“It’s—how can I put it?—more satisfying.”
The mineral edge in his voice makes me shiver.
“I’m glad it all worked out.”
“Take care,” they say.
Here’s someone I don’t want to see. It’s Mrs Goodney pushing her trolley towards me. I’d duck out of her way and avoid her if I could, but the aisle is narrow, and there’s nowhere else to go, so I just stand still and smile.
“Hello,” she says. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“No. Nor me.” I’m still trying to decide whether to be friendly. “How are things up at the hospital?”
“Oh, I gave all that up. Too much hassle. No one thanks you for anything.” She sighs. “It was for her own good, you know. Do-gooders like you, you have this romantic idea that old people want to stay in their crumbly grotty houses until they die. But they don’t. They want somewhere small that’s easy to keep warm and clean, with all mod cons. Making the move is always a wrench. They may need a bit of help. But once they’ve done it, they never want to go back. Anyway, I’m running a little nail bar now, up Stoke Newington Church Street.” She glances down at my hands. “Drop in one day.”
At the deli counter I bump into Nathan and Raoul, gravely discussing the comparative merits of olive and avocado oils. He has his arm round Raoul’s shoulder in that casual gesture with which he once comforted me, though Raoul is several inches taller than he is, and only half as handsome. They greet me with warm hugs, and bring me news of Mr Ali, who has just installed a new Jacuzzi at their flat in Hoxton. Ishmail is still living with the al-Alis out Tottenham way, and is due to start his engineering course in September, but Nabeel has gone back to Palestine. His older brother was killed during an Israeli air strike on Gaza only a week after our barbecue—a bystander casualty—and now Nabeel is the head of the family. Gentle animal-loving coffee-making Arsenal-supporting Attendent Nabeel—my heart aches—it’s hard to imagine him as head of anything.
“Come and have dinner with us one day,” says Nathan.
“I’d love to. Will you make French-style egg custard with vanilla?”
“We need to get some vanilla,” says Raoul seriously. “We used it all up on that bavarois, remember?”
“Look out for Tati and Ella,” says Nathan. “They’re around here somewhere.”
Sure enough, there they are, pushing the high-sprung pram down one of the aisles, leaning together like a pair of newly-weds. I watch her lift her face up as he bends to give her a whiskery kiss and whisper something in her ear. She laughs, and rests her head against him. The way they’re gazing into the pram, you’d think there was a baby in there, but as I get closer all I see inside is a lot of bargains.
§
THE END
2009 - We Are All Made of Glue Page 36