We All Live Here

Chapter Fifteen

He was dark-haired, with a slight Spanish accent, and when I walked into the bar, I saw him sitting at the table and was so nervous I nearly turned and walked out again. And then I heard my best friend’s voice in my ear. Come on, Lila, I told myself. You have to get out there again. Just treat it as an experiment.

Easy to say, but when you’re forty-two and have been in a monogamous relationship (at least on your side) for most of your adult life this is easier said than done. I had spent two hours getting ready, shaving legs that were positively Yeti-like, blow-drying my hair, and carefully applying makeup. I tried on and discarded seven different outfits, afraid that I looked too prim, too brassy, like I was trying too hard, or wasn’t trying hard enough. It was actual decades since I had been on a date. But it wasn’t what was going on on the outside that was the real challenge, it was my internal self: frightened of being judged by a strange man and found wanting, after my confidence had taken such a bashing; anxious that the date would go badly, and the conversation would dry up. I was basically terrified he would make a pass at me, and equally terrified that he wouldn’t.

Juan had been fun on the chats we had had online through the dating app. He was a lawyer. He had been divorced—amicably—for six years. He had had two relationships in that period, one serious, one not. He described himself as someone looking for “fun and companionship” and joked that this was his first time on an app and that he had put down the blandest thing possible because he genuinely didn’t know what to write.

“Lila,” he said, standing to greet me. His smile was so warm and his accent was so delicious that it made something in me give way. This, I told myself, was going to be okay.

We talked for two hours. I don’t usually drink, but had a glass of wine to steady my nerves. And then another because I was actually enjoying myself. And maybe it was because I hadn’t eaten, or perhaps it was his charm and his good conversation, but when he suggested we continue the evening at his place, I thought, Why not? He seemed like a nice person—he had shown me photographs on his phone of his children, his dog, his parents—he had given me his business card. He felt like someone I already knew. And as we left the bar, and he gently steered me to the taxi, his hand on the small of my back, something happened. I could feel the charge, the heat of his body against mine. I realized I wanted to be closer to this man.

From the moment we got into the taxi, everything changed. He started to kiss me—tenderly and then with increasing fervor. I might usually have been self-conscious in a taxi but I wanted it too. I let go of my anxiety, forgot everything that was around me, everything except his skin, his hands, his mouth. His kisses grew deep, punishing. I felt my body, pressed back against the seat, jolted by bolts of electricity

Lila stops, her hands on the keyboard. She stares at the blinking cursor. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she mutters. And presses delete.

There was little about Michael that would suggest how the evening was going to play out. On the outside, he seemed conventional. He worked in IT. He was younger than me, quiet and easy-going. He was tall, with the kind of broad shoulders that speak of regular gym attendance and an unassuming manner. We met for a meal at an Italian restaurant near my house and I realized I was doing most of the talking, which would normally have put me off. But there was something about the way he watched me, absolutely intently, that made me curious. Not just curious, a little aroused. It was as we left the restaurant, that he leaned over and murmured into my ear: “How do you feel about BDSM?”

“Oh, God,” says Lila out loud. “Now I’m repulsing myself.” DELETE.

I met Richard at a nightclub, where I had spent most of the night dancing, letting my cares disappear on the thumping beat. I had danced until sweat stuck my dress to my body, and my hair dripped with it. He grabbed my wrist as I was walking out to the Ladies and something about his burning eyes

Jean-Claude was a poet from Paris

Vince was a builder, his whole body covered with tattoos and his muscular torso

She has been trying to invent sexy escapades for three days now, and none of them sound like anything but the worst, cheesiest pornography. Sometimes she thinks it’s because distant griping means it’s impossible for her to get her head into a place that is sexy and real. Sometimes she blames Gabriel Mallory, who failed to respond to a simple request for a drink and whom she has avoided by asking Bill to do the school pickup this week.

Sometimes she thinks it’s because it’s so long since she had any kind of sexual contact that she cannot imagine what it involves anymore.

Lila puts her head onto her keyboard and lets it rest there.

Vince was a builder, his whole body covered with tattoos and his muscular torso sdfffffffffffhjjjkjkjkjkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkllll lllllllllsdffffffffffffhjhjkhkhjkhkjhjk

···

“So here are the lists of the costumes we need.”

Lila has finally braved the school pickup, and of course Gabriel Mallory is not there and of course Mrs. Tugendhat is. She is wearing a pair of maroon paisley dungarees and thrusts a sheet of paper into Lila’s hands. She looks like a vaguely malevolent children’s television presenter.

“Ideally we’d like them by the start of term, but I understand that’s not always possible, given the numbers. If you can’t do them all, just do the lead eight.”

Lila gazes at the list, having completely blanked on what Mrs. Tugendhat is talking about. Peter Pan and the Lost Boys , it says. And suddenly she remembers, six weeks ago, the request for costumes. “Eight?” she echoes.

“There’s plenty of time really,” says Mrs. Tugendhat. “We say homemade is best, but…” she lowers her voice and gazes behind her “…if you look on eBay you can often find second-hand ones that are just as good. Lots of parents get rid of their old school-play costumes that way. But you didn’t hear it from me!” She taps her nose, and grins conspiratorially, before walking off to collar someone else on her list.

Lila is staring so intently at the list as she walks out— green tunic and tights for Peter, large fake mustache, pirate jacket, hook for Captain Hook— that she walks straight into one of the school mums.

Except it isn’t a school mum.

“Hey!” Gabriel Mallory says, as she blinks in shock. “How are you doing? Long time no see.”

“I’m fine,” she says quickly, and goes to steer Violet around him.

“What’s that?”

She doesn’t want to talk to him, but it’s too difficult to move with Violet standing resolutely in front of her, suddenly engaged in conversation with Lennie. She cannot turn left because that would involve walking straight into the group of mothers, and she can see Marja’s glossy blonde hair out of the corner of her eye.

“Oh,” she says, not looking at him, “just something for the school play.”

“The school play. Yes, Lennie has a part. I can’t remember what she said. Maybe a Lost Boy. She’s excited, anyway.”

“That’s nice,” she says, still not looking at him. She feels as if the entire expanse of her skin is prickling. It is too hard being near him, too humiliating. She keeps staring at his vegan trainers. “We’d better go, we’re…late.”

“For what?” says Violet, the traitor.

“Uh…Grandpa is going to take you out,” she says, quickly.

“Grandpa Gene?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

His jacket is crumpled linen and looks expensive. She is too close to it, too close to him.

She can feel Marja’s presence nearby, can smell the fruity scent she sometimes wears, something melony and fresh. Lila is basically the unwanted filling in the worst sandwich in the world. “He didn’t say, sweetheart,” she mutters.

“Is he taking me to get a tattoo?”

“Hey…” She feels his hand on her arm and her head shoots up. He is smiling at her. His face is kind, his gaze intent. “I owe you a text.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, with a smile that is not quite a smile. “No problem. Got to go. See you!” She almost pushes Violet past him, ignoring her protests, her repeated demands to know where Grandpa Gene is taking her. You know he doesn’t like me calling him Grandpa. He said we should call him Gene. I told him it was a girl’s name and he didn’t even care.

Lila burns, barely registering Violet’s monologue for the entire length of the walk home. His kind, untroubled face. The way he looked at her with faint bemusement, as if he’d done nothing wrong in not responding. The way all their texts, their conversations in the playground, have clearly meant nothing to him.

When she gets home Bill is in the garden talking to Jensen and gesturing toward the house crossly in a way that suggests Gene has done yet another thing to offend him. Lila hands Violet two chocolate biscuits from her secret stash in the hardware drawer and runs upstairs to her room.

She has four new emails. One is from the dentist, reminding her that Violet has a follow-up appointment next week, one from the emergency plumber, reminding her that the last unblocking is still to be paid for, one is from British Gas, a new bill, and the last is from Anoushka.

Darling, when can I tell them they’ll have the new chapter?

Lila glances behind her at the sofa-bed that Gene—despite his promises—has failed to make up. Through the open window she can hear Bill remarking loudly and repeatedly, “Cigarette smoke is wafting into the kitchen.”

And then Gene’s yelled response that he is “halfway down the garden, for Chrissake.”

Lila cannot do another supper between these two old men.

She looks down at her phone again. She thinks for a minute.

You know you said I looked like I needed a drink , she types.