wonders, and Nora is blushing, now, which perhaps means she is wondering the same thing. Or maybe the flame on the hob is just warm as she’s heating the oil, scraping some pre-crushed garlic into the pan, and can he help with anything, no, she says, no thank you.
Silence, again, just the steam from the wok. And Bren is just reaching for his beer and asking if she’ll go swimming again on Monday, when she turns to him, her cheeks definitely red,there’s no hiding it, and she looks like she’s full of emotion, words or regret or something else he half recognises, but then she says Bren. Please don’t.
Don’t what, says another voice, before Bren can respond, and it is then that Robin walks in.
_
Bren had not paid him much notice at the party. Robin had been a little drunk, surrounded by friends, and Bren himself had got talking to some people who had seemed interesting enough; distracting, at least, when Nora was giving him such a wide berth. But now, freshly showered and with his shirt unbuttoned, Bren sees, for the first time, that Nora’s fiancé is real. More than just a photograph, or a line in an email. Which means that Bren can no longer pretend that he’s no one.
There he is, standing in the doorway of his own kitchen. Shower-damp, shoulder-length hair, wearing a plum cotton shirt and lounge trousers. And he’s tall, far taller than Bren. Not smiling, exactly, but his eyes are warm, chocolatey-dark. Attractive, Bren supposes, in an artsy, asymmetrical sort of way, with his brown-black hair and soft-looking stubble and an air of ease that Bren himself has to force but here, on this guy, seems effortless. Because he’s a touch older, maybe. Not by much, but enough to make Bren feel … less than, somehow.
But less than what?
This is not a competition; there is no prize. They’re just having dinner and hanging out and, as Bren had assured Freya, not digging up their past, which is overgrown now, anyway, with new grass. A ring on Nora’s finger. Tattoos – an actual shark bite, for crying out loud – layers of sunburn and old bruises come and gone across Bren’s own skin.
What have I missed? Robin asks, as he buttons his shirt.Casual, like they’ve all been friends for years. Nora has turned back to the hob, is cutting strips of raw chicken, pearly pink, into the wok.
Not much, she says. We were waiting for you.
Robin glances at Bren with a gentle smile, and Bren swallows – whatever it is that needs swallowing – and stands.
So great to meet you, Robin says, as he clasps his hand with both his own, and Bren notes that his use of the word great, here, seems genuine. His handshake firm, but not threatening. Not threatened.
You too, Bren says. I’ve heard a lot about you.
Which isn’t strictly true, but it’s what you say, isn’t it; he feels awkward about it for the first time as he sits back down; aware, finally, of how he never bothered to ask after him. Never asked how things were going, between them. What he’s like, even. Who he is.
So are you over the jet lag yet? Robin asks, and other questions come, too, flowing like water, is he adjusting to the cold British weather? Sunrise, so late in the day, here. Walking? Walking where? Just around, you know. Getting his bearings.
Nice to see your mum? Robin says, as he uncorks some red wine – not the bottle that Bren brought, but something French, expensive-looking. Nora said that Josie’s –
Will you make the guacamole, please, Nora asks, and this was his job when his dad hosted burrito night, so Bren rises from his chair just as Robin says sure – because of course, she was talking to him. The guy in the plum shirt with the suave stubble and shared bank account, the one who proposed, who is on a first-name basis, it seems, with his own mother. Bren pretends he was simply leaning over for more crisps. Sits back down as Robin takes a knife to an avocado, twists the two halves apart.
I wanted to thank you for all the fridge magnets, Robin says, as Bren feels something strange settling in his stomach.
They weren’t for you, he wants to say, that settled-something now churning.
Oh, he says, instead. Sure. I knew Nora was bound to have a big fridge, so.
Weird thing to say. Meant to express he knows how much she loves to cook, comes off as implying she’s fat, or something, which she isn’t. Not skinny, either, not that it matters. He’s never looked at her like that. Sized her up, thought about her in a way that ranks her somewhere, in terms of attractiveness. Maybe once, at a party when they were sixteen, when he saw her in this particular red dress, memories he’d buried because there is new grass, remember,new grass, and a beer, thank god, that needs drinking.
So tell me! Robin says, as Nora moves her spatula around the wok, and Bren takes a long glug to hide his face. Where’s the best place you’ve been?
Um, Bren says, lowering his bottle.
Hard to choose?
Like choosing a favourite child, Bren says.
My parents would definitely choose my brother, Robin says.
So would mine, Bren says, if I had one.
Unsure laughter, then, from Robin. Nora passes him the coriander; Robin shreds it with his hands; Bren watches them work alongside each other, wordless and practised, in their kitchen. Lemon juiced. Hob turned off. Food scooped into pre-warmed dishes before being brought to the table, Robin offering another drink, Bren? and then they’re all seated and Nora is handing Bren a serving spoon, citrus and spices on the air.
Guests first, she says.
Which is an odd word for him, he thinks, out of Nora’s mouth. There’s a formality about it, he muses, as he takes the spoon from her. Not one he’d have used, if the tables were turned. Aguestis invited into one’s home. Temporarily. Tipseasily into intruder, if they outstay their welcome. This, from the girl who used to fall asleep in his games room. Feet in his lap. Drool down her chin. Held him, in the driveway, when his dad –
