without looking away, she reached into the back pocket of her jeans, drew out her cigarette case, and stubbed out her clove against it. She snapped the case shut and set it down on the cabinet. Grabbing at the collar of his shirt, she pulled him towards her.
‘Are you sure about this?’ he said, almost whispering.
She nodded. Her hair collapsed across her face and he tucked it back behind her ear with his thumb. Their foreheads touched together, and they waited, as if listening to some silent countdown. They kissed—that first quick touching of lips, that toe-in-the-water kiss before the high dive. He smiled at her, and asked her one more time, ‘Are you sure?’ The voices of the choir cleaved through the dusty air of his flat, swarming around them like seagulls above a shipwreck. She pressed her body against him, and they fell back upon the bed.
‘If I wasn’t sure,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t be here.’
In the Watford estate where Oscar grew up, the houses all looked the same. Square, innocuous brick-piles, clad in cheap grey stucco, with rectangular concrete driveways. If a new family moved into his estate and decided to update their property—to paint their front door a vivid orange, say—the effects would ripple through the community. Soon, every door in the estate would be daubed a vibrant colour, until the rows of nondescript houses had the palette of a child’s drawing. The only house that ever stayed the same was his own.
This is what he was thinking about as he lay in bed next to Iris. They were naked below the duvet and she was sleeping on her side, facing away from him. He kissed her bare shoulder and put his hand across her stomach; she stirred, gripping his forearm,drawing him closer to her. She asked what was on his mind.
‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Just thinking.’
‘Don’t feel guilty. I knew what I was getting myself into.’
He didn’t feel guilty, just unpractised. Only a few girls had stayed the night with him before, and they’d put their clothes back on right after and watched TV, gone into the bathroom to shower, or just fallen straight to sleep with their mascara streaking his linen. And he’d been left alone each time to listen to the night traffic halting at the junction outside his window. But Iris had not fallen asleep so quickly; it had taken her some time to gather her thoughts, lying breathless on her back, flattening the cover down over her breasts. The only thing she wanted, afterwards, was to talk.
She’d told him about the country farmhouse in Grantchester, where her parents lived. It had once belonged to some rich South African who’d made his fortune from diamond mining in the 1850s. The man was a devout Christian, and he’d installed his own private chapel at the foot of the garden. It was only a small building—in her words, ‘about the size of a modest village hall’—but it had an adjoining rectory for the resident minister. When her parents bought the place, they converted the chapel and the rectory into guesthouses, restoring the old pipe organ so that Eden could practise on it whenever he was at home.
Iris had explained all this to Oscar, slowly abrading the skin of his collarbone with her fingertips. He had listened with a sinking feeling as she’d talked about family barbecues by the river at sunset, marquee parties in the back garden, cherry blossoms and playrooms and moonlit punt rides, family holidays in Martha’s Vineyard and the Florida Keys, as if these were the obligatory details of an ordinary childhood. When he’d asked her what her parents did to afford all of this, she’d been only too happy to tell him. Her father was a paediatric surgeon who’d made ‘all kinds of sensible investments’ over the years. (‘He became a partner in a telesurgery company about ten years ago when nobody could even conceive of it catching on—I mean, who’d want a robotoperating on their only child, right?—but now the technology’s booming
‘Are you sure about this?’ he said, almost whispering.
She nodded. Her hair collapsed across her face and he tucked it back behind her ear with his thumb. Their foreheads touched together, and they waited, as if listening to some silent countdown. They kissed—that first quick touching of lips, that toe-in-the-water kiss before the high dive. He smiled at her, and asked her one more time, ‘Are you sure?’ The voices of the choir cleaved through the dusty air of his flat, swarming around them like seagulls above a shipwreck. She pressed her body against him, and they fell back upon the bed.
‘If I wasn’t sure,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t be here.’
In the Watford estate where Oscar grew up, the houses all looked the same. Square, innocuous brick-piles, clad in cheap grey stucco, with rectangular concrete driveways. If a new family moved into his estate and decided to update their property—to paint their front door a vivid orange, say—the effects would ripple through the community. Soon, every door in the estate would be daubed a vibrant colour, until the rows of nondescript houses had the palette of a child’s drawing. The only house that ever stayed the same was his own.
This is what he was thinking about as he lay in bed next to Iris. They were naked below the duvet and she was sleeping on her side, facing away from him. He kissed her bare shoulder and put his hand across her stomach; she stirred, gripping his forearm,drawing him closer to her. She asked what was on his mind.
‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Just thinking.’
‘Don’t feel guilty. I knew what I was getting myself into.’
He didn’t feel guilty, just unpractised. Only a few girls had stayed the night with him before, and they’d put their clothes back on right after and watched TV, gone into the bathroom to shower, or just fallen straight to sleep with their mascara streaking his linen. And he’d been left alone each time to listen to the night traffic halting at the junction outside his window. But Iris had not fallen asleep so quickly; it had taken her some time to gather her thoughts, lying breathless on her back, flattening the cover down over her breasts. The only thing she wanted, afterwards, was to talk.
She’d told him about the country farmhouse in Grantchester, where her parents lived. It had once belonged to some rich South African who’d made his fortune from diamond mining in the 1850s. The man was a devout Christian, and he’d installed his own private chapel at the foot of the garden. It was only a small building—in her words, ‘about the size of a modest village hall’—but it had an adjoining rectory for the resident minister. When her parents bought the place, they converted the chapel and the rectory into guesthouses, restoring the old pipe organ so that Eden could practise on it whenever he was at home.
Iris had explained all this to Oscar, slowly abrading the skin of his collarbone with her fingertips. He had listened with a sinking feeling as she’d talked about family barbecues by the river at sunset, marquee parties in the back garden, cherry blossoms and playrooms and moonlit punt rides, family holidays in Martha’s Vineyard and the Florida Keys, as if these were the obligatory details of an ordinary childhood. When he’d asked her what her parents did to afford all of this, she’d been only too happy to tell him. Her father was a paediatric surgeon who’d made ‘all kinds of sensible investments’ over the years. (‘He became a partner in a telesurgery company about ten years ago when nobody could even conceive of it catching on—I mean, who’d want a robotoperating on their only child, right?—but now the technology’s booming
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