by Rebecca Done
We listen to the storm as we work our way through the champagne, and when Molly gets a little drunker she starts opening boxes and lifting items out to show me, turning them over in her hands, explaining their history. There are the books by Thomas Hardy and George Eliot, her Britpop CDs, photo albums, collection of beer mats, costume jewellery. I’m intrigued by everything; I want to know about all the things that make Molly who she is.
‘Hey, Moll,’ I ask her when it occurs to me, ‘did you bring my jacket?’
‘Oh, damn, I meant to. It’s still in my wardrobe. Wanted to keep it safe.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about it.’
‘We can get it tomorrow.’
‘No, whenever you’re next there.’
‘Probably tomorrow then.’ She smiles.
I laugh and kiss her. ‘Right. Are you ready for our very first supper together as cohabitees?’
‘Cohabitees? You make us sound like a tenancy dispute!’
Well, I’m about to make up for the clumsy phraseology by cooking her my famous fillet steak fettucine. The other thing I love about Molly is that, unlike Nicola, she’s a real foodie. Nicola saw food as fuel and very rarely attached emotional significance to it – she regularly forgot to eat if she was busy – whereas with Molly, part of the joy of getting to know her has been discovering all the restaurants London has to offer and (even better) annoying our fellow diners by holding hands across the table, staring moonily into each other’s eyes and – don’t judge me – feeding each other morsels from our plates.
It’s the little things I love about Molly, the stuff I know I’m going to value in all the years to come.
Later that night, I am playing with Molly’s hair as she snoozes in the crook of my arm, pushing my fingers softly through the strands of it, enjoying the feeling of her breathing deeply against me, when a loud decisive crack from the sky outside shuts everything down in the flat. The fridge rattles swiftly into silence, my speakers cut out and everything goes black.
But there’s still an eerie glow emanating from my side of the bed. I roll over carefully, so as not to wake Molly, and pick up my phone.
What I see on the screen sends a little rivet of annoyance shooting through me.
Heard your news. Congratulations. I hope you’ll both be very happy together. N x
The next morning I meet Graeme for a coffee before he catches his train back to Norfolk. The day is wet and blustery, the remnants of last night’s storm, only it seems far less romantic now I’m walking through it without an umbrella, or come to that, Molly.
I hate this coffee shop – it’s the kind of place where you have to choose between seven different varieties of milk with varying percentages of fat content. The cakes it sells are all seed-based, and there are at least four products scribbled illegibly on the chalkboard that I can’t even identify, let alone pronounce. Fortunately Graeme’s fluent in this weird kind of coffee language, so he translates – but I’m pleased he asks the barista for a croissant too, just to wind him up.
We find a table in the window. I’ve ordered a distinctly un-hip latte, while Graeme’s gone for one of the unpronounceables. They come in glass cups with no handles, the glass allegedly double-walled for heat resistance, and Graeme’s milk has a miniature glass bottle all to itself.
He’s hungover beneath his beanie, which is pulled right down to his eyebrows, just a few strands of blond hair sneaking out beneath the brim. I try not to picture Dad in his place, first thing in the morning after a heavy drinking session, because right now the two could almost be interchangeable.
I push this somewhat alarming thought away. ‘Good night then?’
‘Messy.’
The steam spiralling from our coffee makes a little smoke signal between us. ‘So what did you think of Molly?’
Graeme pulls a face that implies he thinks this is a strange question. ‘I have met her before, Alex. Remember?’
I put the sarcasm down to his hangover. ‘Yeah, it’s just that you dashed off on Friday night, and –’
‘You don’t need my approval,’ he says, with a hint of a yawn.
‘No, but you’re my brother, so …’
He leans forward, traces the rim of his cup with one index finger. ‘Well, look – I’ll tell you what. It was a bit awkward seeing her again on Friday, given how we met, but it’s obvious how much she bloody loves you.’ He lifts his drink to his lips. ‘Can’t understand what she sees in you myself.’
I feel relief bloom through me. ‘Thanks.’
‘Does she know how ill Dad is? I got the impression when we were talking about him that she didn’t quite understand the seriousness of the situation.’
I hesitate. ‘Maybe she doesn’t need to. Look – she’s not even met Dad yet. Maybe it’s our problem to worry about. I mean, yours, mine and Dad’s. A family problem.’
Graeme tips his head back like he wants to get a better look at me. ‘A “family problem”? That’s a bit cryptic. Are you ashamed of him?’
I snort, which has the unfortunate effect of sending a shot of latte through my nasal passage. I grope for my napkin, which predictably is recycled and thus similar in texture to tracing paper. ‘No,’ I say, blowing my nose. ‘Don’t be stupid. It’s just – I don’t know. I don’t want Molly to feel guilty that I’m in London when –’
‘– you should be at home with him?’
I stare at him. Is that what he thinks?
‘I thought that’s what you were going to say,’ Graeme supplies quickly, avoiding my eye.
I set down my cup. ‘Look, Gray – we’re different, aren’t we? You’ve never had ties, you’ve always been able to do as you please. But me – well, I’ve met Molly and … decisions like that are just a bit harder now. You know – moving. It’s a big thing.’
Graeme half laughs. ‘Christ, Alex, you’ve known the girl five minutes. You were all set to come back until a matter of weeks ago. It’s not like you’re married with kids.’
‘I’ve never met anyone like her before, Graeme.’
‘Well, you’ve only got one dad. That’s all I’m saying.’
I wonder then if Dad has asked Graeme to talk to me, as it’s quite unlike my brother to pull emotional blackmail on me. Then I think uncomfortably back to what I did to him with Molly and consider that, possibly, I don’t really blame him.
Graeme rolls his eyes. ‘You’re all he talks about. Why hasn’t Alex come back yet? Is his project nearly finished? Do you really think his new job don’t mind waiting for him? I mean, I’m there, but you’re still the only one that matters, Golden Boy. The prodigal sodding son.’
‘Shut up, Graeme,’ I say tetchily, because this particular guilt trip is the worst one of all. ‘I come up as often as I can.’
‘Look,’ Graeme says, leaning forward so I can’t avoid his eye. ‘I do know how it feels, mate. To meet a girl, and suddenly the rest of the world melts away.’
I take a sip of coffee instead of saying what I want to say, which is that for Graeme, this happens every third night or so.
‘But Molly’s only the second girl –’
‘Graeme,’ I say sharply, affronted, ‘Nicola’s not the only other girl I’ve been with.’
‘Fine. But you can count them on one hand.’
‘So what?’
‘So, I’m just saying – this is bound to feel new and exciting and …’
I set my cup down, wipe a small slick of milk foam from my top lip. ‘You can really be a patronizing git sometimes, Graeme, you know that?’
There is a silence. A couple with a young baby in a sling sit down at the table next to us and start talking loudly about wine thermometers.
‘I’m only going to say this once,’ Graeme says quietly then. ‘I know London’s not you, Alex. I know you love your life back home, all your friends, being in the country. Don’t abandon who you are for a girl.’
In a way, I’m pleased. Because Graeme’s just unwittingly added to my mental l
ist of reasons why he and Molly could never have worked. He has certain ideas he’s simply not willing to budge on, but me – I’m willing to compromise. Isn’t that what lasting relationships are all about?
Just then my phone buzzes, moving sharply across the table towards Graeme, but I fail to grab it before he catches sight of the screen. ‘Nicola?’ A grin spreads rapidly across his face. ‘Well, this is interesting.’
‘Christ. I don’t want her texting me.’
I glance down at the screen.
Aren’t you talking to me? N x
‘Didn’t know you kept in touch.’
‘We don’t. I mean I don’t.’
‘Ah. You’re her one-that-got-away.’
‘Hardly,’ I mumble. ‘She dumped me for someone else, remember? Anyway, it’s another reason for me not to move back to Norfolk, isn’t it? I’d have to see her all the time.’
‘Reason, or excuse?’ mutters Graeme. ‘Right, got a train to catch I’m afraid.’
As he pushes back his chair, a tall brunette with an armful of shopping bags struggles to pass. Taking any opportunity to be chivalrous, Graeme virtually launches himself across our table so he can move the offending chair away from her.
‘Thanks,’ she smiles, holding his gaze before moving on her way.
‘So what are you going to do about Nicola?’ Graeme asks me as we exit the coffee shop and head up the street.
‘Nothing,’ I tell him. ‘She’ll get the message soon enough.’
‘I wouldn’t bank on that,’ he says darkly, but he doesn’t elaborate and I don’t ask.
7
Molly – present day
Graeme is down for the weekend again, and he’s talking about renovating the cottage. He wants to help us finish everything, or at least make it part-way habitable so we’re slightly more comfortable. But the list is expensive, and endless – rewiring the entire house, plastering, bricklaying, flooring, fittings …
‘Must be quite tempting to sell sometimes,’ Graeme remarks as we’re running through everything.
His comment pulls me up short – is he testing me, to see how committed I am to staying here? To Alex? Or is he thinking he could do with a lump sum himself?
What I don’t bother reminding him is that it’s a moot point. Even if I did want to sell, Alex is fiercely resistant to the idea – and if Alex doesn’t want to do something, we generally don’t. Besides which, I know how much he loves this house and how many of his oldest memories rest within its walls. I’m not sure I could bring myself to tear him away from it.
‘You always said –’
He looks surprised. ‘I didn’t mean you should sell. Sorry, Moll – only thinking out loud.’ He shakes his head, looks down at his list. ‘Right – what are you going to do first out of this lot?’
‘I can’t afford tradesmen.’
‘I know some guys,’ Graeme says, his trademark phrase.
I smile. ‘Who’ll work for free?’
He considers this. ‘Mates’ rates is basically free. Honestly, Moll – I can hook you up. Just give me the go-ahead.’
‘I’m not sure I’ve got the energy for all this at the moment, Graeme. Plus I don’t have any annual leave left. Someone would need to be here with Alex if there are strangers in the house.’
‘Er, hello?’ Graeme says, turning an index finger in towards his chest.
I hesitate, recalling our previous conversation about him moving in.
‘I could just be here for a week or two,’ he clarifies quickly, ‘if you needed me to be.’
I smile, realize I’m probably being a bit awkward. ‘Okay. I mean, if you can.’
‘I definitely can. They’ll probably need to fit you in around –’
‘– paying customers?’
He smiles. ‘Look, in the meantime, at least let me buy you some essentials. You know – basic first-world items, like a kettle, vacuum, washing machine.’
He’s got a point – our kettle is on its last legs after being started dry by Alex one too many times, the vacuum is suffering from dust overload and so, I suspect, is the barely functioning washing machine.
For the first time, it strikes me that Graeme is of the opinion that I’m possibly a bit incompetent at what I’m supposed to be doing, which is caring for Alex.
‘Okay,’ I finally relent. ‘But only if you’re sure.’
‘I am,’ he says. ‘Look, given I do have a stake in this place I feel it’s kind of my responsibility too, aside from anything else. So let’s go.’
Having been conked out with a headache for most of the morning, Alex is more buoyant on the way to the electrical store. Once or twice, I even catch him humming. Graeme shoots me a smile as the sun breaks out from behind some low cloud, and just like that, everybody’s mood seems to lift.
So much so that Graeme sets Alex the challenge of directing us for the last ten minutes of the drive, which goes fine until Graeme says, ‘So what if we decided to go to the swimming pool now?’
It should be simple – Alex knows where the pool is. We’ve been there since his accident, and there’s only one on this side of town. He’s swum there since he was a little kid, and it’s a mere two roads over from the electrical store. But his brain struggles to factor in somewhere new (it’s only a simple right turn at the roundabout, as opposed to a left one), and he ends up getting frustrated, swearing at Graeme for ruining his morning, accusing him of trying to make him look stupid, of laughing at him. And I am slightly frustrated myself, because Graeme always feels the need to push it when Alex is feeling upbeat rather than just enjoying the fact he’s feeling good.
We only manage to prevent the whole thing from escalating by pulling into the car park and suggesting Alex does a couple of laps on foot to cool off before we head into the store.
But his mood is set now, and when we get inside it only dips further. The shop’s busy today; the staff are run off their feet, and we’re forced to wait for fifteen minutes in the washing-machine aisle for advice on the best model, disposal and plumbing-in, which Graeme’s going to attempt himself. But these days, Alex doesn’t really tolerate waiting for anything. Whether it’s for waitresses, shop assistants, buses … waiting makes him agitated, and he never bothers to hide it. The most patient man in the world has now turned into the most impatient. Someone who would never have spoken rudely to anyone – least of all a person he didn’t know – now has the capacity to be vicious to strangers, and it makes me nervous.
As we wait, I become slowly fixated by the TVs. The last time Alex and I were in this shop was just a couple of weeks before his accident, and I remember us pausing to watch the screens playing a sweeping drone’s-eye view of Sydney Harbour. We gripped each other’s hands as we looked on, mesmerized by memories of our holiday the previous year, before he turned to take my face between his palms and kiss me. We ended up making out there in the aisle like teenagers, strangers tutting as they were forced to move round us.
But just like all my best memories, the recollection is bittersweet, because the only person tutting today is Alex. ‘How long are we going to wait here for, Molly?’
‘She’s coming back,’ I assure him.
I can sympathize, to some extent. This is exactly the sort of environment Alex hates – there are too many stimuli competing for his attention, and his thoughts are starting to lag as he becomes overloaded, which is when his temper becomes frayed. Pumping background music, way too much going on, bright lights, noise. Plus he’s tired from the journey, from having to make conversation with Graeme as well as me, from answering his brother’s questions, from the heat.
‘Well, what the hell is she doing?’ he exclaims loudly, waving his water bottle around in disgust. ‘How long does it take?’
‘She was helping someone else, mate,’ Graeme says calmly. ‘We just have to wait. Come and look at the TVs.’
Alex shrugs him off. ‘Nah,’ he says irritably.
I still find it so hard to believe that the same man w
ho kissed me passionately here three years ago is now stamping about and swearing under his breath, memories of our former life virtually meaningless to him.
‘Maybe we should just cut our losses and go,’ I say to Graeme.
‘No, Moll. We’re here now.’
I rub my arms, which are all prickled up with goosebumps, though I’m not sure if they’re from the air con or my nostalgia. ‘Well, let’s find someone else to help then.’
‘Oh Jesus, I’m not waiting,’ Alex spits. ‘I’ve plumbed in washing machines before. I’m a fucking plumbing expert. We don’t need these idiots. They won’t know what I know. Just buy it, Graeme.’ And then he walks off.
‘Some people are so rude,’ I hear a woman near to us mutter.
It’s the arguments in public places that are always the worst – especially as they would have mortified the old Alex.
‘I should go after him,’ I say, my face reddening as I imagine all the other people Alex is probably haranguing and swearing at on his way to … where?
‘Just leave him,’ Graeme says. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’
I let out a shot of laughter. ‘Did you even just say those words?’
‘Well, where’s he going to go? We’re on an out-of-town industrial estate.’
‘That’s never stopped him before.’ He’s been known to try and walk home from the beach before, when we were miles from anywhere.
‘Let him go, Moll. Just let him cool off.’
‘We shouldn’t have pushed him so much in the car. He was in a good mood.’
‘You mean I shouldn’t have.’
‘No, it’s just … you have to pick your moments with Alex.’
‘Yeah, I do – like when he’s in a good mood. There’s no better time to stretch him than when he’s feeling upbeat.’
‘I’d rather enjoy the moment.’
‘Then he won’t ever improve.’
But the fleeting good moods are what I live for, Graeme. They’re what keep me going on my darkest days.