He is just sitting on a sofa. As if it is the most ordinary thing in the world to be Adam, in Ealing, in Jimmy’s house, late on a Tuesday afternoon. He probably doesn’t even know that Nicole is here too, watching his sit there.
Although he’s not quite just sitting. He’s also talking. And moving his arms a lot. I can’t see Jimmy. But presumably he is in there too, nodding, listening, bonding. As if the car is not enough. The talking is so interesting that the lights aren’t on. He is sitting there in dusky darkness. They must make do with the shining light that Adam exudes. Out of his arse, or from wherever it emanates.
Why would he be here?
Why, on a late afternoon on a Tuesday, would there be Adams in Ealing?
And what, most importantly, ought I to do about it? Disclose my presence? Or just stand and watch, like Nicole does?
No. That would be too weak, too passive. This is my research, for me, in the limited time available.
I do my Luke walk up to the house and knock on the window. Adam doesn’t notice. He continues talking. There is Jimmy. I can see him now, sitting on the floor, nodding away, like a little lap dog, begging for crusts. I knock again, hoping for some answer, some reaction, some sense that I am here. I raise my fist to knock once more. Before my fist has hit the glass, Adam looks up. He sees me. His hands freeze mid wave in the air. Jimmy must notice the interruption, because he turns round to face the window. They both stare at me. Jimmy’s mouth opens. Adam’s mouth tightens, and his eyebrows furrow. We are there in suspended animation, me looking in, them looking out. Stasis.
Then Adam says something to Jimmy. I don’t know what. But Jimmy knows, Jimmy understands, because he rises up off the floor. He walks towards the doorway of the room, shooting me small glances as he does so. His brows are frowny too, now. Not as frowny as Adam’s, though, who continues to glare. Maybe I am interrupting something. Good.
I move towards the front door and wait for it to open.
It takes its time. I try to plan my first line.
Perhaps, ‘Well, this is a reunion, isn’t it?’ I could even slap him on the back, if he lets me. Or, ‘I was just passing, and saw you and Adam, so …’
Instead, when the door opens, and Jimmy is standing in front of me, I just say, ‘Hello.’
He says it back at me.
‘Can I come in?’ I ask.
‘Why?’ he says.
‘I wanted to chat,’ I say.
‘About what?’ he replies.
‘Old times. I’ve left the garage. They fired me. I thought we could catch up.’
‘That’s it?’ he asks.
‘What else would there be?’ I ask right back at him.
He shrugs. I try a different approach.
‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’ I ask. ‘With Adam?’
He looks at me. ‘What would you be interrupting?’
Now it’s my turn to shrug.
Jimmy starts looking past me, out towards the Maserati. ‘You come alone?’ he asks.
I’m not sure who he thinks I would invite to an impromptu visit to his home. Maybe Adam, but he is already there.
I nod.
‘Good to see you then, mate. Come in.’
I do as he says. He leads me into the hall, which smells of frying. Perhaps he has been cooking for Adam. Entertaining him? Although it does not have an atmosphere of entertainment. It is more like a wake. I remember them, from when I was younger, for Mum and Dad. And Helen.
We go into the living room. Adam is still sitting on the sofa. His fists are clenched. On the coffee table in front of him, I see something I had not seen through the window. It is a manuscript, in my handwriting. It is book two.
The notebook is not the neat item it was when I gave it to him, those years ago, before Nicole, even before his hands became tied with Helen. Then, its spiral bindings were neat, gently penetrating the straight, orderly pages. All in trim, untouched, just written with love. Now, after being in Adam’s care all this time, its pages are splayed, parted, bindings loose, pages dog-eared. I would have thought Adam would show more respect for my love. And I would not have thought he would show it, the book, to others. But if he wants to share my love, tell the world about it, that is good, isn’t it?
I start to smile at Adam, then stop as I see his fists clench. He still has not spoken to me. I wait in the doorway, as if he needs to give me permission to enter. Jimmy hovers next to me. I will have to go first.
‘Hi, Adam. Surprised to see you here!’ I say, going for the natural approach, avoiding the subtext.
Adam says nothing. His jaw is clenching and unclenching, but his fists don’t move at all.
‘How’s Nicole?’ I ask. I don’t tell him about the house-hunting trip.
‘She’s fine,’ he says, standing up from the sofa and picking up the notebook. ‘In fact, I ought to be getting back to her,’ he says.
‘Oh, I’ll come with you,’ I say, forgetting the purpose of my visit.
‘No,’ says Adam. ‘Don’t worry. Stay.’
I see Jimmy raise an eyebrow at Adam. Adam shakes his head slightly. He is in a negative mood. It is probably Nicole. She is probably torturing him about Helen again. Or just torturing him, by her very existence. He’s been rereading my book. Revisiting my passion for him. He must know, if it weren’t for Nicole, we could be together, we could be happy. But his marriage need not be binding, not like our love is binding.
I touch his arm as he leaves the room to remind me of this. He stops and turns. Then he draws very close to me. It is as though he is going to head-butt me or kiss me. I can’t tell which. His lips pucker but his jaw stays tight. Then he just walks through the door, without saying anything. I hear the front door slam and see him walk past the window. Then it is just me and Jimmy. We’re not really alone, though – Adam’s presence is with us still.
We stand, both of us, looking at the Maserati.
‘Why did he buy it for you?’ I ask. It is only fair. Jimmy, presumably, has full knowledge of me, now, of my love for Adam.
‘Don’t worry, he’s not my boyfriend,’ says Jimmy. See, as I said. Full knowledge.
‘Then what was it for?’ I ask him.
He shrugs. ‘We’re mates,’ he says.
‘So are we. Me and Adam,’ I remind him.
He looks at me, but doesn’t reply.
‘I helped him out as much as you did, on Jeremy Bond. All those free trips,’ I say, as if Jimmy might give me the Maserati, out of fairness. ‘To see his parents, without his own car – so they wouldn’t think he was loaded, that he could afford to pay them more than he did. Did he even confide in you that’s what he was doing?’
‘You need to stop talking about Jeremy Bond,’ says Jimmy.
‘Why?’ I ask.
‘Your own personal safety,’ says Jimmy.
‘And yours?’ I ask.
Jimmy waits before replying. I turn to look at his face, to gauge what he is thinking, to work out what we are talking about, but he just stares straight ahead into the grey.
‘I appreciate your concern, Dan, and the sociable nature of your call,’ he says, very quietly, still looking straight on, ‘but it’s not me you need to worry about.’
He shows me out, after that. Standing on the doorstep, I tell him we should meet for a coffee, chat more about old times. He says he’d rather we didn’t.
As I walk down the street, I’m sure I hear the purr of the Maserati behind me. I look over my shoulder, but there’s nothing there. Even Nicole has gone now. There is only the dark street. And Jimmy standing on his doorstep. Watching.