Much Ado About Sweet Nothing

by Alison May

  Still, I have to say something. I know what I should say, and my useless brain has filtered out all other options. ‘You don’t really think I’m ashamed of you?’

  She shrugs. Am I supposed to take that as a yes or a no? I stick with the silence, and hope that she expands her answer. ‘Well, you don’t exactly run around telling people about us.’

  I’m not sure how to respond to that either. Does she mean the ten years ago ‘us’, or the wedding night ‘us’? My mouth takes over, and, as always, adopts attack as the best form of defence. ‘Neither do you.’

  She stops walking and turns to look at me, but she doesn’t look angry. To be honest she looks as if she’s trying not to cry. We’ve reached the corner of her street. ‘Well, I think I can find my way home from here.’

  She turns and starts to walk off up the street, and I have a feeling like this is it. This is the moment. I have to say something, and it has to be the right thing. ‘Wait.’

  I shout after her and she stops and turns around. That’s a good start. I walk the five paces over to her as slowly as I can. I need the thinking time. I take a breath. ‘I’m sick of this …’

  ‘Fine. I won’t bother you again then.’ She walks straight off again.

  That wasn’t a good start. ‘No. No.’

  I run round in front of her so she can’t walk off. ‘Not sick of you. Sick of this.’

  Now this really is it. I tell myself to make it count. It’s time to take the brakes off, and see if my inability not to say what I’m thinking might occasionally be a virtue. ‘I’m sick of blaming each other for the fact that we’re unhappy. I’m sick of you blaming me for one mistake, one ten-year-old mistake, which I can’t change.’

  I’m talking to a spot somewhere on her forehead. She’s not looking at me. There’s nothing for it now but to power on through. ‘I can’t go back and pick you. I can’t go back and not leave.’

  Now she looks at me. I could stop there, and if I did everything might turn out OK. She’s looking hopeful, which isn’t a look I’ve seen from her for a long time. I could stop right here, but I don’t, because I can’t. After ten years, I’ve chosen the truth, and because I am still me, that has to mean the whole truth.

  ‘And even if I could change it, I don’t think I would. It was a horrible mistake, and I did it in a stupid cowardly way, but if I hadn’t done that, our whole lives would have been different. We wouldn’t be here now. We wouldn’t have been in the bridal suite that night. And we wouldn’t have a chance to be together right now, as proper grown-ups, rather than kids who didn’t know anything else.’

  ‘Are you finished?’

  I run over what I’ve just said in my head. I have no idea whether it’s the right thing, whether I’ve said enough, but I have no idea what I would add to it anyway. Am I finished?

  ‘I think so.’

  I’m not sure how she’s going to react. I think I just suggested that we be together right now as grown-ups. I’m not even sure that I am a grown-up, but maybe that’s the point. When I was twenty-one I was sure I was grown-up. Maybe a total lack of certainty is the only true marker of maturity.

  She’s looking down at the floor again. She’s very quiet when she speaks. ‘You broke my heart.’

  That’s horrible to hear, but it’s surprising too. Even back at uni, I never really felt like she needed me. She’s always so in control. Friendly, approachable, warm, without a doubt, but somehow armour plated.

  ‘I didn’t know.’ I stick with letting my mouth spill out the words. ‘I’m sorry.’ It’s not enough, but it’s true.

  She looks up, and makes a fairly convincing attempt at a smile. ‘But it was a long time ago.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘And we’re different people now.’

  ‘We are.’

  She glances down the road towards her house. ‘Do you want to come in for a bit?’

  ‘OK.’

  We turn to walk towards her house and her fingers brush against mine. I take hold of them, and we walk down the street holding hands. It’s slightly awkward.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Ben

  ‘Well, you have to pick three.’

  It’s the end of the day on a fairly grey Thursday and I’m standing in the children’s library looking at a table of what I guess I have to term ‘artwork’. Henri has split them into three age groups and I have to pick a winner in each category and an overall winner. I don’t really know where to start. There are only so many differences between pieces of paper covered in black paint that you can identify. I tentatively touch one sheet in the ‘7 and unders’ section that has been drawn out like an old-fashioned counting board with counters drawn on it. I like it; at least it’s different from the others. Henri shakes her head.

  ‘What? Why not?’

  ‘Clearly done by the parent. It’s not fair. If the parent was going to do it, they should have entered the open-age section themselves.’

  I laugh. ‘You’re hardline.’

  She shrugs. She looks like she’d rather be somewhere else. Normally with Henri you’d expect her to be skipping about clapping her hands and talking incessantly about how wonderful everything is. The incessant talking was seriously annoying, but new cross Henrietta is making me nervous.

  I look at the table again. This is going to be harder than I thought. I only agreed to do this by accident, and then went along with it because it annoyed Trix.

  I glance at my watch – ten past five. She gets off work in twenty minutes, when she will be expecting me to meet her outside for our first official date in ten years. Actually, it’s probably our first actual date ever. Eighteen-year-olds don’t date. They just get drunk and forget to go home. It has the same outcome, for considerably less emotional and financial outlay.

  When we went back to her flat on Saturday, we drank coffee and watched a DVD and then I went home. We chatted a bit, and I tried to explain imaginary numbers, and then we argued about whether imaginary numbers were silly, but there was no big falling into one another’s arms, and no passionate volcanic sex. If I’m honest I was expecting either a door slammed in my face, or the sex.

  Just before I went though she said. ‘So you said about being together as grown-ups, and you know, if that’s what you want, then maybe we could go out sometime, like for a drink or something, or food, if you want.’

  And I said. ‘Like a date?’

  And she said. ‘Yeah.’

  So I’m meeting her after work tonight and taking her out for dinner, and maybe a film. ‘Dinner and a movie’ – I’m not an expert but that sounds like a date sort of a plan to me.

  Henri lets out a little cough next to me. I smile in what I hope is an apologetic way and try to apply myself to the task. I plump for one of the black paint daubings in the ‘7 and unders.’ It’s not good, but does at least look like it might have been done by a small child.

  The ‘8s to 14s’ are easier. There’s a standout model of a computer, with the screen covered in lots of little ones and zeros, and they’ve sort of built a section out of the screen so that the zeros spill out over the keyboard. I actually quite like it, you know, for a cardboard model of a computer.

  The ‘15 and overs’ are more difficult. One of them is actually knitted. I think it’s an attempt to knit infinity, or maybe it was an attempt to knit a scarf that went horribly wrong. Either way, it’s not going to win. There are two possibles I think. The first is a painting, a proper oil on canvas painting, of the cosmos. It’s the grown-up version of the black paint on paper that won the kid’s bit. It’s very well done though, all swirling gas clouds with pin-pricks of starlight. The other possible is a cake. It’s a regular Victoria sponge cake, but they’ve iced lettering on it. The lettering says ‘Zeno’s Infinity Cake’, and underneath there are loads of speech bubbles saying. ‘That piece was too big. Just half that size for me please!’ and the speech bubbles get smaller and smaller until you can’t see the actual lettering at all.

  I
point at the cake. ‘I like this one.’

  Henri glances at it. ‘I don’t get it.’

  Trix pipes up behind her. ‘It’s a paradox.’

  I look over at her. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘Just wanted to let you know I’ve finished a bit early.’

  I nod. ‘Trix’s right.’

  ‘Of course.’ Trix is still watching us from the doorway.

  ‘Right about the cake. It’s based on Zeno’s paradox.’

  Henri is looking blank, but we’re technically still talking about the art, so she must be interested, mustn’t she?

  ‘Well, common sense tells us that if we keep cutting slices of cake and eating them the cake will run out, but mathematically if each piece is half the size of the piece before there’s never an end point. If you have one hundred grams of cake and the first slice is fifty grams, then the second is twenty-five grams, the third is twelve and a half, the fourth is six and a quarter, but the numbers never quite add up to a hundred, so it seems like the cake will go on forever, with you just cutting smaller and smaller pieces.’

  Trix walks over to look at the cake. ‘So you can use cake to prove that maths doesn’t work.’

  ‘No. Obviously, there is a mathematical solution, but it hadn’t been established at the time. That’s why Zeno posed the question.’

  Henri nods. ‘So Zeno was from a long time ago.’

  ‘Ancient Greece.’ Hold on. That wasn’t me. I look at Trix. She continues. ‘And he didn’t actually mention cake. He proposed the idea of a never-ending race, but it’s the same principle.’

  I’m impressed. She’s almost right. I mean, she hasn’t actually explained the solution, which is the really clever bit. It’s all to do with there being a limit and numbers behaving differently as they move towards the limit, but I don’t interrupt her or try to explain it at all. See how mature I’m getting. ‘Bloody hell. Where did you learn that?’

  ‘Read it in a book.’

  ‘OK.’ I find that I’m just standing grinning at her. She actually read my book. At least I assume it was my book. She might have been reading other books about Zeno’s paradox. I hope not, not that I’d be jealous, but you know, I think she should have read mine first. I’m still grinning. Henri coughs quietly. She’s looking at me and then back towards the art. The Art. Right. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing.

  ‘Right. The cake definitely has it. Can I make that the overall winner, or should I have one of the children’s ones?’

  Henri shrugs. ‘Up to you. A kid is more likely to get us a picture in the local paper.’

  ‘Computer kid is overall winner then.’

  Henri nods. ‘Fine. Now, could you sign the books for the runners-up before you go?’

  She gestures towards a pile of thirty books. I hate signing books like this. It’s worse than signing for actual people; at least then you get to rest your hand while they talk at you.

  I glance at my watch and look at Trix, who has her impatient face on. ‘Is it OK if I come in tomorrow to sign them?’

  Henri nods. ‘Are you going somewhere?’

  I look at Trix. I can still remember her suggesting I was ashamed of her. I purposefully draw myself up to my full height. ‘I am. I’m taking Trix out for dinner.’

  Henri looks interested. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Probably Oscars.’

  ‘I love Oscars.’

  She sort of tilts her head at us. I don’t say anything for a moment.

  ‘Right then.’

  Henrietta isn’t looking like she’s about to leave, you know, on her own.

  ‘They have lovely puddings.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I have no idea why this conversation isn’t over already. How do I make it stop?

  ‘OK. So …’

  There’s some silence but we’re still not moving.

  Trix jumps in. ‘Why don’t you sign those books now Ben? Henri and I need to have a little chat.’

  She grabs Henri by the arm and drags her through to the main library. I try to concentrate on signing the books, but I keep hearing little bits of hissed conversation from Trix. After a couple of minutes I hear Henri squeal. She runs back into the room and picks her bag up. ‘I’ve got to go. You have fun this evening.’

  She dashes out again, and Trix comes in. I look at her. ‘We are going to get a lot of stick for this.’

  She nods. ‘Do you mind?’

  The question is asked casually, but I suspect there might be a bit of real concern behind it. I shake my head. ‘Couldn’t give a fuck.’

  I put down my pen, and walk over to her. I offer my arm in what, I imagine, is a romantic gentlemanly fashion. ‘Shall we?’

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Trix

  It’s odd being on a date with Ben. To be honest it’s odd being on a date at all. I’m not normally a dating sort of girl. Traditionally, I’m more of a ‘meet boy, shag boy enthusiastically, shag boy slightly less enthusiastically, never call boy again’ sort of girl. Although, there hasn’t been much of that recently either.

  I think I suggested the date thing, because I was scared of us just falling back into being us, when there hasn’t been an Us for ten years. I’m telling myself that I’m being mature and sensible, and making sure we have a proper fresh start. And I’m nearly convinced. It hardly feels like I’m terrified of jumping in with both feet at all.

  But actually, I am having fun. We’re good company, and tonight we both seem to be making an effort to be nice to each other. We’re disagreeing about everything, but it doesn’t feel like we’re trying to score points over it. We chose dessert over going to the movie, so clearly neither of us is too desperate to be able to sit in the dark without talking.

  As the waitress clears away the dessert plates (chocolate toffee cheesecake, since you ask – at least if this doesn’t work out I’ve got my comfort food of choice lined up) Ben leans forward. ‘Do you want to know a secret?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ve always quite liked that you were into different stuff to me.’

  I’m not quite sure what to say to that. ‘What do you mean?’

  He doesn’t quite look at me. ‘When I was at Cambridge, everything was so narrow, so specific. There’s all these hugely, jaw-droppingly intelligent people but their field of knowledge is so narrow. And it’s taken for granted that that knowledge is worthwhile. It’s amazing, but in a way it was very cosy, too cosy.’

  ‘And I’m not cosy?’ I’m not sure whether to be offended. I suspect that, like me, Ben does not consider cosiness a good thing.

  ‘No. Never cosy. You’re …’ He pauses. ‘More challenging.’

  We’ve moved away from talking crap into actually talking. I don’t want to stop, but I don’t quite feel comfortable being here either. It’s been a long time.

  ‘But we row all the time.’

  ‘Not all the time.’

  ‘All the time we’re awake.’

  ‘Most of the time.’

  ‘And I think you’re a ridiculous little man.’

  That might have been too much. ‘I’m not little. I’m quite tall.’

  ‘You’re still ridiculous.’

  Well, he is ridiculous. He’s quiet for a second. ‘But it doesn’t matter.’

  What an odd response. ‘Doesn’t it?’

  ‘Does it make you like me any less?’

  Does it? Do I like him less because he’s ridiculous, and sometimes pompous, and quite deliberately miserable?

  I shake my head. ‘It feels like we’ve spent years trying to break whatever it is between us.’

  He doesn’t respond. I’m out on a limb here. Oh well.

  ‘We didn’t manage though, did we?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Good.’

  He nods. ‘It is. You are.’

  ‘I am what?’

  ‘You’re good. You’re a good thing.’

  I nod. ‘Very true. I am generally a very good thing.’r />
  ‘You are. I love it. I love you.’

  And then there’s a silence. I can see his brain processing what his mouth just said. He’s doing that thing he does where he sort of opens and closes his mouth as if he can swallow the words back and start again.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said I love it.’

  ‘And after that.’

  He looks straight at me. He seems to have decided that we’re an all or nothing proposition. He might be right. ‘I said I love you.’

  I’m freaking out. ‘Why did you say that?’

  ‘Because it’s true. I do love you.’ He pulls a face. ‘I hate it when Danny’s right about things.’

  ‘He is going to give us such a hard time over this.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Of course he is. And Claudio too. Henri will be OK. She’ll just think it’s cute and romantic. Oh my God. We’re going to be thought of as cute and romantic. We are going to get seven types of piss ripped out of us.’

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘Well, obviously.’

  Ben takes a deep breath, and starts again using the special ‘explaining it simply’ voice he uses when Henri asks him about maths. ‘Well, we would only get a hard time if we got together. And at the moment it’s not at all clear whether that’s happening.’

  I’m confused. He says that he loves me, and then says he’s not sure whether we’re getting together. ‘Why not?’

  His head is in his hands now. ‘Trix, I love you. I think you’re wonderful, but generally, I believe, this sort of thing takes two people.’