The Way Back Home (22 page)

He didn’t want this conversation now, he didn’t want her to ask, to know, because, quite selfishly, he wanted to keep the night unblemished and beautiful. But the more he looked at her, the more he knew that out of everyone, Oriana had a right to know.

He leant forward, cupped his hands around hers. He spoke softly.

‘At first they hoped to save it – my eye. Not my sight, that had gone – that they knew. But it’s preferable to keep the eye – to eviscerate, to take away the damaged contents but leave the scleral shell intact. Movement remains good, prosthetics are extraordinary. The problem was that my eye then became phthisical – wasted, dead – which brought the risk of sympathetic opthalmia. After trauma, the good eye can go blind too.’ He could feel her recoil into herself, and he held her hands a little more tightly. ‘It’s OK, Oriana. They were brilliant. Ultimately, they had to enucleate – to take the eye completely – but they saved so much else. Muscles were reattached to the implant and then they –’

He noticed how she was nodding and nodding, her head bowed. He watched a tear cling to the tip of her nose, then drop. Funny really, that he was the one making the soothing ‘there-theres’. Would she feel better if he told her about the brilliant ocularist, about the bits of rib bone ingeniously used to rebuild the fractured outer orbital section, the titanium mesh that made his surgeon a genius sculptor too? He could reassure her once more that, beyond six metres, everyone sees the world as if they have one eye. But he sensed it was best to leave it there. No more tonight. Tonight was about discovering that their closeness had been deepened, not widened, by time. Tonight they were together again, just the two of them, in the world within the world that was Windward.

‘Does it hurt you?’

‘Not any more.’

‘If I wasn’t here – would you,’ she stumbled. ‘Would you not wear the patch?’

Malachy nodded.

‘Is it because it’s me?’ she asked in a whisper.

He smiled gently and leant right forward. ‘It would be like you seeing me naked,’ he said, catching her gaze and holding it. ‘Very stark naked.’

Tentatively, he brushed strands of her hair away from her face, tucking them behind her ear, liking how they flopped forward again. He ran his fingertips lightly over her cheek, along her jawline, before turning his hand so the back of it stroked her so gently that she wasn’t sure whether he was actually touching her.

Then he stood, offered his hand to Oriana and pulled her up. She felt unsteady, woozy with wine and tiredness and emotion.

‘Come on, sleepyhead,’ he said. ‘Time for bed – it turned tomorrow three hours ago.’

But they hovered. Fixing on Johnny Ramone’s name on Malachy’s T-shirt, Oriana placed her hand lightly on his chest, stood just a little on her tiptoes and slowly kissed his cheek while his hands found their way to her waist and he kissed her back. There they stood, immobilized by the weight of not knowing what on earth to say or do next.

Eventually, Malachy nodded over his shoulder towards what had been his parents’ room. ‘I live
that
way now.’ It was as if he was about to walk miles in the opposite direction.

‘And I’m in Jed’s bed.’

Instantly, she regretted it. No matter how innocent the faux pas, or how many years had passed, and though the words shouldn’t have had an ounce of meaning or a wisp of symbolism – they did. They were the crash of cymbals that ended their night. She felt him retreat before he’d taken a step.

‘Sleep well, Oriana.’

I’m in Jed’s bed.

It was irrelevant that this particular piece of furniture was new. She turned her back on it, went to the window. There was nothing to see in the pitch blackness of the dreamless hour. With silent tears slicing a stinging path down her face, Oriana lifted the duvet from the bed and made herself a cocoon on the floor.

Jed thought, if I don’t go now, I’ll either not make it home alone, or not make it home at all. He thought, I really must go. Oriana’s coming tomorrow – I need to go home
now
.

‘Don’t go!’ The girl was tugging on his shirt. ‘That’s so boring!’ He wasn’t sure what her name was; he wasn’t actually sure whether she’d told him or not.

‘I have to go,’ Jed laughed, removing her hand. She was extremely pretty but absolutely blitzed. For a split-second he cursed Oriana for intruding into what was a sure thing. And then he chastised himself for trying to compare the incomparable. It was all very flattering – and there’d been no one since he’d broken up with Fiona – but did he really want to have sex with this girl? If Oriana wasn’t coming tomorrow, would he really be tempted? He hoped not. He took his leave of all these people he really didn’t know and scanned the bar to say goodbye to the people he did know, those he’d come in with. Friday nights were one ridiculous cliché, he knew it and yet he was a willing member of the cast. However sincere the intention was to make it just a couple of drinks with colleagues, the liquid in their glasses on this one night of the week always diluted their willpower. Jed observed them now, scattered around the bar like a handful of peanuts flung accidentally from a bowl. Mostly drunk and unforgivably oblivious to how much time they’d devoted to their swift half after work. He was one of them. He had to leave.

The fresh air hit him like a slap around the face, sobering him up enough to realize how much he’d had to drink. He jumped in a cab and at last was headed for home.

‘Doing anything nice over the weekend, then?’

‘A friend’s coming to stay.’

‘Oh, yeah.’

‘An old, old friend.’

‘That’ll be grand.’

‘She’s lived abroad for many years.’

‘Oh, yeah – she’s a “she” then, this friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘And “just good friends”, is it?’

Jed glanced at the driver’s eyes, reflected in the rear-view mirror, which were assessing him with a knowing smirk.

‘We’ll see,’ he told the driver. ‘Time will tell.’

Inside, Jed sat awhile on his sofa with a pint glass of water, rotating two Nurofen tablets between his fingers like worry beads. His mind was full, jumbled with thoughts. It wasn’t about the proximity of tomorrow, it was about what lay ahead. Tomorrow he would be ready for her – the cleaner had come today and his flat was spruce. The supermarket would be delivering in the morning so the fridge and cupboards would be full. He had no other plans apart from to settle her in. But once she was here, unpacked, orientated – then what? What happens the day after tomorrow? Or next week? He should phone Malachy – phone his brother and say guess who phoned me and guess what. But that could wait.

He swallowed down the ibuprofen and refilled the water glass. He was determined not to have a hangover when he woke and he’d damn well sit up, sipping water until his head felt truly on top of his neck again and the room was steady around him.

What does she like to eat? What does she have for breakfast? Is she a tea or a coffee person? Does she still eat jam straight from the jar? He looked around. She’d like all the books. But he would put all those back issues of
Stuff
and
GQ
in the recycling tomorrow. She’d recognize the little bronze sculpture of the boxing hares that used to stand at the centre of their kitchen table.

‘Does she want this place as a hotel – or to make it home?’

He looked over to the CDs and DVDs crammed along the shelves in the two alcoves. I bet she’s stayed loyal to Rod and Bruce. He wondered, how much stuff is she bringing with her? His shelves had no space left. He stood, pleased to find the ground was now firmly under his feet. He went over to the DVDs. Has she seen
The Wire
? Shall we watch
The Sopranos
back to back? He pulled out his copy of
Spaced
, wondering whether it was shown in the States when she lived there. He could envisage the two of them relishing evenings in with their teas on their laps, watching boxed sets and laughing at the same things.

‘Is she coming here because she needs a place? Or is she coming here – because it’s me?’

He went through to his kitchen, small and shiny and open plan with the sitting room. It was still unbelievable that Oriana had even asked – and yet the reality of it was imminent. He ran the cold tap and drank directly, the ice-cold tributary which trickled down his neck making him shudder off the final linger of alcohol. In bed, a little while later, he tried to read. The words didn’t bounce around the page, he was pleased to find, but his mind darted this way and that.

‘Sorry, mate,’ he said to Bruce Chatwin, closing the book and letting it drop to the floor beside his bed. ‘Just stay where you are on your Black bloody Hill and I’ll come and find you again soon.’ He switched off the light and stared at the dark nothingness while his mind tried to tidy away the tumble of thoughts and emotions so that he could sleep.

The sound broke through Jed’s dream and turned from being some kind of klaxon at a foreign fair he was at with Oriana, back into his door buzzer. Scrambling from sleep, he hopped his way to the front door whilst pulling on boxer shorts and a sweatshirt. Don’t go, don’t go! he chanted. I need you like you wouldn’t believe.

‘Come up!’ he called into the intercom. ‘Third floor, door on the left – take the lift!’ He kept his finger on the button whilst peeling his ears for the clunk and rumble of the lift. Only then did he relax.

Jesus Christ, he said to himself, if I’m this jittery for shitting Sainsbury’s, what am I going to be like when it’s Oriana?

He hadn’t realized how excessive his online shop had been until he found great difficulty finding space for everything. He hated aubergines, yet he’d ordered two. He’d bought new shampoo, conditioner and shower gel though the bottles he already had were mostly full. He’d bought a four-pinter of milk which he could barely cram into his fridge, and a litre of olive oil in such a tall and fancy glass bottle that he had to lay it on its side, and then it protruded too far for the cupboard door to shut.

‘I cannot believe I ordered capers,’ he murmured, looking at the peculiar little green beads. ‘I cannot believe I ordered capers solely because I read somewhere that they’re an aphrodisiac.’ He laughed out loud and called himself a stupid soft bastard, while wondering if he could risk leaving the
tarte au citron
out of the fridge.

He thought, I wish I’d asked her what time she was thinking of coming. He thought, I wish she’d phoned again just to confirm. He thought, I assume it was Mel on the front desk who gave her my address. He thought, if the MD finds out, he’ll fire her. And Jed thought, have I time to nip out for the papers? He thought he probably did, so out he went.

It was one of those sublime, full spring days which kid you it’s still cold and crisp but within minutes the sun is seeing off layers of clothing. With his sweatshirt tied around his waist, Jed walked fast to the corner shop for the Saturday papers. He bought two Bounty bars too, because they’d always been Oriana’s favourite.

It’s the coconut thing
, he remembered her saying when she progressed on to Malibu.
It’s not the fact that it’s booze – it’s the fact that it’s coconutty. Like an alcoholic Bounty bar.

On his way home, Jed went via the off-licence and bought a half-bottle of Malibu. Sprinting up the stairs to his flat, he suddenly wondered whether Oriana would absolutely hate all these reminders of her past. Once inside, he consigned the bottle and the chocolate bars to the top of his bedroom cupboard. Then he sat down with the papers and a cup of strong black coffee and he rested from the barrage of thoughts and plans. He drank his coffee and he read the newspaper. And he waited.

Malachy wondered if Oriana wanted coffee or tea. On his way to the kitchen, he’d hovered by her door and listened. It was so quiet it was quite possible she’d gone. And yet there was a peculiar warmth and calmness to his home that morning and he knew she was still there. Fast asleep at Windward for the first time in God knows how many years.

He boiled the kettle and also set the little coffee pot on the stove top, grateful to Jed for having bought ground coffee and telling him it would keep fresher in the freezer. The scent and the sound of it brewing were uplifting. He made a cup of tea and a cup of coffee and took them along the corridor, placing both on the floor outside the door. He knocked.

‘Good morning, Miss Taylor,’ he called through, to no answer. He knocked again, this time with a spry rhythm.

‘Morning, Taylor!’

Still no reply. He opened the door a fraction. The bed was empty. When did she go?

‘Morning, Bedwell.’ The sleepy voice drifted up from the mumble of duvet heaped on the floor.

He was alarmed. ‘Did you fall out of bed?’

‘No,’ she said. Her face appeared, like a cartoon creature resurfacing after hibernating. Her hair was mussed and her cheeks were flushed. She was blinking and her face was in a scrunch.

‘Is this some weird yogic-Californian-thang? Sleeping on the floor?’ Malachy asked. He was still on the threshold, him and the two cups.

She laughed a little. Yawned and stretched her arms up out of the swaddle. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it’s a Yogi-Bear-den-theng.’

‘I made you coffee,’ Malachy said. ‘And I made you tea.’ He paused. ‘Take your time. There’s no rush.’

He glanced at his watch as he went back to the kitchen. He’d be leaving for the gallery in little over an hour. Oh, that he needn’t go. Oh, for an assistant. He’d probably sell nothing today – it was a beautiful day and people would be out in the dales, marvelling at spring, just as they should.

Malachy saw that Oriana had bought croissants. Would she mind if he had one? He had to admit to himself that, despite the serendipity of it all, despite the closeness and intimacy they’d shared last night, these croissants hadn’t been bought with him in mind.

Into the kitchen she padded.

‘Sorry – I couldn’t resist,’ he said, through a mouthful of flaky crumbs.

‘May I?’ Oriana asked, mindful this morning that she was in Malachy’s kitchen, not Jed’s.

‘’Scuse fingers,’ he said, passing her a croissant.