shouldn’t have,” she said as she took it. “Honestly, no need. Thank you.”
There was a swell of voices in the room behind her, a cacophony of registers and conversations. Leading Michael towards them, Samantha called over the heads of her guests.
“Josh? Josh? Look who’s here.”
“Who?”
Michael recognised his voice from the night he’d moved in. Authority laced with surprise. She touched his arm.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” she said, looking genuinely alarmed. “I’m useless with names.”
He reminded her and she called to Josh again. “Michael,” she said, leaning into the crowd, one hand on the door frame. “From next door.”
She turned back to him, flashing another smile. “I’ll just pop this in the fridge. Josh’ll sort you out.”
He watched her walk away. Her blonde hair was up, held by a clasp in the shape of a red flower. Her heels, also red, were sudden and sharp on the kitchen tiles.
“What can I get you?”
Josh’s question arrived with his hand, firm on Michael’s back, guiding him into the room. It was loud with people, more smiles, drinks. Children holding glasses of orange juice in both hands passed between the legs of the adults, or offered bowls of nuts and crisps to the friends of their parents. As Josh led Michael towards a table of bottles and glasses he seemed markedly different from the man who’d looked out at the nighttime Heath a few weeks before, a man on his first drink, not his last.
As Josh poured him a glass of wine, Michael tried to listen to what he was saying. But the room’s activity had caught him unawares. His attention was already scattering in anticipation. He’d been back in London for five weeks now, but he’d yet to open himself to a social occasion like this. His recovery, he’d already learnt, would rely on routine, in avoiding anything that might accentuate the space of Caroline at his side. His memory had become a minefield. He’d never known his body to respond so quickly to thought, or imagined his mind could produce such physical pain, such tears. He was not used to crying, but even now, six months after her death, a thought of Caroline, the shadow of an image, the recall of how she tied up her hair before a shower or dabbed spots of moisturiser on her cheeks, could be enough to make his chest thicken, his breath shallow, and his eyes fill.
To avoid such uninvited memories, he’d kept himself away from older friends, or from anyone who’d known him and Caroline as a couple. He’d declined his editor’s invitations to book launches, and had only agreed to meet with his agent at a restaurant away from his office. Cinemas, galleries, or theatres to which he and Caroline had once gone together were out of the question. In this way, London had been diminished by his grief, and so though familiar, made strange again, too.
As Josh poured himself another glass of red a child appeared at his leg, a girl tugging at his shirt. Her blonde hair had come loose of its bow. Smudges of chocolate were smeared across her T-shirt, its patterned hem hanging wide from her belly.
“Hey,” Josh said to her. “You come to say hello?” He bent to pick her up.
“This is Lucy,” he said, hitching her in the crook of his arm. “And this,” he continued, prising Lucy’s knuckle from her mouth, “is Michael, our new neighbour.”
Lucy buried her face in her father’s shoulder. Grasping at his collar, she rubbed its crease between her fingers.
“Oh, gone shy on us, have you?” Josh said to her, winking at Michael. “We’ll see how long that lasts, eh?”
―
Josh knew his daughter well. Less than half an hour later Lucy came to find Michael in the crowd, a doll in each of her hands. He was sitting on the arm of a sofa, on the edges of a conversation about the local hospital.
“This is Molly,” Lucy said by way of introduction, thrusting one of the dolls towards him. “And this”—she pushed out the other doll, its face marked with
There was a swell of voices in the room behind her, a cacophony of registers and conversations. Leading Michael towards them, Samantha called over the heads of her guests.
“Josh? Josh? Look who’s here.”
“Who?”
Michael recognised his voice from the night he’d moved in. Authority laced with surprise. She touched his arm.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” she said, looking genuinely alarmed. “I’m useless with names.”
He reminded her and she called to Josh again. “Michael,” she said, leaning into the crowd, one hand on the door frame. “From next door.”
She turned back to him, flashing another smile. “I’ll just pop this in the fridge. Josh’ll sort you out.”
He watched her walk away. Her blonde hair was up, held by a clasp in the shape of a red flower. Her heels, also red, were sudden and sharp on the kitchen tiles.
“What can I get you?”
Josh’s question arrived with his hand, firm on Michael’s back, guiding him into the room. It was loud with people, more smiles, drinks. Children holding glasses of orange juice in both hands passed between the legs of the adults, or offered bowls of nuts and crisps to the friends of their parents. As Josh led Michael towards a table of bottles and glasses he seemed markedly different from the man who’d looked out at the nighttime Heath a few weeks before, a man on his first drink, not his last.
As Josh poured him a glass of wine, Michael tried to listen to what he was saying. But the room’s activity had caught him unawares. His attention was already scattering in anticipation. He’d been back in London for five weeks now, but he’d yet to open himself to a social occasion like this. His recovery, he’d already learnt, would rely on routine, in avoiding anything that might accentuate the space of Caroline at his side. His memory had become a minefield. He’d never known his body to respond so quickly to thought, or imagined his mind could produce such physical pain, such tears. He was not used to crying, but even now, six months after her death, a thought of Caroline, the shadow of an image, the recall of how she tied up her hair before a shower or dabbed spots of moisturiser on her cheeks, could be enough to make his chest thicken, his breath shallow, and his eyes fill.
To avoid such uninvited memories, he’d kept himself away from older friends, or from anyone who’d known him and Caroline as a couple. He’d declined his editor’s invitations to book launches, and had only agreed to meet with his agent at a restaurant away from his office. Cinemas, galleries, or theatres to which he and Caroline had once gone together were out of the question. In this way, London had been diminished by his grief, and so though familiar, made strange again, too.
As Josh poured himself another glass of red a child appeared at his leg, a girl tugging at his shirt. Her blonde hair had come loose of its bow. Smudges of chocolate were smeared across her T-shirt, its patterned hem hanging wide from her belly.
“Hey,” Josh said to her. “You come to say hello?” He bent to pick her up.
“This is Lucy,” he said, hitching her in the crook of his arm. “And this,” he continued, prising Lucy’s knuckle from her mouth, “is Michael, our new neighbour.”
Lucy buried her face in her father’s shoulder. Grasping at his collar, she rubbed its crease between her fingers.
“Oh, gone shy on us, have you?” Josh said to her, winking at Michael. “We’ll see how long that lasts, eh?”
―
Josh knew his daughter well. Less than half an hour later Lucy came to find Michael in the crowd, a doll in each of her hands. He was sitting on the arm of a sofa, on the edges of a conversation about the local hospital.
“This is Molly,” Lucy said by way of introduction, thrusting one of the dolls towards him. “And this”—she pushed out the other doll, its face marked with
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