After the End(86)

“You’re right.”

Our conversation moves quickly to work—as is often the way between colleagues—and the countries we have visited. In the middle of a discussion about the merits of Miami over Cancún, a wiry boy with a guitar arrives at our table, and launches into a rendition of Elton John’s “Your Song.” Lars and I exchange looks, laughing awkwardly as the musician closes his eyes, swaying slightly as he croons. He assumes we’re a couple, I suppose—honeymooners, or here for an anniversary. I feel guilty, as though I’m party to a deception, and then I picture Max’s text. So good to spend the day with you today. Can’t wait for the next time xxx. Three kisses. Ridiculous though it might sound, I am as hurt by those kisses as by Max’s deception. Those are my kisses. Our kisses. One for each member of our little family.

“I’ve kept you up too late,” Lars says, when we’ve shared a tiramisu and a plate of cheese, and jet lag is making me yawn.

“No, it’s been lovely. Thank you for letting me share your table.”

We walk to the lifts, and I don’t know if it’s the jet lag, or the half glass of wine after three months with none, or simply a sudden, misjudged desire to get my own back on Max, but as the doors open at my floor I take a step forward, and kiss Lars on the lips. For a second he kisses me back, and lifts a hand to my shoulder, but then he pulls away, shaking his head and pushing me gently back.

“You’re married, Pip.”

And then the doors close and I’m left standing in the corridor on the fifth floor of my hotel, hot with shame.





thirty-nine





Max


   2017


Anything to drink, sir?”

I take a soda and some chips from a flight attendant who had to ask for my order twice because he forgot it the first time. Everyone’s on edge. The flight is full, there was some mix-up over seats, and there’s too much hand luggage for the overhead bins. As I put down my tray table the woman in the seat next to mine slides her elbow onto the armrest between us; the next move in the silent dispute we have had since takeoff. Cramp threatens my left calf, and I twist in my seat in an attempt to uncross my legs, but with the tray down I’m wedged in, and have to content myself with flexing them at the ankle.

Heathrow’s busy, and we circle the airport for ten minutes before we’re cleared to land. With my tray table stowed away I have room to get out my book, and I finish the final few pages of a Wilbur Smith I thought I remembered, but which has taken me by surprise. How long since I read a book that wasn’t a business manual, or a motivational autobiography? Feel the Fear and Let It Feed You. You Can’t Fly If You Don’t Jump. How to Win at Your Life. What a load of bullshit.

After passport control I bypass the baggage carousel, and walk to Arrivals. Out of habit, I scan the waiting faces. Some have excitement written across them, others are bored, tired, and emotional, coping with delayed flights, missed flights, diverted flights. Taxi drivers and chauffeurs hold up a motley collection of signs, from hand-scrawled cardboard to fancy iPad displays.

I’m almost through the crowd when I see a familiar face. She’s checking her watch—and then checking it again, as though the intervening seconds might since have become minutes. She drums her fingers on the messenger bag strung across her chest. I hesitate. Change my mind. Why would she even remember me? As I turn away I hear her voice.

“Mr. Adams!”

I turn back. Memories assault me, and I breathe slowly out.

“It is you, isn’t it?” Her smile is hesitant. “I thought it was you.” She’s with a man I didn’t notice at first glance. He’s tall, and older than her, with gray hair and glasses. He gives a polite smile, then takes a few discreet steps away, leaving us to talk.

“Dr. Khalili. It’s good to see you.” Her hair’s been cut to just below her chin, but otherwise she looks exactly the same as she did four years ago. No, not exactly the same. Dr. Leila Khalili had a face I couldn’t read. A face I thought at times meant she didn’t care—that Dylan was just another patient, Pip and I just another set of parents. This woman is unsure. Nervous.

She extends a tentative hand.

I take it. “Max.”

“Leila.”

Permission, rather than introductions. An understanding that the people we were then are perhaps not quite the people we are now.

“How are things?” The question is careful.

“Dylan passed away last September.”

“I’m so sorry.” And then: “Six and a half years old, though. That’s wonderful.”

And a half. It’s important, that half. Ask anyone who’s lost a child, and they’ll tell you precisely how many months, how many weeks, how many days they lived. I’m impressed—no, I’m stunned—that Dr. Khalili remembers. How many kids has she met since Dylan?

“And how’s Pip?”

“She’s well. I’m meeting her in a moment, actually. She . . . we aren’t together anymore.”

A moment’s pause. “I’m really sorry about that, too. You were such a strong couple.”

There’s a lump in my throat. We were a strong couple. The strongest. I change the subject. “Are you waiting for someone?”