Chapter 33 Toby could use a good kiss
Toby could use a good kiss
The blackout curtains do not let any light through, but to my surprise, there is no light for them to block. Toby’s bed is empty, bar confused-and-dazed me, reaching for the phone that someone (definitely not me) plugged into the wall. It’s four in the morning.
Why do I always wake up alone in Toby’s bed?
I put my shirt on and pull on the door handle.
The kitchen and the corridor are the same shade of dark that the bedroom was, but there is a corner of the living room that’s glowing blue.
The TV is on and Toby is playing a video game with his headphones on his ears.
I try to get his attention by creating loud, shuffling noises with each step, but it’s not working.
So, with a heavy sigh I poke him on the shoulder.
‘Waaa!’ An expected scream bellows out of him as he twists his body away.
‘It’s me, it’s me.’ My hands are up in the air, as if I’m announcing it to the police.
‘Fuko, bloody hell, you scared the shit out of me.’ He pauses his game. ‘Why are you up?’
‘Why am I up? Why are you up? It’s four in the morning.’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’ He sulks, dropping his shoulders and his controller.
I look around the room again. It’s just as bare as last time, no posters or art on the walls to show that it’s Toby’s place and not a mid-century modern showroom. Like it’s only temporary.
Decorations and set design are so important to show the inner workings of the world and characters.
‘Toby’—I suddenly realise—‘do you ever sleep?’
‘Of course I sleep.’
‘But do you sleep well? Would you say you have a normal sleeping schedule where you sleep for six-to-eight hours a night?’
I sound like a concerned mother, but he doesn’t respond.
Sophie’s warning grows by the second, dropping seeds in my gut, feeding my thoughts of maybe all of it being connected.
His lack of sleep, his pile of NHS letters that has moved from his entranceway to the desk in his room, his parents’ strangling hands around his throat.
The question forms from those worries, but he looks up at me, eyes so sincere, so tender, as if a single gust of wind could break him. I bite my tongue for now. This is not the time to talk about this. Later.
‘Game that good, huh?’ I divert to the other possibility at hand. ‘What’s it about?’
I grab the blanket from the sofa and throw it over us, nuzzling into Toby’s chest. His arms with the controller go over me in a tight squeeze. Every couple of button presses, he leans forward to give me a little kiss on the forehead, sometimes kissing out the beats of the tune from the game.
‘Do you want to try?’ he asks.
‘No, I like watching you play.’
‘C’mon. I’ll teach you.’
He explains the mechanics of the history-inspired turn-based game about different civilisations. At first the game seems to go well. My cities are growing and people are happy with me. But then a prompt appears.
Gandhi declares formal war against you.
‘What? What did I do?’ I sit up, eyes round in horror.
‘Uh-oh.’ Toby tries to hide his smile behind a fist.
Next turn, Gandhi drops a nuclear bomb on me.
‘Oh nooooo.’ I hide my face in my knees. ‘Why did I get nuked? By Gandhi?’
Toby’s laughter is clear and bright, like a schoolboy who just witnessed his friend doing a failed backflip. He squeezes me into a tighter hug as I die from embarrassment.
We play for another hour. My eyes are getting heavy again; Toby’s breathing is deep and even; I let myself drift for just a moment.
I wake up, still on the couch pressed against Toby’s lying body.
His chest rises and falls a lot slower than I would expect—about 14 breaths per minute (I have counted).
And his resting heartbeat is at about 44 beats per minute, which I think is the average rate of athletes. How much running does he do?
His eyelashes flutter in the light and are soon open.
‘Morning,’ I say.
‘Morning. What time is it?’
‘About eleven.’
He grumbles, throws his leg over me, and gives me another squeeze with my head against his chest. ‘Do you want to stay for the rest of the day? I am meeting with some friends you’ve met later. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind seeing you again.’
‘As much as I would enjoy it, it’s my turn to cook dinner, so I have to be home in about two to three hours.’
‘Noooo.’ His nose is deep in my hair as he shakes his head. ‘Don’t go.’
‘I’m sorry. I have to. How about a proposition—walk me home?’
‘Fine, but I am not happy about it.’
We shower together, followed by another steamy make out.
Maybe we went further than that; a lady doesn’t kiss and tell.
But we leave his house when the clock strikes 3:28 p.m. The journey back is mostly silent, with Toby holding onto my hand, only letting go to tap his Oyster card, which I bullied him into getting.
‘You can link your rail card onto it. It saves you some money during off-peak times.’
He hasn’t linked it yet, so he basically wasted ￡5.
About an hour later, I catch Hannah loitering outside our street.
‘Hanako, oi, daijoubu?’
‘Went for a walk, locked myself out. Dad’s at the pub with his team. Is that the boy?’ She points at Toby next to me. ‘Kakkoii!’
‘Why didn’t you text me?’ I ignore her question and her approval.
Toby waves at her and she waves back, giving me an approving nod.
‘You don’t go out of the house much. Didn’t want to hurry you.’
‘You snuck out to see your girlfriend, didn’t you?’
She kisses her teeth. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’
I open the door, take my shoes off, and let Toby through. ‘You can drop the bags in the kitchen.’
‘Or,’ Hannah stretches her o, ‘you can stay for dinner.’
‘He has something at...’
‘Seven.’ He pouts.
‘He has something at seven.’ I pout back.
‘Well, it’s half past four. We could have an early dinner.’
‘Huh, I suppose. Only if you want?’ I ask him, hoping that he stays.
‘Sounds great.’
We stand in the kitchen, dated honey-oak counters and drawers creak every time I get something out of them. The fridge is covered in magnets, which Toby studies with great interest. Hannah glares at me from the living room couch, as if calling me a silly goose.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Do you guys want to cook together?’ She enunciates every word with the force of a parent who is telling her child that there are snacks back home. ‘You know, a fun activity for people who are getting to know each other.’
‘Oh, but I owe you a dinner,’ I say, turning back to Toby.
Toby puts his hand up to stop me from talking and to volunteer. ‘I would like to help.’
Toby is great at everything. He is lucky, sporty, a great supervisor (don’t tell him I said that). But my goodness, is he bad at cooking.
‘Stop hovering,’ he snaps, when another involuntary eek comes out of me after he chopped another elongated vegetable into sizes too varied for tempura.
‘They have to be the same width. This one ringlet is fatter than this one.’
‘All right, Paul Hollywood.’
‘Who?’
‘Paul Hollywood. The Great British Bake Off?’ he says, taken aback. ‘You’ve never seen The Great British Bake Off?’
‘She barely watches TV,’ Hannah shouts from the living room. ‘She shouted at me for having a messy room the other day. I called her Kim, from Kim and Aggie. You know what she said?’
‘I—’ I try to defend myself.
‘What did she say?’ Toby shouts back.
‘She said, Kim Jong Un will be a kinder option if you don’t get your ass in gear.’
Toby topples over and is promptly kicked out from the kitchen, taking a seat next to Hannah on the couch. I finish frying the vegetables and the prawns by myself. A key twists in the front door and a loud stomp is heard.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
‘Girls, I am home. Was going to stay for longer to celebrate, but I think I pulled me—’ Dad freezes with his slipper in his hands. ‘You are not one of my daughters.’
‘Uh, Dad, this is Toby.’ I point at him with both hands, like a gallery assistant at a portrait exhibition. This is Toby Lewis, last captured alive in Fuko Brewer’s living room.
Dad glances at my very date-looking clothes and the apron that’s covering them. He then draws to where Hannah is sitting, hiding her face from him.
‘Nice to meet you, Mr. Brewer.’ Toby reaches out for a handshake.
Dad shakes it. ‘Likewise,’ he says, dryly.
Fuck.
‘Dinner is almost ready.’ I urge everyone to sit at the table, which Hanna helps pull away from the wall to fit the fourth chair in.
With a beer in his hand and fried battered vegetables in front of him, Dad is a lot more relaxed. He might even be enjoying Toby’s company, listening to his stories from Oxford.
‘You went all the way to Singapore to win the challenge?’ He gawks at the story of a jailbreak competition, where you had to get the furthest from your uni without spending your own money.
‘Someone went all the way to New Zealand. They didn’t win because they got delayed at their layover in Hong Kong.’
‘Ugh.’ Dad shakes his head in disgust. ‘Hong Kong airport. Ayako’s arch-nemesis.’
The food gets stuck in my throat at my mother’s name. I look at Hannah and she is just as shocked. Dad doesn’t like to talk about Mum. Or can’t, rather. He wells up and brings out the albums from the old vintage dresser. ‘I have a picture somewhere.’
‘Dad, please don’t,’ I mumble.
‘Father, I beg.’ Hanako pulls him away.
But it’s too late. For the next half an hour, Dad goes through all the pictures.
Mine, Hannah’s, Mum’s when she was a teacher, Dad’s when he joined a shamisen band.
Me learning the Owara dance. Pictures of my foot from the mukade bite.
Pictures of us in the hospital with Mum.
My late grandparents at my parents’ wedding.
Hannah’s crying face when an oni demon (her elementary school teacher in a costume) came out to receive throwing beans from the children.
Setsubun takes a minute to fully explain.
‘Sort of like Japanese Halloween with Christmas notes, but instead of asking Santa to come, we shoo a demon away.’ We concoct an explanation together.
‘With beans.’
‘That we then eat.’
When the pictures are exhausted, Toby politely looks at his watch and announces that it’s time for him to depart. I walk him out. He squeezes my hand without saying anything and turns away. Clouds darkening in the distance.
‘He was lovely,’ my dad pronounces. ‘And you are grounded. Again.’