Meg reaches to touch him — fuck, I’m trying to pat his arm — but doesn’t complete the gesture. ‘Jon, I don’t want to not do this. I do want to do this. Why would I want to not do this? I want to do …’
His eyes changed, they lit. ‘Ah.’ And then they were fully themselves again: blue at the darker end of blue, a quiet shade, but something unquiet about his gaze, a fine kind of unquiet.
Meg had told him then.
The stupidest thing to say, but you do — you trust the frightened people more than anyone, you trust them like fuck, you can’t help it.
She said, ‘I don’t drink, because I don’t drink, because I’m an alcoholic. I don’t drink. You should know. I couldn’t have written it down for you — I wanted you to see me when I said, I wanted …’
This made him curl his hand around his wine glass as if he should hide it, or sweep it away. He was staring beyond her while he did this, maybe studying the waitress, or the wall, or nothing visible.
‘Is that OK?’
He spoke to the tablecloth, laboriously. ‘That couldn’t be OK because it would be a horrible thing for you and I would rather a horrible thing hadn’t happened to you …’ He nodded at that point where she was not. ‘You’re an …’ He picked up his glass and downed its remaining contents in one. This didn’t quite work and he coughed afterwards, covered his lips with the back of his hand.
‘Are you all right?’
Jon nodded again and made sure to let her search his eyes, the wet shine of them. Another swallow and he could manage, ‘Fine.’ He nodded definitively. ‘I won’t have another. I wouldn’t have had that.’
‘You can have whatever you like. I don’t mind. It’s OK.’
‘I’ve seen it in others — the drinking. One does. Never looks fun.’ Then he smiled at her, produced this cool, unhappy grin. ‘My turn. My mother didn’t like me. My wife didn’t — and doesn’t — like me. My daughter is occasionally ambivalent. I don’t do well with female people, although I do like them. I have no excuse for this. I do not drink excessively, or take drugs, or have any vice that has broken me down and made me unpalatable. I was apparently born unpalatable.’ His eyes busy with examining hers now, checking for who knew what. ‘Probably you should give up on me now … Because I’m thinking … I’m thinking …’ Jon barked out a small and unamused laugh, a lonely sound. ‘I’m actually — please don’t be offended — thinking that maybe you only wrote to me and you’re only here because you have some kind of …’ His shoulders sank.
‘You think I’m here because I’ve drunk myself into brain damage, or — what — that I’m crazy? I’m some kind of moron?’ The sounds of this tasted badly in her mouth — tasted of wine.
He cupped one hand over the top of his head, his forearm obscuring most of his face. ‘I know, I know … See …? I’m a terrible person.’ He sounded muffled and in pain, ‘If it’s any consolation, I find myself much more offensive than you do. Except, of course, that’s an offensive assumption, isn’t it? Because you’re kind and a kind person … Oh, Christ, I’m a disaster. They should take me out back to the kitchen, shoot me and serve me up with … spring greens.’ He patted at the tabletop with his free hand, as if to comfort it. ‘I hate spring greens. I wouldn’t go with them. Oh …’
And what do you do when you can’t write yourself out across the cream of the tablecloth and consider what you need to say for hours, before you prove to him — for sure — prove to him that you’re only as much of a freak as he is and that he is nothing to hate, that he cannot be hated. How do you tell him about love?
‘Hm?’ His head appearing again, the arm dropping.
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘Oh.’ And a smile which was faintly a real smile, an admission of some unfathomable kind, Jonahed away in the deeps of him, behind his restraint and all of his needs which are clearly there and pressing, but not defined.
He does want something. I could swear to that. But maybe not me.
You would understand it better if you could kiss him.
Jon had partly mumbled, ‘I’d hoped you had. Said something. I have, um …’ The corner of his mouth uneasy. ‘I have run out of …’
And you realise that you should know what to say by now and say it, because otherwise you’re no use at all and you want — this is what you want — to finally be of some fucking use. Writing to Mr August was supposed to make you different and ready for anything — for his anything.
Because you can think of nothing else, you try, ‘Look, tell me about where you were born — not Corwynn August, where was Jon born? You tell me that and then I’ll do the same — about me — and that’ll mean we have a plan and we can manage and I don’t want dessert, but I can’t be doing with any more of this bloody … the meal thing — pappardelle …’ This sounded like somebody else, but at least someone practical. ‘And your lunch is making you unhappy. Well, isn’t it?’
His voice is tiny when it answers, ‘Yes.’ The schoolroom expression, and he sits up straight and says, ‘Linguine — it means little tongues, which you wouldn’t … Pappardelle doesn’t mean anything much. They have all sorts of names for the shapes, even calamaretti — little squids, would you believe.’ And now he’s recited his homework, ‘I’m finished. With it. Them.’
‘We can have cappuccinos. That’s … If you don’t mind …’
He’d stared at her then, as if she were a startling headline, a peculiar animal, and she’d wanted to howl — perhaps — at him, or herself, or the waitress with the condescending manners, which was no manners at all. ‘I do better with a plan. Birthplace, school, first job, favourite colour. You start. Tell me.’
And his amazement continues, but gently colours with happiness. The man who takes orders all day grins at you — here’s someone who intends to be fastidious when he gives you all his answers for your test. ‘I don’t know my favourite colour. I mean …’
‘Then we’ll skip that.’
‘No, that’s great, yes. A plan. We’ll always have a plan. That’s what we should do. Agree a plan beforehand. Yes.’ An effort towards gladness creeping out over him. ‘I was … I was born in Nairn — well, Inverness and then they took me back to Nairn, to an area called Fishertown, which is fishermen’s cottages and some slightly bigger places, Edwardian what they call villas, if the they happens to be estate agents. Villa would be a bit much. It’s all very upgraded and extended these days … Which is … for the local economy … that is … My dad wasn’t a fisherman. Neither was Mum. They did all right. But not that.’
‘You don’t sound Scottish.’
‘It was removed — the sound. Fashionable procedure. Like docking a dog’s tail, or lopping its ears to do it good. No, it was my choice. I wanted to prosper and back then an accent adjustment helped. Still would, I’d imagine.’
‘I was sent away to school — birthplace and then school is what I’m providing at the moment, you will note. At the time, one wanted — one’s parents wanted their child to collect educational achievements … I first attended the little session school in Fishertown, but after that I showed an unfortunate amount of promise and so I was scholarshipped off down south. It was a shame, because the Ballerina Ballroom in the High Street had some great gigs while I was away, just when I would have loved them. The Who played there, can you imagine? And Cream. Eric Clapton in Nairn. When I was twelve, thirteen, something like that. The Beatles were in Elgin earlier, I seem to remember. I wouldn’t have bothered with them, even if I’d been able — all dressing alike, it wasn’t cool. It’s only almost cool if you’re from Detroit … I saw Clapton, that gig, because it was in the holidays. I sneaked in. Keen. Decisive. Or something like that. Mainly I was just tall for my age.’ He shrugged his shoulders as if he had just set down a pair of heavy cases and was feeling himself to be unencumbered. ‘There you are — what I grew up with — seafront teas and provincial devotees of rhythm and blues with an option on rock and roll. You can shake off the sand and the accent, but not the R and B.’ And his first proper grin emerged and stayed.