‘Age is just a number, Rory.’
‘Where does he get this?’ Rory asked Neil.
‘Gemma.’
‘Obviously.’
After lunch, Gemma and Neil in the kitchen. Washing up. The old choreography, he washed, she dried. Through the window: Rory had picked Freddie up and was holding him upside down while Freddie screamed with delight and Owen stood by with his hands out in case of disaster.
‘He’s good,’ Gemma said, not asking.
‘He’s good.’
‘He’s also terrified.’
‘He’s hiding it well.’
‘He’s hiding it like you do. By being extremely competent and hoping nobody notices the panic underneath.’ She dried a plate. ‘I like him, Neil. Properly. Partly because he makes you happy, visibly, embarrassingly. But mostly because he’s honest. He looks at you and he doesn’t pretend he’s not looking.’
‘He’s a painter. Looking is what he does.’
‘It’s more than looking. He pays attention. To you. Like you’re... I don’t know. Worth getting right.’
Neil scrubbed a pot. The window above the sink framed the garden, Owen passing the ball, Rory in goal, Freddie running with focus, as though the outcome of this game would determine the fate of nations.
‘Gemma.’
‘Mm.’
‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For saying the word. Four years ago. In the kitchen. When I couldn’t.’
She stopped drying. Held the plate.
‘Someone had to,’ she said. Quiet. ‘You were never going to say it yourself. I could see that. So I said it.’ She dried the plate. ‘I’ve always been the braver one.’
‘You have.’
‘I’m also the one with better taste in chicken seasoning.’
‘That’s also true.’
She put the plate down. Touched his arm. Brief.
‘He’s right for you,’ she said. ‘The first person who’s ever been right for you. Don’t mess it up.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Try harder.’
That night. Rory’s flat. Music low.
They were on the sofa. Wine. Leaving Freddie at Gemma’s for the rest of the weekend. Neil had driven here because he wanted to, not because the schedule permitted it.
‘You’re looking at me,’ Rory said. From the other end of the sofa.
