Chapter 5 #2
She blushes again, even as she says it. At the very idea of him embarrassing her in public, with his nomadic, unashamed attitude, the way he gets on planes, jumps off cliffs, does what Bren does, without a care. Or perhaps she’s blushing at the idea of him naked, full stop.
What do you take me for, he asks her, in mock outrage.
It’s a good question, she says, but then she’s showing her phone to the ticket office and he’s pulling out his wallet, paying for a slot.
She doesn’t wait for him but heads straight for the women’s changing block, as though set on showing him he’s not about to thwart her plans by being here.
Which is fine. Again, only fair. Bren ignores the signs for the men’s and follows the other guys to the entrance, finds himself by an expanse of open water.
Large clouds overhead. Ducks and swans, heads bobbing in the wet green.
An unexpected oasis in the city, like a cenote or lagoon.
He takes it all in, then strips down to his boxers.
Folds his clothes beneath a bench, thinking, sure.
He’d hoped to have lunch with her if he was lucky.
A sandwich, a hot chocolate, perhaps, bought as a peace offering.
But instead Nora has brought him here, to swim in the throes of the English winter in an outdoor pond, where there is sky, and water, and magic in the mundane.
Something flits across his heart like a match being struck, as he rubs his elbows to keep warm.
Why she stayed behind, he will never know.
And then she is there in her olive-green swimsuit with her hair in a pineapple-like knot on her head, and rather than acknowledge him standing there in his pants she makes her way to the jetty and down the metal steps.
You’re not in paradise any more, she calls, her voice unwavering as she pushes back into the water.
It’s not like it’s balmy waters in New Zealand, Bren says, and to prove his point, he takes a running jump straight off the side and surfaces with his hair plastered to his forehead, saying, fuck me, it’s baltic, and there it is again, her sparkling, waterfall laugh, and it’s the best sound, he remembers now, how on earth did he ever forget.
_
They swim just a few lengths before getting out; all she has time for, but also all she needs, she explains, to get that shiny good feeling, does he feel it?
In the summer, Nora tells him, she dries off on the grass afterwards, but seeing as it’s the end of February and they can see their breath on the air, they wriggle back into their clothes and buy hot drinks from the coffee roaster by the overground.
Now that it’s damp, her hair is a deep flaxen gold.
It drips onto the shoulder pads of her coat even though she’d towelled it dry, Bren’s boxers stuffed, sodden, into his pocket.
That was fun, she says. Like old times.
Affection overt in her voice, now. They used to swim secretly in the river behind their cottages; Josie said that they mustn’t, Freya said it was fine. His dad, with a wink, saying listen to your mother, you two.
Do you really have to get back so soon, Bren asks her, as Nora checks her phone. Hiss of the coffee machine, people talking. Warm, honeyed feeling spreading through him, after the cold. And when she says yes, he says but don’t you own the place?
Co-own, she says. With Shay.
The purple hair girl?
Nora nods, goes to pay for their drinks, and when Bren intervenes she refuses. It’s the least I can do, she says, tapping her card to the reader. After you swam in your underwear.
You didn’t think I would?
I’m never sure, with you, she says. She’s bought a couple of pastries, too, without comment; passes him one as they head back towards the door, and Bren says well, why not try to be? Sure, I mean. Get to know me better, again.
Nora pauses by the exit, her coffee in hand. Mocha, rather. A shot of espresso, dark chocolate flakes. Uncertainty in the set of her mouth.
You don’t think we know each other?
I said better, Bren reiterates. After years of emails and video calls, he says, I hear a coffee’s a good way to start.
Her mouth twitches, and she says okay. Just a sec.
Turns away, lifting her phone to her ear.
Bren takes a sip of his cappuccino, watches the people in the café while he waits.
They’re just like the people in her café, though there are more men in here; a woman with a dachshund in her lap; a barista making drinks the way he used to, with clenched-jaw focus in case he boiled instead of frothed the milk.
Shay says it’s quiet, Nora says, when she turns back.
Great, Bren says. So shall we … sit?
Sure, Nora says, and they do. Peel the lids off their cups, both drink.
Are you leaving, then, she asks him.
What?
Are you leaving the country? Is that why you came to see me today?
No! Bren says. Well, I will be leaving, obviously. But not right now.
Soon, though?
If you want, he says, and it is meant to sound light, but she says no, and it is more forceful than either of them expected; someone at the table next to theirs looks up, just briefly, from their laptop. Nora drops her gaze. Drinks more of her mocha.
Why is this so hard, she says, and Bren looks into his own cup.
I can think of a few reasons, he says.
Nora laughs, then, or at least tries to; tears a piece of pastry from inside the paper bag and puts it in her mouth. Chews, for a long time, so that eventually, Bren is the one to speak.
I’m sorry for showing up without telling you, he says. The other night, I mean.
Nora nods, swallows. Says no; he’s already apologised. She’s sorry she wasn’t nicer about it. This Danish, by the way, is unbelievable.
She offers him a piece. He takes it.
You’re always nice, he tells her.
I’m not, she says. I want to be, but I get it wrong a lot of the time. It’s an effort. Whereas I look at some people and think, they are just good to their core. Like your mum. Or like Robin.
Or this pastry, Bren says, while he chews.
It’s easy for them, she says, but I have to think about it. I feel like I think too much, sometimes. Or all the time.
Bren doesn’t know what to say to this, or indeed what she’s getting at.
Nora had always been one for these sorts of conversations – earnest, near philosophical – and he was always happy to listen, but not necessarily engage.
A personality thing. A boy versus girl thing.
Raised by Freya versus Josie, who knows.
You have tattoos, Nora says next, and he drinks more coffee. Says yeah.
A lot of them, she observes.
It became kind of an obsession, he says. Collecting them, each place I went. But I’m a coward, really. I only get them where you can’t see them. Unless I’m swimming with my shirt off.
She blushes again; he did not mean this to sound so flirtatious, but he finds it’s easy to fall into, around her. Like before. There was always something between them, something magnetic they weren’t able to touch, but could both undoubtedly feel – a palpable force between their poles.
What was that scar, Nora asks him. On your leg?
You’ve really been checking me out, haven’t you?
No, she says, and while he was just teasing, he’s also aware that they are both unsure of how to be together like this, in person; the conversation swinging between nonchalant and intense; small talk to wildly specific.
It’s just a scar, he says, with a shrug.
But how did you get it, she presses. It’s a bloody great massive scar, Bren.
I’ve had a few accidents over the years, Bren says. Occupational hazard.
What happened?
Bren slurps more of his coffee. It’s near heavenly after the cold water, warms his throat, the soft, numbed part behind his ribs. A few of them broken, in this same accident, from where he threw himself, hard, onto his board.
I got bitten by a shark, he tells her.
Funny, Nora says, breaking off another piece of pastry. What actually happened?
I got bitten by a shark, he repeats.
Bren, she says. Come on.
I know it’s something people say, Bren says, like, I was mauled by a bear, or lost a fight with a croc, but seriously. I got. Bitten. By a shark. In Australia, when I was teaching some kids to surf. About four years ago.
Nora stares at him.
It wasn’t a big deal, he says, leaning back on his stool.
It was pretty small, probably old. It wasn’t like a scene from Jaws, or anything.
I didn’t even pass out; I thumped it on the nose, and it swam away.
They stitched me up, gave me some painkillers, and I was back on the surfboard a fortnight later.
What? Why are you looking at me like that?
Her face looks strange. All affection gone; contorted, now, like she’s mad at him, rather than awed.
It was fine, Nora, he says. I’m fine.
Clearly, she says.
Nora, he says. What –
You email me about chocolate, Bren. And sunburn. And the nice view out of your window, yet fail to mention you got bitten by a freaking shark?
Stir of his coffee, mostly froth, now, at the bottom of the cup.
I knew it would freak you out, he says.
Knew it would freak my mother out. That you’d tell her.
But the ease of the past hour – the acceptance of him showing up, their shared swim, her laughter, the slow, hesitant reaching for some sort of normality between them – has vanished. Nora’s pink cheeks are flaming, now.
How are we friends if you never tell me anything real? Anything that actually happens to you?
Like getting engaged, you mean, Bren says, before he realises he’s going to. Or, I don’t know, moving in with your boyfriend?
I told you those things!
No, Nora, you didn’t. I just figured them out, from the new background on your webcam, or because my mum mentioned something on the phone. Or because you sent me an invitation, attached to a blank email.
That again, Nora says.
What, you’d rather circle back to a senseless shark bite?
I’d rather circle back to what the hell happened to us, Nora says, her voice taut. We used to talk about everything.