Read Online The Living by Léan Cullinan - Free Book Online Page B

which we ambled into town through a sunny, breezy afternoon and ended up going to a film in the Savoy. It was a lavish Hollywood feel-good movie, much better than I expected. We bought popcorn and fizzy drinks, and Matthew sat with his arm round me for most of the film. When we emerged afterwards into the yellowing dusk I felt as if I’d been given a transfusion of energy.
    It was windier than it had been, a damp, whipping wind that threatened to develop into rain. Matthew turned up the collar of his jacket and pinched the end of his nose. We walked down to the river hand in hand.
    We stopped at the bridge. ‘Madam,’ said Matthew, ‘you’ve been charming company.’ He kissed me gently. ‘I believe my bus stop is this way,’ he said.
    â€˜Mine’s just across here.’
    â€˜Right.’ He fished in an inner pocket and produced his phone. ‘I suppose we’d better do this bit, then. What’s your number? I’ll text you.’
    I told him my number, and a few seconds later I read on my phone: ‘This is me. 990’
    â€˜What’s the nine hundred and ninety for?’
    â€˜Think about it,’ he said.
    â€˜It’s ten less than a thousand … which is … I don’t know.’
    â€˜Go on, you’re on the right track. Think Latin.’
    I laughed aloud. ‘Oh, my god, it’s XM , right? Like a Roman numeral?’
    â€˜The woman is sharp!’
    â€˜The man is a big nerd!’
    We kissed goodbye, and Matthew loped off towards the river, turning to wave at me before he’d gone thirty feet. I floated across to the bus stop and replied to his text as I waited: ‘Look, I can be a nerd too! 90’ I could still feel the ghost of his touch, taste his sweat, his kisses. I felt shiny and precious, like silver.
    S UMMER WAS LONG gone: the urban greenery on my wonted routes grew russet-flushed, the light turned to liquid gold and the promise of chill brushed my face. As always, I loved it when branches whispered to me as I went by, and one or two leaves dried out and fell, a prelude to the devastation ahead. I hunted out last winter’s hat and scarf, although it was not yet cold enough to wear them.
    Matthew came round every few days. We went on proper dates: saw plays and films, visited galleries, ate in restaurants, spent slow, delicious nights in my wide bed. He was funny, considerate– and had an antiquated streak that meant he ended up paying for both of us more often than not. He had a poise to him, a polished presentation that I found irresistible. He made a commendable carbonara – ‘my party piece,’ he said. His hands were always warm.
    By mutual agreement we were discreet at choir, confining ourselves to friendly greetings and participation in the same conversations at the pub. It seemed important to establish the dynamic between us properly before exposing it to scrutiny.
    I’d never felt so grown-up. Mostly, I’d gone out with men who didn’t do dates – who preferred to wander into my world and stay there for a while, oscillating between bed and the sofa. Late-night DVDs over ice-cream or pizza from a box. Relationships saturated in the flickering light of the television screen. Matthew was different. He seemed whole, somehow – self-contained – drawn to me not out of some unarticulated need but by conscious choice. It was exhilarating, like nothing I’d experienced before. The straightforwardness of our interaction astonished me. I did not talk about my past, and nor did he. With him, there was no need to go digging in the murk. I was used to twisty dramas, coded messages, labyrinthine desires – anything but the plain English we seemed to be able to use with one another.
    Now and then I wondered what my younger self would have said about all this if she’d known. Teenaged Cate had held some rather intemperate opinions – she would have looked askance, to