“You don’t have to say anything,” James tells me. “Wear it and enjoy.”
Hesitantly, I push the band onto my left-hand ring finger. The marriage finger. It looks like a mistake. Something so delicate, so sparkly, on me. “Thank you. I didn’t get you anything. I feel overwhelmed. I’m sorry.”
“It suits you,” James says, with a look of pride. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the ring, or the notion of being with him for eternity.
15
“Can I play with Mr. Wobble now, Soffig?”
Finally, Anouk has taken me up on my offer of babysitting. I got a call from her late last night.
“It’s time I made some space for myself again,” she said breathlessly. “So I’m trying out a new yoga class.”
It’s the first time Anouk has asked anyone to look after Nike. This evening, after she put her coat on, it took her twenty minutes to leave the house. She hovered in the hallway, checking and rechecking that I had everything I needed.
“Just go,” I laughed, practically pushing her out of the door.
Anouk stood on the doorstep. “You’ll be okay, won’t you? Make sure he has his cocoa before bed.”
It might have been nerves, but I swear Anouk seemed shifty. She wasn’t looking me in the eye. I wonder if the yoga is a smokescreen. She could be on a date. That would be the first time she’s gone out with anyone since I’ve known her. I didn’t even realise that she was a lesbian when we first became friends. It didn’t come up in conversation for months—not because Anouk was trying to hide it. She’s just happy being single. And she was insistent about wanting to adopt a child without anyone else in the picture. “Why complicate things further?” she once told me with a shrug. But having a kid has brought out a new, softer side to her. So, who knows?
We haven’t had one of our red-wine-fuelled heart-to-hearts for ages. I remember one such evening at the Star & Garter, on “Bluegrass and Brisket” night. As always, the place was buzzing, and it gave me a strange boldness with my best friend.
“I nearly kissed a woman once,” I told her.
“You’d better not be coming on to me, Solvig Dean.” Anouk waggled a finger at me, eyes sparkling, lips plump and wine-stained.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I winked. I’m not sure why I was flirting. I didn’t see Anouk as anything other than a friend. I never have. I mean, she’s gutsy, clever, gorgeous. Her parents are Buddhist volleyball players: she’s of the coolest stock. But I’m straight and she’s my boyfriend’s friend. Boring, but true.
“So,” Anouk said, leaning across the table, raising her voice above the bluegrass, “why didn’t you kiss her?”
“It was when I was doing my dive training. She had a shaved head and looked so tough I didn’t dare speak to her for, like, the first five classes.”
“That’s so you,” said Anouk.
“But on the last day, she stopped me as I was heading out of the building. She practically pinned me against the wall. Told me she’d got herself a job in the Gulf of Mexico—God knows how. Said she was leaving in a week. Asked if I wanted to go for a drink.”
“And you were tempted?”
“I said no to the drink, but I very nearly leaned in for a kiss. She was attractive—like Demi Moore in G.I. Jane. But you know what did it for me? She was about to leave the country. That’s what appealed.”
Anouk laughed. “I don’t think that’s all it was.”
I thought I understood what Anouk meant when she said that at the time, but now I wish I’d asked her to explain.
“Soffig? Can I play with Mr. Wobble?”
Nike is sitting cross-legged on the carpet, looking up at me with big, dark eyes.
“Sorry, sweetie. I was daydreaming. I’ll get your toy out of the cupboard and you can play with it while I make you some cocoa. How about that?”
Nike nods.
I get up off the sofa and fetch Mr. Wobble. I’ve seen Nike playing with this thing before. It’s a wooden clown shaped like an egg, with a weight in the base, so that even when you push it over, it rights itself.
“Take that, Wobble-Gobble!” shouts Nike, as he punches Mr. Wobble in the abdomen.
I head into the kitchen feeling proud of myself. I’m not bad at this parenting business.
Anouk’s left a tin of cocoa on the counter. I shake some into a saucepan of milk and put the pan on the hob. I’m not sure what to do next. Do you add sugar? I chuck in a couple of spoonfuls to be sure.
I can’t help noticing my eternity ring as I pour the mixture out into a mug. My hand looks like it belongs to someone else.
“Come on then, big boy.” I head into the living room, where Nike is flicking his toy clown in the face. “Time for your cocoa.” I sit and pat the sofa beside me.
Nike’s jaw drops. “We don’t have cocoa in here, stupid. We take it upstairs to my bedroom and then you tell me a bedtime story. That’s what Mummy does.” This is the first time I’ve heard Nike refer to Anouk as his mum. I’m so taken aback by it that it takes me a moment to respond.
“Okay, chicken. Let’s go up. Leave Mr. Wobble on the carpet. I’ll put him away for you. That’s it. Chop-chop.” Where are all these words coming from? Big boy? Chicken? Chop-chop?
He gets down on all fours and begins climbing the stairs slowly and clumsily.
“Is that how Mummy likes you to go upstairs?” I ask dubiously.
“Uh-huh,” he pants theatrically.
When we reach the top, Nike takes me into his room.
“What about your teeth?”
“Mum lets me do them in the morning.”
This doesn’t sound plausible. I’ll get him
