Conversations with Friends(79)

He coughed. You know the last time we saw one another, he said, I wanted to stop because I was afraid I was hurting you. That’s all.

Okay, I said. Thanks for telling me that. You weren’t hurting me.

We paused.

I can’t tell you how strict I’ve been with myself about not calling you, he said eventually.

I thought you’d forgotten all about me.

The idea of forgetting anything about you is kind of horrifying to me.

I smiled. I said: is it really? My feet were getting cold in their boots then.

Where are you now? he said. You’re not walking any more, you’re somewhere quiet.

I’m in Stephen’s Green.

Oh, really? I’m in town too, I’m like ten minutes away from you. I won’t come see you or anything, don’t worry. It’s just curious to think of you being so close by.

I imagined him sitting in his car somewhere, smiling to himself on the phone, how aggravatingly handsome he would look. I tucked my free hand up inside my coat to keep it warm.

When we were in France together, I said, do you remember we were in the sea one day and I asked you to tell me that you wanted me, and you splashed water on my face and told me to fuck off?

When Nick spoke, I could hear he was still smiling. You’re making me sound like such a prick, he said. I was just kidding with you, I wasn’t seriously telling you to fuck off.

But you couldn’t just say that you wanted me, I said.

Well, everyone else was always talking about it. I thought you were being a little gratuitous.

I should have known it wouldn’t work out between us.

Didn’t we always know that? he said.

I paused for a second. Then I just said: I didn’t.

Well, but what does it mean for a relationship to ‘work out’? he said. It was never going to be something conventional.

I got up from the bench. It was too cold to sit outside. I wanted to be warm again. Lit from below, empty branches scratched at the sky.

I didn’t think it had to be, I said.

You know, you’re saying that, but you obviously weren’t happy that I loved someone else. It’s okay, it doesn’t make you a bad person.

But I loved someone else.

Yeah, I know, he said. But you didn’t want me to.

I wouldn’t have minded, if …

I tried to think of a way to finish this sentence without saying: if I were different, if I were the person I wanted to be. Instead I just let it fall off into silence. I was so cold.

I can’t believe you’re on the phone saying you waited for me to call you, he said quietly. You really don’t know how devastating it is to hear that.

How do you think I feel? You didn’t even want to speak to me, you just thought I was Melissa.

Of course I wanted to speak to you. How long have we been on the phone now?

I got to the gate I had come through, but it was locked. My eyes were starting to sting with cold. Outside the railing a line of people queued for the 145. I walked toward the main gate, where I could see the lights of the shopping centre. I thought of Nick and Melissa singing ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’ in their warm kitchen with all their friends around them.

You said it yourself, I said. It never would have worked.

Well, is it working now? If I come and pick you up and we drive around talking and I say, oh, sorry for not calling you, I’ve been a fool, is that working then?

If two people make each other happy then it’s working.

You could smile at a stranger on the street and make them happy, he said. We’re talking about something more complicated.

As I got closer to the gate I heard the bell ringing. The noise of traffic opened up again, like a light getting brighter and brighter.

Does it have to be complicated? I said.

Yeah, I think so.

There’s the thing with Bobbi, which is important to me.

You’re telling me, he said. I’m married.

It’s always going to be fucked up like this, isn’t it?

But I’ll compliment you more this time.

I was at the gate. I wanted to tell him about the church. That was a different conversation. I wanted things from him that would make everything else complicated.

Like what kind of compliment? I said.

I have one that’s not really a compliment but I think you’ll like it.

Okay, tell me.

Remember the first time we kissed? he said. At the party. And I said I didn’t think the utility room was a good place to be kissing and we left. You know I went up to my room and waited for you, right? I mean for hours. And at first I really thought you would come. It was probably the most wretched I ever felt in my life, this kind of ecstatic wretchedness that in a way I was practically enjoying. Because even if you did come upstairs, what then? The house was full of people, it’s not like anything was going to happen. But every time I thought of going back down again I would imagine hearing you on the stairs, and I couldn’t leave, I mean I physically couldn’t. Anyway, how I felt then, knowing that you were close by and feeling completely paralysed by it, this phone call is very similar. If I told you where my car is right now, I don’t think I’d be able to leave, I think I would have to stay here just in case you changed your mind about everything. You know, I still have that impulse to be available to you. You’ll notice I didn’t buy anything in the supermarket.