himself.
“I’m not late,” I said. “And you know I’m not a generally late person. You must be mixing me up with someone else.”
“No, I don’t think I am, as it happens,” you said, passing me the menu. “I’ve ordered us a bottle of wine—the wine’s good here. And some olives. Are you hungry? The seafood’s good here too. You like crab, don’t you? It’s fresh in from Lowestoft. Probably scuttling across the seabed up there only yesterday.”
“Are you having crab?” I asked. I didn’t like crab. Not at all. My stepmother had tricked me into eating a crab sandwich once in a café in Cromer, told me it was tuna. I’d never forgiven her. You once knew I hated crab. Had you forgotten or were you pretending to have forgotten?
“I’m having the eggplant and chickpeas. And bread—a basket of bread. My kind of food.”
From where I was sitting I could see the stall where the young man mended wicker chairs, and stalls full of market vegetables and organic meats and the smoke from the stall round the other side where they barbecued ostrich burgers. I remembered talking to you and Sarah at the market once, before any of us had become entangled. The three of us had been at the same party the night before and there we were, quite by chance, at the water hydrant on the marketplace, sitting on the same wall, eating lunch. It was May, I think. She’d gone rowing at six A.M ., she’d said, despite her hangover, and she was going home to sleep. She had magnificent arms. I remember that. Rower’s arms.
You poured me a glass of wine and, draining yours, poured yourself another. It was a brown earthy red, a Rioja. We were both doing everything we could to avoid looking at each other.
“We could have gone to the vegetarian café across the road,” I said. “You’re still vegetarian, I assume.”
“Yes, I am. But that café’s not very good anymore and anyway—you like seafood.”
“How do you know I still like seafood?”
“Oh, that won’t have changed. It’s in your blood.”
“I’m genetically programmed to always like seafood?”
“Yes, I wrote the programme. It’s the finest I’ve written. My masterpiece.” You must have seen my eyes narrow. You could still read me then and put your shields up as fast as ever. “Lydia, shit, it’s just a joke, OK? Don’t look at me like that.” You were winning.
“None of your manipulative jokes, eh?”
“Maybe later? A little one?”
“Have I told you how much I dislike you?”
“Many times.” The corners of your mouth had curled into the faintest of smiles. You wanted to fight. I didn’t. Today you would win. Perhaps I didn’t care anymore.
“I’ll have the duck salad. Did you finish your book?” I couldn’t tell you that I had bought and read it; that would have given you too much advantage.
“Yes. I finished it—finally. That was a burden. I
had
to finish it once you’d gone. What are
you
working on now? Actually, I know the answer to that question. I asked Anthony. You’ve just finished a screenplay. Yes?”
“Yes, I’ve just finished a screenplay. Suddenly I know why I live in Brighton, not Cambridge.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you can be private in Brighton—even, on good days, anonymous.”
“Oops, sorry. You’re right. In Cambridge everyone knows everyone else’s business. Especially if you’re famous.”
“I’m not famous.”
“I think you’ll find you are. Famous by Cambridge’s standards. Doesn’t take much.”
“Cameron, stop it now. Enough.”
“Stop what, Dr. Brooke?”
“Your games.”
“So you’re back? You’re looking good. Different. Your hair’s longer. Something’s different. Not sure what. Something about your eyes.”
“Yes, I’m back.”
But not to you. I haven’t come back for you.
“I came for your mother’s funeral. I’m so sorry about Elizabeth. You must be…”
“It’s been five years since I saw you.”
“I know.”
Five years and three months,
“I’m not late,” I said. “And you know I’m not a generally late person. You must be mixing me up with someone else.”
“No, I don’t think I am, as it happens,” you said, passing me the menu. “I’ve ordered us a bottle of wine—the wine’s good here. And some olives. Are you hungry? The seafood’s good here too. You like crab, don’t you? It’s fresh in from Lowestoft. Probably scuttling across the seabed up there only yesterday.”
“Are you having crab?” I asked. I didn’t like crab. Not at all. My stepmother had tricked me into eating a crab sandwich once in a café in Cromer, told me it was tuna. I’d never forgiven her. You once knew I hated crab. Had you forgotten or were you pretending to have forgotten?
“I’m having the eggplant and chickpeas. And bread—a basket of bread. My kind of food.”
From where I was sitting I could see the stall where the young man mended wicker chairs, and stalls full of market vegetables and organic meats and the smoke from the stall round the other side where they barbecued ostrich burgers. I remembered talking to you and Sarah at the market once, before any of us had become entangled. The three of us had been at the same party the night before and there we were, quite by chance, at the water hydrant on the marketplace, sitting on the same wall, eating lunch. It was May, I think. She’d gone rowing at six A.M ., she’d said, despite her hangover, and she was going home to sleep. She had magnificent arms. I remember that. Rower’s arms.
You poured me a glass of wine and, draining yours, poured yourself another. It was a brown earthy red, a Rioja. We were both doing everything we could to avoid looking at each other.
“We could have gone to the vegetarian café across the road,” I said. “You’re still vegetarian, I assume.”
“Yes, I am. But that café’s not very good anymore and anyway—you like seafood.”
“How do you know I still like seafood?”
“Oh, that won’t have changed. It’s in your blood.”
“I’m genetically programmed to always like seafood?”
“Yes, I wrote the programme. It’s the finest I’ve written. My masterpiece.” You must have seen my eyes narrow. You could still read me then and put your shields up as fast as ever. “Lydia, shit, it’s just a joke, OK? Don’t look at me like that.” You were winning.
“None of your manipulative jokes, eh?”
“Maybe later? A little one?”
“Have I told you how much I dislike you?”
“Many times.” The corners of your mouth had curled into the faintest of smiles. You wanted to fight. I didn’t. Today you would win. Perhaps I didn’t care anymore.
“I’ll have the duck salad. Did you finish your book?” I couldn’t tell you that I had bought and read it; that would have given you too much advantage.
“Yes. I finished it—finally. That was a burden. I
had
to finish it once you’d gone. What are
you
working on now? Actually, I know the answer to that question. I asked Anthony. You’ve just finished a screenplay. Yes?”
“Yes, I’ve just finished a screenplay. Suddenly I know why I live in Brighton, not Cambridge.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you can be private in Brighton—even, on good days, anonymous.”
“Oops, sorry. You’re right. In Cambridge everyone knows everyone else’s business. Especially if you’re famous.”
“I’m not famous.”
“I think you’ll find you are. Famous by Cambridge’s standards. Doesn’t take much.”
“Cameron, stop it now. Enough.”
“Stop what, Dr. Brooke?”
“Your games.”
“So you’re back? You’re looking good. Different. Your hair’s longer. Something’s different. Not sure what. Something about your eyes.”
“Yes, I’m back.”
But not to you. I haven’t come back for you.
“I came for your mother’s funeral. I’m so sorry about Elizabeth. You must be…”
“It’s been five years since I saw you.”
“I know.”
Five years and three months,
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