Beautiful World, Where Are You(73)

getting kicked in the face. And then not to have you in my life? Jesus, I don’t know. It’s hard for me to imagine going on in those circumstances. Whereas, if we just stay friends, okay we can’t sleep together, but what’s the likelihood we’ll ever fall out of each other’s lives? I can’t imagine it, can you? Quietly he answered: No. I see what you mean. She rubbed her hands down her face, shaking her head. In some ways, maybe our friendship is actually more important, she said. I don’t know. When I was living with Aidan, I sometimes thought, it’s a little bit sad that I’ll never find out what might have happened with Simon. But maybe, in a way, it’s better not to know. We’ll always be in each other’s lives and we’ll always have this feeling between us, and it’s better.

Sometimes when I get really sad and depressed, you know, I lie in bed and think about you. I don’t mean in a sexual way. I just think about the goodness of you as a person.

And since you like me, or you love me, I must be okay. I can feel that feeling inside myself even now while I’m describing it to you. It’s like, when everything is really bad, it’s this one small feeling the size of an acorn, and it’s inside me, here. She gestured to the base of her breastbone, between her ribs. It’s like the way, when I’m upset, I know I can call you, and you’ll say soothing things to me, she said. And when I think about that, most of the time I don’t even need to call you, because I can feel it, the way I’m describing. I can feel that you’re with me. I know that probably sounds stupid. But if we got together and then broke up, would I not be able to feel that anymore? And what would I have inside here instead? She tapped the base of her breastbone again with anxious fingers. Nothing? she asked. He lay there on the bed watching her, and for a few moments was silent. Then he said: I don’t know. It’s very difficult. I understand what you’re saying. With a desperate, almost disbelieving look, she stared at him. But you’re not saying anything back to me, she said. He gave a kind of self-deprecating

smile, looking up at the ceiling. Well, it’s complicated, he replied. Maybe you’re right, it’s better to draw a line under it, and not put ourselves through all this anymore. I do find it very difficult, hearing you say these things. You know, I felt terrible about the situation with Caroline, and I really wanted to fix it. But from what you’re saying now, I suppose it wasn’t really about that, it was something else. I do understand your reasons, but from what you’re saying, it sounds like you don’t actually want to be with me. She stayed there staring at him, her hand still pressed to her chest. He rubbed his jaw and sat up from the bed with his feet on the floorboards. His back was turned to her.

I’ll let you get some sleep, he said. He picked his clothes up off the floor and put them back on again. She sat on the mattress, the quilt wound around her body, saying nothing. Finally he finished buttoning his shirt and turned to look at her. When you came over that night, he said, after I got back from London, I felt very excited to see you. I don’t know if I said that, or maybe I did. To be honest, I was nervous, because I was so happy. She was silent, wiping her nose with her fingers, and he nodded to himself, acknowledging her silence. I hope you don’t regret it, he said. Softly she answered: No. He smiled then. That’s something, he said. I’m glad. After a pause he added: I’m sorry that I couldn’t be what you wanted. She sat staring a few seconds longer. Then she said: But you are. He laughed at that, his eyes on the floor. The feeling is mutual, he replied. But no, I understand. I do, really. I won’t keep you up any later.

Sleep well, alright? He left the room then. Eileen sat still on the bed, her shoulders drawn up, her arms folded. She picked up her phone and dropped it again without looking, pushed her hair off her forehead, closed her eyes. Remembering absently a line of poetry: Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over. Her underarms prickling wet, her back aching, shoulders hot and sore from the sun. Across the landing Simon enters

his own room and closes the door behind him. And if in the silence and solitude of his room he kneels down on the floorboards, is he praying? And for what? To be free of selfish desires – maybe. Or maybe with his elbows on the mattress, his hands clasped before him, he is only thinking: What do you want from me? Please God show me what you want.





27


At six forty-five in the morning, Felix’s alarm rang out, a flat repetitive beeping noise.

The room was dim, the west-facing windows letting in only a little cool white light through the blinds. What time is it, Alice murmured. He turned the alarm off and got out of bed. Time for work, he said. Go back to sleep. He showered in the en suite bathroom and came out again with a towel around his shoulders, pulling on his underwear. When he was dressed he went to the bedside and bent to kiss Alice’s forehead, warm and damp. I’ll see you later on, he said. With her eyes closed she answered: I love you. He touched her forehead with the back of his hand as if taking her temperature. You do, yeah, he said. He went downstairs then and into the kitchen. Eileen was leaning against the countertop, unscrewing the base of the coffee pot. Her eyes were swollen and red.

Good morning, she said. From the doorway Felix looked at her. What are you doing up?

he asked. She gave a tired smile and said she couldn’t sleep. Studying her face, Felix replied: You look a bit wrecked alright. He opened the fridge and took out a pot of yoghurt, while she dumped yesterday’s coffee grounds into the sink. Sitting down at the table, he asked: So what do you do for a job? Alice told me you’re a journalist or something. Eileen shook her head, filling the pot with water from the tap. No, no, she said. I just work for a magazine. I’m an editor, kind of. Felix was stirring the yoghurt with his spoon. What kind of magazine? he asked. She said it was a literary journal. Ah right, he said. I don’t really know what that is. She was lighting the burner then. Yeah, we don’t have a wide readership, she said. We publish poetry and essays and things like that. He asked how the magazine made money in that case. Oh, it doesn’t, she said. It’s just funded with grants. Felix looked interested then. You mean like from the taxpayer?