‘How about this one …’ I change the subject abruptly. ‘Let me tell you about my sixth birthday party. Imagine a small child who got buried in the ball pit and then got so scared that his dad had to navigate the jungle of slides and scramble nets to find him. I was three foot under the balls and crying so much that I threw up. They had to clear the place.’ I have a vivid flashback to the faces of the horrified parents of the kid whose party dress got splattered with my chocolate-cake puke. ‘Funnily enough, my party invitation rate dropped off sharply after that.’
‘Oh, now that’s a sad story,’ she says, and I don’t even think she’s taking the piss.
I shrug. ‘I’m a man. I’m made of tough stuff.’
She raps her knuckles on her skull again. ‘You forget who you’re talking to here.’
I nod, solemn. ‘Ironwoman.’
‘The very same.’
We fall silent and assimilate what we now know of each other. For my part, I know that she’s awkward with men and likely to cause injury. For hers, she knows I scare easily and am liable to throw up over her. She takes the empty ice-cream carton and spoon from me and leans sideways to slide it on to the coffee table, and despite my best efforts, my man brain observes the movement of her limbs, the sliver of breast I can see under her arm, the inward curve at the base of her spine. Why do women have to have all of that going on? It’s really not okay. I want to be platonic friends with Laurie, yet my brain is filing away her every movement, storing her up, building a map of her in my head so I can visit her every now and then in my sleep. I don’t want to. When I’m awake, I really don’t think of Laurie in that way, but my sleeping brain doesn’t seem to have received the memo.
In sleep, I’ve observed that her skin is creamy pale and that her eyes are the colour of forget-me-nots. Laurie’s eyes are a fucking summer hedgerow. And now I can add that pronounced curve at the small of her back, and that she gets giddy after wine, and how she bites her bottom lip when she’s thinking. Times like this, my photographic memory becomes more an impediment than advantage. Of course, Laurie’s not the only woman I have dreams about, but she seems to warrant a more regular walk-on role than most. Not that I’m dreaming of other women all the time. I’m going to stop now, because I’m making myself sound like a closet sleazebag.
‘Right, I guess that makes it my turn again,’ she says. I nod, glad that she’s derailed my train of thought.
‘You’re going to have to go some to top the headbutt story.’
‘I started too strong,’ she agrees, chewing her lip again, struggling to dredge up something suitable.
To help her, I chuck out a few prompts.
‘That embarrassing incident when you went out in high winds without knickers?’ She smirks but shakes her head. ‘Poisoned someone with your cooking? The time you accidentally snogged your sister’s boyfriend?’
Her features soften, a sudden study of nostalgia and other emotions I find hard to read as they slide over her face. Christ. I must have said something really wrong, because now she’s blinking hard, as if she has something in her eyes. Like tears.
‘God. Shit, I’m sorry,’ she mutters, dashing the backs of her hands furiously across her eyes.
‘No, no. I am,’ I rush, still not sure what I’ve said to provoke such a reaction. I want to hold her hand, cover her kneecap with my palm, something, anything to say I’m sorry, but I can’t quite make my hand move.
She shakes her head. ‘It’s really not your fault.’
I wait for her to gather herself. ‘Want to talk about it?’
She looks down, pinching the skin on the back of her hand, small repetitive motions; a coping mechanism, using physical pain to detract from emotional upset. My pain-in-the-arse brother, Albie, wears an elastic band round his wrist that he snaps for the same reason.
‘My little sister died when she was six years old. I’d just turned eight.’
Shit. I take back that description of my brother. He’s four years younger than me and it’s true that he can be a right royal pain in the arse, but I love the fucking bones of him. I can’t even bear to think of the world without him in it.
‘Jesus, Laurie.’
This time I don’t think twice. As a tear rolls down her cheek I reach out and swipe it away with my thumb. Then she’s properly crying and I’m stroking her hair and shushing her as a mother soothes a child.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have blurted that out,’ she gulps after a couple of minutes where both of us say nothing, pushing the heels of her palms into her eyes. ‘It caught me right out of nowhere. I haven’t cried about it for ages. Must be the wine.’
I nod as I lower my hand, feeling hideous for being so unwittingly insensitive.
‘I always say I only have a brother whenever anyone asks. I feel disloyal not mentioning her, but it’s easier than telling people the truth.’ She’s calmer now, drawing in slow, shaky breaths.
I have no real clue how to say the right thing in this situation, but I try; I have at least a small idea of how she might be feeling. ‘What was her name?’
Laurie’s face floods with warmth, and her vulnerability sears straight through me. Piercing, acute longing, bittersweet, as if something has been missing from her for too long. She sighs heavily as she turns to lean her back against the sofa beside me, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms round them. When she speaks again her voice is low and measured, like someone giving a rehearsed speech at a loved one’s funeral.
‘Ginny was born with a heart condition, but she was bright, and God, was she smart. She ran rings round me. She was my best friend.’ She pauses for a brief second, bracing herself for impact, as if she knows that telling the next part of her story is going to physically hurt. ‘Pneumonia. She was here one moment and then she was gone. I don’t think any of us have ever got over losing her. My poor mum and dad …’ She trails off, because there aren’t really any suitable words; parents should never have to bury their child. She isn’t pinching her skin any more; I don’t think there’s a coping mechanism in the world up to the job of distracting you from something like this.
On TV, Nicolas Cage is crashing around on a motorbike, all action and brawn, and here in this small living room I put my arm round Laurie’s shoulders and squeeze her against me. Her body judders with deep breaths, and she lays her head against my shoulder and closes her eyes. I can’t pinpoint the moment she falls asleep, but I’m glad she does because it’s what she needs right now. I don’t move, even though I probably should. I don’t get up and go to bed, even though a wiser man would have. I just sit and keep her company while she sleeps, and it feels … I don’t even know what it feels. Peaceful.
I don’t press my face into her hair.
15 February
Laurie
When I wake up, I know there’s something I need to remember but my brain feels as if it’s wrapped in fuzzy felt. That’ll be the wine, I think groggily, and then I open my eyes and realize I’m not in bed. I’m still on the sofa, but my bed pillow is beneath my head and I’m snuggled under my duvet. A long squint at my watch tells me it’s only a little after six in the morning, so I lie back and close my eyes, working my way through the evening from the bit that comes most easily to mind.