On the Wednesday morning after his last attempt at a visit Jimmy rang the doorbell again.
‘I’ve come to connect the dishwasher,’ he announced. ‘As promised. I’ve got the proper fitting.’
She couldn’t very well turn him away, though the thought did cross her mind that a plumber would, by and large, have been a more prudent investment. She let him in, made him a cup of coffee from the now-operative machine, and left him to the task, while she went upstairs to her studio.
When she went downstairs again after half an hour or so, he was fiddling with the dishwasher.
‘I reckon this is okay now,’ he said. ‘Anytime you want to wash some dishes, there you are.’
‘Thank you very much. What do I owe you for the fitting?’
He made a dismissive face. ‘It cost next to nothing. You can make me another cup of coffee if you like.’
‘That’s easy enough, thanks to you,’ she said, refilling the coffee machine’s water reservoir.
There was a silence. She was aware of the fact that their last two conversations had not been exactly cordial, and she could feel that he was aware of it too. There was something held back in his manner, an absence of his normal readiness to engage. Fortunately she could occupy herself with fiddling with the coffee machine; he was the one who had nothing to hide his silence behind.
He sat down on a stool at the counter, opened and shut the sugar pot, rubbed his hands together as if they were cold, and cleared his throat.
‘That guy …’ he started, but paused; unusually for him, he seemed uncertain of his ground.
‘What guy?’ she asked, though she knew which guy he had in mind.
‘The guy who was here on Sunday morning.’
‘Yes? What about him?’
‘He spent the night here, didn’t he?’
‘What business is it of yours?’
‘You needn’t deny it, because I saw his car parked here the night before.’
‘I had no intention of denying it. I just don’t think I need to account to you for my guests.’
‘And he came upstairs with you. I saw, because I was watching from down there.’
‘Yes, I know, and I absolutely forbid you to do it again. I refuse to be stalked by you.’
‘I’m not stalking you, I’m watching over you.’
‘I can’t see the difference. Besides, I don’t need you to watch over me. I can look after myself.’
‘No, you can’t. The fact that you brought that man home proves you can’t look after yourself.’
‘For all you know he’s an old acquaintance.’
‘No, he’s not. He didn’t know your name.’
‘How on earth …?’
‘Never mind. I spoke to him. He referred to you as “the home owner”.’
‘So why are you telling me this?’
‘I’m telling you so you’ll know not to behave like some slut. You’re a grown woman with kids. Would you like your son to know that his mother has one-night stands with men she doesn’t know?’
For a moment Margaret was dumbstruck at the sheer effrontery of this. She tried to find anger in her somewhere, anger with which to destroy his self-assurance and lacerate his callow moralism, but all she found was wonderment at his presumption, and then, unexpectedly, amusement at her own situation, at the absurdity of it, being scolded by a young man little older than her son.
She shook her head, trying to clear her mind, but instead, to her own surprise, she started laughing. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but that really is too funny.’
‘And what’s so funny?’ he asked, and she was gratified, but also a bit ashamed, to see that her laughter had hit home more acutely than remonstration would have.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, still laughing, ‘it’s just so weird, being scolded as I was last scolded about forty years ago, and by some … some teenager.’
‘I’m not a fucking teenager,’ he said sulkily. ‘And I won’t be laughed at.’
‘Oh, I am sorry,’ she said, placing a cup of coffee in front of him. ‘Have I hurt your feelings? After you called me a slut, you resent being called a teenager?’
‘I didn’t call you a slut. I said you behaved like one. If you’d really been a slut, I wouldn’t have minded …’
‘Why should you mind anyway what I do or don’t do or how I behave? I don’t mind what you do or don’t do …’
‘Yes, I know,’ he said gloomily, taking a sip of coffee. ‘But one day I’ll make you mind.’
She’d gone back to the machine to make herself a cup of coffee. She now turned to face him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Is it some sort of threat?’
‘No!’ he exclaimed vehemently. ‘No, I’ll never threaten you. But I’ll make you mind what I do.’
‘I can’t see how.’
‘I can’t see how either, yet. But I’ll find a way.’
‘Well, until you do, please stop spying on me and stop trying to tell me what to do with my life. I’ve managed very well up to now.’
‘Yeah, and look at you, all on your own with only a dog for company.’
‘I happen to like being on my own, and my dog is better company than most people. And he doesn’t tell me I’m a slut if I sleep with someone.’
‘Yeah, but you don’t know what he thinks, do you?’
At this, they both looked at Benjy, who was indeed gazing up at them earnestly, as if pondering the moral implications of the situation, and then they both laughed.
‘Okay, Benjy,’ he said, ‘I’ll cool it. I guess I get worked up about stuff like that.’
‘I guess you do,’ she said. ‘And I get a bit petty in response.’
They were both laughing, she thought, in relief at backing away from an exchange that was threatening to reveal too much about their investment in a relationship that had not yet found a discussible shape. After all, what did it matter what a pushy young man thought of her actions? And what did it matter to him what a fifty-five-year-old woman did with her life?
Except, it would seem, that it did matter, to both of them. So it was a relief to pretend it didn’t.