The Living (17 page)

‘Not for mine, then?' I said when we were both standing in the street.

‘What?'

‘For your bed? Not for mine?'

Blank look.

‘I'm propositioning you,' I explained.

‘Oh. Bit slow on the uptake, there.' He put a hand on my shoulder, looked at the ground. ‘No, I'm sorry. I can't. Not tonight. I've got a busy day tomorrow. I'll see you soon, though, all right?'

‘Yeah,' I said. A quick kiss, and Matthew headed off towards his bus stop.

I wanted to run after him and punch him in the gut. I hated to think that he might be just another of my mistakes.

I
WENT TO THE
pub with the others and regretted it. The conversation turned to the accommodation arrangements in the hotel in Belfast. Donal had made a list of who would be sharing with whom. I was dismayed to find that I was down to share with Anja, and Matthew with Tom. I did my best to conceal my agitation. It was awful. I could hardly concentrate on what people were saying.

I finished my pint quickly and took my leave.

A text message as I stood at the bus stop read: ‘Wish I could've come home with you tonight. Talk soon. 990' I gripped the phone in both hands, squeezed my eyes shut.

And lo, he phoned the next day while I was at work.

‘Listen,' I said, heart pounding, ‘how are we going to sort out the room thing? Do you want to just let Donal know privately—' I stopped, hearing an intake of breath on Matthew's end of the line.

‘We, ah … OK, we might just leave it, what do you think? It'd be a bit blatant, wouldn't it?'

‘Blatant?' My voice was chill.

‘You know, if we're not supposed to be fully out in the open yet.' He was trying to sound offhand. Failing.

I felt my chest constrict, my throat swell. ‘Well, I sort of thought we could do it discreetly.'

‘Oh, come on, Cate, everyone would know.'

‘Would that be such a disaster?' I didn't bother disguising my upset. I stood at the office window, staring out at the gloomy garden, willing George to stay put at his desk inside.

‘Oh, look, I didn't mean – I just think …'

‘You don't want people to know.'

‘Yet. I don't want people to know
yet
.'

‘Why not?' I was speaking now in a fierce whisper. ‘Am I on probation or something? Because if so—'

‘No, no, that's not it at all!'

I could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. I kept quiet.

‘Cate? Can we talk about this later? Face to face, I mean.'

We arranged to meet in town. I went back to my desk feeling mixed, shuffled. The voice of reason – meet Matthew, talk about it, find out what's really bothering him – was drowned out by the voice of craven fear.
He doesn't want to admit we're going out
.
He's having a fling
.
No strings
.

We met at Trinity front gate at half past six and walked up
Dame Street. People milled everywhere. I didn't know where we were going, and the thought of asking Matthew felt unbearable.

I lagged behind as we passed the Central Bank, thinking that we might turn right into Temple Bar. He looked back at me, scraping me open with his eyes, and took my hand.

‘IFI bar?' he said. I remembered the evening – it seemed an aeon ago – when we'd sat there dancing around a real conversation, drinking wine and being awkward with each other.

I nodded.

When we got to the IFI a film had just started: there was plenty of room in the bar. We found a table out in the airier space of the lobby, and Matthew went to get us drinks. I looked around, let the babble of talk soothe me, watched waves of people wash around the space, looking at posters, moving towards the ticket booth. The main doors swung in and out slowly, rarely at rest, as people arrived and left, setting the swirl of bodies in motion again at each turn.

I saw nobody I knew, for which I was truly thankful.

Matthew came back with two pints of Guinness, and in silence we saluted each other and began to drink. He seemed ill at ease, looking quickly around and sitting very straight in his chair. His fingers drummed absently on the tabletop. I found myself smiling, shaking my head at the absurdly staged feel of the evening.

‘What?' Matthew said, and I caught his eye and he began to smile too.

‘Just,' I said. We laughed together, and I relaxed a little.

‘Belfast,' Matthew said. ‘Look, I'm sorry I was so stupid on the phone earlier.' He reached over and squeezed my hand.

‘So what's the problem?'

He said nothing. I waited. Eventually, he took back his hand. ‘It's not really a problem. I'm just being … stupid. Of course I want us to share a room.'

I took a long sip, holding his gaze, daring him to utter the ‘but' that hovered behind his eyes. ‘So let's,' I said.

He sighed. ‘OK. Let's. We'll work something out.'

‘There's something you're not telling me,' I said suddenly, not knowing until I spoke that I would have the nerve to say it out loud.

My heart lurched as I looked at him. He was floored, cornered, eyes darting left, then back to stare at me – and then the barrier clanged shut and he frowned. Smiled warily. ‘What do you mean?'

I couldn't speak. I drank some more, put my glass down, took a deep breath. ‘Just that,' I said. ‘There's something really big you're not telling me.'

‘You're imagining things,' Matthew said, and the knot in my stomach tightened. I looked away from him, blinking hard.
Liar, liar, liar
.

‘OK,' I said, when I was able. ‘If you say so.'

He sighed heavily, reached into his pocket and brought out his buzzing phone. ‘Sorry, I'd better take this.' He stood up and walked a little distance away from me, as was his habit.

I considered picking up my bag and coat and just storming
out of there – turning my phone off, going home, packing a bag, heading for the airport, disappearing. Standby. Anywhere. Just for the weekend. Just to scare him. I'd have to come back, I knew, for Bell Books, for Carmina Urbana, for my family. But it would be good to shake him up.

By the time he came back I was calmer.

‘I'm sorry, Cate. I'm not very good at this.'

‘No,' I replied, sour-mouthed. ‘Surprisingly bad.'

He looked embarrassed. ‘Surprising,' he said. He reached for his pint again, and I took up mine. At a gesture from him, we clinked glasses. I said nothing. He said, ‘To sorting things out.'

‘Look,' I said. ‘I think maybe we'd better go. I mean …' I was blushing. Matthew looked taken aback – but made no effort to contradict me. ‘I don't know,' I said. ‘I don't want to sit here with you, with everyone around, trying to make normal conversation.'

‘Right,' he said, exploratory.

I wanted him to say, let's go back to your flat and talk about it. He didn't. I said, ‘So maybe I'll just finish my drink and leave you to it.'

I was astonished. This wasn't like me at all. My insides felt as if they were shaking apart, but the outer shell seemed to be holding. My demeanour seemed, from my end at least, to be calm and collected. I stood up, pint in hand.

Matthew was silent.

‘We can talk over the weekend, maybe,' I said, and he looked up at me.

‘Yeah. That would be good.'

‘Give me a ring, then,' I said, my throat filling with tension. I drained my glass and set it back on the table firmly. Gathered my coat and bag.

‘I will,' said Matthew.

H
E DIDN'T RING.

On Tuesday we had an extra rehearsal for Belfast. The peace anthem showed improvement, but overall we did not sound good. Val was absent from the alto line, which knocked much of the stuffing out of us, and there were only four basses.

Diane was on edge, inevitably: tight-lipped, stiff, her conducting gestures jagged and strained. We soldiered through our pieces with little verve. There was nothing to relieve the tension. Everything felt restless, rootless. I slumped in my seat like an empty sack.

‘I don't think we're going to get much more done this evening,' Diane said eventually. ‘See you on Thursday.'

It was Tuesday. It was strange.

I left without catching Matthew's eye. It was cold outside, but dry and clear. I took deep breaths, letting my nostrils sting, my cheeks tingle. I might almost walk home. Make myself a mug of hot chocolate and curl up in bed with a book.

I was striding along when I heard footsteps behind me. I glanced back to see Matthew hurrying to catch me up, his face worried.

‘Hello there,' I said, and I could see he was surprised at my liveliness.

‘Hi. What's the story?' He sounded tentative.

‘Not much,' I said. ‘I'm heading home now.' The weight of our last conversation descended like a hailstorm. My little bubble of false cheer dissipated in the night.

‘Are you
walking
?' Matthew asked, and suddenly the lunacy of the idea was clear.

‘No,' I said. ‘I'll get a bus along here.' I didn't invite him to come home with me. I wasn't sure how that exchange went.

He fell into step with me, put an arm heavily across my shoulders. I didn't look at him. I was battling myself.

‘I rang Donal,' he said suddenly. ‘I said we'd be sharing in Belfast. A double room.'

I stopped dead. ‘Wow. What did he say?'

‘Well, he slagged me a bit, and said he'd see what he could do. I reckon it'll be fine.'

I took a long breath. ‘So we're out?'

‘We're out.'

After a bit, he asked, ‘Do you have plans now?'

‘Not especially,' I said, with an inward sigh. ‘We should probably talk. Come back to the flat, and we'll have hot chocolate and crisps. Comfort food.'

‘OK, woman of weird tastes. I'll try anything once.'

We got to the bus stop and stood in each other's arms, letting the silence settle around us. When the bus arrived I took a window seat, stared out at the clear, streetlit night, Matthew's hand loosely clasped on my knee. The roar of the engine was comforting. It felt
as if the silence meant peace, not a failure to communicate. I was sorry when we reached our stop.

We bought crisps in the late-night shop. As we came out again Matthew put his arm round me. ‘All right, stay calm,' he said evenly. ‘Dark car at one o'clock, five two eight four five. Is that the one?'

I snatched a glance, and nodded. I was glad of his support, but as we walked on I found that my reaction was nothing like as strong as before. I recalled what George had said: if these people wanted me, they'd have got me by now. I felt lighter, looser.

We continued up my silent street, and I let us into the flat.

All seemed to be as I'd left it, and I realized as I registered this that, of course, I'd been checking ever since the break-in.

Matthew fussed with lighting while I made hot chocolate. I brought the two mugs out to the sitting room, and we sat on the sofa.

The chocolate was comforting. My fingers were still thawing; I held them around the mug. Matthew opened my bag of crisps. The salt contrasted pleasingly with the sweet chocolate – a taste of childhood: party food. I alternated between the two.

‘Meticulous Cate.'

‘Yeah.' I looked around at the disordered room. ‘Very.'

He leaned over and kissed me, then drew back, hesitated. ‘I … I felt bad, the other night.'

‘Is that why you didn't phone me at the weekend?' I asked, rather taken aback by my own sharpness.

‘I thought you were going to phone me!' He seemed genuinely surprised. ‘I didn't realize – I'm sorry.'

‘It's not set in stone or anything,' I said, still peevish. ‘You could have phoned.'

‘I would have, but I thought … I didn't think you'd want to hear from me – no, that's stupid. The point is, I felt bad.'

‘What did you do after I left?'

‘Finished my pint, went home, had a think.' He put his hand up to the side of my face. I could smell the crisps from his fingers. ‘I want to do better. I don't want to make you feel like that again.'

‘Are you going to come clean, then?'

He turned his head away, screwed up his face and said nothing for a long time. ‘To be honest with you, Cate, I'm not sure I can. I'm not sure there's anything I can actually say to explain why I'm acting like this.' He looked soft and sad – showed none of the fortified urbanity I'd come to expect from him at moments like this.

I badly wanted to lean forward, take hold of his head with both hands and kiss him until our lips melded. Instead I said, ‘Try.'

‘I really don't want to fuck this up.'

‘I'm glad to hear it. What makes you think you'll fuck it up?'

‘It's … practically inevitable, one way or another.' He rubbed his hand across his eyes. I wished we were not locked into this conversation, could just fall silent, go into the bedroom, lie still and hold each other.

‘Don't talk nonsense, Matthew,' I said, but kindly.

‘No. You don't know me. Not really. You don't know how …'

I sighed. So this was it. I knew the next bit off by heart. The bit about being broken – not like other people, not able for the
ordinary little daily achievements that keep things on an even keel. The abrogation of responsibility. I'd heard it all before. My benign feeling sped away, replaced by a twitching irritation.

‘You don't know very much about my life,' Matthew went on, looking steadily at the floor.

‘You haven't exactly been forthcoming.'

‘True.'

‘So, what is it? What's the big deal? What's the bit you're not telling me?'

He looked back at me, and in his eyes I saw real distress. I felt a surge of affection again, reached out to scratch the back of his neck. His skin was warm and smooth. I left my hand there. Again, I wanted to release us, chicken out, just go and have sex and forget about it all, let whatever twisted problems we were having take their course.