It was time for a different kind of reading: the policies in the file that Adam had given her. The four Green pillars. The first was ecological sustainability, which made perfect sense for the Greens but not for the current government, intent on boosting corporate profits at the expense of the environment. The second pillar was participatory democracy. Which had to be better than representative democracy, given that one of the politicians who currently represented the nation insisted that coal was good for humanity and another who declared that we all had the right to be bigots. Number three was peace and non-violence: was there a substantial difference? She would have to find that out. Number four was social justice: OK, that was self-evident. So. The four pillars. She would keep that in her head in case people asked. She decided to check out the Greens’ website, and it took her by surprise as she scrolled down all the pages, tried to take in all the details: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders, Agriculture, Air Pollution, Animals, Arts and Creative Industries, Biodiversity—she skipped a few pages—Disability, Drugs, Education—this was hard-going—Health, Housing and Homelessness—skipping a whole lot more—Media and Communications, Multiculturalism (as opposed to the mono-cultural idiots in the government)—still more, this was endless—Overseas Aid—Sexuality—respected in all its variety, praise the lord—Sustainable Agriculture, Sustainable Planning and Transport—flipping through to the end now—Water, Women…
Who said the Greens were a one-issue party? And how would she ever take this in?
Then she remembered the importance of listening.
So maybe, with a bit of luck, she wouldn’t have to talk at all.
She and Beth always looked forward to their monthly Sunday lunch, especially since her mother’s sumptuous spread lasted them until Monday. The food was straight out of Pleasantville: meat and three veg, plus a homemade apple pie or cherry pie or lemon meringue pie, and once, when her mother decided to experiment in a highly alliterative way, a poached peach and pistachio frangipane. But what wasn’t Pleasantville at all was the genuine affection between her mum and dad. They didn’t play for the cameras, performing some 1950s version of sappy happy families. Not like so many of their friends: separated or divorced and onto their second marriage, sometimes their third. So much for marriage equality destroying the sacred institution of marriage, Hazel thought. The straights were doing a fine job themselves.
And sacred institution? Hadn’t people read their Friedrich Engels?
Today was the kind of lunch where her parents asked about employment prospects. Encouraged them. And for a change Beth kept it short, made a joke about the interviewer having curly red hair, so maybe she was in with a chance. Hazel’s parents wished her luck; Hazel knew she needed truckloads. She saw her mother stroke Beth’s arm.
‘If you get that job,’ she said, ‘tell your mother to go and jump in the river.’
And she’d only had one glass of wine.
She turned to Hazel’s father. ‘Hazel’s been talking about doing a nursing degree,’ she said.
Which, strictly speaking, wasn’t really true. In fact, it wasn’t true at all.
‘It’s going to cost, of course, and she’s already finding it tough.’
‘But Mum—’
‘I know you can put off paying the fees, Hazel, but you’ll need some more to live on.’
‘We’ll look into it, then,’ said her father.
The two of them all hearty cheer, like a pair of salt and pepper shakers: Mickey and Minnie Mouse, Master and Lady Chef. They were wonderfully generous, her parents, would do anything to help, but Hazel couldn’t help feeling embarrassed, unable to stand on her own two feet, the ones she couldn’t squeeze into those stylish red boots. Three hundred dollars, they’d cost her. These days she’d have to cut off a leg to afford a pair like that.
Hazel the Stumbling Uniped, with barely enough money to pay the rent.
‘So, nursing, Hazel?’ said her father. ‘I didn’t know that was a passion of yours.’
‘It’s not. I just—I don’t want to keep failing all my life.’
He gave her his stern-Dad look. ‘Deciding what you don’t want doesn’t mean you’re a failure. It just means you’re still looking, love.’
She saw his hands spread out on the table. A carpenter’s hands: strong but supple. Dependable. He’d made all the floorboards in the house, and built the cupboards, their elegant, burnished dining-room table that he’d promised to leave her in his will.
‘Do you remember those wooden animals you made me?’ she said.
‘An owl, a duck, and a pig.’
‘Do you remember what I called them?’
‘Wise, Quack and Snort.’ He laughed. ‘You were always an odd little thing.’
‘Hazie has them perched on her bookshelf,’ said Beth. ‘We found them in a box—’
‘And thought we should release them,’ said Hazel. ‘They remind me of your workshop, with its sawdusty smell and all your tools organised so neatly. The claw hammer was my favourite because you let me pull out nails.’
‘Your thumb seemed to like it as well,’ he said, and laughed.
He’d wanted a tribe of children and ended up with one. Hazel hoped she wouldn’t disappoint him, or her mother.
He was off on one of his Sunday rants now, all fired up about the government’s fact-finding mission to the south of France to research the bloody warthog industry.
Hazel’s mother laughed. ‘It’s the truffle industry, Jim,’ she said.
‘Truffles or warthogs, it’s all the same, with their first-class travel and five-star hotels. Now they’re spending millions to bring out some royal git and gitess so we can all bow and curtsey like peasants. Having the hide to make us pay more to see a doctor, forcing people to wait six bloody months for the dole.’ His face was blazing now, turning to Hazel. ‘It’s you and your kids and your grandkids,’ he said. ‘What sort of a world are they leaving you?’
Hazel could have said there might not be any world at all, just or unjust, kind or cruel, if climate change had its unstoppable way. But she didn’t want to make his face even redder. And he really was stacking on the weight. She tried not to think heart attack or stroke, wondered if her mother was having any more luck persuading him to look after his health.
‘One day,’ he said, ‘I’m going to fly to Canberra, march into Parliament House and give those wasters a piece of my mind.’
‘I’ll come too, Jim. I’ll make sure you don’t make a spectacle of yourself. You have to be civilised.’
‘Don’t talk to me about civilised! The way they treat those poor people in those awful camps.’
Hazel stabbed at a piece of pie. What would happen on Wednesday, after all? Knocking on those doors. Walking and talking with Adam. ‘Did I tell you’—when of course she hadn’t, waving her fork, putting it down—‘I’m going doorknocking for the Greens. In a few days time.’
Three other forks were suspended in the air. And then a battery of comments, questions, praise for her courage and commitment, as though she was a soldier marching off to war.
‘I’m sure I’ll be fine,’ she said, airily. ‘I’m going to be in very good hands.’
She saw Beth raise an eyebrow. She saw her mother raise an eyebrow. She saw her father tucking into a piece of pie, then lean back in his chair.
‘Nan, that was your best ever,’ he said. He was beaming now, replete, as he looked around the table. ‘Did I ever tell you how we met?’ he said. ‘It was a Saturday morning, raining cats and dogs, and there she was: Nanette. Taking shelter under an awning.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Beth, eagerly. ‘You offered her your umbrella.’
‘I didn’t have one. I was dashing across the street, trying to get out of the rain, when I saw her. She had this bright gold hair and the most beautiful legs and I stopped dead in my tracks, getting soaking wet. I just knew I was going to marry her.’
His beautiful Nanette laughed. ‘You tell me that story at least once a year.’
‘More wine, anyone?’ he said, and reached for the bottle.
‘One glass, Jim, remember?’
‘But it’s Sunday. And I have a hard day at work tomorrow. And one more glass won’t hurt. See: three good reasons to—’
‘Not be convinced for a moment.’
He pouted, like a child.
Meandering back to the station, she and Beth were heavy with food and just a bit tipsy with wine. Waiting for the train, Hazel remembered: two people on a train, reading a book. Only not the same one.
Beth sat down heavily. ‘Your parents are amazing,’ she said. ‘Keeping up the romance. Your mum’s still so pretty, and your dad—the way he looks at her—I’d be over the moon if a guy looked at me like that.’ Beth gasped. ‘Not your dad, though, I don’t mean your dad. That would be really gross. Hell, not that your dad’s gross, I didn’t mean that.’
‘Well, he is putting on a lot of weight. I know Mum’s worried about his health.’
‘She should tell him sex uses up a lot of calories.’
‘I think he’s already worked that out.’
Beth gave her a sly kind of look. ‘And what’s all this about you being in good hands?’ she said.
Hazel shrugged. ‘It’s nothing, really. It’s just that, well, the man I’m doorknocking with is—’
‘You’re attracted?’
‘Well, yes. I mean, definitely. A whole lot.’
‘Well, I hope it goes better for you than it did for me,’ she said. ‘The guy I flirted with at Todd’s party.’
‘I didn’t see you.’
‘Cos we went to another room.’
‘So what went wrong?’
‘His hands.’ Beth sighed. ‘He was a great kisser, gentle, not the tongue-ramming kind. I was all set to take him home and then he started squeezing my boobs like a couple of stress balls. I’ll spare you the rest of my body. Anyway, tell me about this man of yours.’
‘Well, here’s the thing. He’s a lot older than us. Me. In his forties, I guess.’
Beth didn’t even blink. ‘I always thought an older man would appreciate your depths,’ she said. ‘No innuendo intended.’
‘Look, I’m not even sure if he’s interested. And he’s a widow. No, I mean, widower.’
‘So is he still in a deep state of mourning?’
‘I don’t think so. I mean, he seems quite happy. Content, really. He leads a very simple life.’
‘Boring, you mean?’
‘I don’t mean.’
‘Where did you meet him, then?’
‘On a train.’
‘That’s so romantic, Hazie. It’s one of my fantasies, meeting a handsome stranger on a train.’
‘But he’s not making any moves, Beth.’
‘Well, maybe he’s not a sleazebag. Maybe he’s just—well—lovely.’
Beth had one thing right, at least.
‘We’ll have to find you something great to wear,’ she said. ‘Something seductive in a subtle kind of way.’
‘Beth. It’s not a date. It’s politics. Doing my bit to raise awareness. Maybe change a mind or two.’
‘If you say so, Hazel.’ Beth leaned into her. ‘So does he have a name, this lovely man?’
‘Adam. And he has a child. A nearly five-year old son.’
Beth whistled. ‘Well, that’s a whole new ball game,’ she said. ‘If you’re serious.’
Hazel laughed, nervously.
‘You are serious, aren’t you?’ Beth grinned. ‘So what’s the big attraction? Let me guess. He’s sexy and charming and intelligent and—’
‘Different. He’s just different.’
She could watch him from a distance again, standing to the side of the Rose Garden, head down, absorbed in reading, possibly a map. He was wearing light brown trousers and a pale blue shirt, and didn’t even notice her arriving.
‘You look very dapper,’ she said, trying to sound breezy.
He looked up, seemed to force a smile, then tilted his head to the side.
‘So you decided to wear green after all,’ he said. ‘You look very—bright.’
Hazel looked down at her lime-green shirt. ‘It belongs to my flatmate,’ she said. Which was why it was a bit on the tight side. ‘Do you think, I mean, is it too much? Beth, my flatmate, she likes these vivid kind of colours and she’s vivid but in a good kind of way.’
What did she want him to say, after all? That you, darling Hazel, look absolutely irresistible?
‘Your friend must be fun to live with,’ he said.
‘Oh, she is, she’s always entertaining. Always sees the funny side of things. Only now she’s feeling a bit down because she can’t find a job.’
Adam nodded. ‘That’s not good. The problem of your generation.’
Saying they’d better get moving now. Ten am, they’d be finished by one, and did she have a hat? He put on a beaten-up cane one, which made him look even more attractive. Raffish.
‘Are you ready?’ he said. ‘We have a stack of houses to cover.’
Hazel tried to look ready.
‘Let me do the talking first up, OK?’ he said. ‘I want you to listen and observe, then you can write the responses on the form. See. Right here.’
His hand was suddenly so close to hers, and she flinched. Surely he must have seen it? But he was telling her something else now, something she needed to keep in mind: that educated people weren’t necessarily informed about politics, let alone engaged.
‘But you told me it would be easy,’ she said.
‘I said easier, Hazel, easier than a lot of other suburbs. And if we get one new commitment to vote for the Greens, even make a few people more receptive, we can call it a promising day.’
‘Seriously? Only one?’
‘But multiply that by all the volunteers, over many months of grassroots campaigning, and we might get enough votes to make a difference. Hold the balance of power in the Senate and stop bad legislation.’
‘Like increasing uni fees? Cutting funds to women’s refuges?’
‘Exactly.’ He pulled down his hat. ‘Bad legislation is anything I disagree with,’ he said.
‘Because you’re very high-minded.’
‘Correct. Neville’s my conscience. Everyone should have one.’
He waved her on and they walked in step, approaching their first challenge. Adam opened a creaky metal gate and…well! It must be a student rental, she thought. A burnt, weedy lawn, torn curtains in dirty windows, two broken cane chairs on the verandah, an ashtray overflowing with butts. Adam went knock knock knock. They waited. No answer. Knock knock knock again. Still no answer.
‘This happens,’ he said. ‘People at work, or maybe avoiding us.’
She remembered Adam’s instructions. ‘We have to put a leaflet in the letterbox,’ she said.
Which was stuffed with envelopes and flyers, a bunch of local papers. Maybe it wasn’t a student rental. Maybe no one lived here anymore. Or maybe whoever lived here was dead. You heard those stories, how the body wasn’t found for days, weeks, even more, because no one came to visit.
‘Hazel, are you OK?’
‘I was thinking about death,’ she said. ‘And love.’
‘You were what?’
‘Sorry, I forgot to segue,’ she said, and pointed to the letterbox. ‘I was thinking about all this junk and how there could be a dead person inside the house, lying there for a very long time and no one came to see them because no one loved them.’
‘OK. Then just tick the box that says No Answer,’ he said. ‘There’s no category for Possibly a Corpse.’
Was he laughing at her now? She didn’t want him laughing at her.
‘Time to move on,’ he said. ‘And here’s our next obstacle.’
A high brick fence, a tall iron gate, which they managed to open after several hefty shoves. Confronted now by a two-storey house with massive turrets, plush burgundy curtains in many large windows.
‘It’s straight out of Gone with the Wind,’ said Hazel.
And with a front door so heavy, they’d need a medieval cannonball to knock it down. Which was a different period of history. Knock knock knock, with an imposing iron ring. They waited. Heard some yapping inside, and then a haughty voice—Stop that silly barking—and there in the doorway, resplendent in a gown that matched the curtains, was Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Another period of history: couldn’t these people get it right? But it was over in a flash because the woman looked them up and down, then slammed the door with an angry boom.
‘We might get a bit more of that,’ said Adam. ‘Tick the box that says No Support.’ He must have seen the look on her face. ‘Most people are courteous,’ he said. ‘Honestly.’
The next door opened onto a scowling peroxide blonde in one of those upmarket tracksuits with fake diamonds on the sleeves, her face a mask of suspicion. Adam did his expert thing: polite introductions, here to listen to what matters. My words, Hazel’s thought, five long days ago. And now Fake Diamonds, waving her fake red-painted fingernails, was beginning to wail about culling the sharks: so cruel, so wrong (Hazel was trying not to listen, trying hard not to picture that shape in the water, the swift, silent movement, those pointed, deadly teeth). She heard Adam moving on to other issues, heard the woman’s snappy replies. Refugees? Send them back to where they came from. Climate change? A load of rubbish, it’s just the weather. Cuts to education? My kids have left school. Cuts to health. We’re privately insured. Everyone should be privately insured. She reluctantly agreed to take a leaflet and shut the door in their faces.
Adam shrugged. ‘Maybe we got her with the sharks,’ he said. ‘Put that one down as Weak Support.’ He hitched up his bag, ready for the next encounter. ‘Mind you, the culling is a state issue, not a federal one, but we didn’t need to remind her of that. I’m happy to string people along to sneak a vote or two.’
‘That’s very Machiavellian, Adam.’
‘Absolutely. Or call it realpolitik. Dirty dealing. Whatever you like. As long as there’s a vote in it I don’t object at all. Although I must say that it gets to me, this endless sympathy for animals, while asylum seekers are left to rot, to fall into despair.’
He was sounding angry. Not like the Adam she barely knew.
‘So you’re not a fan of Peter Singer?’ she said.
Adam looked surprised. What did he think? That she’d never heard of one of the most famous philosophers in the world?
‘Well, I agree with Singer about many things,’ he said, ‘but not when it comes to species equality. I mean, if you had to choose between saving the life of a person or—I don’t know—a gerbil, which one would it be?’
‘But that’s an extreme case.’
‘And extreme cases can be instructive,’ he said. ‘Ethically speaking.’
‘But doesn’t it depend on the person? I mean, I’d choose to save the life of a gerbil any day over the life of—let’s see—the Minister for Immigration.’
‘And don’t forget Border Protection,’ he said.
‘You’re right: Immigration and Border Protection. I think that’s called conflation.’
‘I’d call it scaremongering.’
They laughed, together. She liked it, this to-ing and fro-ing, their lighthearted, serious repartee. They moved on to the next house: no one at home. Ten in a row and it was beginning to feel like a waste of time, even worse when a man adorned with a chunky gold necklace snarled that politicians were all a bunch of crooks determined to shaft hard-working people. Then more No Shows, ten or eleven, she was losing count, until they finally found another real live person: a preppy guy in a striped pink shirt who denounced the Greens as communists plotting to abolish private property.
Not one intelligent conversation so far, let alone a conversion. And in between each house, Hazel would tick No Support and they would head off doggedly again.
‘This is supposed to be an educated demographic,’ she said. ‘All we’ve had so far is ignorance, complacency and selfishness.’
‘Don’t forget cynicism,’ said Adam.
What a huge relief, then, indeed, a lifting of the spirits, when the next two people announced themselves as Greens. Even if one of them—a gangly, bearded guy with a disconcerting squint—went on at length about some infighting in his local branch. And when he’d finally had his say, Adam nodded at Hazel, waved her on.
‘Don’t let that put you off,’ he said. ‘The party’s not immune from ambition or egotism.’ He hitched up his satchel. ‘Shall we have a quick break?’
He pulled out a paper bag, opened it.
‘This is mostly Jessie’s work,’ he said.
A congealed mass of something yellow and sticky, studded with plump raisins.
‘Campaign biscuits,’ said Adam. ‘We baked them last night.’
Hazel broke off a piece, bit into it carefully. ‘It’s an interesting flavour,’ she said.
‘You’re being very polite.’ Adam chewed quickly, then swallowed. ‘So you and Simon are friends? He’s a hard worker for the Greens. A bit scatty in organising things, but very focused in meetings.’
‘He told me you’re a legend,’ said Hazel. ‘In the Greens, I mean.’
Adam shrugged. ‘He means I’ve been around for years. You get brownie points for longevity.’
‘I’m sure you’re being very modest. I bet you have a lot of influence.’
‘Not at all. I just take things day by day, and what with Jessie, it’s hard to do as much as I’d like.’ He took another bite, swallowed. ‘These are my guilt biscuits,’ he said. ‘Whenever I spend a lot of time away from him, I let him run amok in the kitchen.’
Hazel asked what he meant by a lot of time.
‘Well, it’s been flat out preparing for this new campaign. Meetings at night and on weekends. And he’s home from school today, pre-primary, a pupil-free day. I’ve had to leave him with his aunt again.’
‘Well, I’m pleased to hear that,’ she said. ‘I was beginning to think you tied him to the clothesline and left him a bowl of water.’
He grinned, looked at the biscuit in his hand. ‘They’re not too bad, are they?’ he said. ‘I should have given some to Neville.’
‘So what’s story with him? I mean, he seems a bit of a—’
‘Moaner?’ Adam laughed. ‘He hasn’t been a Green for long and I’m not sure he’ll last much longer. He’s a retired GP, would you believe? Can you imagine how he spoke to his patients?’
‘I can. What seems to be the trouble, Mr Smith? Well, you think you’ve got it bad? Let me tell you about my lumbago and my Achilles tendon and my gout and my ulcers.’ She remembered his simpering, eyelash-fluttering companion. ‘And Molly?’
‘Neville’s wife.’
‘Was she a nurse?’
‘She still is, actually. How did you know?’
‘Because as a rule, men like to—well, you know.’
He frowned. ‘No. I don’t.’
‘Men like to marry women who aren’t as smart as them. Or who have a less prestigious social status. Who are shorter. That kind of thing.’
Adam brushed a hand through his hair. ‘If you say so,’ he said, and put the biscuits back in his satchel. ‘Are you OK to keep going?’
‘Never better.’
She didn’t want the three hours to end.
They reached another high brick wall. All these walls, she thought, the drawn curtains and closed blinds: so many people looking inwards, unwilling or afraid to look out. But she was determined to give it a shot, to prove something to herself, if not to Adam. So she offered to try the next house, and before he could protest, she rang the doorbell decisively, heard heavy footsteps, saw a bulky man towering at the doorway.
‘May I help you?’ he said.
Polite, at least. Not a bad start. She introduced herself and Adam in a crisp tone of voice, proceeded to follow the drill.
‘So you want to know what matters to me?’ The man folded his arms, huffily. Not so promising after all. ‘The fact that you lot voted against an emissions trading scheme.’ His shook his balding head. ‘You lost my vote when you betrayed the country.’
‘But—’
‘And then we were left with nothing. Nothing.’ He unfolded his arms, waved them about. ‘We’ve gone backwards since then. Global warming going through the roof and we’re standing by doing jack shit, pardon my language.’
‘Sir.’ Adam took a step forward. ‘The Greens voted against the scheme because they knew it would ultimately fail.’
‘So nothing’s better than something, is it? That’s the problem with you lot, too bloody idealistic for your own good. Do you know where all or nothing gets you in the end? Nowhere.’
Hazel stepped backwards. ‘The point about idealism…’ She petered out because the man was glaring now and she felt Adam watching her, waiting. She tried again. ‘Idealism is about long-term goals, and sometimes you have to hold out for the greater good. Or something.’
The man closed the door.
Hazel turned to Adam. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I guess I started something I didn’t know how to finish.’
‘Well, there’s no easy answer. It’s a decision that still divides the party. People left because of it, just like the man told you.’
‘Let me try the next one, Adam. It’s the last house on the street.’
It was falling off a horse, wasn’t it? Or was it a bike? And she wouldn’t be put off by the rusty gate in front of her, a gate topped with malicious-looking spikes, by the rubble in the driveway and—bloody hell—you couldn’t miss the car with a huge bumper sticker slapped on the rear window: Fat chicks shit me.
‘Seriously?’ She pointed at the sticker. ‘Words fail me.’
‘Do you want me to—’
‘No, really. I can do this.’
Knock knock knock. No answer. She tried again. Heard a shuffling and a groaning inside, and then a door opened onto a scruffy, skinny guy wearing a pair of stubbies. He looked about twenty, twenty-one, and he was scratching his balls, for crying out loud, before letting out an ugly yawn.
‘I’m so sorry if we woke you,’ she said, hearing the strain in her voice.
‘Yeah, so whadda youse want?’
She made the introductions, was courteous and concise. Then asked if he was a shiftworker, because—He shook his head. Asked if he was a student, but he shook his head again. Asked if he was currently unemployed, but he was stepping back, about to shut the door. Hazel knew she should let him go, consign him to the realm of lost moronic causes, but something snapped inside her: the long, fruitless morning, the boy’s yawning indifference, the crudeness of the fat chicks who gave him the shits.
‘Do you mind me asking your age?’ she said.
He looked baffled.
‘Like, how old are you?’ It was like talking to a child.
He mumbled that he was eighteen and she asked if he’d enrolled to vote. Because if not, then—but he was shaking his head, muttering Nah nah nah, not interested in politics, lady.
‘Sir,’ she said, ‘you might not be interested in politics, but politics is always interested in you.’
He slammed the door in her face.
She felt embarrassed beyond all measure but Adam was laughing. Actually laughing.
‘You were terrific,’ he said.
‘Terrific?’
‘Admirably persistent.’
‘But it’s stupid trying to argue with stupid people.’
‘You were astonishingly restrained. I was ready to shake him by the shoulders. And that line about politics being interested in him. Spot on.’
‘It’s Pericles,’ she said. ‘An ancient Greek philosopher. I’m a walking bundle of useless quotations.’
Then her phone rang and Hazel saw the name on her screen: Beth. Excited and gabbling and breathless because I got the job, I got the job, I start next week! Hazel stopped herself from saying You must be joking, as she watched Adam walk away, give her some space.
‘The manager liked me,’ said Beth. ‘She liked that I seemed prepared to work hard and she liked my confident manner. She didn’t see my knees trembling under my skirt.’
‘I am SO proud of you, Beth. And SO THRILLED for you.’ Was she sounding like Dora?
‘We have to celebrate, Hazie. Maybe we could do a really fancy restaurant where all the food’s nestled in or draped over and we can wear our best dresses and it’s all on me, three courses and a bucket of wine. Just for once in our lives we can sacrifice our principles or pretend we don’t have any at all.’ She took a breath, at last. ‘So how’s it going, all those doors you’re knocking on?’
‘Pretty awful. Maybe one vote so far, and that was under false pretences.’
‘And the man?’
‘I seem to make him laugh.’
They said their goodbyes and Hazel made her way back to Adam. Told him that her flatmate was over the moon because she’d finally landed a job.
‘A travel agent. No, consultant. Beth, my friend, she thought maybe we could celebrate in style, which means eating three tiny scallops and a lonely bit of seaweed on the side. With snooty waitpersons rushing up to our table with silver dustpans to sweep up our expensive crumbs.’
‘Not really your style, then?’ He cleared his throat. ‘Speaking of food…I mean, would you like to come back for lunch? Jessie would be pleased to see you. He keeps talking about the ducks, and the fact that you poke out your tongue.’ He stopped, started again. ‘As long as you don’t mind the noise. The constant questions. The lack of adult conversation.’
‘It sounds wonderful,’ she said, without a trace of irony.
He beckoned her to start walking. ‘It won’t be like your seaweed restaurant,’ he said, ‘but I guess that’s a bonus in your eyes.’
Everything was a bonus. All those ignorant, selfish people of the last few hours had simply melted into air.
‘You sound like very good friends,’ he said. ‘You and Beth.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t live without her. Or my parents. Or books.’ She was brimming with happiness now, glancing at his profile: that slightly hooked nose and the curve of his mouth, his beautiful mouth. ‘Do you have something you couldn’t live without?’ she said. ‘Apart from your son.’
‘Love,’ he said, in a flash.
As if she should have known the answer. Or maybe she shouldn’t have asked.