Conversations with Friends(77)

It’s okay, I replied, realising I hated it.

I saw your father the other day.

I speared a piece of salmon with my fork and transferred it into my mouth. It tasted of lemon and salt. I swallowed, dabbed at my lips with a napkin and said: oh.

He’s not well, she said. I can see that.

He’s never been well.

I tried to have a word with him.

I looked up at her. She was staring down at her sandwich blankly, or maybe affecting a blank expression to conceal something else.

You have to understand, she said. He’s not like you. You’re tough, you can cope with things. Your father finds life very difficult.

I tried to assess these statements. Were they true? Did it matter if they were true? I put my fork down.

You’re lucky, she said. I know you might not feel that way. You can go on hating him for the rest of your life if you want.

I don’t hate him.

A waiter went past precariously holding three bowls of soup. My mother looked at me.

I love him, I said.

That’s news to me.

Well, I’m not like you.

She laughed then, and I felt better. She reached for my hand across the table and I let her hold it.





31




The following week my phone rang. I remember exactly where I was standing when it started: just in front of the New Fiction shelves in Hodges Figgis, and it was thirteen minutes past five. I was looking for a Christmas present for Bobbi, and when I fished the phone out of my coat pocket, the screen read: Nick. My neck and shoulders felt rigid and suddenly very exposed. I slid my fingertip across the screen, lifted the phone to my cheek and said: hello?

Hey, Nick’s voice said. Listen, they don’t have red peppers, but is yellow okay?

His voice seemed to hit me somewhere behind my knees and travel upward in a flood of warmth, so that I knew I was blushing.

Oh dear, I said. I think you have the wrong number.

For a second he said nothing. Don’t hang up, I thought. Don’t hang up. I started to walk around the New Fiction shelves trailing my finger along the spines as if I was still browsing.

Jesus Christ, said Nick slowly. Is this Frances?

Yes. It is me.

He made a sound which momentarily I mistook for laughter, though I realised then that he was coughing. I started to laugh and had to hold the phone away from my face in case he thought I was crying. When he spoke he sounded measured, his confusion genuine.

I have no idea how this happened, he said. Did I just place this call to you?

Yes. You asked me a question about peppers.

Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I can’t explain how I dialled your number. It really was an honest mistake, I’m sorry.

I moved over to the display near the front of the bookshop, which showcased a selection of new books from diverse genres. I picked up a science fiction novel and pretended to read the back.

Were you trying to get Melissa? I said.

I was. Yeah.

That’s okay. I gather you’re in the supermarket.

He did laugh then, like he was laughing at how absurd the situation was. I put down the science fiction and opened the cover of a historical romance. The words lay flat on the page, my eyes didn’t try to read them.

I am in the supermarket, he said.

I’m in a bookshop.

Are you, really. Christmas shopping?

Yes, I said. I’m looking for something for Bobbi.

He made a noise like ‘hm’ then, not quite laughing but still amused or pleased. I closed the cover of the book. Don’t hang up, I thought.

They’ve reissued that Chris Kraus novel recently, he said. I read a review, it sounded like you might enjoy it. Although I realise now you didn’t actually ask for my advice.

Your advice is welcome, Nick. You have an enchanting voice.

He said nothing. I exited the bookshop, gripping the phone tightly to my face, so that the screen felt hot and a little oily. Outside it was cold. I was wearing a fake-fur hat.

Did I take our playful repartee too far there? I said.

Oh no, I’m sorry. I was just trying to come up with something nice to say to you, but everything I can think of sounds …

Insincere?

Too sincere, he said. Needy. I’m thinking, how do you flatter your ex-girlfriend, but in a kind of aloof way?

I laughed then and so did he. The relief of our mutual laughter was very sweet, and it dispelled the feeling that he would hang up on me, at least for the moment. Beside me a bus rattled through some standing water and wet my shins. I was walking away from college, toward St Stephen’s Green.

You were never a big compliments guy, I said.

No, I know. It’s something I regret.

Sometimes when drunk, you were nice.

Yeah, he said. Is that it, I was only nice to you when I was drunk?

I laughed again, on my own this time. The phone seemed to be transmitting some weird radioactive energy into my body, making me walk very fast and laugh about nothing.

You were always nice, I said. That’s not what I meant.

You’re feeling sorry for me, are you?

Nick, I haven’t heard from you in a month, and we’re only talking now because you got my name mixed up with your wife’s. I don’t feel sorry for you.

Well, I’ve been very strict with myself about not calling you, he said.

We were quiet then for a few seconds but neither of us hung up.