Girl Reading (37 page)

I don’t mind. You encounter bumps when you’re on a journey; it’s part and parcel of it. It sounds like they need you.

Jeannine casts her eyes down; the tip of her tongue moistens her lips. It’s complicated.

It usually is when it matters.

Jeannine fingers the cover of the paperback, traces the title in relief. They sit in silence for a few minutes, and it is not unpleasant. She says, I haven’t asked you if you’re happily with someone? Or happily single?

I’ve been in a relationship for three years, but it’s coming to an end. I mean, we’re doing a trial separation.

I’m sorry to hear it. Did she instigate it, or did you?

If I said it was mutual, you’d guess it was her idea, so we better just call it what it is. It took me by surprise, I have to admit. She said I was distant, that I backed away from the important decisions. I suppose I didn’t want to upset the equilibrium. I was satisfied; evidently she wasn’t.

You won’t patch it up . . . ?

Not now.

What a shame. My condolences.

I’m not a total loss yet. Are you in a relationship, or . . . ?

I live with my boyfriend—and then she mutters it, offhand, throws it away—a couple of days ago he asked me to marry him.

Chris marshals the flutter of disappointment: Congratulations.

Jeannine toys with the stem of her wineglass: I haven’t said yes. I’m considering it. We’ve been a couple for a while. Not childhood sweethearts, but not far off.

He must love you very much. Do you love him?

I do. Jeannine appears to hold her breath. I have.

Christopher Rhys hesitates, but surely it begs to be asked: Why are you sad, Jeannine Okoro?

Honestly? It’s just . . . there are so many things I want to achieve, but I get the feeling if I marry Liam, none of it will ever happen for me. That will be the end of it, the end of my life as I know it.

He gives her a bar napkin, which she accepts but to her credit does not need to use. Why on earth would he prevent you from doing what you want? Doesn’t he know?

Oh, he knows all right, I’ve talked about it plenty.

Then I don’t understand . . .

Jeannine frowns, pouts, blinks. I don’t know. If I were trapped in a burning building, he wouldn’t think twice about running in after me, but I don’t know why he wouldn’t (Jeannine composes her thoughts, speaks carefully, deliberately). He did something about four weeks ago that I found kind of odd. He told me . . . I don’t know, maybe I’ve blown it out of proportion . . . he told me he wanted me to come off the pill, stop using any contraceptives because it would prove I loved him. He said it’s what real couples do.

What did you say?

When I’d picked myself up off the floor, I just explained I didn’t want to risk getting pregnant. He didn’t like it. He reacted
badly.
Took it personal, as if I’d insulted him, but I swear I didn’t mean it that way, only that now isn’t the right time. We made up afterward, and I thought the whole subject was closed. Then, the other day, he proposed.

The barman calls time. Jeannine and Christopher fall silent again.

She murmurs, I’m sorry, we don’t know each other, and that was inappropriate of me. God, I’m so embarrassed, I shouldn’t have said anything.

It sounds like it had to be said. And you’ve nothing to feel embarrassed about.

If Liam had popped the question a year ago, I’m positive we’d be married by now. It used to be me chasing him all the time, me complaining he wouldn’t commit. What am I going to do?

I can’t advise you on that.

You’re the only one here. You’re the only person I’ve told, as it happens. My friends are all, you know, busy with their own shit. And babies. When did I become old enough that all my friends started having babies?

I bet they care about you more than you know.

I’m not very good at staying in touch with people because I like to work. I like work. I’m good at it. Jeannine touches her eyes and nose with the napkin. Sorry, this is too weird for you, isn’t it?

No-o. It’s just none of my business.

Is it normal? Do men do this to their partners? Have I got it totally out of perspective?

No, it’s not normal, we aren’t all like that. I think it’s quite a tricky place you’ve arrived at.

Yes, it is tricky. It’s a nightmare, actually. And I’m sick of thinking about it. I know I had a future with Liam, once. What do you think? (No reaction.) Please, I’m asking for your help, it’s burning me up.

Christopher sighs, treads cautiously, the path ahead irregular but discernible if he goes gently and bravely. He wants above all to do his best for this person, or at least not to fuck it up. You have—

Yes?

—excellent judgment and instincts; whatever you decide will
be right because you will make it work. You just need to choose the life you want and get over the rest.

Sometimes I think I’m not very good at making choices. Sometimes I think I’m unhappy because I brought it on myself.

It’s never too late to start making good choices.

Jeannine meets his humble gaze, tinges of regret that there is only a short time left to share with him.

This sentiment is communicated somehow. It sends a spark, it causes a ripple. He is compelled to take her hand to lean toward her to place a kiss on her precious mouth. It feels acceptable to miss some steps somehow; no boundaries have been transgressed; he is confident the gift will be received as it was intended. Their contact is of itself, whole and perfect. Their physiologies leap with chemical intimacy, and then it passes.

What was that for?

Because you can do whatever you put your mind to, and I wanted some of it on me.

Her glow returns, her energy. She thinks of something nice to say but keeps it a secret.

Jeannine, it crossed my mind . . . I noticed when you got here . . . I swear I never would without asking your permission, but it might make a very beautiful—

Are you asking my permission?

Ye-es, I think so.

All right.

Are you sure?

Sounds like fun. Shall we do it now, before they kick us out?

It only takes a minute. Jeannine opens her paperback, her features natural, controls the urge to giggle, continues to follow the thread of the story. Chris makes a couple of quick adjustments and takes two rapid shots. Done. Would you like to see?

I’ll look it up online. I should go, I’ve got work in the morning.

Shall I walk you home?

She raises an assertive hand to prevent him.

Right. You know my username?

I shan’t forget it easily.

Feel free to post a comment. Also there’s a link if, you know, you ever want to view a property or just make contact.

She smiles. Jonathan has a website.

Who does?

Jonathan Ewan, MP, Bexhall South. My e-mail’s on there too. Or you could call the Commons switchboard and ask for his office. Jeannine gathers her handbag and puts her jacket over her arm. Thanks for the drink, and for the Band-Aids.

Thank you for the photo, and the conversation and everything.

They pause, then part.

As she is leaving he calls her name, adds he would love to know how it turns out.

She does not indicate one way or the other, waves, is gone.

Christopher Rhys exhales, his heart thudding. He locates a pen from the zipped section of his bag, jots
Ewan / Bexhall
in a space on the Liverpool Street to Colchester timetable. Not her phone number, but close enough.

Then he makes a call from his mobile. Jasp? It’s me, I’ve done a stupid thing and missed the last train home. Can I sleep on your floor after all? You’re a star. I’ll find a cab.

Reader in a Shoreditch Bar

Uploaded on 21 May 2008 by Immaterialism

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Comments

Miss Labelled says:

Yes.

Sincerity Yabuki

Sibil, 2060

H
e says, Are you too hot?

She says, No.

Tell me if you are, and I’ll open a window.

No, don’t go anywhere. Stay here. Look—I can fit my whole hand inside your hand.

What do you want to do tomorrow?

You mean today.

Is it? Today, what would you like to do today? We should make the most of it.

Can I have an arm, please? Maybe drive somewhere, take lunch with us. Take the chess. Are there any castles nearby? I haven’t seen one since I’ve been here.

I haven’t been to a castle since I was a kid. All right. We’ll find a castle to visit, or some alternative ruins.

I like ruins. Real ones, not pretend. Places with atmosphere. And haunted. Somewhere murder and treason happened.

Obviously.

I was wondering, will your mum come to your graduation?

Don’t know. I invited her. The journey could put her off.

She ought to see you graduate. Someone ought to see you graduate other than me.

Dad will.

Yes.

Are you humoring me?

No. No, I’m being serious. I promise I’m not teasing, I’m really not.

I can see you aren’t. Sorry.

That’s okay.

I wish I had known you back then. I could have done with this.

This?

Us.

She makes a noise like
hmm,
then says, We’ve found us now, that’s what’s important. Some people wait for years. Some people never find it. Isn’t that sad?

Or find it and lose it later on.

The timing could have been better, but heaven knows it could have been worse.

Will your parents come?

Should do, don’t see why not.

Will you introduce me?

I don’t know, that sounds like a big step. (She laughs.) The real question is: will we introduce them to each other?

I never thought of that.

Don’t you want them to? Our parents, to meet?

I just think of them as inhabiting two parallel universes that never—he mimes—cross.

Don’t have to. We don’t have to do any of it. We won’t be sitting together for most of it anyway, we can just wave at each other from across the room.

Certainly not. I want to spend the day with you. I want to spend every day with you. We’ll just have to plan it out, make it as painless as possible. Do you think this is weird?

What’s weird about it?

Does it make you feel like a grown-up?

No, not really. It’s just the stuff distracting us from us. It doesn’t touch what’s within. In here . . .

Your skin’s very soft (he kisses it).

I was just getting comfortable.

When Cloud Yabuki-Varma takes off her heart-shaped glasses all manner of items disappear, and when she puts them on they come back, and when she holds them out in front of her nose she can see stuff in the lenses but not around the edges. Spooky. The dinosaurs in Reptile Republic, the instruments in Music Corner, the entirety of Cupcake Garden, the floating mathematical models that can be manipulated to score points: now you see it, now you don’t; now you see it, now you don’t.

People do look silly in mesh when you are real world. Her classmates interact with invisible beasts, gesticulate at empty space, laugh in unison when nothing funny has happened. Some big trick. Every child is wearing i-specs in various designs like Cloud’s, or helmets with visors; these are generally for boys who have not yet learned to avoid real-world walls.

Discovery Play, DP, is a highlight of the week, for it is an opportunity to engage with the more elaborate mesh programs. Pupils are encouraged to experiment with their personas in DP. Other lessons are more restricted—“no pets,” for example, not even well-behaved ones. Cloud always brings sim-kitty to DP, and sim-kitty instinctively seeks out other pet simcarnations to play with, currently a penguin, a bunny rabbit, and a piglet.

Cloud and some other girls have been growing giant sunflowers today. It is possible to make them reach twenty feet high if the children select the correct weather systems, the correct food, and sing songs to them. When she peers beneath her glasses her friends remain visible (in somewhat plainer clothing), while the magnificent sunflowers disappear altogether.

Feels
funny.

She is not getting the headache adults threaten children with when they treat their i-specs like toys—rather, something has struck her as out of place, like when you put the wrong shoes on the wrong feet, though she does not know
precisely
what, and did not notice it until
absolutely
this very second ago. Everything seems normal . . .

There is another girl, the new girl, by herself kicking randomly at the ground. Nothing strange about that. The new girl is nice enough; earlier, she and Cloud shared a glue pot when they were tasked to build a bridge out of tubes, but the girl was shy and spoke little. Maribel is her name. Maribel has a mass of fair curls falling about her shoulders, the exact opposite of Cloud’s hair, which is fine, dark, short, and straight.