Who ever said any of this was normal?! I’ve wanted to explain myself for weeks, but you wouldn’t let me, and now,Nora, it’ll have to wait. Can you reach the gravy boat up there? It seems I’ve shrunk a few inches, since our fight.
Nora glares at her, reeling. But before she can retort, Bren walks in through the kitchen door. She hadn’t heard the porch open, or the wind chimes jangling in the hall. She sees him, and he sees her. Sees his crooked half-smile as he says Nora’s never been able to reach the gravy boat, Freya. I don’t know why you keep it on the top shelf.
You get it down, then, Freya says, without greeting him.
You’re hardly taller than me, is all Nora says, when he turns away.
Just about, he says, stretching for the jug – T-shirt rising, showing the hint of a tattoo – and passing it to Freya who has finally closed the fridge door.
All righty, she says, with a sigh. Let’s – wait, Bren. Is that what you’re wearing?
Bren glances down at his usual white T-shirt, a little less stained, now, presumably because Josie has washed it; his cargo trousers, though, flecked with dried mud.
Didn’t Josie ask you to dress smart? Freya asks him. Drag a brush through that barmy hair of yours?
I don’t own anything smart, Bren reasons. And my hair is my hair.
My condolences, Freya says, but neaten up, please, before you join us.
Why?
Just do it, won’t you? Honestly, you two, it’s like trying to talk to a pair of teenagers.
And with that, she bustles from the room with some chutneys, leaving Bren and Nora alone.
Barmy … hair? Bren repeats, watching her go.
Your hair’s fine, Nora says. He looks back at her then, and something passes between them. Or maybe nothing does.Nora can never tell, with him. Can never see through the emotions that rush through her when he walks in, the tides in her turning like they always do in his presence. Cresting waves, a swell of feeling.
Knowing what she needs to say to him, when it’s time.
D’you think I actually need to get changed? Bren asks.
I guess so?
They both stand there, not moving.
Want to come? he says. Not to see me get changed, obviously. Just to help me choose a shirt, or something.
I should probably, Nora says, nodding to the back door. Because Robin is out there, and she should get back. She should not put herself in a bedroom with Bren, right now, with Josie’s special, strange day laid out before them, like the good plates and paired cutlery. When they should just get through this meal, just be polite, and maybe after pudding she could take a moment, tell Robin that she needs to –
My mum said you didn’t book the venue, Bren says. So the twenty-second of April’s not happening.
Stillness, between them. Just the lucky cat, waving, from the window sill.
No, Nora says, her throat dry. It’s not.
Were you going to tell me that, at some point? Am I no longer your best man?
He doesn’t seem standoffish, about this; it’s more like he’s teasing. His usually shuttered face wide open. Which breaks her, a little. Flicker of dread. She says they shouldn’t discuss this now.
Then when?
When we’ve not got Robin and our mothers sitting outside, she says. As if everything’s not weird enough, as it is.
What’s weird about it, Bren says, and she opens her mouth with a jilt of panic, because she forgets sometimes – fordangerous, blinding split seconds – that he does not know about Freya and Jon. That she has kept it from him.
Just being together, like this, she says, to cover herself. For the first time since your dad died.
