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Authors: Nigel Farndale
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had said to him as he wound down the taxi window to wave goodbye. The shorthand that spoke the immeasurable words of their love.
His fingers loosen. The photo drops to the floor. He reaches out to steady himself and his hand falls on a brush. There are long, balled-up hairs caught on its teeth. Pale blonde. It must have been Frejya’s brush. These must be Frejya’s hairs. He tugs them out, holds them to his nose and, for the first time in years, thinks he can smell something. It is sweet and musty, the smell of flour. As he detects it, a faint blur of colour swims before his eyes like a shoal of tropical fish, and then is gone. He picks up a bottle of scent. Frejya’s scent. Again the brief suffusion before he returns to his world of black and white.
He closes his eyes and pictures her slow blink. Hears her loose laughter as he tips her on the bed and kisses her bare feet before tugging off her jeans. Feels the warmth of her soft belly against his.
Her absence is like a presence now, as tangible as an indentation, as if she has just risen from the bed and the sheets are still warm from where she had been lying. He walks over to the fittedcupboard and, opening the door, contemplates the dresses queuing up on the rack. As he runs his hands along them, setting them in motion, he remembers Frejya trying them on, smoothing them out over her hips.
He pulls out a cocktail dress of oriental brocade. It looks grey, though he remembers it as red and gold. As he holds it to his nose there is a shimmer of colours, a brief sensation of softness in his hands and a prickly awareness of someone else in the room. He looks up.
Frejya is standing in the bedroom doorway in her dressing gown, watching him.
‘They told me you were dead,’ Edward says.
Hannah covers her mouth with her hand. Shakes her head slowly.
Edward holds up the dress and smiles. ‘Your clothes still smell of you.’
II
AS HE APPROACHES THE HOUSE, NIALL ACKNOWLEDGES WITH A HALF -salute the lone photographer waiting under an umbrella across the street. When he reaches the doorstep, he pumps his own up and down a couple of times and pats his pockets for the housekeys. The lock turns with a familiar clack-clack and he stamps his shoes on the mat before bending down to scoop up the post scattered across it. He shivers as the prickles brush against the backs of his fingers. More familiarity.
‘Hello,’ he says at the foot of the stairs as he drops the free newspapers, fliers and magazines in a bin. The bills and letters addressed to Frejya he puts on the radiator cover. ‘Anyone home?’
The house smells of two-week-old flowers. It is gloomy, but no one has turned on the lights. He listens. Hearing Hannah playing an acoustic guitar upstairs, plucking the strings with her fingertips in the Spanish style, he remembers how alive it made him feel when he used to call round here and check on her after her mother died. She had turned the house into student digs, renting out bedrooms to two nineteen-year-olds on her foundation course. They seemed to spend all their time texting, experimenting with eyelash extensions and listening to hip-hop. There would be unwashed plates around the sink, labels on food in the fridge, the stale smell of marijuana in the air.
Niall hesitates before entering the sitting room. Edward will be in there, staring out of the window as usual. It will smell like an infirmary: overheated and chemical. But he hopes his old friend will be more communicative this time, hopes that the thin layer of ice in which he is encased will have thawed a little.
He skitters his fingernails against the door panel before entering. ‘Hello? Northy?’
Edward looks up, sees who it is and looks down again. He is wearing a tracksuit with a hood. His feet are bare. He hasn’t shaved.
‘Shall I put the kettle on?’
Edward forces a smile. ‘Just had one.’
‘There was a snapper outside,’ Niall says. ‘I’m assuming he’s a freelance because, as far as
His fingers loosen. The photo drops to the floor. He reaches out to steady himself and his hand falls on a brush. There are long, balled-up hairs caught on its teeth. Pale blonde. It must have been Frejya’s brush. These must be Frejya’s hairs. He tugs them out, holds them to his nose and, for the first time in years, thinks he can smell something. It is sweet and musty, the smell of flour. As he detects it, a faint blur of colour swims before his eyes like a shoal of tropical fish, and then is gone. He picks up a bottle of scent. Frejya’s scent. Again the brief suffusion before he returns to his world of black and white.
He closes his eyes and pictures her slow blink. Hears her loose laughter as he tips her on the bed and kisses her bare feet before tugging off her jeans. Feels the warmth of her soft belly against his.
Her absence is like a presence now, as tangible as an indentation, as if she has just risen from the bed and the sheets are still warm from where she had been lying. He walks over to the fittedcupboard and, opening the door, contemplates the dresses queuing up on the rack. As he runs his hands along them, setting them in motion, he remembers Frejya trying them on, smoothing them out over her hips.
He pulls out a cocktail dress of oriental brocade. It looks grey, though he remembers it as red and gold. As he holds it to his nose there is a shimmer of colours, a brief sensation of softness in his hands and a prickly awareness of someone else in the room. He looks up.
Frejya is standing in the bedroom doorway in her dressing gown, watching him.
‘They told me you were dead,’ Edward says.
Hannah covers her mouth with her hand. Shakes her head slowly.
Edward holds up the dress and smiles. ‘Your clothes still smell of you.’
II
AS HE APPROACHES THE HOUSE, NIALL ACKNOWLEDGES WITH A HALF -salute the lone photographer waiting under an umbrella across the street. When he reaches the doorstep, he pumps his own up and down a couple of times and pats his pockets for the housekeys. The lock turns with a familiar clack-clack and he stamps his shoes on the mat before bending down to scoop up the post scattered across it. He shivers as the prickles brush against the backs of his fingers. More familiarity.
‘Hello,’ he says at the foot of the stairs as he drops the free newspapers, fliers and magazines in a bin. The bills and letters addressed to Frejya he puts on the radiator cover. ‘Anyone home?’
The house smells of two-week-old flowers. It is gloomy, but no one has turned on the lights. He listens. Hearing Hannah playing an acoustic guitar upstairs, plucking the strings with her fingertips in the Spanish style, he remembers how alive it made him feel when he used to call round here and check on her after her mother died. She had turned the house into student digs, renting out bedrooms to two nineteen-year-olds on her foundation course. They seemed to spend all their time texting, experimenting with eyelash extensions and listening to hip-hop. There would be unwashed plates around the sink, labels on food in the fridge, the stale smell of marijuana in the air.
Niall hesitates before entering the sitting room. Edward will be in there, staring out of the window as usual. It will smell like an infirmary: overheated and chemical. But he hopes his old friend will be more communicative this time, hopes that the thin layer of ice in which he is encased will have thawed a little.
He skitters his fingernails against the door panel before entering. ‘Hello? Northy?’
Edward looks up, sees who it is and looks down again. He is wearing a tracksuit with a hood. His feet are bare. He hasn’t shaved.
‘Shall I put the kettle on?’
Edward forces a smile. ‘Just had one.’
‘There was a snapper outside,’ Niall says. ‘I’m assuming he’s a freelance because, as far as
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