Page 76 of People In Love
Filter.
Espresso.
Macchiato.
We all felt so bad for you, when we heard, Lisa says. And then you didn’t come back for upper sixth, so none of us could say anything, or even … check you were all right.
Someone calls his name. Someone says Bren, or at least, is calling out Ben, and that’s close enough, he’ll take it, he reaches out for the white cup on its saucer, shudder of bone china in his hand.
So are you? Lisa asks him. All right?
And he says course, it was a long time ago, still not looking at her as he says it was nice to see her, and she says you too. There is a pause between both her words like she is taken aback by his response which is entirely normal, he thinks, he’s sure, and he puts his coffee down on the table he was sitting at andleaves, without drinking it. Laptop shoved in his bag. Cold sunlight outside. Long strides taking him out of town and into the countryside, too much caffeine in his veins, already.
_
Hitched on abeach, he scoffs, once he’s miles away. Along the riverbank, with its reeds and its swans, the underpass with the old graffiti that used to be green but has faded to white. Ali Cat Is A Ledge. JM LUVS BP. He has a flash of bubble writing back at school, the smell pens Nora loved to use at her kitchen table, the apple flavour, the blueberry, in whatworld, Freya asked, does this smell like blueberries? Their world, Frey, his father had said, as he watered her plants through the open back door.
Bren walks so fast he could be running. Pulls out his phone to check the flights yet again, and they’re still there, the two tickets to New Zealand that he could buy right now, if he dared. He lets his mind wander as he opts for the long way home. Picturing where they might stay, in Queenstown; Kelvin Heights, maybe. Or closer to Arrowtown. Good brunch there. Plenty of trees, Nora would love the colours in autumn. The way people sieve for gold in the river. Or maybe they could go somewhere else entirely? Visit the markets in Delhi or Marrakesh for all the bright fabrics, the fresh oranges, the loose-leaf teas. Detox, from everything. Maybe she’d want to open her own stall, or shop, or art café, sell her own wares. Paint or draw again. He could take groups out biking or hiking or rock climbing, help her close up at night. And they wouldn’t head home afterwards but to the beach, or the local bar. To the secret spot on the shore they’d make their own. Skimming stones. Leaning in, her mouth on his, and they’d taste of each other, he is lost and daydreaming and so far gonehe walks past the signpost for home and makes it to the next village before he realises, has to double back like a moron.
Bren? his mother calls, when he finally makes it home.
Hi, he says. He has brought her things from the village shop, to make up for the detour. A bunch of tulips, a bag of hot cross buns, little gifts that show he is a good person, a thoughtful person, not someone who wants to wreck a home or a promise that’s been made that, to be fair, he was not part of. A person who loves his mother, who loves his best friend, and doesn’t love make you do hard, questionable things, sometimes the hard things are the right things, the things you’re told not to do.
His mother fusses over the gifts he’s bought.
Tells him they’re lovely. That tulips are her favourite, he’s so sweet for remembering; which he hadn’t, but says that he did.
_
Next morning: Wednesday. He has a hot shower, two boiled eggs and an entire cup of coffee before he checks his phone. Still no reply from Nora, and she’s been back from Devon for a few days now. He throws himself into his mother’s garden because she has an endless list of jobs that don’t need doing, in his opinion, but which he can do for her anyway. He gets hot while he’s weeding, takes his T-shirt off, realises Josie might see his tattoos so puts it back on again. Gets out the mower, cuts her already neat grass. Freya’s lawn next door is unruly, brimming with wildflowers, but his mother prefers to keep hers respectable. Pays a professional to maintain it, maybe, seeing as he’s never seen her in her gardening gloves, or in the straw hat that hangs by the back door.
The sun is strong for early April. Sweat beads on hishairline, and memories rise like the tiny moths in the grass as he mows. Family barbecues on bank holidays. His dad flipping burgers. Both mothers in deckchairs while he and Nora swung their legs in the oak tree, talking around packet ice lollies, laughing. They’d laughed a lot, back then. He wonders if laughing less is an adult thing, or just a them thing. A not-sure-where-you-stand-with-each-other thing.
Sweat in his eyes, now, as he cuts the mower. And then a swear word explodes over the fence, followed by a small crash from next door. And while Bren has not seen her, since all they’d found out – has avoided her in the driveway, not popped over for more tea – it’s a reflex for him to call out, all right, Freya?
There is a short pause before she calls back, Brenavin? Could you come over here, please? I’ve dropped the Tomorite.
The what?
Just get over here, will you?
He considers it, then drops the handles of the lawn mower, curiosity winning out over pride. Unlatches the gate his father built between their fences and finds Freya scrabbling on her knees on the decking, in a pool of broth-like liquid.
What a mess, he says as Freya scoops the spillage towards her, her hair tufting so high out of her head she looks like a leafy vegetable herself.
Soobservant of you, Bren, she says.
Her audacity is kind of outrageous to him, but also unsurprising. She’s always been thick-skinned. He’s guessing she’ll just blast by the whole intercepted phone call thing. The whole, lied-to-them-both-for-no-good-reason thing. Then she snaps at him todosomething, to go and get a Tupperware, man, from the log store!
Shaking his head, Bren does as she says, retrieves two and hands one over. Freya snatches it and starts scooping the fluid over its rim with her hands, her kaftan now stained with it too.
What is this stuff, anyway, Bren asks, crouching at the other end of the decking, trying not to get it on his shoes.
Tomorite, Freya repeats. Tomato feed, for my cordons.
Expensive stuff, then?
Not in the slightest, she says. But waste not, Brenavin.
