You’re very skinny, Nora observes, as Robin hands him a tortilla.
Am I?
Sinewy, Nora says, and Robin blasts Nora! Leave the poor guy alone! I gained ten pounds when I moved in with her, he says to Bren, in what is seemingly a conspiring tone. She’s nothing if not a feeder.
Always has been, Bren says. Flashes, then, of shared popcorn in that same games room; Creme Eggs in her pockets; three ice cream scoops, instead of two, if you’re going to do it, Bren, do itright. It’s not clear whether Robin heard him over the scraping of the spoons, or the faux sound of offence that Nora makes in response. It helps that you’re asensationalcook, Robin adds, leaning to one side as though squeezing her knee under the table. A fizzing starts up, inside of Bren, at that. Like a can of drink that’s been shaken.
Well, it all looks great, Bren manages. Thanks.
And Nora nods, her cheeks still that permanent pink, says of course. It’s so nice to have him here.
Lovely. Great. Nice.
Tortillas, lifted to their mouths.
Do they actually eatfajitas, in Mexico? Robin asks, after a generous bite. Or is it like chicken tikka masala – a Britishism you wouldn’t actually find in India?
I never saw one, Bren says. But I’m sure they’re about, for the tourists. In Cancún, or whatever.
Ah. You weren’t in Cancún? Robin says, with a tilt of his head, which Bren takes to mean: you weren’t a tourist?
He’s heard it before, from plenty of people. Eye rolls. Good for yous. And what will you do, after this? He’s wasted enough breath trying to prove the way he moves through the world is more than aholiday, more than partying by night and catching rays every day. More than an extended gap year. More than an existence that’ll lead him, presumably, nowhere. But so what if it wasn’t? So what if flicking between outdoor centres and continents and rental contracts feels dubious to most people, prompts a raised eyebrow and unimpressedoh, so what if they don’t get why that’s as good a life as anything back here, with these dishwasher-safe plates and home insurance and ladders being climbed in an office or an art café or a – wherever it is Robin works? All of that, and for what? An annual respite in a warm country near the ocean, for two weeks, if you’re lucky. When Bren’s wholelifeis a respite from all that, he thinks, as he takes another bite of his wrap. A rejection, even, of what’s expected of everyone in a broken system, where you grow up, pay bills, care for your kids and then your parents, pay off the mortgage you almost didn’t get approved in the first place, pay for your own funeral, too, if you’re a good sport, then die after never having feltalive, never having seen or done anything, no thanks, not for him.
Robin and Nora are waiting for him to respond, and when he doesn’t, must assume he didn’t hear the question.
How’s the work, out in Mexico, Robin tries, instead. Not that you’re there, these days, I know. The adventure scene is a tad easier to picture in New Zealand.
Bren spoons more guacamole onto his plate.
I led biking tours for a company in Oaxaca, he says. For a while.
Like mountain biking?
Any kind of biking, Bren says. Mexico had opportunitiesall over. City tours. Overnight bike-packing. Whatever I was paid to do.
So you do have to think about money, Robin says, and Bren takes another large mouthful so he’s spared answering, for a moment. He’s known this guy all of five minutes and already he’s being grilled about his mother, his finances, his job. What doyoudo, he wants to ask, but no need, he can tell just from looking at him with his burgundy shirt, his tapered trousers, he’s a designer, probably, or an architect. He knows that Nora met him at art school.
I get paid for the legitimate work I do, yes, Bren says, and Nora stops chewing, her own mouth full.
He didn’t mean – she tries, just as Robin says I didn’t – and they break off, wait for the other to speak; fragmented pause; Robin, turning back to Bren.
I was just curious, he says. Crease of concern between his eyebrows, because he’s offended him; and Bren feels bad then. Just slightly.
It’s enough money to live on, he says. Not enough to buy a house, or save up for any big purchases, or whatever. I won’t be driving a Volvo any time soon.
Robin nods, but Nora frowns. Keeps looking at Bren while she swallows.
Not that there’s anything wrong with Volvos, Bren says.
No? Nora says. There’s a high, questioning note to her voice as she lays her wrap on her plate. He hears it, that pointed pitch; Robin must too.
Am I missing something? Robin says.
Yes, thinks Bren. No, says Nora: his mum drives a Volvo, that’s all.
Although drives is a generous term, Bren says. Pretty sure it just sits in the driveway, these days.
No one has anything to say to that. Dinner happens. Justthe soft folding of wraps, scoop of spoons in the sauce. Nora gets up, brings the wine to the table. Tops up Robin’s glass, sits back down.
