Authors: Grace Wynne-Jones
‘And keep wanting to eat things,’ I add. ‘Even when we’re not hungry. And we suddenly start wanting to find lost great-aunts just for the distraction of it, so we can escape from our own lives into somebody else’s for a while.’
He glances at me dubiously. ‘I think there’s more to it than that.’
‘But why should I suddenly care about DeeDee
now
?’ I say. I’ve barely thought about her for years. I should spend more time trying to get to know the relatives who are actually here, instead of wondering about someone who didn’t bother to hang around.’
‘It is very intriguing, though.’ His look is soft, searching. ‘Even I’m getting pretty curious about what she got up to – and Aggie seems desperate to see her again.’
‘Yes. That’s the dreadful thing. It’s like she wants to settle something, whatever it is, before she dies.’
We turn onto another road – another road without a takeaway. ‘Should we get some wine?’ Nathaniel asks.
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘I don’t want any.’
‘I think I’ve got a bottle at home, actually, if you feel like some later. You’ll have to excuse my flat. It’s a bit… dishevelled.’
‘I don’t mind that. You should see my cottage.’
‘I’d love to see your cottage.’
I stare straight ahead and try to compose myself. ‘Actually, Nathaniel…’
‘Yes?’
‘Actually, I might just stay for the food. I don’t know if I really want to watch a DVD.’
Nathaniel doesn’t seem to hear me. Where on earth is this takeaway? He clearly doesn’t have a great sense of direction. But, just when I think we may spend the whole night hunting for fish and chips, he finds it. It appears clean and nondescript, and it doesn’t do spring rolls.
‘We’ll just have to go to that Chinese place I told you about – you know, the one with scowly Henry.’
‘Tonight?’ I peer at him cautiously.
‘No, of course not.’ He grins. ‘It’s nearly in Howth. I mean another time.’
Another time
. Maybe there won’t be another time for us, but I don’t say it. He’s so casual about Eloise, but I can’t be. Sometimes I think he’s just as mixed up about love as I am. But, even so, I can’t imagine him sitting alone somewhere, getting through a whole packet of Hobnobs in one sitting.
Chapter
Twenty-One
We park outside a
large red-brick building with a luxuriant
garden. ‘Aren’t you going to lock the car?’ I ask, as
Nathaniel heads towards an ornate wrought-iron gate.
‘It doesn’t lock properly, and who would want to steal it anyway?’ He grins at me resignedly. ‘Greta says that, since I’m probably going to have to have it towed away one of these days, I should just put a card in the window that says “Classic Car, Free to Kind New Owner”. I like the “classic” part. Greta knows how to talk things up.’
‘It’s a nice car.’ I’m surprised to find myself defending it. ‘I like it.’
‘Well, if I go back to New York, you can have her. I think she likes you already.’
New York
. Nathaniel may be going back to New York. I don’t know why I’m so surprised.
The entrance to Nathaniel’s ground-floor flat is at the side of the house, shaded by an old oak tree. By the door is a blue ceramic pot containing a sturdy red geranium. I wait as he searches frantically for his keys. For a moment it looks like we might have to ask Greta to let us in. I really don’t want to meet Greta. She’s bound to tell me about some amazing new tiling; she may even stuff the press release into my hand.
Nathaniel seems nervous, almost bashful. I suddenly feel protective of him. The vinegar from the chips is dripping stealthily onto my jumper. I’ll smell of vinegar all evening, when by rights I should be at home in a bath.
‘Oh, good, here they are,’ he says, delving in a forgotten pocket of his denim jacket. ‘Sorry about that.’ The door creaks. It is white, with a small frosted-glass window at the top.
As I walk into the dimly lit hallway, I steel myself for the mess he talked about – papers spilling onto the floor, files and books cascading over armchairs. But we walk into a large room with a window that stretches expansively from the floor to the ceiling. It has orange velvet curtains; the armchairs are a restful dark blue, and the striped rug in front of the huge marble fireplace is a combination of all the colours in the room. It’s a lovely room, a spacious, cheerful sanctuary. It bears all the hallmarks of Greta’s good taste, but it also bears the precious hallmarks of Nathaniel: a jumbled heap of CDs by the stereo, important-looking books open and waiting by a wicker chair. A few mugs are dotted around, waiting to be retrieved and washed, and there is a crumpled navy sweatshirt on the comfy-looking sofa. There is an incense holder on the mantelpiece, and rocks and shells and a tiny replica of the Statue
of Liberty. And, of course, there are boxes, boxes of things from the life he has left behind; some of the contents are already making a bid for freedom.
You can’t go back to New York
, I’m thinking as Nathaniel watches me.
You belong here ... with Fred. He’d miss you
. But what I say is, ‘It’s lovely. It’s a really lovely room.’
‘Eloise got me to tidy it up a bit.’ He goes over to the small kitchen tucked away in a corner. I see a row of big, brightly patterned mugs and a half-eaten packet of chocolate biscuits.
Suddenly I feel angry with Eloise. I don’t want anyone taking Nathaniel in hand. He’s fine just as he is. He’s scurrying around the kitchen, peering at cutlery to see if it’s been washed.
‘So you miss New York, do you?’
‘Sort of. I like its restlessness – though I don’t want that stuff quite as much as I used to.’
I curl up on his blue sofa. I feel like I’m back in the big wooden house in California and Dad is telling me bedtime stories, like he used to before his heart got broken. Stories about anything – the conversations between instruments in an orchestra; what two shoes might say to each other after a long walk.
‘I’m not quite so antsy and unsettled as I used to be,’ Nathaniel says. ‘I like the buzz, but there are days when I just want to retreat with a good dog and a book. I’ve even been known to watch TV programmes for the under-fives.’ He is opening and closing kitchen cabinets noisily. ‘Feck it… I really thought I had napkins here somewhere.’
‘I’m not a napkin kind of woman. I can eat perfectly happily without them.’
‘I’ve got vinegar all over me.’
‘So have I.’
‘I’ll have to shove it in the microwave for a minute.’ I assume he is referring to the fish and chips. ‘I don’t really like microwaves. There’s something unnatural about them, don’t you think?’
‘Absolutely,’ I agree. ‘They’re like aeroplanes, and sugar-free biscuits.’ I am fiddling with my wedding ring. It’s always been a bit loose.
‘I was surprised to find you in that newsagent’s. I thought you’d be with…’ |
‘Diarmuid.’
‘Yes.
’
‘So did I.’ The ring slips off my finger and I stare at it. ‘He’s got |
‘Who’s Becky?’
‘His great lost love.’ I sigh. ‘When she was in New Zealand I |
‘Maybe he’s telling the truth.’ Nathaniel presses buttons on the
microwave and then backs away from it dubiously.
‘Maybe I should find out,’ I say. ‘Maybe I should get a taxi and |
‘The
mice?’
I put the ring on the arm of the sofa. Why am I wearing it when my marriage has become a farce? ‘He’s very close to some mice,’ Nathaniel waits for me to go on. When I don’t, he returns his |
‘Not quite that many, surely.’ I’m getting used to his exaggerations.
‘And fruit. I buy loads of fruit, but I keep feeling that it should |
‘You should get your fringe cut.’ I don’t normally make
personal remarks like that, but this one just pops out of me.
‘I know. Would you do it for me?’
‘Not bloody likely,’ I splutter. ‘The last time I cut someone’s fringe, they ended up with virtually no fringe at all.’
‘Why?’
‘I kept snipping at it to make it straighter.’
He studies me. ‘It was your own fringe, wasn’t it?’
I let out a yelp of surprise. ‘How did you know that?’
‘
Because I’ve done the same thing myself. I think it’s easier to
cut a fringe if it’s someone else’s. You can see it properly.’
‘Look, Nathaniel,’ I say firmly, ‘I am not going to cut your fringe. Get Eloise to do it.’
‘I don’t want her to. I want you to cut my fringe.’ He is looking
very determined about it.
I change the subject fast. ‘Is that your guitar?’
‘Now you’re trying to change the subject.’
‘Can you actually play it?’
‘Sort of. Do you want to eat this at the table?’
I look at the table. It is covered in magazines and files and papers. ‘No.’
‘I don’t have any trays.’
‘That doesn’t matter. We’ll just put the plates on our laps.’
I decide not to ask Nathaniel more about the guitar. Maybe he
just knows four or five chords that don’t sound right. He may not
even know how to tune it. I’ve spent hours with Erika while she tries to tune her guitar. She gets this dazed expression and hums
tunelessly. It would drive my father crazy. He plays the cello so beautifully; a deep, soft look comes over his face.
‘I’m sorry.’ Nathaniel hands me my plate and sits beside me on
the sofa.