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‘Thanks.’ I press it to my eyes, blow my nose. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘OK.’
‘I really am.’
‘I said it’s OK. I am too. I didn’t realise I made you feel like that.’
‘Me neither.’ I blow my nose.
‘I think we had each other all wrong.’
‘I think we did, but I’ve always really liked you. You’re kind and you’re fun and you’re… you’re yourself, you know?’
‘And I like you, Ava. I never invited you out because I didn’t think it was your scene, that’s all.’
I nod. ‘I’m sorry; I don’t know why I said that. Let’s go home, eh?’
‘Actually,’ she says, ‘I think I’d rather walk by myself. No offence. I just need to get my head straight. But it’s OK.’
‘Are you sure? Well, listen, all I want to say is… if you do think of anything, even a tiny thing, please, please, please tell me, OK. I’m begging you.’
For the first time in this whole encounter, our eyes meet. And perhaps it is the intensity of the moment, but it is as if we are seeing each other for the first time. We are just women, I think, trying to survive in a world not made for any of us.
‘OK,’ she says, her smile watery. ‘I will; I promise.’
I close my eyes, feel the pressure of her hand on my shoulder. A second, and it is gone. Another second, the squeak of the door hinge; another, the rush of a car on the high street; another, the clatter of the door. One more and the music stops. I am alone – bewildered, ostracised and alone.
Thirty-Six
Matt
Matt finds Neil eating cereal, standing feet crossed, his back against the kitchen sink, bowl cupped in one hand. It is 6.45 a.m. He is dressed for work: clean white overalls, grey T-shirt, yellow work boots. He is clean-shaven, his hair slicked back.
‘Morning.’ He waves his hand vaguely to indicate that Matt should help himself, the fresh smell of shower gel coming off him ‘There’s cereal. Or toast. Do you want tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee, thanks.’
Moments later, Neil hands him a café-style latte.
‘We’ve got one of those machines now,’ he says with a note of apology. ‘We’ll be eating sun-dried tomatoes next.’
‘You already eat sun-dried tomatoes.’ Matt smiles. His face resists, his skin dry and thick as an elephant’s. On no sleep, the thought of food makes him feel sick.
‘Aren’t you cycling?’ Neil asks, eyeing Matt’s suit.
‘I’ve got a meeting in town. Embankment.’
‘I can give you a lift to the station if you want. I’m in Surbiton this morning.’
‘Great.’
Neil looks at his watch. ‘Ten minutes?’
‘Sure. Is Bella OK?’
Neil nods. ‘She’s fine. I took her a tea but she doesn’t get up till half seven, quarter to eight.’
Matt nods, though he’s not sure this explains the tear-stained mess that was Bella when she returned home last night at ten, saying she’d had a row with someone called Shannon and was going straight to bed. She barely looked at him and, horribly, he’d felt himself to be an intrusion in something difficult – difficult and private. A few minutes later, he made his excuses and went to bed so that Neil could go to her.
