Serious Sweet (27 page)

She'd loitered until he came out of the PO box office again and she could study his face. She was trying to be quick about it … She didn't want to scare him. She didn't want to spoil everything. But she did have to be sure. And would her Mr August be so tense and have a mouth kept tight with what was perhaps irritation … and also these straight-scored lines coming down from near his hairline to his eyebrows – the marks you get from being angry. These details made her doubtful.

I avoid the people who get angry, the men who do that. What might have been true, shown to be true when you saw his face, was that he had sad habits and also rage, but also this softness. The rage was mostly about himself.

The softness came first and last – it held him.

I think that's what made me believe it was him.

Her man was a fast walker, though. He'd been gone before she could guess what she should do, before she could fight the solidified air, or else give up and leave him and never come back there – surrender. Alcoholics, after all, are fond of giving in.

Self-defence. Self-harm.

And he seemed very formal and our letters weren't and I didn't want formal. Formality's just a way of not being around.

And if it was him, he was a man who worked at speed – alive and fast and with someone who rushed like that you couldn't quite be sure of what would happen …

She'd let him go and done nothing, just slipped back into the café and watched what was left of her cappuccino go cold. Then she'd gone home.

It's Jon's outside that's formal. That part of him is to do with his job, but it's self-defence, too. And self-harm. I've watched the insides of his wrists and how he hides them – where he's tender – and I've noticed his fingers comforting each other and the way he bends his knees a little to be level with you so he can speak – he doesn't want to loom – and then there's the way his intentions, soft intentions, make themselves plain in his eyes. There's this quick light that shows. It makes you think you've spotted where he really is.

I don't see him often, haven't met him often, but I have noticed him a lot. I make up for our lost time. I have studied the way that he is.

Jon's an education
.

She'd kept going back to Shepherd Market, kept waiting, kept close to the time when she'd first caught sight of him.

And then he was there again and I was there and I was walking over and saying his name, calling it out so that something familiar would reach him before me – and then he heard, he realised …

The way he'd stared at her …

I was a shock. I was a shock to him. Even though I didn't mean to be.

I'd made him nervous.

That wasn't only a fault, though, it proved what type of man he was – he's safe.

You'll always be safer with somebody who gets scared. That's how it works. You can be like two animals, hiding together.

But first you are scared and then you scare him and then both of you get more scared, because of each other and it hurts you and it's fast.

The way he'd stared at her.

Sorrysorrysorrysorry.

Don't hate me.

He had been definitely like an animal then: all startled and ticking and sprung.

His stride had stopped and then turned into a tiny stagger and – because she knew of nothing else to do – she'd said who she was and then hoped.

That's the terrible thing about being sober, sober in an organised way. They tell you it's to do with having hope, when that's what you've always been avoiding.

Once they were inside the café, Jon had ordered and fought down his cappuccino so fast it must have burned him. And only her hold on his hand had allowed their meeting to be real.

If you're scared you need someone to do that. And if you have trouble with hope, then giving out your hand and feeling it taken helps you, too.

She could remember the feel of his fist, hers cradling it and trying to seem sane for him and calm and safe and to touch his knuckles only as she might touch any nervous animal. They'd walked to the café with her hand on his, visibly linked. He'd dropped the contact as they worked themselves through the doorway, but then – she remembered this clearly, often – they both made this reach across the table towards something that could keep them steady – hand into hand – while apparently the tabletop and the walls and windows and so forth all shifted, all made her feel they were weathering large, unpleasant seas.

Corwynn had dropped his teaspoon and retreated from her, left her cold-handed, as he scrambled about after the thing, as if it were made of platinum, or some family heirloom beyond price,
while telling her, ‘They're all watching and thinking I'm a fool, I'm sure. And you're …' His face had flushed with effort and possibly shame, while his hair was disturbed –
but not ginger
 – was ruffled as he surely would not have wished and he spoke on his knees, his chin almost level with their saucers. She'd thought at that point,
his height is in his legs, isn't it? He has that body, which is slim and all wires and tightness, but not long. It's his arms and legs that make him seem big – they give him the reach and the height and that speed.
She considered his legs, as if understanding his dimensions wouldn't make her …

You'd be worried that if you really studied them you'd want to touch him a lot and that didn't seem what he would want, or not yet.

You don't touch wild animals, they take it badly.

And I was trying to look just sociable and normal and not insane about his legs.

So I listened very hard when he spoke and thought his voice might be drier than I'd expected. But it was him.

And it made me want to touch him, too.

Once he'd captured the spoon, he'd stood again and fussed at the twin patches of mainly theoretical dust on his trousers where he'd knelt. ‘Oh, dear. Sorry. I should have thought. I'm such a …'

And she'd taken his hand for the third time and said something she couldn't remember afterwards. She could only recall his glance at her and the horror that coloured it and also this despair and a type of exhilaration. And finally he opened out a smile, a boy's summery smile – lots of clear brightness, lots of racing and heat.

He's not simple, Mr August. He's all kinds of things, all at once, is Mr Jonathan Corwynn Sigurdsson.

He'd blinked and his mouth had worked for a few moments before he produced, ‘Well … It's not really, because … If you think so, then. Yes … I don't … Thank you.' His other hand had placed the rogue teaspoon beside his cup. He'd checked his watch openly and twitched. ‘I do have to, I do …' And then his fingers had been decisive and had laced between her own and had fastened in snug and hard and he'd leaned forward to be closer. ‘If you knew me by looking … This will sound extremely …' His scent was here:
a harsh brand of soap and self-confident cloth and a vague musti-ness – no cologne, no definable choice made beyond this old-fashioned, punishing soap the name of which she'd forgotten. She'd breathed in to gather as much as she could, in case she never saw him again.

I was declaring him a good thing and therefore assuming he'd soon be gone.

Gone in the way that doesn't come back.

‘If you knew me by looking …' He'd winced quickly, but his fingers stayed certain. ‘In your letters, when you wrote, you said that I was, you used the word – the word was … No, it's all right, it's perfectly – I'd be foolish to ask … I have to go. I'll call. Later. I mean … I have to.' He shook his head.

His eyes had tried hers for an instant and had appeared to be ready for some kind of blow. ‘Beautiful. You said. You used that word.'

And his hand had snapped away then, as if he had scalded himself and he was standing back and picking up his briefcase and no more to be said and no attempt to face her again and then he was out and away and striding and nothing of him remaining but a warm shudder in the light.

She'd abandoned her coat and followed, sort of kept a guard along behind him as he paced, then trotted, then pelted through the shadowy narrows of White Horse Street and out towards the tall, narrow slot of sun and sky over Piccadilly. Then he was fording the swell of upmarket pedestrians and then plunging into the traffic, crossing the road in its two, equally busy instalments. Meg had worried he was dashing too unwisely. She'd worried he'd turn round and see her. But he'd not looked back, had only sprinted into the park. He was, as she might have told him, beautiful as he ran.

As he ran away from me.

I thought that was it.

Sorrysorrysorrysorry.

Walking back to the café, paying the bill, avoiding the amused concern of the waiters … it had all made her want to cry.

I thought he wouldn't write again.

I knew he wouldn't call – it would make him too tense. And he hadn't given me his number and that was probably a cause for concern …

The way he'd stared at her.

But, after three letterless weeks during which she couldn't exactly eat – not really – or dream without being unhappy, he had sent her an envelope full of sorrysorrysorrysorry for making her wait, because he had been dithering over how to phrase things.

Only then he didn't phrase anything much – it was a very short letter, more a note.

But sorry again and here was his mobile number and I should call. Or texting would be better because he often would be busy. But I might text soon if I wanted – soon or sooner than that.

Being funny for me.

And I didn't forget that before he ran, he kissed me.

He did.

Here it is.

There are two men on a crowded Northern Line Tube train. Both are dressed stylishly in jeans and shirts a little too young for their age. They have well-tended beards and moustaches and shaven heads. One man carries a young pug dog which is wearing a small neckerchief and a soft leather harness. The man is holding the dog snug and high, protective, clearly enjoying its newness and affection.

Because the carriage is so crowded, the dog cannot help but peer out, over-close to a middle-aged woman's face. She is smiling in response and petting the dog's ears. Both its owners tell her how brave it is being – it does seem only calm and curious and contented, despite the crush. They talk about introducing their dog to other dogs and about training sessions for good behaviour and about a day-care centre where they leave him when they go to work. Although they don't like to be parted from him, they feel he should get used to novel experiences and people.

The dog is perfect, cherished, glances about himself with an air of security.

As passengers ease past it and out, or insist themselves into the crowd already on-board, the conversation continues. It is something cheery to be overheard as a mass of individuals undergo a mildly gruelling experience, pressed together.

Eventually, though, the chatting wanes and the men simply murmur between themselves and seem glad about their dog and being here and now and together. The woman withdraws into being a stranger again, her face becoming neutral and turning to examine the slide of the platform as the next station finds them, then slows and then stops alongside. For a moment she seems sad. She is perhaps considering that the men have this dog as their son and that they love him and that dogs do not live very long, not nearly as long as children are supposed to. It may be that she is surprised by how willing they seem to risk being very unhappy.

Meg was in a pub when her phone rang. ‘Hello?'

She wasn't there for any terrible reason, it was only that the other places – shops, cafés, sandwich bars – they'd all looked too steamy and sticky and claustrophobic and someone can be in a bar, can sit on a stool in a bar, and still drink an orange juice and lemonade.

‘Hi, yes it's …' The sound of him flared in her, the music, the breath – her anticipation that something must be wrong, or why else would he call … ‘It's you, Jon, yes. I know. I can recognise your voice. Probably always …' And she tried to keep on talking, because then the bad news would not be delivered.

He's either going to tell me about a problem, or something really great. There won't be a medium option.

That's OK. Alcoholics don't do medium.

When she paused for breath, he started a fumbled, ‘That's … I am. Well, Jon. Yes.' And his tone was extremely careful, somehow – both painstaking and nervy. ‘I … I had to … I can't.'

So it isn't good news.

This cold unfurled through her torso and along her arms, which was disappointing because being sober and an adult meant you were supposed to get independent and not rely on other people to keep you happy.

‘I've tried. But I really …' He sounds frightened. And numb. It's tough to tell if somebody is lying or in shock when they offer you that kind of combination.

She asked him – because this is what you do when you care about someone, even when that someone is man: ‘What's wrong?'

‘I can't say.'

Which caught Meg slightly as an impact might – not a kick, but a strong shove.

I will keep civilised, though. I will be as I think I should and not chuck everything and tell him to fuck off, just to be done with all this messing about.

She even sounded civilised, produced this fairly convincing courtesy, ‘Can I help?'

And I would help. I want to.

‘You can't … I can't … And there's a problem with my daughter and I won't be able to … I wanted to phone because this … The day's not over. There's later. That would be quite a lot later, but would you be able. I sort of think if I don't today and if I put it off, if we put it … I'm so sorry.'

‘It's OK.' It was not OK.

‘Things keep moving and I have to move because of them and I don't want to and this has been a horrible day and I know you've had a … another horrible day. I truly am … I absolutely am …' At this point there was an interruption from someone else, this distant other speaker, and Meg couldn't make out the words, but it sounded as if a question was being asked and, of course, she then heard him say, ‘Nobody.'

And that was, of course, a name that suited her better than Sophia, or Margaret, or Maggie, or Meg, ‘That's right – nobody. I'll let you get on.'

‘What? No, no … It's only that … I will call you again. Later. Later today. This evening. I won't text. I will call you when I can call you and it will be today, I promise, I swear, and I will see you and we will do something and . . . '

There was a fumble of motion at his side of the call – a movement, perhaps, of hands that she knew and had liked and which were currently with him, there in his sleeves in another part of London.

I would have fucking helped.

Meg couldn't hear what he said to her next – it didn't quite sound like goodbye, but had the same effect.

She put down the silence he'd left behind himself and picked up her glass which was sticky. That served her right for ordering a kid's kind of drink.

I'll be fine, though.

Before midnight when we get to send sweet dreams, we'll be all right.

Please.

I would like that.

I do think I need that.

Her drink was making her feel tearful, because it was unsuitable. An adult gets to move beyond orange squash and summery smiles and pretending a grown-up will help you know what to do next.

Meg waved to the barman and he stepped along to her section of the bar, ready to do what he could.

Here it is.