‘Where is the van now?’
‘Down the road. There’s a four-hour parking spot about a mile from here.’
‘Don’t you find it unsettling having to move about all the time like that?’
‘A little,’ he admits. ‘But moving around is kind of cool.’
I consider this. ‘I moved around a lot when I was a child. Not in a van though. I can’t say I found it . . . cool.’
Wally shifts on his elbow, getting comfortable. ‘Why did you move a lot? Folks in the army?’
I shake my head. ‘Honestly, I’m not sure. I would have preferred more permanence but . . . things always came up. Mum lost her job or the landlord needed us to move.’ Wally is really paying attention to me, which is both awkward and quite nice. Perhaps this is why, on a whim, I add, ‘My mum wasn’t . . . the greatest mum, I guess.’
It feels like a betrayal, for some reason. I don’t like speaking badly of Mum. It feels wrong somehow. Rose doesn’t feel bad about it. She and Mum never got along, even when we were kids. I remember hiding in the closet with Rose when we were ten, after Mum and Rose had argued about something. ‘Fern, I know you don’t understand this,’ Rose had said. ‘But Mum isn’t a good mum. You have to do what I say, okay, otherwise I can’t protect you. She isn’t a good mum, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I’d said.
‘I’m sorry,’ Wally says.
‘She overdosed when I was twelve, and my sister and I were put into foster care.’
Wally sits up. ‘Wow. Fern, that’s awful.’
I focus on the remains of the food, the grapes lolling on the chopping board. ‘I was lucky I had Rose. She’s my twin sister.’
I half-expect Wally to have a reaction to this. Inexplicably, people seem to have such curious reactions when I report that I am a twin. In social gatherings, often all I have to do is mention that I’m twin and the rest of the conversation is consumed by the twins in that person’s family, whether they were naturally or artificially conceived, or how their great-aunt Margaret was a twin but her brother died in childbirth. I enjoy this because all I have to do is nod and smile, which is infinitely easier than having to say anything myself. But, extraordinarily, Wally appears to be one of the few people on earth who doesn’t have anything to contribute to the twin conversation.
‘Rose is my person,’ I tell him.
Wally blinks. ‘Your person?’
‘You know. Your person. Your wife or husband. Your child. Your boyfriend. Your best friend. Someone whose name you can put down on paperwork. Someone you can share personal information with. Someone you can rely on.’
Wally unscrews the lid off a bottle of water and takes a sip. ‘Interesting,’ he says.
Conversation starts to dwindle then, so I decide it is time to proceed to the next part of the date. Astonishingly, I know what this should entail. Last night, in preparation, I’d undertaken a rom-com marathon, watching specifically for tips on the running order of a date. Trying to be scientific, I’d taken copious notes and, upon comparing them, found they had a lot in common. The first stage of each date was either a little dull or an unequivocal disaster where the person arrived late or dressed in entirely inappropriate clothing. The next stage involved each party sharing something personal. The final stage invariably involved a wacky incident such as a bird coming to eat the couple’s food or someone spilling a drink all over the other, forcing all parties to escape amid a cloud of hilarity which inevitably turned into a romance later in the show. As such, I determine that the wacky incident is the most crucial of the three stages.
I glance around for a potential wacky incident and, finding none, I open my water bottle and pour its contents over our remaining food. At a loss for what to do next, I throw back my head and laugh loudly.
Wally’s eyes boggle. ‘What the . . . Fern, are you all right?’
His enunciation is made particularly perfect by his bewilderment. My laughter dies down to an uncertain giggle. ‘I . . . don’t know.’
‘You might be the strangest person I’ve ever met, you know that?’ Wally says, shaking his head. And just as I am thinking things aren’t going to plan, he laughs. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this . . . but I like it.’
An hour later, as Wally and I pack up the picnic, I feel irritable. I’m trying to figure out the reason why, since the date – at least when compared with some of the disastrous dates from my rom-com marathon – has been an unequivocal success, when I notice Wally waving his hands in front of my face.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
He holds up my phone. ‘Your phone. It’s ringing.’
‘Oh.’ That explains why I was feeling irritable. The sound of a phone ringing is among the most crazy-making noises in the world for me. The tinny, repetitive sound of it. The accompanying vibration. Thankfully, my phone rarely rings. Rose sends text messages unless it’s an emergency, and if anyone else calls I let it go to voicemail. But when I look at the screen and see it’s Rose calling, I feel my heart rate
