‘I meant to text you . . .’ I say lamely. ‘To apologise for running off like that. But I . . .’
I trail off. He is stil as granite, watching me. Was it real y Thursday that we kissed? It seems so long ago. He seems like a different person, tal and forbidding. He’s hugging his backpack to him. ‘I didn’t text you either,’ he says. ‘It’s fine. Look, I’d better get on . . .’
‘Fine, of course,’ I say. I feel almost winded in the face of his hostility, it’s like running into a brick wal . ‘See you – see you in a bit.’
I go into my studio and shut the door, trying to breathe normal y, but my chest is rising and fal ing alarmingly quickly. I lean against the door, listening to the silence, and then I shake myself down, go over to the counter, and get my stuff out. I write my list for the day, get out my sketchpad; sort out some more filing, turn on my laptop. I flick through the post. The details of my little stand at the trade fair in June have come through; I can see my position on the map, and it’s OK. There’s a sale on at the place I get my clasps, hooks, earring hoops. A letter from the bank, inviting me to a seminar on Smal Business Management. I smooth it out flat and put it in my in-tray, thinking I should go. The last letter is from Emilia’s Sister, the shop on smart Cheshire Street. They’ve sent through an order. An old-fashioned, paper order! It’s like a novelty item, beautiful y printed, and I stare at it in disbelief. They want twenty necklaces, thirty charm bracelets, some of the dangling rose earrings I’m having made . . .
There’s a knock on the door. ‘Come in!’ I shout happily, and then look up. It’s Ben.
‘Hey,’ I say, putting down the order and picking up the broom which I use to sweep the floor. I brush it nervously. I don’t know why I’m surprised it’s Ben knocking at the door: it’s always Ben. Always
He shuts the door. ‘Hi, Cinders. I just wanted to say sorry for being a cock.’
I laugh nervously. ‘What are you talking about?’
Ben rubs one eye; he looks tired. ‘The last however many days, basical y. I have been a cock. Shouting at you . . . Kissing you . . . Not cal ing you . . . Just now . . . Real cock behaviour. I know you’re having a bad time at the moment. I shouldn’t have taken advantage.’
For a brief microsecond I let myself think of his lips on mine again, the feeling of his skin, his tongue in my mouth . . . I shake my head, smiling.
‘You’re many things, Ben Cohen, but you’re not a cock,’ I say. ‘I should have cal ed. Cleared the air.’
‘No,’ he says, smiling back at me. ‘I should have done.’
‘I behaved real y badly. I’m the one who . . . who ran off. And I was drunk and hysterical. I’m sorry.’
Ben laughs. ‘You weren’t drinking alone, you know.’
‘It makes me feel better if you were as drunk as me,’ I say. He pauses. ‘Let’s say I was, and cal it quits.’
‘Um – yes,’ I say. ‘Definitely.’
I stare at him, unsure of what to say next – so, is it normal between us now? Is that it?
‘So it’s . . . it’s OK?’ Ben says, watching me. ‘Yes of course,’ I say. I want to explain. ‘Look – me and Oli – when I ran off like that, ’cause he rang, it wasn’t what you think.’ And then I stop. Because it is what he thinks. ‘I mean, you know. We’re stil married, we have to talk to each other . . .’
There’s a silence. I look up at him. ‘I just want you to be happy, Nat,’ he says.
Suddenly, I desperately want . . . No, this is stupid. I’m leaning on the diary and the post, and I stand upright and brush myself off, as if I’m dusty.
Ben blinks, as though he can’t remember why he’s here, and I think to myself again how tired he looks.
‘Hey,’ I say, more than anything else to have some sound in the deathly quiet of the studio. ‘So, I found the diary.’
I don’t expect him to remember. ‘Cecily’s diary?’ he says immediately. ‘I’ve been wondering about that. Did your mum have it?’
‘Yes . . .’ I stare at him. ‘She did – how on earth did you know that?’
He shrugs. ‘I just guessed she probably would. Knowing your mum, even as little as I do. I thought it’d turn up sooner or later.’ His voice is kind of flat.
‘That’s amazing,’ I say. I smile, I can’t help it. He knows us al , knows me better than I know myself. And he makes it sound so simple. ‘Wel , yeah – she did have it.’
‘Have you read it?’
‘Yes. Last night, in fact.’
Ben gives me a sideways glance, as if he’s reluctant to ask, but can’t help himself. ‘So, what’s in it? Is Jesus buried in your garden?’
‘Um—‘ I take a deep breath, and it catches in my throat. I’m not sure how to explain it, and I can’t think about it without thinking of the last page, of my mother and Cecily on the morning she died, sitting on the bed together, promising each other that everything’s going to be OK. ‘It’s – it’s that thing of thinking you know someone and it turns out you don’t.’ I try to explain. ‘Like you saying “knowing your mum”. That’s what’s awful about it. I don’t think I know her at al . I think al these years, we’ve al looked at her in the wrong way. She went through some bad stuff, and it turns out the people who should have been looking after her – wel , they weren’t. At al .’
I am shaking slightly as I say this. ‘Have you talked to her?’ Ben asks, fiddling with a bit of paper, shooting glances at me out of the corner of his eye.
I shake my head. ‘She’s gone off for a few days.’
‘You need to talk to someone about it.’
