The Peacock Emporium(71)

Suzanna, politeness forgotten, pulled away her hand like she had been burned. “I—I’ll just get some more tea,” she said, and ran for the safety of her shop.



* * *



—

Alejandro walked back to the hospital slowly. It was almost a mile and a half, and he was now so tired that he felt nauseated. He took the shortcut, through the Dere estate, his feet moving automatically on the hot pavement. She had shouted his name three times before he heard her.

“God, you look knackered.” Jessie and her daughter held hands, their faces bright and open as the sun. He felt relieved to see them, they were so uncomplicated and good.

“We’ve been making outfits for the end-of-term play. Mrs. Creek has been helping us.”

Emma held up a plastic bag.

“Now we’re going to the park. You can come if you want and help push Emma on the swings. I’m not good at pushing at the moment,” Jessie said. “Bashed my arm.”

He might have been tempted to say something—he had thought about it often—but his brain was not clear and he did not trust himself to say what he meant. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t hear you very well.”

He was thinking about how her hair had glinted blue-black in the afternoon sun. Her aquamarine eyes, when she had looked up at him, had been angry, as if she was scolding him for some previous transgression. He could still feel her skin against his, the cool translucency of it like dew.

I have never met her before, he thought. I know I can never have met her before. So, then, why . . . ?

“What babies came out today?”

Jessie stroked her daughter’s hair. “Leave him, Ems. He’s too tired to talk babies today. Go on, Ale. Go home. Get some sleep.”

“I don’t know . . . ,” he muttered under his breath, so quiet that, as she later told her mother, she wasn’t sure what it was he had said till afterward. And even then she was not sure of his meaning. “I don’t think I know where home is.”



* * *



—

Suzanna got home long after Neil, just as the shadows started to lengthen, the light summer evening having stretched almost indecently late. She let herself in, found him, feet resting on the coffee table, eyes fixed on the television.

“I was about to ring you,” he said, lifting the remote control. “Are you (a) stuck in traffic, (b) having an early Christmas sale that you haven’t told me about, or (c) stuck under a heavy piece of furniture and unable to reach your phone?” He tore his eyes from the television and grinned at her, blowing a kiss. “There’s some dinner in the oven. I thought you might be hungry. Sorry, I ate mine earlier.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing exciting. Spaghetti Bolognese from a jar. I wasn’t feeling very inspired.”

“Actually, I’m not terribly hungry.” She began to pull off her shoes, wondering what it said about her that the sight of him sitting there so contentedly could irritate her, even when he had prepared her a meal. “Isn’t he good?” she could hear her parents exclaiming to each other. “He cooks for her as well. I don’t think she realizes how lucky she is.” She stood in the kitchen for a moment or two, leaning on the sideboard, willing herself to be nice, scolding herself for noticing, as she always did, the crumbs from breakfast and the smeared and splattered pans and surfaces that told of Neil’s culinary adventures. Am I always going to be this awful? she asked herself. Am I always going to be so dissatisfied?

“If you want to get yourself a glass,” he called, from the other room, “there’s a bottle of wine open.”

She opened a cupboard, pulled one out by the stem, and walked into the sitting room. She sat next to him on the sofa, and he patted her thigh. “Good day?” he asked, his eyes still on the television.

“All right.”

“What was the weather like here? It was gorgeous in London. In the hour I was able to go out, anyway.”

“Fine. Pretty hot.”

“Look at this guy. He’s hysterical.” Neil laughed at the television. He had caught the sun, she realized. His freckles had emerged.

She sat, impervious to the comedian on the screen, sipping the wine he had poured for her. “Neil,” she said, eventually, “do you ever worry about us?”

He turned his face from the screen after the faintest of delay, as if understanding reluctantly that they were about to have One of Those Conversations, and secretly wishing that he didn’t have to be part of it. “Not anymore. Why? Should I?”

“No.”

“Not about to run off with the farmer down the road?”

“I meant this. Don’t you ever wonder . . . if this is it? If this is as much as we get?”

“As much what?”

“I don’t know. Happiness? Adventure? Passion?” As she said the last word, she was conscious that he might read it as some kind of invitation.

She could see him fighting to suppress a sigh. Or perhaps it was a yawn. His eyes kept sneaking back to the television. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Look at us, Neil, it’s like we’re middle-aged, and I don’t feel like we got to do the exciting bit first.” She waited, monitoring his reaction, daring him to look at the television again.