He pats his girlfriend’s arm and Tania looks up. She smiles when she sees me. ‘Nat, how are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say. They both look me over. ‘You don’t look fine,’ Ben says. ‘Natasha . . . ?’ I look through the window. Oli is staring at me. He pushes open the door. ‘Where the hel did you go?’ he says angrily. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you, you just ran off—’
‘I didn’t want to wake you,’ I say. I push my hand through my hair.
Ben and Tania are stil staring at us, with increasing discomfort.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Oli, you’ve met Ben. And this is Tania.’ I wave my arm limpidly at them, as if it’s fil ed with heavy liquid.
Ben steps forward. ‘Hi, Oli,’ he says. He stretches out one thick, blue jumper-clad arm. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘Thanks,’ Oli says, pumping his arm back heartily. ‘Ben – yes, it’s good to see you. We met at that open studio night a few months ago, didn’t we? You’re a photographer, aren’t you, I real y liked your stuff.’
This conversation is unreal. I want to pinch myself. ‘Hey. Thanks. Thanks a lot.’ Ben smiles at him, and turns back to me.
‘Tania’s Ben’s girlfriend. She works with him,’ I say. ‘Not any more,’ Tania says hurriedly, as if she wants to fil the void. ‘But we used to.’
Oli waves his hand to attract Arthur’s attention. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.’ How could I not have noticed she wasn’t working there any more?
‘No, it’s fine,’ she says, smiling. Ben drums his fingers on the counter. ‘Look, we should go,’ he says. ‘Um – good to see you both. See you around, I guess,’ he says to Oli.
‘Sure, mate,’ Oli says, not real y listening. ‘Nat – see you at the studio.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘See you – see you soon.’ I watch them go, Ben striding down the street, Tania next to him. It occurs to me then that they didn’t order anything.
‘Weird guy,’ Oli says. ‘Got a crush on you.’
‘No, he hasn’t,’ I say, picking at a napkin. ‘He has. He’s the one who likes Morecambe and Wise, isn’t he?’ He laughs. ‘That hair, and those big jumpers . . . Weird guy.’
‘He’s not weird,’ I say tiredly. ‘He’s lovely. I’ve known him for years, remember. He’s a good man.’
A good man. That’s what he is. I think it now, and I turn to Oli, turn and stare at him. Is he a good man?
‘I’m starving,’ Oli says, patting his pockets. ‘I’m going to order some food.’
Arthur’s voice rises with pleasure. ‘Oli, great to see you again, it’s been a while now. Where you been?’
Oli smiles and pul s out his wal et. ‘Working too hard, I guess.’
‘Neglecting your beautiful wife?’ Arthur is shaking his head. ‘You want to be careful. I’l snap her up if you don’t watch it!’ He laughs and, of course, we laugh merrily back. ‘Same as usual?’
Oli nods. ‘Yeah. Same as usual.’ He comes back, and sits on the stool next to me. ‘I thought you might be here.’
Before al this, we virtual y lived at Arthur’s, which is at the top end of Brick Lane. It’s a little bit Brooklyn New York wannabe, with simple wooden tables, chalked menus, and every third person owns a MacBook, but the food is delicious and the coffee is great. And Arthur is friendly and genuine, and it’s locals of al ages here, not just tourists, and we could sit here happily for hours and read the papers. It’s very lifestyle section. Our life together was, I’ve been realising, very lifestyle section.
I nod. ‘Sorry. I needed to get out. You were stil asleep.’ Oli touches my hand. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘You can’t just run away again. We need to talk about this.’
‘We talked about it last night,’ I say, knowing I am being ridiculous.
‘We didn’t!’ Oli raises his voice and people look round. ‘I just didn’t want to talk about it any more,’ I say. ‘Wel , locking the bedroom door on me and going to sleep isn’t exactly—’
‘I didn’t sleep,’ I say. ‘I just – I didn’t want to talk about it. Any more.’ I couldn’t. I got into our bed, staring at the ceiling until he stopped knocking, and then there was silence in the sitting room, fol owed by snoring, and I lay there for the rest of the night, looking at nothing, not crying, not feeling anything. I don’t know why, even. Perhaps I was afraid of what I’d do if I let go, of al the tension, the fear, the rage inside me.
‘You shut the door, Nat. You locked it.’ Because our flat used to be an office, it has locks on the doors. ‘What was I supposed to do, just leave?
Don’t you understand what I was saying last night?’
‘Yes, I understand,’ I say in a quiet voice. ‘You want us to split up. Do you want a divorce?’
‘I don’t know . . .’ He runs his hands through his hair. ‘Oh, shit. I don’t know.’ He looks at his watch as he says this and I absolutely know he’s wondering how late he’s going to be for work. Oli is not a workaholic: it’s more than that. He genuinely loves his job. Loves the office, the environment. It’s like a stage for him. He should have been an actor. Last year, he missed his own birthday dinner because he was working. ‘We need to talk, though . . .’ Oli taps my arm, trying to get me to look at him, not out of the window. ‘You do see that, don’t you?’
I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t see what there is to talk about, real y,’ I say, my voice very smal . I am so tired. ‘You’re in love with someone else, you want a divorce, and there isn’t much I can do about it.’
Oli crunches up one of those shiny brown napkins in his fist. ‘Natasha. Don’t you want to know why?’
‘Not real y,’ I say, trying to stay calm. ‘Because look at it from my point of view. I was just going along thinking every-thing’s fine, and the next thing I know everything’s crumbled around us, and I don’t understand why.’ I bite my lip, and I can feel the tears wel ing up, water swimming in front of my eyes and then pouring down my cheeks, almost as if it’s unconnected with me. ‘I – I know everything wasn’t perfect, but I love you, Ol. So I don’t
