Chapter 12
TWELVE
Nora rushes what would usually be a long soak.
Pulls the plug so that the bathwater drains, still hot.
Because something feels wrong about them being in a room without her, after what’s happened.
The brush of Bren’s lips on her hair, the rush and the guilt of it, even though it was nothing.
And Robin’s own kiss, soon afterwards. Like he’d sensed a change.
The storm roars on as she steps out of the tub; the radiators pumping out heat.
She dries off, winds her hair into a towel and pulls on an oversized jumper dress from her wardrobe.
She’s always hated putting clothes onto just-wet skin, has spent years sourcing – even making, when she has time – clothes that feel like air or water to the touch; like the wedding dress that Bren had picked out.
A flicker of it, then, as she pulls this dress over her head.
Of Bren’s face when he saw her in it.
Robin’s face, too, when he’d proposed by the river.
Just now, when he’d kissed her like he had, like he wanted to drink her down.
She’d not seen that in him before. Not tasted that sort of urgency, even when they were first together and free-falling into love, sky-high moods and a shared toothbrush and eyeing each other instead of the art at the galleries they wandered round; hours talking; tremoring orgasms; the smell of him left on her pillow.
These memories are what make her open her bedroom door, now, near silently.
That see her moving down the hall towards their voices and hovering, without saying anything.
Hoping this thing that’s brewing is all in her head, but she can’t help it, there’s some kind of gnawing in her gut that she can’t ignore and it’s leading her by the hand, causing her to act like an animal version of the good adult self she has always tried to be.
And it gets more technical, Robin is saying, beyond the half-closed door of the living room. Give anyone the worst subject in good light, and they’re golden.
Pun intended? Bren says, and she imagines Robin’s smile, at this, his good teeth. Wine glass lifted in acknowledgement.
Why antiques, then, Bren asks, and this is good, Nora thinks. A reasonable question. An effort being made.
I just fell into it, Robin tells him. Kind of like you with your adventure stuff?
I actually dabbled in three degrees, before landing on photography.
And after graduating I was mostly shooting artworks in museums and archives, items for luxury retailers, that sort of thing.
Antiques just kind of rolled my way, after that.
Silence, then; Bren nodding, she suspects, from behind the wall.
And things seem fine, she thinks, after all.
She’ll go fetch herself some wine; they’ll talk about Peru and Bren will stay for the planned evening movie, maybe.
They’ll order takeaway, the Japanese place does a deal on Sundays, and this strange feeling inside her will settle while Robin, too, is put at ease, and Bren learns that her home, like his mother’s driveway, can be a safe space, somewhere where old feelings can just … fade away.
I do like the history of it all, Robin is saying. Every object has a story, just like a person. If you look beyond how they present themselves.
A pause, then. Nora decides to stay where she is.
It’s why I never liked portraiture, Robin says. People can be unpredictable, which I don’t like, so much.
Bren, it seems, does not quite catch the pointed nature of Robin’s words, but Nora hears how strange they are, coming out of her partner’s mouth. How deliberate, like his work; capturing an angle that someone else, someone less observant or emotionally in tune, might not.
So those portraits in the hall, Bren says. They’re not yours?
Robin laughs at this – not unkindly – and says ah, no. They’re Nora’s favourite.
Another pause, then. This time, Nora thinks, because Bren does not like being laughed at.
You’re not Nora’s favourite?
And that pointedness is not missed. She hears Robin’s voice change; a note of hardness, like he’s unimpressed.
They’re by Robert Mapplethorpe, Robin says. But it’s the subject she’s into, rather than the photographer. Nora loves Patti Smith.
I know, Bren says. I was there when she bought a copy of Woolgathering from a jumble sale, when we were kids.
Small noise, from Robin, in understanding. Nora waits for him to see the pun, make the joke: Just Kids? but he doesn’t. The only noise another blast of wind against the front door, causing a slight draught in the hall.
Look, Bren, he says, eventually. I can tell you’re not a fan.
I don’t know anything about Robert Mapplethorpe, mate, Bren says.
I meant of me, Robin says, and Nora’s heart stalls.
I’m not not a fan, Bren says.
Well, the feeling’s mutual, Robin says. You seem like a cool guy, Bren. You’ve got to be, to be such a close friend of Nora’s. But I’m starting to feel a bit uneasy, to be frank. About how you mess with her feelings.
Nora’s breath stalls now, too; where, she wonders, is this coming from.
I’ve never once messed with her feelings, Bren says, after a tight pause. That whole thing was a misunderstanding.
I’m not talking about Freya’s phone call, Robin says, and Nora can almost see Bren’s face, his chin lifted in defence.
Or even how you travelled the world without her. I’m talking about all the stuff that came afterwards. All the times you’d arrange a video call but wouldn’t show, because you forgot. Then calling her up out of nowhere, without asking if it was a good time to talk.
She could’ve said if it wasn’t.
But she wouldn’t, would she? Robin says.
And I think on some level, you must know that, Bren.
I’m not having a go, he says, and Nora imagines him holding his palms up, I’m just telling you how it is.
How you light her up, when you deign to make an appearance, but also how … unworthy you make her feel, too.
That is not how I make her feel.
Except it is, Robin says. She told me so.
Nora’s heart, no longer stalled, cuts out completely. Shit.
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 the right thing.
Which is when the silence breaks. Clunk of a glass being put 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 defending him, here, surely?
I wasn’t aware I needed to defend anybody, 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 –
Talk to him? Hey, Bren, just a heads-up: when in England, best not to 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, what was that?
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 marrying him – 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?