You put two hands on the carpet, steadying yourself, then return to rifling through your drawer. You can feel her watching, and this bothers you as well. Elbow aching, you pull out some joggers and an old jumper that you think, maddeningly, will probably complement Bren’s eyes, and then she asks you why you’re in a different shirt to earlier, and why your hair’s all wet.
I cleaned the gutters, you tell her, and she says really?
Finally, you say. And instead of being rewarded withRatatouilleand a little afternoon delight on our sofa –
You didnotjust say afternoon delight.
And you can’t help it, you’re half smiling now, because you know which phrases bother her, especially in a sexual context – the wordpanties, the termhanky-panky, just call it sex, Robin, you total weirdo – laughing, because it’s funny, because you love her laugh – and your agitation lifts, just like that, your bad mood gone. Nora is smiling too, though it’s tentative, you think. You go over to her. Sit beside her on the bed.
Are you okay, she asks you, again. You seem distracted.
Funny, you tell her. I was going to ask you the same thing.
Just cold, she says. So you run the taps for her in your small, windowless en-suite, the gush of the water like the rain in the yard, not knowing what she is thinking, not knowing what you are thinking, just that she seems jittery and you feel unsettled as to why that might be. Hot water, rising, in the tub.
Does he make you nervous? you ask her, as you squeeze in some bubble bath, swirl it around.
Bren? she says. Of course not. Why would you say that?
Because I think you makehimnervous.
Internal disturbance, then, that you can’t explain. Something opening. Like you’re falling, or floating, not unpleasant but not normal, either, as it is dawning on you that maybe there is somethingnotnormal about this situation, about how he shows up unannounced, about howshe lets him, then seems flustered, not quite herself. Which could be why you’re not yourself, either. An engagement party is one thing. Your Sunday afternoon quite another.
Just the thought of you in the bath did something to his face, you tell her, and she says no it didn’t.
Were you looking at his face?
No – I –
You let out a low, teasing laugh, and move in to kiss her, slow and deep, a little tongue. The opening inside you widening, so vast, now, it’s like you could swallow her whole. She seems taken aback but then she’s kissing you too, and you undress her, the steam from the bath clouding the mirror, tap water covering the sound of your breath in her mouth. You have not kissed her like this in a while. Everything pulsing between you, at the idea that you are not alone, that Bren is in the next room, thatyouare here, thatyouare hers, slight bite of her neck in your teeth, catch of her voice in her throat.
So we’re okay? you murmur, moving your mouth downwards.
Rain on the window. Steam up the glass.
Just cold, she repeats, and she really is breathless now. You kiss her once more, open her up and she is wet not just due to the rain and she lets you touch her like that, the way she likes, but then she says your name, Robin,and you come back to yourself; lift your hands off in surrender.
Just checking, you say. That we’re okay.
Yes, she says. Still breathless.
Dizzy with desire, still hard, you say all right, then. Enjoy your bath. That you’ll get him a drink and make nice.
TWELVE
Nora rushes what would usually be a long soak. Pulls the plug so that the bathwater drains, still hot. Because something feels wrong about them being in a room without her, after what’s happened. The brush of Bren’s lips on her hair, the rush and the guilt of it, even though it was nothing. And Robin’s own kiss, soon afterwards. Like he’d sensed a change.
The storm roars on as she steps out of the tub; the radiators pumping out heat. She dries off, winds her hair into a towel and pulls on an oversized jumper dress from her wardrobe. She’s always hated putting clothes onto just-wet skin, has spent years sourcing – even making, when she has time – clothes that feel like air or water to the touch; like the wedding dress that Bren had picked out.
A flicker of it, then, as she pulls this dress over her head.
Of Bren’s face when he saw her in it.
Robin’s face, too, when he’d proposed by the river. Just now, when he’d kissed her like he had, like he wanted to drink her down. She’d not seen that in him before. Not tasted that sort of urgency, even when they were first together and free-falling into love, sky-high moods and a shared toothbrush and eyeing each other instead of the art at the galleries they wandered round; hours talking; tremoring orgasms; the smell of him left on her pillow.
These memories are what make her open her bedroom door, now, near silently. That see her moving down the hall towards their voices and hovering, without saying anything. Hoping this thing that’s brewing is all in her head, but she can’t help it, there’s some kind of gnawing in her gut that she can’t ignore and it’s leading her by the hand, causing her to act like an animal version of the good adult self she has always tried to be.
And it gets more technical, Robin is saying, beyond the half-closed door of the living room. Give anyone the worst subject in good light, and they’re golden.
