“Joel. I think I might be able to help. Did I ever tell you—”
“Sorry,” I say quickly, before he can finish. “Need to get going. These dogs won’t walk themselves.”
They absolutely would, of course. But right now they’re the only excuse I’ve got.
•••
I’ve lived in Eversford my entire life, have been Steve and Hayley’s oddball downstairs neighbor for nearly a decade.
I tried to avoid them when they first moved in. But Steve’s a pretty hard man to dodge. He’s his own boss, which meant he had time to do stuff like put my bins out and take in packages and intimidate the landlord over the cavernous crack in our side wall. So that was how we went from neighbors to friends.
Vicky, my girlfriend back then, was keen to nurture the new relationship. She kept making arrangements with Hayley for the four of us: sundowners in the back garden, bank-holiday barbecues, birthday celebrations in town. She suggested Bonfire Nights at the local park, Halloweens ducking trick-or-treaters with the aid of rum, darkened windows, and horror films.
Vicky left me on her birthday, after three years together. Presented me with a list she’d made, a slim column of pros against a litany of damningcons. My emotional detachment topped the list, but no less significant were my general dysfunction and constant edginess. My reluctance to let myself go of an evening and apparent inability to sleep. The notebook I never let her look at was on there too, as was my permanent air of distraction.
None of it was new to me, nor was any of it unfair. Vicky deserved far more from a boyfriend than the lukewarmth I was offering her.
It didn’t help, I’m sure, that I kept the dreaming from her. But Vicky had always reminded me a bit of Doug, in that she wasn’t famed for her empathy. Though there was a lot about her I admired (ambition, sense of humor, inner drive), she was also the sort of person who’d shrug if she ran over a rabbit.
When she left, I succumbed to heavy drinking for a few months. I’d tried it before, in my last two years at uni, after reading about its disruptive effects on sleep. I knew it wasn’t the answer, not really. That it wouldn’t actually work. But I suppose I convinced myself things might be different this time.
They weren’t, so I shelved it. Just in time, probably, as I’d been starting to succumb to the dangerous warmth of dependency. And the thought of tackling that on top of everything else felt about as attractive as signing up to swim the Channel, or picking a fight at my local kung fu club.
In the years that followed Vicky leaving, Steve and Hayley always felt more like family to me than friends. It was almost as if they were putting their arms around my pain. And when Poppy was born this year, I think they thought that being her godfather might actually be good for me.
At the christening, I held Poppy proudly for a photograph. She was like a writhing puppy against me, warm and adorable. I looked down at her face, felt her weighty preciousness, was overwhelmed with love.
Furious with myself, I passed her back. Got drunk, smashed two wineglasses. Had to be hailed an early taxi home.
That did it. Things have been strained ever since.
7.
Callie
Toward the end of the month, Ben suggests a night at the pub, where a friend of a friend’s having a birthday do. I’m almost too tired after finishing work, but I’ve been reluctant to let Ben down of late—his progress is still so tentative, like he’s emerging from hibernation after the bitterest winter.
Joel was one of the last customers to leave tonight and, for a rash half second as he closed the door behind him, I thought I might dart into the street and invite him along. He’s by far the best thing about working at the café right now—he can sink me with just a smile, fluster me with the briefest of glances. I’ve found myself waiting each day to see him, wondering what I could say to make him laugh.
But at the last moment, I changed my mind, because I’m fairly certain asking him to the pub would be crossing a line. The poor man should be able to enjoy a coffee in peace without being harassed for a date by loitering baristas. Anyway, someone this lovely is bound to be taken—even though, as Dot points out, he’s always alone.
Really, I remind myself, we hardly know each other—just well enough for smiles and passed remarks, like stars from companion galaxies exchanging winks across swathes of limitless sky.
•••
The birthday party’s in the beer garden where, luckily, it’s still warm enough to sit out. I spot my friend Esther and her husband, Gavin, and abunch of people we all knew slightly better when Grace was alive. If she were here now she’d be working the patio, the earthy roll of her laugh like a snatch of familiar, well-loved music.
For a moment, I pause to listen out for it. Because, you know—just in case.
I slide onto the bench next to Esther, Murphy settling down at my feet. A waterfall of honeysuckle plunges from the pergola above our heads, vivid green and frothing with creamy blooms. “Where’s Ben?”
“Held up at work. I think he’s feeling a bit low.”
“Blue-low, or black-low?”
“Well, he’s on his way. So blue-low, I suppose.” Esther, arms bare in a butter-yellow top, pushes a pint of cider toward me.
I met Esther and Grace on our first day of primary school. I was comfortable sliding into their shadow from the off, admiring but never matching their daring. They shared an outspokenness that frequently got them turfed out of lessons, and manifested itself years later in evenings spent shouting atQuestion Time, in arguments across the top of my head about government policy and climate change and feminist theory. They buzzed off each other, fierce and feverish. And then Grace was taken suddenly and violently away, leaving Esther to fight solo for all their principles, their most ardent passions.
