“It was nothing of the sort. I was just trying to…” I trailed off, because I noticed Emily was looking around the room with an expression of wonder.
“Oh, Raymond,” she muttered, almost to herself.
“I suppose I was being a little clumsy earlier on. I would have tidied up, except you came back early.”
I reached down to the fallen standard lamp, but Emily restrained me.
“It doesn’t matter, Ray. It really doesn’t matter at all. We can sort it all out together later. You just sit down now and relax.”
“Look, Emily, I realise it’s your own home and all that. But why did you creep in so quietly?”
“I didn’t creep in, darling. I called when I came in, but you didn’t seem to be here. So I just popped into the loo and when I came out, well, there you were after all. But why go over it? None of it matters. I’m here now, and we can have a relaxing evening together. Please do sit down, Raymond. I’ll make some tea.”
She was already going towards the kitchen as she said this. I was fiddling with the shade of the standard lamp and so it took me a moment to remember what was in there-by which time it was too late. I listened for her reaction, but there was only silence. Eventually I put down the lampshade and made my way to the kitchen doorway.
The saucepan was still bubbling away nicely, the steam rising around the upheld sole of the boot. The smell, which I’d barely registered until this point, was much more obvious in the kitchen itself. It was pungent, sure enough, and vaguely curryish. More than anything else, it conjured up those times you yank your foot out of a boot after a long sweaty hike.
Emily was standing a few paces back from the cooker, craning her neck to get as good a view of the pot as possible from a safe distance. She seemed absorbed by the sight of it, and when I gave a small laugh to announce my presence, she didn’t shift her gaze, let alone turn around.
I squeezed past her and sat down at the kitchen table. Eventually, she turned to me with a kindly smile. “It was a terribly sweet thought, Raymond.”
Then, as though against her will, her gaze was pulled back to the cooker.
I could see in front of me the tipped-up sugar bowl-and the diary-and a huge feeling of weariness came over me. Everything felt suddenly overwhelming, and I decided the only way forward was to stop all the games and come clean. Taking a deep breath, I said:
“Look, Emily. Things might look a little odd here. But it was all because of this diary of yours. This one here.” I opened it to the damaged page and showed her. “It was really very wrong of me, and I’m truly sorry. But I happened to open it, and then, well, I happened to scrunch up the page. Like this…”I mimicked a less venomous version of my earlier action, then looked at her.
To my astonishment, she gave the diary no more than a cursory glance before turning back to the pot, saying: “Oh, that’s just a jotter. Nothing private. Don’t you worry about it, Ray.” Then she moved a step closer to the saucepan to study it all the better.
“What do you mean? What do you mean, don’t worry about it? How can you say that?”
“What’s the matter, Raymond? It’s just something to jot down stuff I might forget.”
“But Charlie told me you’d go ballistic!” My sense of outrage was now being added to by the fact that Emily had obviously forgotten what she’d been writing about me.
“Really? Charlie told you I’d be angry?”
“Yes! In fact, he said you’d once told him you’d saw his balls off if he ever peeked inside this little book!”
I wasn’t sure if Emily’s puzzled look was due to what I was saying, or still left over from gazing at the saucepan. She sat down next to me and thought for a moment.
“No,” she said, eventually. “That was about something else. I remember it clearly now. About this time last year, Charlie got despondent about something and asked what I’d do if he committed suicide. He was just testing me, he’s far too chicken to try anything like that. But he asked, so I told him if he did anything like that I’d saw his balls off. That’s the only time I’ve said that to him. I mean, it’s not like a refrain on my part.”
“I don’t get this. If he committed suicide, you’d do that to him? Afterwards?”
“It was just a figure of speech, Raymond. I was just trying to express how much I’d dislike him topping himself. I was making him feel valued.”
“You’re missing my point. If you do it afterwards, it’s not really a disincentive, is it? Or maybe you’re right, it would be…”
“Raymond, let’s forget it. Let’s forget all of this. There’s a lamb casserole from yesterday, there’s over half of it left. It was pretty good last night, and it’ll be even better tonight. And we can open a nice bottle of Bordeaux. It was awfully sweet of you to start preparing something for us. But the casserole’s probably the thing for tonight, don’t you think?”
All attempts to explain now seemed beyond me. “Okay, okay. Lamb casserole. Terrific. Yes, yes.”
“So… we can put this away for now?”
“Yes, yes. Please do. Please put it away.”
I got up and went into the living room-which of course was still a mess, but I no longer had the energy to start tidying. Instead, I lay down on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. At one point, I was aware of Emily coming into the room, and I thought she’d gone through to the hall, but then I realised she was crouched in the far corner, fiddling with the hi-fi. The next thing, the room filled with lush strings, bluesy horns, and Sarah Vaughan singing “Lover Man.”
A sense of relief and comfort washed over me. Nodding to the slow beat, I closed my eyes, remembering how all those years ago, in her college room, she and I had argued for over an hour about whether Billie Holiday always sang this song better than Sarah Vaughan.
Emily touched my shoulder and handed me a glass of red wine. She had a frilly apron on over her business suit, and was holding a glass for herself. She sat down at the far end of the sofa, next to my feet, and took a sip. Then she turned down the volume a little with her remote.
“It’s been an awful day,” she said. “I don’t mean just work, which is a total mess. I mean Charlie going, everything. Don’t imagine it doesn’t hurt me, to have him go off abroad like that when we haven’t made up. Then to cap it all, you finally go and tip over the edge.” She gave a long sigh.
“No, really, Emily, it’s not as bad as that. For a start, Charlie thinks the world of you. And as for me, I’m fine. I’m really fine.”
“Bollocks.”
“No, really. I feel fine…”
“I meant about Charlie thinking the world of me.”
“Oh, I see. Well, if you think that’s bollocks, you couldn’t be more wrong. In fact, I know Charlie loves you more than ever.”
“How can you know that, Raymond?”
“I know because… well, for a start he more or less told me so, when we were having lunch. And even if he didn’t spell it out, I can tell. Look, Emily, I know things are a bit tough right now. But you’ve got to hang on to the most important thing. Which is that he still loves you very much.”
She did another sigh. “You know, I haven’t listened to this record for ages. It’s because of Charlie. If I put this sort of music on, he immediately starts groaning.”
We didn’t speak for a few moments, but just listened to Sarah Vaughan. Then as an instrumental break started, Emily said: “I suppose, Raymond, you prefer her other version of this. The one she did with just piano and bass.”
I didn’t reply, but just propped myself up a little more so as to sip my wine better.
“I bet you do,” she said. “You prefer that other version. Don’t you, Raymond?”
“Well,” I said, “I really don’t know. To tell you the truth, I don’t remember the other version.”
I could feel Emily shift at the end of the sofa. “You’re kidding, Raymond.”
“It’s funny, but I don’t listen to this kind of stuff much these days. In fact, I’ve forgotten almost everything about it. I’m not even sure what song this is right now.” I did a little laugh, which perhaps didn’t come out very well.