Michael opened the front door to Maureen holding a cardboard box full of books. Hello.
Hi. These are Lucian’s.
Oh, okay. Here, let me take them for you.
I can manage. All right if I go through to the library?
Of course. Michael stepped aside as Maureen kicked off her boots and crossed the threshold. I can do that for you if you’d like, he said as she began returning the books to the shelves.
I don’t mind. I know where they go, and it’ll probably be the last time I get the opportunity.
When are you and Tim due to leave?
In a couple of days.
How’s the packing going?
Well I’ve finished the books. Is Lucian working late today? I waited until the afternoon so I wouldn’t disturb him.
No, he’s asleep. He got up feeling unwell and went back to bed pretty much straight after breakfast.
That’s not like him. Is he all right?
He doesn’t seem to have a temperature.
Have you checked him?
I did a couple of hours ago. I think it’s just the flu.
Mind if I put my head around the door to see if he’s okay?
As Maureen stood inside the bedroom watching Lucian’s chest gently rise and fall, she felt a tinge of jealousy that Michael had been allowed to share the author’s house when she had not. But a moment’s reflection of her current circumstances – selling the store; separating from Tim; no particular plans for the future – clarified the reason why Lucian had chosen Michael. Business arrangements were always so much easier to negotiate than emotional ones.
I’d better get back to my packing.
Michael pointed to the kettle on the stove. I was just about to make us a pot of tea.
Maureen lowered herself into Lucian’s regular position on the leather couches and watched Michael move about the kitchen. He seemed so at home – aware of where everything lived – as if he had made the tea a million times before. The coffee table was littered with the usual offenders, and Maureen wondered if being stoned might make packing boxes a little more bearable. Mind if I put some music on?
Go ahead.
Maureen selected Terry Reid’s River, just because it had a swing like no other record, and placed the album cover on her lap to admire the artwork. Do you think Lucian would mind? she asked holding up the half-smoked spliff that had been left on the ashtray.
Michael delivered a tray of tea and biscuits. I doubt he’d even notice. Maureen had placed her black stockinged feet on the edge of the coffee table and Michael caught himself admiring their shape. Sadie leapt onto the couch and rested her snout on top of his thigh.
Looks like you’ve made yourself a friend.
Yeah, we’re getting there. I feed her most days so she’s started to accept my presence.
Did you bake those yourself?
They’re not very neat but I think they taste all right. Lucian has been going to bed early, and there’s not much else to do up here besides read and listen to music and bake.
They’re delicious.
Michael beamed. Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.
I’m not that good a cook.
The moment you’re gone I’m sure everyone on this mountainside is going to realise exactly how good you are.
If I get stoned I might grow greedy with those, so stop me at three if I forget myself.
No problem. So long as you do the same for me.
Maureen pressed her hands to her cheeks. Her jaw was aching from laughing so much. They had eaten all the biscuits, and after Michael closed the sliding door to the sitting room he had turned up the music and rolled another joint. Maureen acknowledged there was a frisson in the room. More than once she had caught Michael admiring her legs or holding her gaze a little too long. But perhaps the pot was making her imagine it that way. They had graduated to Gal Costa’s debut album, and were so involved in a conversation about José Saramago’s Blindness that both of them squeaked in surprise when Lucian slid back the door.
In his dressing gown he appeared sleepy, and perhaps a little cross.
Sorry, we didn’t mean to wake you.
How are you feeling? asked Maureen.
Better, thank you. You didn’t wake me. I think I’ve had enough sleep for one day.
Would you like a cup of tea? asked Michael.
Yes please, that would be lovely.
Maureen shifted across the couch so Lucian could occupy his regular position.
He felt the warmth of her body in the leather and admired her black stockinged feet curled up beside him. What brings you here?
I was just returning a box of your books…but I seem to have become a little distracted.
Lucian scanned the evidence on the coffee table. So it seems.
Having Lucian and Michael in the same room confused Maureen’s antennae. She felt she had to be a different person for each of them, and could not decide which Maureen she preferred to be.
Are you going to have another cup as well? asked Michael.
You know I don’t think I will. I really should get back to the shop. It’s not going to pack itself, and I’m only half done.
Lucian stood at the front door while Maureen pulled on her boots.
This is for you, she said as she slipped an envelope into the pocket of his dressing gown. Their kiss goodbye felt indifferent and perfunctory, though Maureen assumed the pot was again clouding her perception of reality. Well of course it was. That was what it was supposed to do. The cold air struck her face like a bucket of water. Anarchic. Intense. And in the end, amusing. As Maureen walked down Brenan Street she felt her head begin to clear. And noticed the mountainside – quiet and damp – was even more exquisite than usual.