Normal People(32)

I thought you would at least text me if you were coming home, he says. It’s kind of weird running into you when I didn’t know you were around.

At this moment she remembers leaving a flask in Connell’s car the day they drove to Howth in April, and she never got the flask back. It might still be in his glovebox. She eyes the glovebox but doesn’t feel she can open it, because he would ask what she was doing and she would have to bring up the trip to Howth. They went swimming in the sea that day and then parked his car somewhere out of sight and had sex in the back seat. It would be shameless to remind him of that day now that they’re once again in the car together, even though she would really like her flask back, or maybe it’s not about the flask, maybe she just wants to remind him he once fucked her in the back seat of the car they’re now sitting in, she knows it would make him blush, and maybe she wants to force him to blush as a sadistic display of power, but that wouldn’t be like her, so she says nothing.

What are you doing in town anyway? he says. Just visiting your family?

It’s my father’s anniversary Mass.

Oh, he says. He glances over at her, then back out the windshield. Sorry, he adds. I didn’t realise. When is that, tomorrow morning?

She nods. Half ten, she says.

Sorry about that, Marianne. That was stupid of me.

It’s alright. I didn’t really want to come home for it but my mother kind of insists. I’m not a big Mass person.

No, he says. Yeah.

He coughs. She stares out the windshield. They’re at the top of her street now. She and Connell have never spoken much about her father, or about his.

Do you want me to come? Connell says. Obviously if you don’t want me there I won’t go. But I wouldn’t mind going, if you want.

She looks at him, and feels a certain weakening in her body.

Thank you for offering, she says. That’s kind of you.

I don’t mind.

You really don’t have to.

It’s no bother, he says. I’d like to go, to be honest.

He indicates and pulls into her gravel driveway. Her mother’s car isn’t there, she’s not at home. The huge white facade of the house glares down at them. Something about the arrangement of windows gives Marianne’s house a disapproving expression. Connell switches the engine off.

Sorry I was ignoring your messages, says Marianne. It was childish.

It’s alright. Look, if you don’t want to be friends anymore, we don’t have to be.

Of course I want to be friends.

He nods, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. His body is so big and gentle, like a Labrador. She wants to tell him things. But it’s too late now, and anyway it has never done her any good to tell anyone.

Alright, says Connell. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at the church, then, will I?

She swallows. Do you want to come inside for a bit? she says. We could have a cup of tea or something.

Oh, I would, but there’s ice cream in the boot.

Marianne looks around, remembering the shopping bags, and feels disorientated suddenly.

Lorraine would kill me, he says.

Sure. Of course.

She gets out of the car then. He waves out the window. And he will come, tomorrow morning, and he will be wearing a navy sweatshirt with a white Oxford shirt underneath, looking innocent as a lamb, and he will stand with her in the vestibule afterwards, not saying very much but catching her eye supportively. Smiles will be exchanged, relieved smiles. And they will be friends again.





Six Weeks Later


(SEPTEMBER 2012)



He’s late to meet her. The bus was caught in traffic because of some rally in town and now he’s eight minutes late and he doesn’t know where the cafe is. He has never met Marianne ‘for coffee’ before. The weather is too warm today, a scratchy and unseasonal heat. He finds the cafe on Capel Street and walks past the cashier towards the door at the back, checking his phone. It’s nine minutes past three. Outside the back door Marianne is sitting in the smoking garden drinking her coffee already. No one else is out there, the place is quiet. She doesn’t get up when she sees him.

Sorry I’m late, he says. There was some protest on so the bus was delayed.

He sits down opposite her. He hasn’t ordered anything yet.

Don’t worry about it, she says. What was the protest? It wasn’t abortion or anything, was it?

He feels ashamed now that he didn’t notice. No, I don’t think so, he says. The household tax or something.

Well, best of luck to them. May the revolution be swift and brutal.

He hasn’t seen her in person since July, when she came home for her father’s Mass. Her lips look pale now and slightly chapped, and she has dark circles under her eyes. Although he takes pleasure in seeing her look good, he feels a special sympathy with her when she looks ill or her skin is bad, like when someone who’s usually very good at sports has a poor game. It makes her seem nicer somehow. She’s wearing a very elegant black blouse, her wrists look slender and white, and her hair is twisted back loosely at her neck.

Yeah, he says. I would have a bit more energy for protesting if it was more on the brutal side, to be honest.

You want to get beaten up by the Gardaí.

There are worse things than getting beaten up.

Marianne is taking a sip of coffee when he says this, and she seems to pause for a moment with the cup at her lips. He can’t tell how he identifies this pause as distinct from the natural motion of her drinking, but he sees it. Then she replaces the cup on the saucer.