Page 75 of People In Love
Ithoughtit was you! God, it’s beensolong! I thought you were off nomad-ing, or whatever?
She is wearing a lot of make-up; looks pristine, if you like that kind of thing. Bren has the fleeting thought that she will be thanking herself for putting so much effort in, that morning, in front of the mirror. Her lips are peach-pink and glossy, Julia-Roberts-wide.
I am, Bren says, then, without thinking: I’m just back for Nora’s wedding.
The wedding, he’s sure, that won’t be going ahead.
Nora? Lisa frowns. The girl with the – wiggling her fingers in front of her eyes, and Bren remembers, beyond the bad in bed rumour, why it was they did not stay friends.
You mean her heterochromia?
Oh! Lisa says, her manicured nails fluttering to her mouth. Is that what it was? I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.
They move forward in the queue, one person closer to the till.
Why is it terrible, Bren asks.
She’s not, like, dying, or anything?
What? No! It’s just like, a birthmark, or something. Or having red hair. Jesus.
Red hairisquite the curse, though, Lisa says, regressing to some old banter that was never that funny in the first place. She touches his arm as she says it, and Bren steps away from her, pretending he’s merely keeping pace with the queue.
You hear these things though, don’t you, Lisa goes on, when he doesn’t respond, now that we’re this age? D’you remember Kady Hall? She’s got some auto-immune thing now, bless her. And my cousin Simon, he got cancer,anddivorced, all within the space of like, a year.
Bren does not know this person, but pretends to care. Brutal, he says.
So brutal, Lisa agrees, as another person orders their coffee, and Bren squints at the menu, as if trying to decide what he wants. So you’re just back for the wedding? And you’re not the one marrying her?
What?
A laugh, then, from Lisa. She sweeps her fringe to the side.
We all had bets, Lisa says, that you’d get hitched on a beach somewhere, on that world trip of yours. It’s all coming back to me now.
Right, Bren says.
But you’re single?
Why would you assume that, he asks, but rather than deadpan, he realises it might sound as though he’s flirting back. He orders his coffee, taps his card.
I’m going out on a limb here, Brennie, Lisa says, and nobody else has ever called him that but her, this girl who called himbad in bedfifteen years ago, who doesn’t know him at all but is touching his arm again as his cappuccino gets made behind the counter, milk frothing, steam hissing, someone else’s name being called, Elaina? for an oat latte which is sitting, uncollected, on the side.
Or do you have someone already, Lisa asks, as Bren pockets his bank card. Doesn’t look at her when he says yes.
Ah, well. Can’t blame a girl for trying, she says, unfazed. In our thirties, now, aren’t we? Need to settle down, if I can.
Then I’m definitely not your guy, Bren tells her, and shelaughs again, orders her own chai latte. Does he fancy a catch up, anyway?
I can’t, Bren says. I’ve got to get back to – he gestures beyond the window – my mum. For lunch.
Sure, she says, clearly choosing not to comment on how he’d just ordered his cappuccino to drink in, rather than take away. How’s she doing?
Odd question, Bren thinks, when she doesn’t know his mother. Does she. Prickle of discomfort, then. Old fear, about what people know, what they’ve heard. Visions of her traipsing in her slippers around Sainsbury’s; talking to nobody on the street; crying in the police station, mouth twitching. She’s fine, he says.
Because I never got the chance to say I was sorry, Lisa says, and Bren assumes she’s referring to the bad in bed thing, but then she says when your dad died, and all.
Bren stiffens. Looks back at the drinks menu on the wall.
