go." He disconnected. Michael had never been one to toss around "I love you" as an end to trivial conversations and Frannie, equally reserved, never expected it. Even during their courtship he'd never said those words, though he'd been wildly infatuated. One night she'd announced, "You love me, I know you do." Finding no reason to disagree, he'd presented her with an engagement ring the next day. And when Edward was born, he'd held the bundle in his arms and whispered, "I love you." He'd done the same with Viv. Those had been the best moments of his marriage, creating two new individuals with Frannie. Maybe he did need to spend more time with his family. His kids, at least.
When James woke up, they shared a nice takeaway dinner—Indian green curry, tandoori scallops and shatkora along with some white rice and mango chutney. They drank iced water. This time James managed to keep everything down, though the antibiotics still troubled his stomach. Michael had furnished the place only sparingly—one IKEA sofa, two torchière lamps, a flat screen TV hung opposite the sofa and a Blu-ray player. James, already aware of Michael's detached house in Brixton, found the new flat impossibly posh.
"So you're a rich bloke," he said as Michael stowed the leftovers in the fridge.
"I'm a comfortable bloke."
"What do you do for a living? Wait, don't tell me. I'll guess." James squinted at Michael as if X-raying him. "You're a university professor."
"A writer."
"Really? Like Harry Potter and Twilight ?"
"Like textbooks. Introduction to Biology. Fundamentals of Ecology, Second Edition . And so on."
James visibly deflated. "Never figured you for the sadist type."
Michael chuckled. "I guess for those who didn't enjoy school, that's exactly what I am."
"And people pay lots of money for textbooks?" James tried not to sound skeptical.
"Not really. My money comes from my mum. She died when I was five."
"How?"
"Wrongful death." Michael brought his glass of iced water over to the sofa and sat down beside James. "She had lung cancer. Never smoked a day, it just happened. The hospital was meant to remove her diseased left lung. They removed her right by mistake." Michael couldn't pretend an excess of emotion where none existed. He didn't remember his mother, not really. He still felt the lack of her, the void, but it was amorphous. Probably boys who'd never known their mums felt more or less the same. "Anyway, she lived long enough with one cancerous lung to sue and receive a settlement. The money came to me as a trust fund. It's always been there, a crutch, something I could turn to if everything else went wrong."
"How often have you dipped into it?"
"Three times. To make a down payment on the house in Brixton. To rent this flat. And..." Michael smiled, unsure how to say the rest properly.
"Oh. Yes. To fix up your toothless, diseased whore."
"Please don't start that again." Michael was still unsettled by what happened at his former workplace and eager to forget it. But dealing with it would have been so much easier if he knew what he felt—anger, sadness, rage, contrition or fear. Surely if he could name what he felt, he could process it. In textbooks, defining a basic vocabulary was often the first step.
"Let's watch a movie." Michael switched on the streaming service. "You pick."
James's entertainment tastes were quite different from Frannie's. She tended to enjoy human dramas where people lied, slept around or even murdered for dense psychosocial reasons. Or else she liked highbrow romances where repressed men in puffy shirts made love to dowerless girls and/or governesses. James preferred cars, guns, slow-motion stunts and explosions. He chose something Michael had heard of but Frannie had never let him watch, a violent fable starring Angelina Jolie, and they spent the next ninety minutes immersed in gunplay, assassination and cataclysmic stunts.
"I love this part." James, who'd apparently memorized the movie, insisted Michael
When James woke up, they shared a nice takeaway dinner—Indian green curry, tandoori scallops and shatkora along with some white rice and mango chutney. They drank iced water. This time James managed to keep everything down, though the antibiotics still troubled his stomach. Michael had furnished the place only sparingly—one IKEA sofa, two torchière lamps, a flat screen TV hung opposite the sofa and a Blu-ray player. James, already aware of Michael's detached house in Brixton, found the new flat impossibly posh.
"So you're a rich bloke," he said as Michael stowed the leftovers in the fridge.
"I'm a comfortable bloke."
"What do you do for a living? Wait, don't tell me. I'll guess." James squinted at Michael as if X-raying him. "You're a university professor."
"A writer."
"Really? Like Harry Potter and Twilight ?"
"Like textbooks. Introduction to Biology. Fundamentals of Ecology, Second Edition . And so on."
James visibly deflated. "Never figured you for the sadist type."
Michael chuckled. "I guess for those who didn't enjoy school, that's exactly what I am."
"And people pay lots of money for textbooks?" James tried not to sound skeptical.
"Not really. My money comes from my mum. She died when I was five."
"How?"
"Wrongful death." Michael brought his glass of iced water over to the sofa and sat down beside James. "She had lung cancer. Never smoked a day, it just happened. The hospital was meant to remove her diseased left lung. They removed her right by mistake." Michael couldn't pretend an excess of emotion where none existed. He didn't remember his mother, not really. He still felt the lack of her, the void, but it was amorphous. Probably boys who'd never known their mums felt more or less the same. "Anyway, she lived long enough with one cancerous lung to sue and receive a settlement. The money came to me as a trust fund. It's always been there, a crutch, something I could turn to if everything else went wrong."
"How often have you dipped into it?"
"Three times. To make a down payment on the house in Brixton. To rent this flat. And..." Michael smiled, unsure how to say the rest properly.
"Oh. Yes. To fix up your toothless, diseased whore."
"Please don't start that again." Michael was still unsettled by what happened at his former workplace and eager to forget it. But dealing with it would have been so much easier if he knew what he felt—anger, sadness, rage, contrition or fear. Surely if he could name what he felt, he could process it. In textbooks, defining a basic vocabulary was often the first step.
"Let's watch a movie." Michael switched on the streaming service. "You pick."
James's entertainment tastes were quite different from Frannie's. She tended to enjoy human dramas where people lied, slept around or even murdered for dense psychosocial reasons. Or else she liked highbrow romances where repressed men in puffy shirts made love to dowerless girls and/or governesses. James preferred cars, guns, slow-motion stunts and explosions. He chose something Michael had heard of but Frannie had never let him watch, a violent fable starring Angelina Jolie, and they spent the next ninety minutes immersed in gunplay, assassination and cataclysmic stunts.
"I love this part." James, who'd apparently memorized the movie, insisted Michael
Similar Books
