Brains and Hearts
‘So how’s it going at the chemist’s? I mean, the pharmacist’s.’
‘Great!’ said Conrad. ‘You know, very tiring.’
‘Do you work six days or …?’
‘Five. I have an assistant manager, so.’
‘Are you a late-night pharmacist?’
‘Only in my private life,’ he said, with a raised eyebrow, though it was six thirty p.m. on Sunday.
‘Flah-nah,’ she said. The private language was back. Forty-eight hours since she’d spoken out loud. How quickly she’d settled back into her old ways, working all day, hoping for a cancellation. When none came, she dressed in her old city uniform of black skirt and coat, her blisters now rubbing on the inside of opaque black tights and flat black strappy shoes. They sat on high stools at the zinc counter of a tapas bar near Battersea Bridge, Conrad in a leather jacket, open shirt and blue jeans, like a Premier League footballer on a night out. There wasn’t a nightclub in the world that would turn Conrad away. Michael on the other hand …
He began with some standard digs about being south-of-the-river, how weird it was, how quiet, but she put this down to nerves, resisting the temptation to slag off Barons Court, instead leafing through the menu, which came in a sticky vinyl binder and was the length of a novella. ‘Ah, tapas,’ she said, ‘the original small plates!’ And she considered how close the Embankment was, how easy it would be to run from here, hurdle the railings and leap into the fast-flowing river.
They ordered a bottle of ‘red Vino tinto’, which Marnie noted was a tautology, the capitalisation all over the place, then debated what to order, the ratio of meat to fish to vegetables, the number of plates, the etiquette of sharing, Conrad noting the candidates on a red napkin (‘Boquerones?’), the process so complex and political that it could easily have taken the whole night. ‘We can always order more but we can’t order less,’ said Marnie, and Conrad liked this philosophy so much that he repeated it, more than once, as they sipped their red wine, which was as sticky as the menus and tasted like the headache it would bring about.
A silence. Then. ‘Cheers!’ said Conrad. ‘To cities!’
‘To normal shoes!’
‘And flat ground. To being warm and dry.’
‘Foxes and pigeons!’
‘Foxes and pigeons.’ They drank. ‘I’m amazed you lasted so long.’
‘Oh,’ said Marnie, ‘why?’
‘Well, seven days! What did you talk about?’
‘You know – love, life, death,’ she said, and Conrad laughed, though in fact this had been true. ‘There’s something about walking, things slip out. It’s like taking a truth serum or something. Also it was very beautiful. Look.’
Though she’d resolved not to do it, she found herself reaching for her phone. Here was the photo of a view down to Grasmere, where they’d been surrounded by all the dogs, here was Angle Tarn where they’d almost swum, here was Kidsty Pike, the highest point, and eerie Nine Standards Rigg, the watershed, and after this they’d found, well, best not tell him about that. On that wretched New Year’s Day she’d promised to change the nature of her photographs and she’d done it, but even with the brightness turned up, the pictures lacked any hint of the sublime, and perhaps landscapes were like photos of the full moon, always underwhelming. ‘They don’t look like much, I know.’
‘Let me see,’ he said, and took the phone, swiping back to the one she’d skipped. ‘There he is!’
It was the photo they’d taken by the dam, by no means flattering, Marnie smiling goofily, Michael’s arm heavy and unnatural across her shoulders, the one new face she’d managed to add.
‘How did you get on?’
‘Oh, okay.’
Shortly afterwards she’d asked for his number and he’d asked her to stay.
‘Did he make any moves? Late night in the lounge bar, boots all muddy—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I think he had a thing for you.’
She laughed. ‘Oh. Why?’
‘I saw it a couple of times, that night in the bar, little looks, leaning in. Where is he now? I wonder.’
She wondered too. She felt the need to confide in someone, tell them about the scene in the Lavender Suite, what a thrill it had been to kiss again, to want and to be wanted. The cliché was ‘like a teenager’ but she had a right to those feelings too, to the dizziness and elation of it all.
But none of this seemed appropriate on a date and she realised that the only person she could talk to about her confusion was the person who had caused it. For the moment, she should concentrate on Conrad, who was exactly as handsome as he’d been a week ago, as confident and free of guile and pores and humour. The food came quickly, and he talked about his work, the famous university experience, places he’d live abroad, and he was nicer, she thought, less gauche, and even though there was no romantic feeling, she was doing what she’d vowed to do, to be out in the world, listening.
And yet it no longer seemed so important merely to fill the photo frame. The question she needed to ask: Is this someone I’d turn to in a crisis, someone whose memory or image I might summon up when they’re not around? Someone I need? If they came to visit me on my deathbed, would I be pleased, or would I think, What are you doing here? It was a ghoulish criterion to apply on a casual date but this perfectly nice man didn’t qualify, any more than she’d pass the deathbed test for him. One or two more people, that was all she really needed, one or two that she could love.
They drank the first bottle quickly, ordered another, and he began to confide about his ex-fiancée, telling her the story he’d been too self-conscious to share a week ago, and she sucked the sweet garlicky brains from the heads of the prawns, benevolence fading. She had read somewhere that prawns’ hearts were in their heads, which sounded like a metaphor for something, though perhaps it wasn’t really a ‘head’ as such, more of a thorax. Meanwhile Conrad was saying that it had all happened so quickly, the engagement, and maybe he’d panicked but maybe she’d been right, they weren’t young any more, didn’t have time to waste and blah-blah-blah. He was playing the sadness card. Men, she thought, overestimated the appeal of sadness. Marnie slipped an empty prawn head on to the tip of her index finger, made a little puppet, sniffing the air, nodding, yes, yes, tell me more, and so pleasing was the effect that she slipped on three more. ‘I swear,’ she said, ‘my manicurist …’
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing. You sound like you still love her,’ she said abruptly.
There was a pause. ‘Yeah,’ he said eventually, ‘I think you might be right,’ and she wondered if this was how she was doomed to spend her evenings, listening to men who were heavy and dull with love for somebody else. Perhaps she’d snapped, because Conrad was silent now, staring mournfully at his greasy wine glass, and out of respect she removed the prawn heads from her fingertips. ‘Why don’t you have this conversation with her instead?’
‘D’you think?’
‘I think it would be a good idea, yes.’
‘Okay. Maybe I will.’ He sat up straight, resolved. ‘Do you want pudding or …?’
‘No, I’m fine. Let’s go.’ They surveyed the table, spines and shells and pools of red oil.
‘We didn’t over-order after all.’
‘No,’ said Marnie, ‘we did very well.’
They walked along the Thames towards Battersea Bridge between circles of orange light. ‘I should have said this earlier but I feel bad about when we were away.’
‘You were fine! You were great!’
‘Just boring on about Formula One. You’re not interested in racing cars.’
‘I was just as bad! Is it “chemist” or “pharmacist”?’
‘And then running off.’
‘Yes, that was strange.’
‘I know! And I didn’t want you to think it was because I didn’t like you. It was just everyone watching, the pressure.’
‘I understand that.’
‘And, I hope I can say this, I fancied you, I did, but it wasn’t the right place. I mean, I fucking hate the countryside.’
She laughed. ‘Well, then, it definitely wasn’t the right place.’
‘Still. I wish you’d stayed over in my room.’ They were at Battersea Bridge, buses heading north above them, and they stopped and turned. ‘I was thinking I’d like to kiss you now but that’s probably a bad idea.’
‘Almost certainly.’ She pointed to her mouth. ‘Prawn brains.’
‘I don’t mind.’
As a girl, she’d once tried kissing the cast of Friends on the television screen, one by one, to see what it was like and perhaps this would be the same. ‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘Just the once.’ They kissed for some time. Yes, it was the same. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said, as if she’d been given a book voucher.
‘But … just the once?’
‘I think so. It’s nice to see you again. I just don’t know if we have the pharmacy. We lack pharmacy.’
There was a moment before he smiled, and then looked to the bridge. ‘I’d better …’
‘Yes, before they close the border. The nineteen, the forty-nine, the three four five …’
‘You really know your buses, Marnie,’ he said, and she bobbed her head modestly. ‘What’ll you do now?’
It was cold but crisp, still early, and she felt the need to clear her head. The blisters weren’t too bad. ‘D’you know?’ she said. ‘I think I’m going to walk.’