Swimming Lessons(18)

“There’s a girl in the novel I’m writing who looks like you,” you said after we’d sat opposite each other in a vinyl booth. “I keep trying to get her to eat, to fatten her up and give her a bit of colour. I’m worried she’s going to fade away.”

“Would that be a problem?”

You considered the question. “I think the whole plot might collapse without her,” you said. “She’s central to the protagonist’s well-being.”

“So she’s not the protagonist?”

“No, I’ve never been good at putting myself inside women’s heads. Far too complex.”

“Have you tried?”

“Many times.” You gulped at your drink.

“I’m sure your character is perfectly capable of looking after herself.”

“Oh, I know that, but she keeps surprising me. I haven’t quite pinned her down yet.”

“Maybe you should give her a subplot of her own,” I said, and sipped my drink. “What’s that cliché? The one all creative-writing lecturers come out with at some point?” You gave me half a smile. “Let them be, and you’ll find that after a while your characters will write their own story.”

“But I think this girl is heading for an unhappy ending, and that would be a shame.”

“There’s a man in the story I’m writing,” I said and paused, took another sip.

“Yes?” you said.

“He doesn’t look anything like you.”

You laughed, chin up, loud, so the heads at the bar turned ninety degrees to stare at us again. “What does he look like, this man in your story?” you said.

“Actually, I lied.”

“He does look like me, after all?”

“There aren’t any men in what I’m writing, only a woman.”

“Isn’t she lonely?” You finished your drink, put your glass on the table.

“She has plans—things to do, places to see.”

“And a man would stop her?”

“Yes.” I finished my drink too.

“I think you’re wrong. Would you like another?” You held up my empty glass.

“Yes, please.”

You eased yourself out of the booth and stood at our table. “Maybe they could do those things together. No one wants to read a novel with just one character.” You fished in your trouser pocket and took out a crumpled pound note.

“The Old Man and the Sea,” I said. “Hemingway.”

You shook your head. “What about the boy, Manolin? Will you get the drinks? I’ll be back in a moment.” You headed towards the men’s toilets. Before you went through the door you shouted, “And don’t forget the marlin.”

At the bar, the landlord lifted my glass, saying, “Another port and lemon?” He put the drink on a bar towel in front of me, picked up your glass, and then, not to me, but to his front-row audience, said, “And the same again for your father, love?” One of the men at the bar snorted into his pint and a flush rose up from my neck.

“No, nothing,” I said, my insides clenched.

“Nothing for you or nothing for your father?” The landlord winked at his regulars. Another snort.

“Nothing at all.”

“Make up your mind, love. I’ve poured the port and lemon already, you’ll have to pay for it now.”

I slammed the money on the counter and left the pub, laughter following. Outside, the rain had stopped, a warm lunchtime sun had emerged and London steamed. I took lungfuls of the city air as the pub doors swung open behind me and you were out on the pavement too, my raincoat over your arm.

“Where did you go?” you said. “What happened?” You took my elbow. “Are you all right?”

“Do you have a pen?” I said through gritted teeth.

“A what?”

“A pen, or a pencil?”

From your jacket pocket you produced a red pen. I took it and marched back into the pub. The heads at the bar were still laughing with the landlord, but all rotated for a final time as I appeared. I went up to the pie warmer and uncapped your pen. On the poster taped to the side I wrote a giant red d in the middle of “Wenesday” and turned on my heel. Back outside you gave me a crooked smile and didn’t ask for an explanation. A bit more of the rock inside me crumbled.

“Would you like some lunch?” you said. “There’s a little place I know around the corner.”

“Louise was expecting me with breakfast half an hour ago.”

“Really?” you said, disappointed.

We waited for a car to pass and then crossed the road. “This is where I live,” I said. “Up there.”

“I know,” you said, and I remembered your letter and how you wrote that you would pull up outside my house and I would put my sleepy head out of the window, and I realised you’d found out where I lived.

“I can’t invite you in.” If I’d let you come upstairs, Louise would’ve been outraged that I’d had a drink with you; she would’ve accused you of taking advantage of your position and she would’ve caused a scene. So instead, I leaned towards you and, keeping my eyes open, pressed my lips against yours. You drew away to look at me, hung my raincoat over the railings next to my bicycle, and moved forwards again. I saw your hands come up to my hair, I watched your eyes close and your brow soften as you kissed me, and I also watched Mrs. Carter from the university’s Arts Faculty Office walk past us, a tiny dog trotting at her heel. The clear plastic scarf tied over her styled hair was beaded with raindrops, and it was me, with my open eyes, who saw her glance at us and hurry on.