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Authors: Laura Wilson
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please—let go.”
He dropped my hands and stepped back. I turned round to face him, rubbing my wrists. “What did you think you were doing? That hurt.”
“Sorry,” he said. He didn’t look it. His voice was mechanical, his eyes blank. I pushed past him to the dresser. “You need a glass.”
Jack took the whisky and the sandwich over to the table and sat down as if nothing had happened. I followed him with a glass and then returned to the roses.
“What’s up?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound as shaken as I felt.
“Well . . . I’ve been trying to learn lines for this play I’m supposed to be doing, but what with all the banging and crashing, and being persona non grata with Val, I thought it would be best for everyone if I decamped. So I said to myself, I’ll go and see my old friend Alice, she’ll be lonely all on her own.”
“It was a kind thought but I’m fine. Honestly.”
“You know I’ve always been fond of you, sweetheart. I felt sorry for you. I heard about What’s’isname—your husband.”
“Jeff Jones. What about him?”
“Are you going back to him?”
I sighed. “We’re divorced.”
“Sensible girl. Once a Welshman, always a cunt, in my book.”
“Jack! That’s a horrible thing to say.”
“Sorry. It’s only because I’m so fond of you, darling. I won’t be in your way. I can sit in the garden. And I can help you bringing in the sheaves or whatever it is you do. It’ll be nice to spend some time in the country.”
I gave up. “Look, I’m tired. You can stay the night and we’ll discuss it in the morning. There’s a spare room. Why don’t you finish that while I get some sheets?”
Jack pushed the half-eaten sandwich away. “I’ll come with you. I’m not used to this level of mastication.”
“Okay.” Without thinking, I leant forward to pick up the scotch and put it back in the cupboard, but Jack was there. Our eyes met above the bottle.
“I wouldn’t mind a drop more,” he said, taking it from me. After a moment, he said, “Don’t worry, I’m not . . . I’m okay. Long day, that’s all.” I didn’t answer. Jack looked irritated. “Alice, for God’s sake . . . I’m fine.”
“Are you?”
“Yes!”
He didn’t try to touch me again, just sat in the spare-room armchair, pouring scotch into his glass while I made up the bed. When I’d finished all he said was, “Good night, my darling. I’ll buy you some white sliced in the morning.”
I made a point of taking the whisky back downstairs with me. There was something about the speed with which Jack had got to the bottle, the way our hands had touched on the neck, the expression on his face . . . it reminded me so much of Lenny. Jack had never been much of a drinker, not that I remembered. Well, he drank, but only like most people did—not to excess. Perhaps I’d imagined it.
What the hell, I thought, and poured one for myself. I took it out into the yard. I leant against the back wall, listening to Eustace nosing about under the hedge and trying to work out how I felt. Confused, yes—worried, yes . . . but not actually frightened. Not like I’d been before. More sort of . . . distanced. Perhaps that was the scotch, I thought, taking another sip. I wasn’t used to it. I’d got the newspaper cutting on . . . when? Monday. And Jack turns up, out of the blue, on Thursday. It might be a coincidence, but after six years . . . He might have sent it himself—but why, if he was planning on seeing me? Why not just bring it with him?
I wasn’t sure how I felt about Jack. A mixture of things. Seeing him in my kitchen like that had brought Lenny’s memory back so sharply that I’d felt as if he might walk through the door at any moment, as if he wasn’t dead at all but had just nipped down to the pub or something. It wasn’t rational, but . . . just . . . what? Jack’s vitality—his force, his . . . Oh God. What am I doing? I hadn’t seen Jack since Lenny’s funeral. Too painful.
He dropped my hands and stepped back. I turned round to face him, rubbing my wrists. “What did you think you were doing? That hurt.”
“Sorry,” he said. He didn’t look it. His voice was mechanical, his eyes blank. I pushed past him to the dresser. “You need a glass.”
Jack took the whisky and the sandwich over to the table and sat down as if nothing had happened. I followed him with a glass and then returned to the roses.
“What’s up?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound as shaken as I felt.
“Well . . . I’ve been trying to learn lines for this play I’m supposed to be doing, but what with all the banging and crashing, and being persona non grata with Val, I thought it would be best for everyone if I decamped. So I said to myself, I’ll go and see my old friend Alice, she’ll be lonely all on her own.”
“It was a kind thought but I’m fine. Honestly.”
“You know I’ve always been fond of you, sweetheart. I felt sorry for you. I heard about What’s’isname—your husband.”
“Jeff Jones. What about him?”
“Are you going back to him?”
I sighed. “We’re divorced.”
“Sensible girl. Once a Welshman, always a cunt, in my book.”
“Jack! That’s a horrible thing to say.”
“Sorry. It’s only because I’m so fond of you, darling. I won’t be in your way. I can sit in the garden. And I can help you bringing in the sheaves or whatever it is you do. It’ll be nice to spend some time in the country.”
I gave up. “Look, I’m tired. You can stay the night and we’ll discuss it in the morning. There’s a spare room. Why don’t you finish that while I get some sheets?”
Jack pushed the half-eaten sandwich away. “I’ll come with you. I’m not used to this level of mastication.”
“Okay.” Without thinking, I leant forward to pick up the scotch and put it back in the cupboard, but Jack was there. Our eyes met above the bottle.
“I wouldn’t mind a drop more,” he said, taking it from me. After a moment, he said, “Don’t worry, I’m not . . . I’m okay. Long day, that’s all.” I didn’t answer. Jack looked irritated. “Alice, for God’s sake . . . I’m fine.”
“Are you?”
“Yes!”
He didn’t try to touch me again, just sat in the spare-room armchair, pouring scotch into his glass while I made up the bed. When I’d finished all he said was, “Good night, my darling. I’ll buy you some white sliced in the morning.”
I made a point of taking the whisky back downstairs with me. There was something about the speed with which Jack had got to the bottle, the way our hands had touched on the neck, the expression on his face . . . it reminded me so much of Lenny. Jack had never been much of a drinker, not that I remembered. Well, he drank, but only like most people did—not to excess. Perhaps I’d imagined it.
What the hell, I thought, and poured one for myself. I took it out into the yard. I leant against the back wall, listening to Eustace nosing about under the hedge and trying to work out how I felt. Confused, yes—worried, yes . . . but not actually frightened. Not like I’d been before. More sort of . . . distanced. Perhaps that was the scotch, I thought, taking another sip. I wasn’t used to it. I’d got the newspaper cutting on . . . when? Monday. And Jack turns up, out of the blue, on Thursday. It might be a coincidence, but after six years . . . He might have sent it himself—but why, if he was planning on seeing me? Why not just bring it with him?
I wasn’t sure how I felt about Jack. A mixture of things. Seeing him in my kitchen like that had brought Lenny’s memory back so sharply that I’d felt as if he might walk through the door at any moment, as if he wasn’t dead at all but had just nipped down to the pub or something. It wasn’t rational, but . . . just . . . what? Jack’s vitality—his force, his . . . Oh God. What am I doing? I hadn’t seen Jack since Lenny’s funeral. Too painful.
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