The Twisted Heart (15 page)

‘It's complicated,' said Joe again. ‘I don't want him to live in a field. Kit, my parents have never really known how to handle either of us, so it falls to me to—' He sighed exasperatedly.

‘My parents don't understand me either,' she said. ‘I had a dream the other night that my father jumped out from behind a tree wearing, you know, a Homburg hat.'

Joe looked bemused. Kit smiled at him.

‘That's
it?
' he said.

‘What, you want more?'

Joe laughed, which caused Kit to laugh. She counted it as their second joke.

Their first, which this exchange now brought back to her, had felt propitious. When Joe had helped her back in off his balcony the previous week, in through his sitting-room window, he had kept hold of her hand and had kissed her.

Out on the balcony he had said, in his humorous way, ‘I didn't mean out here', and she had omitted to reply, and things had grown awkward.

But upon being kissed, for want of anything much better to do—and for want, it felt like in her whole life, of being truly wanted—there it was. Like that, once again, Kit gave way.

As he'd taken her in his arms, however, she had found herself still bothered wondering what it was to kiss someone you knew so little. And no doubt because of this, as they'd tended towards his bedroom, he had said to her, ‘Perhaps this time you'd consider a little less of the old—of the, lie-back-and-think-of-England approach? How about it?'

And she had said, ‘England? But—but I find the thought of England so tremendously
sexy
.'

Which had made him laugh, which had made her laugh: propitiously, their first joke.

They went across the Woodstock Road at one of the pedestrian-operated light crossings, too lazy to dodge through the traffic; not either of them, though Kit thought of it, stooping to press the button with their nose.

‘You know, you have a curvy voice,' said Joe.

‘Curvy?'

‘I can't think how else to put it. There's a curviness to your voice.'

Kit shook her head. ‘A girl I knew at school once said she wished she sounded like me.'

‘I can believe it.'

‘Well, thanks.'

‘Pleasure.'

‘Now I'll feel self-conscious talking.'

‘Please don't,' he said. ‘I like it when you talk.'

Out in the night air, with the trees shushing in the wind, the scene they'd left behind them at The Forfeit already felt to Kit as though it had taken place hours before. ‘What branch of maths are you in?' she asked. ‘I may not have heard of it, but please tell me anyway, the general area.'

‘Number theory.'

‘Oh, yes. That, I have heard of.'

‘Yes?'

‘I liked Pauly,' she said.

‘Pauly? He's a French polisher,' said Joe. ‘It's skilled, but
tedious. I suppose it gives him the freedom to think a bit. I think he's wanting to shift out of furniture and into guitars, but I don't know if he has what it takes or not. He's a good bloke. Makes the heart bleed a little sometimes.'

‘I can see that.'

‘Frankly, I think any of them might—if you knew them better. What's more,' Joe said, ‘don't assume that if they knew a bit more about you, you wouldn't have the same effect on them.'

Kit struggled. ‘You mean, I'd make
their
hearts bleed?'

‘It's not impossible.'

‘Maybe I would,' she said. After all, it wasn't such an outlandish idea. ‘There seems to be a lot of talk about birds, one way and another,' she said, rather changing tack, though not on purpose.

Joe glanced upwards in the semi-darkness. ‘Starlings. Medium-size passerines,' he said.

‘What?'

‘Passerines. Basic sparrow-shaped perchers; though for whatever reason, a sparrow's
size
isn't a benchmark of the term.'

‘Good for them?' Kit ventured.

‘It's disorderly, I think.'

‘How come Dean was at the dance class?' she asked. ‘I didn't see him. He told me he was there the last time; I mean the time I sort of fainted.'

‘Yes. Well, that's—I mean, it's because of Dean that Humpty ever heard about it. And it was Humpty who proposed it to me.'

‘He mentioned.'

‘He did?' Joe, without slowing down, kicked a small stone
sideways into the road. ‘Did he tell you it was my birthday present?'

‘What was?'

‘I happened to say that I'd like to know, just once in my life, what it was like to be led on the dance floor—just to know what that felt like. So Humpty offered it as my birthday present, which was inspired in a way, or would have been if he'd actually gone through with it. He owes me so much money, if he'd bought me something there would have been the annoying sense that I'd effectively paid for it myself. I don't know how you avoid that, really. And although the greatest thing he could do for me would be to leave me alone, you can't just give that to someone as a present.'

‘Happy birthday, by the way,' said Kit.

‘Not at all.'

‘I mean—well. I mean, of course I didn't realise any of this when it was me instead, dancing you around.'

‘No, you didn't.'

‘It's okay,' she said. ‘Can that be my birthday present from me then?'

Joe said, ‘Kit, you know, I—you were late, and I'd waited for you the day before as well, in case; and I was still angry, pointlessly enough, with Humpty, for failing to show up the week before. I didn't plan to ask you instead, I just—asked you.'

‘It's okay,' she said again, ‘seriously.' To her, it
was
okay somehow—now. ‘What do you do other evenings?' she said.

‘I don't know, Thursday nights I play a regular poker game.'

‘Really? You mean it? Who'd play poker with a mathematician?'

‘Other mathematicians.'

‘Of course. Silly me.'

‘Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, I suppose things tend to come up, or they don't. I try to have dinner in hall at least once a week. But otherwise, well, I tend to try and get on with my research. Often I lie on my balcony when I'm working on a maths problem, pad of paper, pencil, so long as the weather's bearable.'

‘You have a mattress kind of thing?'

‘I do, yes. And a brain.'

‘Indeed.'

‘There's a camping mattress rolled up behind my sofa,' he said. They had reached Kit's house. They wandered through the gate posts and half way across the gravel drive. ‘Why?' he asked.

‘Here we are,' she replied, and came listlessly to a halt. He had put a question to her, but she'd lost hold of it. She was remembering how much she had desired him at the start of the evening, when she'd caught sight of him leaning against the back wall at St Christopher's, tensed, waiting alone, she wouldn't have—

Joe gathered her up and held her, speechlessly, just long enough for her to start to wonder quite when he planned on letting her go again.

She stood there and told herself that, wonderful as the dancing had been—or perhaps because of it—on balance, anyway, she was glad there didn't have to be any question now of,
yes
or
no
—not this time. She was glad they could
part simply as friends, so she told herself. ‘I have to go and do Orson's reading list,' she said apologetically, only to remember that she'd done it already. She took a step back towards the house.

Joe said, ‘Meet you here in a week?'

‘Here?' she asked, pointing at the ground. ‘Sure,' she said. ‘Absolutely.' Next week; she hadn't got that far yet.

‘Kit,' said Joe quietly, ‘would I be right in thinking that your romantic history is one to which the word “romantic” doesn't really apply?'

In a mumble, she replied, ‘Pretty much.'

He pulled one of the faces she couldn't interpret.

She wanted to say something further, but didn't know what, and any sense of it slid rapidly away.

Still Joe hesitated.

‘I know you've got to go,' she said, ‘but just tell me, what happened to your eyebrow? I've been meaning to ask.'

‘This?' He touched it. ‘I was hit by a firework as a kid, at a friend's house, one of those occasions where everyone says how lucky you were not to lose an eye, but you yourself are thinking, how unlucky to be hit in the face by a firework. The dad who set it off was disturbingly upset, I remember, but I healed up fine except for this slight scar,' he rubbed it with his thumb, ‘and the end of my eyebrow not growing back.'

‘Do you still like fireworks?' Kit asked, thinking that it wasn't long till Guy Fawkes Night.

‘Yes, I like them.' He took a sudden deep breath and looked at his feet. ‘Next Friday, then.'

‘Great,' said Kit.

‘Right.'

And he left her like that, so that she felt a little sad.

Kit baulked at the idea of being back indoors again so soon. The night breezes had revived her. Only when Joe was out of earshot did she murmur, forlornly, ‘Goodbye.'

She went up the stairs to her room praying that she wouldn't have to talk to Michaela, and was relieved when she reached her own door unaccosted.

She closed it behind her, dropped her bag down and did a somersault along the length of her bed, and as this felt good, stepped round and did another one. This time, however, coming out of it, Kit deliberately punched the plywood headboard, which, being poorly attached, gave a little so that her knuckles were grazed. She hunched up at the pain and licked her hand like a dog.
Oliver Twist
lay on the floor next to her bed. She bent down to retrieve it and began to read:

‘You in there?' shouted Michaela's voice through the door. Fuck, thought Kit.

Still reading, Kit quickly got herself into her desk chair, placed the book open in front of her and in meek tones sang out, ‘Yes?'

‘I've been thinking,' said Michaela as she walked in; she threw herself onto Kit's vacated bed, ‘he's a bloody lecturer. He's taking advantage. You should get out of it, girl. I've been thinking about it. I should've never encouraged you. I don't know what I was on about. You should chuck him. You should chuck him. It's all wrong.'

‘Please.'

‘You don't ever stay over at his place. Why not? I don't reckon you even
like
him all that much.'

‘God, a lecturer doesn't matter. We're not the same subject, college or anything. What do you know about how I feel?'

‘So where is he now?'

‘What do you mean? He had to go and look after his brother.'

‘You believe that?'

‘
Yes
, I believe it.'

‘Has to look after his brother? Seriously? Did he tell you that? What, he's his dad or something? Come on, Kit. What's wrong with his brother?'

‘I'm not completely sure.'

‘He's pissing you about. Don't be a fool about this. He's making you do everything his way. Stand up for yourself. What do
you
want? You have to make things happen in your life.'

Kit thought about the dancing, how extraordinary it had felt, blissful, until she had almost ceased to be herself—and about how for her sake Joe had read half of
Oliver Twist
. He had been reading a book because of her. What did she
want?
What did anybody want?

‘If you asked nicely,' said Kit, ‘do you think you could persuade your father to give someone a job in his bottle factory, I mean a non-skilled job?'

‘Sure, probably, but don't change the subject.'

‘Okay,' said Kit. ‘Okay. Not changing the subject, I really don't think you know what you're talking about.'

‘I'll tell you what I'm talking about,' replied Michaela, her eyes now shut, ‘I'm talking, he's probably just been dumped or something, and he wants to make this girl jealous, so he thinks, I'll get a quick one in, and make her want me back. I'll bet you anything he's using you, Kit. You don't believe me, but I totally bet you there's something else going on. He'll keep coming back until he finds some other girl he wants to sleep with, or his girlfriend takes him back. He's got some girl, right, he's just using you, and—'

As Michaela started going round in circles, Kit allowed herself to look down once again at the page in front of her: