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‘So,’ Neil says. ‘What’s this nothing you’re not bothered about?’
Matt smiles. ‘Nothing. Just tired.’
‘Know what you mean. Work’s been…’
‘Mad?’
‘Too right.’ Neil’s eyes are small and pale and intense. For a moment he looks like he’s about to say something more, but instead he picks up his glass and drinks. The moment, and whatever it held, passes.
Fourteen
Ava
I’m watching a lame comedy on Netflix with Fred asleep on my lap when I hear the thump of first one trainer then the other landing in the basket we keep in the hall for what always seems like an inordinate amount of shoes for two people. A sigh, a couple of seconds, and Matt appears at the living-room door, his eyes a little droopy. I think I catch the smell of beer.
‘Good,’ he says, drumming on the door jamb, as is his way. ‘You’re awake.’
He’s speaking clearly enough. Perhaps I’m mistaken. Perhaps he’s just tired.
‘Good run?’ I ask.
‘Went for a few beers actually.’
Ah.
‘With Neil? That’s unusual.’
He is staring at some distant point on the wall. ‘Just had a chat. A few laughs.’
Which I can’t provide is what lies beneath. I say nothing.
Matt turns away, his words trailing over his shoulder. ‘I need some toast. I’m starving.’
I make myself get up off the sofa. My body is heavy, and it’s not just the baby weight. It’s in my legs, my arms, my gut. If I don’t fight against it, I willbecomethe weight, and Matt will have no choice but to cut himself loose and float away forever.
In the kitchen, he is eating a packet of salt and black pepper Kettle Chips by the handful and watching the toaster with a determined gaze. It’s the first time in… well, since… that I’ve seen him greet the prospect of food with anything even close to enthusiasm. In the fridge, I find the butter and a rustic-effect wooden box of Camembert that Matt must have ordered. There are herb-covered olives in a clear plastic tub, two restaurant-chain pizzas boasting roasted Mediterranean vegetables, and a pack of luxury creamy fruit yoghurts. Chorizo sausages nestle optimistically in a cardboard tray, bursting burnt orange in their tight skins. In happier, funnier times, Matt used to call them fox bollocks. Next to them, slick red peppers stuffed with feta cheese swim under oil in a jar – like specimens in formaldehyde. Matt’s supermarket orders are full of food like this: French cheese, expensive salty snacks, thick biscuits in classy packaging claiming to be hand-made – incentives to keep eating, to try to enjoy food, enjoy life, if we can.
I slide the butter and cheese across the counter towards him, trying not to notice that he has no bottom at all now; the fabric of his running shorts hangs like an ice-skater’s skirt.
‘So did Neil have something on his mind?’ I ask.
‘Not at all. We were both too tired to run, and you know what he’s like. Hardly had to twist his arm. I’d forgotten how fast he drinks; he’s like a hoover attachment.’
‘So it was your suggestion?’
‘Yeah, I wasn’t feeling it. I didn’t sleep well last night.’
Nor any night. I know this because neither do I. I hear him: turning over, slapping the pillows, giving up and going downstairs, returning cold and tense to the bed. I should reach out to him in these moments, I know. But I pretend to be asleep – eyes closed, breathing regular. I have even faked snoring. Never something I would have imagined faking in bed, but it’s incredible how convincing you can be when the need arises.
Did you talk about Abi?
Did Neil apologise for being so distant?
Did either of you come up with any new ideas as to where she might be?
Matt doesn’t reply. I realise I didn’t ask the questions out loud. I’ve asked him every question there is, over and over. Talking about it only revives the pain, he tells me, and he’s right – we have to somehow find a way to go forward, to live, for our son.
‘Listen,’ I say as he takes a mammoth bite of toast. ‘I’ve thought about it and I will come to the party.’ I look away. It is enough that I’ve said it out loud without having to face the hope I know will show on his face.
