And look, Bren: I just want the wedding to go right for her. It’ll make her day, you being home for it. That’s all she wants. But I’m just asking, after all I’ve witnessed, if you could not let her down, this time. If you could do the right thing, for once.
Inside, the silence, stretching; outside, ongoing pelt of rain. Nora thinking fast and slow, but just as she’s about to speak Bren says well that’s up for discussion, isn’t it? What the right thing is, here? Because there’s a hell of a lot more to what Nora wants, I think. And historically, I don’t tend to do theright thing.
Which is when the silence breaks. Clunk of a glass beingput down on a table as Nora snaps into action, swings the bedroom door back on its hinges, calls hi, she’s out, and can someone pour her a glass of red wine, please? and her stalled heart revs back into gear.
_
In the kitchen, she strips the lid off some shop-bought tzatziki and rustles in the cupboard for some pitta bread. Robin asks if she had a nice bath, not looking at her as he pours her a glass of Merlot.
Is everything all right, she asks, nodding towards the living room, where Bren is now sitting alone, the door pulled closed.
Sure, is all that Robin says. He swirls the wine, but does not taste it, which is a game they play in front of waiters – tastes like wine, very wine-like, thank you, please proceed. Now though, he simply puts it down, too hard. Like he’s drunk, or angry, even.
Robin, she says. Come on. I overheard you both, in there.
So why are you asking?
I appreciate what you were saying to him, she says. But you didn’t need to. He’s been through a lot. He doesn’t –
You are not defendinghim, here, surely?
I wasn’t aware I needed todefendanybody, she says, and Robin says look, Nora, I gave him the benefit of the doubt before I met him. I thought it was some show of latent loyalty, showing up at our party, but it’s never exactly been a healthy friendship, has it? And did you hear what he just said to me, in there?
He was just – joking around!
Well it wasn’t funny, Robin says, and Nora says, no, and she’ll talk to him, too, but –
Talkto him? Hey, Bren, just a heads-up: when in England, bestnotto imply you’ll try to steal the bride from the groom.
That is not what he was saying.
I think it was, actually. But just because his dad died twelve years ago, we have to tiptoe around him? Even though he just said to me, plain as day, that he doesn’t do the right thing. I mean, whatwasthat?
I think it was just the truth! Nora says, though she’s aware she’s clutching at straws, here, as confused by Bren’s words as Robin is. I think he carries a lot of guilt, you know?
And so he should, after he walked out on Josie, like that.
She mouths at him, like a carp in a tank. She’s never seen him so churlish.
Robin, she says. This is crazy. You’re acting – she wants to say crazy, again, wants to deny all he’s implying, she loves him, she’s marryinghim– but to say so feels ridiculous, makes it real; it surely doesn’t need to be said.
Let’s just have some pitta, she says, instead. But Robin is rubbing his elbow, looking pained, says he doesn’t want to eat pitta right now.
You always want to eat pitta, Nora says.
Can’t you just tell him to leave? Robin says, ignoring her attempt at humour. Defiance in his face. Their lives around them as they stare at each other, the kettle plugged in, cookbooks thumbed and splattered, their favourite pages folded down.
You want me to tell him to leave, Nora says. When I’ve spent the last four weeks hoping he’ll stay, for our wedding?
At that moment, the weather flings something sharp – a small branch or stone – at the kitchen window. They both flinch, but the glass holds, and when they look back at each other, Robin seems to have softened. At the word wedding, maybe. Or the waver in Nora’s voice. Like he’s stepped backinto his own shoes – or rather, the socks that Nora had knitted him one Christmas, warm and steadied on their tiled floor.
Long pause. His anger, ebbing.
No, he says, and he’s quiet; still rubbing his arm. No, you’re right.
Relief washes over her, then. Like the sun that is due the next morning, after the storm blows through overnight. And she’s about to go over to him, but then Bren is in the doorway, saying can he help with anything, and there is a moment where both men look at each other; Robin, listless now, rather than angry; Bren looking awkward, swamped in the clothes that aren’t his.
I’ll just, Robin says, and he gestures at nothing. Says sorry, slides past Bren into the hall, and closes the bedroom door behind him.
