It’s done.
Finished.
Almost over.
Exes leave one by one until it’s just me and Dair back where we started on his doorstep.
He pulls on his jacket for his final care shift, then turns a key, which takes a bit of jiggling. “At least tomorrow will be the last time I have to fight with this lock.” He tries to put a positive spin to walking away from a property worth a fortune. “Thanks,” he tells me again, like he already told each Ex. “Until tomorrow morning, then?”
“Yeah, mate. I’ll be here with Kev by seven. Sorry it’s gotta be early. We got another job right after.” I can’t help adding, “Will you have slept?” He nods, and hope blooms in my chest, hot and itchy. “Does that mean you’re finishing early?”
He’s instantly apologetic. “Sorry. I’m covering for sickness. Staff are going down like flies, so I can’t be sure. Might be midnight. Might be much later.” He cracks a huge yawn. “What I do know is that my body clock is so messed up it feels like bedtime already. Then it will think it’s dinnertime when I do get back. Here’s hoping no one else goes off sick.”
We walk together in the direction of the Underground station he needs. Before we get to the end of the street, he looks over his shoulder at the door he just locked. Dair draws in a slow breath, which hitches, and at the start of the month, I wouldn’t have known or noticed how hard he works to hold it together.
This afternoon, I let him do it in silence. And I let my fingers do my talking for me by finding his hand like he did for me outside the V&A. By the time we reach his Tube station, he’s got his shit together.
“Until tomorrow, then.”
He backs off.
Behind me, an ice cream van plays a tinkling tune, and it’s wintertime, not high summer. I’m a full-grown man, not aschool kid. Turning towards it means that by the time I turn back, Dair is almost out of sight.
The tune from that ice cream van fades. So does Dair, swallowed up by tourists and other travellers for a last time before he’ll get to go home.
At least that music is a good reminder of what Stacey told me so often.
Sure, I could have more sweetness if I wanted.
All I had to do was work harder to earn it.
I get startedby making a phone call. I don’t do it outside a Tube station entrance or from the comfy cushions of a chintzy armchair.
I call Marilyn on the way to a supermarket.
“Maz? You and Dair talked about care work, didn’t you?”
“Hello, Vincent. Yes, I am well. Thank you so much for asking.”
I huff, and she cackles, but at least she does give me a helpful answer, even if it comes in the worst Scottish accent ever. “Aye, we had a bonny wee chat all aboot it.”
I grab a basket and enter a little Waitrose, cursing under my breath that the aisles are crowded. I wedge myself into a less busy corner between bottles of kefir and blocks of tofu and ask, “You two talked about your body clocks being out of whack, right? And about what helped. What did he say?”
“That he cannae sleep without his supper and wee bath. Some comfort food and a soak sets him reet.”
I close my eyes at her butchering of Dair’s Highland heather and focus on what feels vital to discover. “Did he tell you what his was? His comfort food, I mean.”
Dair did.
The minute she says, “Stovies,” I remember my first visit to his place. I also get a sensory flashback, only not of him soothing me with salve. I can almost smell the savoury scent of Dair’s supper that evening.
Marilyn doesn’t need to read out a recipe for me. Any of my apps could tell me what to purchase. None of them can share what else she tells me. Her suggestions mean I can fill my basket with more than the ingredients for a last meal, and I’m pretty sure I thank her.
Much later, in the early hours of the morning, I make a mental note to thank her again.
I’ll need to for the way Dair reacts when he finds me waiting on his doorstep.
A bright-white streetlight shows his surprise bloom. So does pleasure, and I love to see it. I’m less of a fan of the tiredness that streetlight also shows me, and I’d be lying if I said taking him straight to bed wasn’t right at the top of my wish list. I make myself hold up a carrier bag. “Made you something to eat,” I say quietly while the rest of this street is sleeping. The bag holds another offering Marilyn recommended. “And got you something for your bath.”
