Page 48

"You meant what you said last night," I say. I am looking at the canal. It is easier to say this to the canal.

"About children?"

"Yes."

He shifts slightly so he can look at me. His expression is steady… not surprised, not performing reassurance, just present. "Of course I meant it."

"You've actually thought about it," I say. "With me specifically."

"Yes, Jan. With you specifically." The Patrick patience… steady, certain, waiting for it to land. "You're not a complication in my future. You are my future. The shape of it is a conversation we haven't had yet. Not a door that's closed."

I look at the canal.

I look at Patrick.

I look at the canal again.

"Okay," I say. My voice is not entirely level. I don't mind.

"Okay?" he says.

I look at the canal. At the light on the water. At the ordinary Friday afternoon doing its thing around us.

"Okay," I say. "I'm still nervous."

"I know," he says. "That's fine. Be nervous. I'll be right there."

He puts his face in my hair.

We sit like that for a while. The canal outside, the Friday evening coming in through the curtains, the apartment quiet around us.

Then Patrick says, into my shoulder: "I haven't been kissed enough today."

I look at the top of his head. "We've been kissing since seven-forty this morning."

"Not enough," he says. "And I haven't been properly cuddled."

I look at the top of his head. "We are currently cuddling."

"You're being cuddled," he says. "I'm doing the cuddling. That's different. I want to be the one being held for a change."

"Patrick."

"I'm just noting the deficit," he says. Entirely without shame. "For your information."

I look at him. At the expression — wide-eyed, patient, completely committed to the bit and also, I understand, entirely sincere. Patrick Sutton, who lands a Boeing 787 with the ease of someone parking a bicycle and commands a room without trying, is sitting on my sofa telling me he hasn't been cuddled enough.

I shift on the sofa — lying back, lengthways, the throw within reach. I look up at him.

He looks back. Uncertain for exactly one second, Patrick not quite sure what is happening but willing, and then I say, with complete seriousness:

"Come here."

The grin… the full version, the one that takes over, and he comes. He lies down beside me and then, with the ease of someone who has decided, shifts so his head is on my chest. His arm across my stomach. His legs finding the available space on the sofa with the practiced arrangement of someone who has done this before, except in reverse.

I put my hand in his hair.

He goes still. The Patrick stillness of something finding its correct position.