Page 59 of People In Love
Bren?
He looks round at her after he’s lowered the pram and the mother has bowed forward into the downpour. Nora sees him seeing her, sees the surprise that mirrors her own.
Hi? she says, confusion sluicing between them, like the rain. What are you – doing here?
I came to see you, Bren says. But I didn’t expect you to be … waiting?
I’m notwaiting, Nora says. It’s raining.
And you … hang out here, when it rains?
I was shopping, she says, lifting her tote bag, which is as soaked as her coat. And then world war three started falling.
Insane, isn’t it, Bren says. I’ve seen worse, in monsoon seasons, but this feels extreme, for Britain.
That’s climate change for you, Nora says, echoing her mother before she can stop herself, but Bren doesn’t appear to notice. He seems ill at ease, less self-assured than usual. Like he doesn’t know where to look.
The bus hauls itself away, spraying yet more water, and Bren steps closer, his boots drenched. The wind has picked up, too, flattens his red hair against his face almost comically, like he’s standing on a mountain top, being filmed for a cologne advert. He looks like a film star, Nora thinks. So bright and out of place, in his blue coat with his gold earring. Dark patches down his trousers, ruining the image.
I was just stocking up on some staples, she says, because he hasn’t said anything more, and she feels skittish. She nods down the road at the haberdashery.
Milk and bread? Bren asks.
Silk and thread, she says, and he grins, because she remembers. It was their stupid in-joke, when they were much younger. Referring to how she could spend hours making art with anything she could find, but Bren, hungry and eventually cold, would pull her towards home before dark. How things have changed, she thinks. How things are always changing.
I probably should have texted, he says. Sorry.
Nora shrugs. Says she’s used to it.
I don’t know why I don’t, he says, shifting on his feet. I suppose I’m just not in the habit of announcing my arrival to anyone. Or my departure.
He rubs his neck.
Is it okay that I came, he asks. We haven’t talked, since.
I know, she says.
Did you speak to Freya?
I yelled, Nora says. And now we’re not speaking at all.
Ah.
Have you seen her around?
Pretty sure she’s avoiding me, Bren says. I see her lights on in the evenings, and my mum pops over there like usual, but I’m not exactly seeking out her company. I’ve not got much to say to her.
You and me both, Nora says.
Scuff of Bren’s boot, then, along the ground. A dustbin lid scoots along the street behind him, where it’s been blown off its base.
Did she tell you why she lied, Bren asks her. Not that it matters, now.
Now that you’re marrying someone else, he does not say, but she hears it through his silence, and for a half-second, she has another urge – wants to tell him the truth about Freya and Jon, as the bin lid takes to the air. But why would she, she wonders, except for some kind of hard-boiled revenge against her own mother? A staunch belief in the truth, when that truth would do more harm than good? So she crosses her arms, takes a breath, and says no. It was just selfish, I think. She just didn’t … want me to leave.
Bren scuffs his boot again, those stains on his trousers brown-black. Petrol, she thinks, or ink; blackberry juice from the brambles they’d raid as kids, sour-sharp, the occasional sweet hit when they’d spend hours in the farmers’ fields.
He looks so lost, standing there in his stained trousers and wet shoes. So alone and, for the first time since the engagement party, almost sad.
