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Neil’s eyes round like he’s been slapped but just as quickly crinkle. He laughs. ‘Tosser.’
‘Come on.’ Matt lifts the empty beer bottle out of Neil’s hand. ‘Let’s get pissed on Johnnie Lovegood’s organic ale, shall we?’
He’s about to head to the Brazilian-style bar that has been set up on the raised dais outside the zinc home office, but to his astonishment, Neil shakes his head.
‘Nah, mate.’ His eyes fix on his shoes. He kicks at something invisible on the polished concrete. ‘I can’t stay here. I just… I just can’t.’ He slaps Matt on the shoulder and walks away into the house, his head hanging low like a man bereaved.
Another moment, and he’s gone.
Twenty-One
Ava
Out on the Lovegoods’ driveway, I text Matt.
Have gone home. All OK. Enjoy the party. See you in the morning. Xx
The air is cool. The sky is mottled navy, starless. The clouds have kept the evening warm. I stretch my arms out and exhale heavily into the night.
‘Ava? Ave.’
Neil’s voice. I shiver, turn around, wait while he jogs the few steps to join me.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I had to get out. Just…’
‘Yeah. Bit intense.’
We stand a moment, awkward in each other’s company, before walking to the end of the drive. Another three or four steps and I am in front of my own home. Neither of us has spoken.
‘Kind of you to walk me all this way,’ I say.
He shrugs. ‘You know me.’
No, I don’t, not anymore, I want to say. But I say nothing of the sort obviously.
‘Was it complete torture tonight?’ I ask instead.
He nods, his eyes flicking over to the Lovegoods’ front door, to the pavement, though not to me. ‘Did you hear him? Going on about my overalls? Arsehole.’
He is slurring his words. Only slightly, but I’ve known him as long as I’ve known Matt; I know how he sounds when he’s had too much to drink and how much drink that takes.
‘I don’t think he meant it unkindly,’ I offer.
He shakes his head. ‘You say that because you don’t know him.’
‘I think he’s clumsy more than anything. Tries too hard, that’s all. It’ll be insecurity, underneath it all, I reckon. It usually is.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’m not deep.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t pretend you’re not smart, or that you don’t feel. You are smart. You know you are. And you do feel. You feel deeply.’ I feel myself blush. The cocktails have loosened my tongue. Which is their job, I suppose.
Neil glances towards the end of the street before looking back at his shoes. The cavity of my chest heats, swells.
‘Neil.’ I’m hoping that by saying his name, the courage to speak plainly will follow. Cocktails or no, it is so hard to tell our closest friends when they’ve hurt us. There’s always the fear they will resent the reproach, that nothing will be the same afterwards. But we are beyond that, I suppose.
