Really? she says.
It’s you, Nora, he says, as if they’re the only two in the room. Of course I’ll be there.
There is another long moment of no clock and no breathing and then Robin stands up and says smashing, and Bren and Nora break eye contact. Bren glances at Robin, who is back to delight, so good to finally meet you, Bren; next time, we’ll pick your brains on Peru.
Next time, Bren nods, as he leads him to the door. Thanks, again, before he’s out into the night air. Drinking it down cold, thinking what is this, what just happened.
What on earth is happening here.
SIX
That went well, you say, as you wash the mugs in the sink, Nora drying them afterwards with a tea towel. These ones are too precious to run through the dishwasher. Not a mistake you’d make again, after the crack in her beloved yunomi in the autumn of 2016, devastating,RIP; she’d cried.
Yeah, Nora says. After a rocky start.
That’s okay, though, you tell her, she’d anticipated that, right. With their history.
You’re not entirely clear on that history but she’s implied it’s difficult, there’s a lot of hurt there, they were young, friends that were more than friends, not family but close to it, you’ve got the gist. And Jon dying was – she doesn’t like to talk about it – so painful, in more ways than an ordinary death. She’d told you all about it once, after a lot of wine; she had cried, then, too, then panicked that she’d said too much. You’d told her she’d said just the right amount, and held her, through her tears. Unfazed.
Now you hand her an – uncracked, perfectly washed and preserved – mug; she takes it, dries it carefully. It is late, and you are both tired and quiet.
I told him I’d missed him, she says. When you were out here, making the drinks.
That’s very sweet of you, you say, because it is. What did he say?
Not a lot, she says.
He’s a man of few words, you say. I got that. Is it, er.
You consider your next sentence; run the hot tap, squirt in some more Fairy Liquid, because the wok needs another go-round. You’d been soaking it since making the coffees, but the sauce is stubborn, still congealed at the sides.
Is it hard, you ask her, hearing him talk about his travels, like that?
Nora makes a small noise, something she keeps back in her mouth. Mm.
It’s okay if it is, you say.
Sort of, she says. It’s just strange to think about what didn’t happen, I guess. Not that I feel regret, or anything. About what I did, instead.
She says this last part in a rush, as if she doesn’t want to think about it, and you say Nora, it’s normal tohave regrets. It’s one of the things I love most about you, in fact.
She frowns a little as she dries the last mug, says, what, my capacity for regret?
Your capacity for seeing the wondrous possibilities in everything, you tell her, waving your Marigold-clad hand in an arc. This paint shade, or that paint shade. A wedding, or no wedding! You care, so deeply, Nora. More than most. You’re so … diligent, about living.
She protests at the praise, but is frowning less, now. Appreciates your attempts at profundity, you think, when it slips out like this. That old art school rhetoric still inside you, somewhere, Adrian Searle, eat your heart out.
Plus I regret a ton of things too, you tell her,like how I didn’t soak this damn wok straight after dinner.
You do?
Sure. But it doesn’t mean I yearn for any of it. I think about what could have been, sometimes. If I’d pursued architecture, like my parents wanted. If I’d taken that Rome residency, after graduation, I mean, who knows where I’d be. But just because I think about them, doesn’t mean Iwishthey’d happened.
Nora is putting the mugs away, now. You can’t see her face because of the open cupboard door, and you keep scouring at the scum in the wok.
I was so upset with him for going, Nora says, from her place on the floor. But I was so fixated on being upset with him, I’m not sure I realised how … upset I was, with myself.
You nod. Just let her talk.
