‘Thank you.’
There’s more silence and then Harry breaks it in the worst way. I guess things are flatlining to such a degree that there’s nowhere else to go. ‘What’s your favourite movie?’ he asks.
I have a momentary panic in which I can’t think of any movies other than Face/Off – not because I love it, more that it was on television the weekend before last. I’ve not been to the cinema in years.
‘You first,’ I reply.
‘Die Hard,’ he says in a flash.
‘That’s a good choice,’ I say, playing for time.
‘What’s yours?’
‘Probably The Jungle Book.’ The cartoon version is the first film I can remember seeing as a child.
I wonder if Harry will follow it up, but he nods along. At least I didn’t claim it was Citizen Kane or something like that.
‘Favourite song?’ he asks.
This one is easy, but there’s a stumble as I find myself glancing towards the door. ‘“Rocket Man”,’ I say. ‘By Elton John.’
‘That’s an interesting choice.’ For a moment, I think he’ll tell me his but instead he asks: ‘Why?’
I suddenly feel on the spot and vulnerable. As if revealing this information is too personal, like he’s asked for my PIN. ‘I used to listen to it a lot when I was a kid,’ I say. ‘I don’t know where I first heard it, but it was probably Mum. I used to dream of being an astronaut: saying goodbye to everyone and flying off to the moon, or Mars, or wherever.’
Harry has paused with a forkful of fish halfway to his mouth. ‘Do you still dream of that?’
‘I guess not.’
He puts the food in his mouth and starts to chew. I find myself wondering when I stopped thinking big. Whether it’s something to do with me, or something that all children outgrow. He tells me his favourite song is Sinatra’s ‘My Way’ and it’s hard not to pull a face. I’ve always hated it, probably because I associate it with terrible singers shrieking out karaoke versions.
We go back and forth, talking about books, television shows, comedians, sport and other things. It does make conversation, but the one thing of which I’m certain at the end is that we have almost nothing in common.
As Harry sorts out his desserts, I leave a plate of leftovers for Billy. He barely raises his head but does sit up enough to slowly start to eat. I sit on the floor next to his bed and gently rub the area behind his ears. It is still three days until Bonfire Night but that doesn’t stop a steady stream of fireworks fizzing into the air outside. Each bang pricks Billy’s ears, but he doesn’t hide behind my legs in the way he has before.
Harry soon brings over his volcano cakes, looking over them proudly as if he’s just given birth to twins. He talks me through the ingredients and how he makes them every Christmas. ‘Or for special occasions,’ he adds.
We might have little in common, but there’s no question that Harry’s Gran knew what she was doing when she came up with the recipe. The chocolate is so gooey that my tongue sticks to the top of my mouth and I’m left gasping for a drink.
When we’re done, Harry insists on doing the washing-up, while I dry and put things away. We talk on the sofa for a while, but it’s hard to remember what about, even as the conversation is happening.
‘What are you doing on Bonfire Night?’ he asks.
‘I’ve got to look after Billy,’ I reply.
Billy watches us, apparently aware his name is being used. He’s finished the scraps of food and licked the plate clean.
‘It must be hard at this time of year when you have a dog,’ Harry says.
‘It used to be one of my favourite times of the year,’ I reply. ‘Perhaps my overall favourite, even above Christmas. I loved it all as a kid. That was before trick or treating was really a thing – but we’d go to different firework displays. I used to score them out of ten and keep everything in a notebook so I’d remember.’ I laugh slightly at my own nerdiness. It feels like a lifetime ago.
‘Don’t you like it as much now…?
‘No.’
‘Because of Billy?’
‘It’s when Ben died.’
There’s not a lot to say after that. It’s hard not to hear the bangs overhead and remember the policeman coming along the path to confirm what had happened. Perhaps I’m too honest for my own good, or maybe it’s a get-out because it doesn’t feel as if Harry and I have connected. There was a definite spark with Ben. Sometimes, when Billy dashes to meet me at the door, his tail wagging, his tongue lolling, I wonder if that’s how I used to be with Ben. There was an excitement at having waited a whole day to see him and I was a tail-wagging puppy.
Harry nods along as if he understands and I wonder if he feels the lack of connection, too. Sometimes, things are what they are.
We talk a little more, but there’s no substance. Before long, we’re on about the weather forecast and how it would be nice to have a white Christmas this year.
Eventually, Harry says he has to go. ‘Gotta be up early,’ he adds.
I give him back his crockery and insist he doesn’t leave all the alcohol, then I lead him the few steps to the front door. As soon as I open it, we both stop. The melodic piano opening of Elton John’s ‘Rocket Man’ has just started from the door across the hallway.
Harry turns between me and the opposing flat. I don’t know what to say but, seemingly, neither does he. The hairs on my arm have stood up.
‘Shall we do this again?’ he asks, not mentioning the coincidence of the music.
It would be brutally easy to say ‘no’, but I fudge it instead. The lack of chemistry could be because we’re at my flat, with no space and no atmosphere. It was almost certainly a mistake to invite him here. ‘We’ll figure something out,’ I reply.
Harry nods and I grab my phone, then we head downstairs to the front door. He says goodnight and leans in as I go to turn. He almost ends up slamming his forehead into the bridge of my nose and then we eye each other, curious as to the other’s intentions. In the end, he gives me a peck on the cheek and then heads out.
The door opens and closes, allowing a blast of cold and sulphur into the hall. It’s only a moment, but enough for me, so I hurry back up the stairs. As I reach my apartment, Elton is still singing from the one opposite. He’s up to the second or third chorus and I hover between the two flats, unsure what to do. The sheer coincidence of it leaves me gnawing my fingernails. I step towards my own door and then briskly change my mind, spinning on my heels and knocking lightly on Jade’s old flat.
I wait for a moment, holding my breath, and then knock a second time. Louder this time. ‘Hello,’ I call.
No answer.
‘Could you turn the music down?’
I wait, unsure what to do next, when my phone starts to buzz. It’s Unknown once more and I’m lost staring at the screen until the caller rings off.
Back inside my flat, Billy has picked himself up from his bed and is ambling around the apartment sniffing the furniture. I crouch and ruffle his ears.
Perhaps it wasn’t only me who felt no connection.
The number 24 bus is packed when I get on. It’s busier than it was on Friday when the money ended up in my bag. People are getting off, but it’s like a clown car because the amount on board doesn’t seem to be decreasing.
As I finally get in front of the driver, I reach into my purse, but my pass isn’t there. My stomach sinks once more as I thumb through the other compartments searching for it. It’s then that I look up and realise the driver has disappeared. Confused, I turn to see where he’s gone, but there are only empty rows of unused seats. I try to breathe, but the air is stuck and, when I look down, I realise my feet are bare. I’ve forgotten my shoes. Not only that, I’m wearing nothing at all. I cover myself with my arms and it’s then that everything begins to buzz. My entire body is shaking involuntarily as the entire world rumbles.