Back in her room, Katie tries to cheer me up with Dawsons Creek re-runs and a warm bottle of
rosé, but I am monosyllabic, and after a while she leaves me to it. I gaze at
the ceiling, letting the muted sounds of the telly wash over me until I fall
asleep. Sometime in the wee small hours, I awake to an inky dark room. The
faint rumble of traffic is punctuated by the whoosh of Katie’s soft snoring, in and out, like a gentle tide.
Thirsty and disorientated, I slip out of bed.
The hallway is deep blue with shadow, lit only by a shaft of
moonlight leaking in through a small, circular skylight above my head. When I
was young, I was fascinated by this peephole to the trees and purple stars. I
gaze up at it for a moment, before a noise behind me makes me jump.
Robbie stands at the top of the stairs, his shiny hair
messier than usual, sticking up dramatically at the back.
‘Hello,’ I whisper. ‘Did you just get home?’
‘Nah, been home for ages. Mum and Suzy stayed… They were on a
roll with Dolly Parton. Thought I’d leave them to it.’
‘Ah. Sorry, I just needed to get some water. Did I wake you
up?’
‘No, I was up. Jerry.’ He gestures to the little grey dog
with his foot.
'Why's he called Jerry?'
‘He's a Springer spaniel.'
‘Oh right… Should have got a Cocker. Then you could have
called it Jarvis.'
‘Yeah. That would have been better.'
‘Yeah.’
A branch scratches against the oval window above his head,
the moon flitting in and out of view behind it.
Maybe it’s the silence of the house, or something to do with
the way the light falls over Robbie’s face, but suddenly I feel relaxed and
calm in his company; the gaucheness of this morning’s exchange in the kitchen mercifully
evaporated.
'I used to love that window,’ I tell him. ‘Looking out of it,
I mean. At night'
Robbie turns round to look properly, rubbing the back of his
neck.
'Yeah, I remember that. You'd sit in the middle of the hall
and everyone would trip over you.'
‘It was only you that tripped over me because you were
galumphing about like a bloody boy and not looking where you were going. You
were like something out of a Robinsons barley water advert,' I tell him
indignantly.
‘That's normal boy
stuff, though. You were—’
‘What? Abnormal?’
‘It was sort of normal until you started serenading the moon.’
‘Get lost—’
‘You did. In a strange, high-pitched squeal. Sitting there in
the middle of the hall staring up at a window singing about the moon. Nutcase.’
He looks at me like I’m an alien. But his eyes are crinkled,
and I feel like a nice alien. An alien that he’s actually quite fond of.
I wonder how Suzy feels when he looks at her. I doubt aliens
are involved at all.
‘Come in here a minute,’ says Robbie after a pause, motioning
to his bedroom door.
I pull my cardigan around myself like a fluffy shield, and
watch him as he opens the door wider to let me into his bedroom. Robbie reads
the look on my face and rubs his hair again.
‘Just for a sec. So I can talk to
you.’
I do as I’m told. He closes the door gently behind me and I hesitate, unsure
where to put myself. He begins to clear large piles of books and clothes from
his bed while I gaze around. Rita has kept his room the way it was when he
lived here; the same glow-in-the-dark plastic stars and moons on the slanted
ceiling, globules of violet Blu-Tack showing through their centres. Faded grey
T-shirts puddle the floorboards, his jeans on the heated radiator, so the air
smells of washing powder and something else familiar and Robbie-ish. Only
Suzy’s sequinned dress on the hanger indicates that things have moved on.
Robbie allows a final book to slide from his duvet to the
floor with a loud clunk, and gestures to the uncluttered space on his bed. I
perch on the corner, watching him sink into a frayed chair. A beat before he
looks at me. I’m suddenly very aware that I’m not wearing much, and that my
eyes are carrying the smudged remains of Rimmel's Granite and Fog.
‘Are you alright?’
I know what he’s getting at. I look
at him questioningly all the same.
‘Just… the karaoke thing with your
dad. I wondered if you were alright with it.’
‘Alright with it?’
‘…Yeah,’ he says, embarrassed.
‘Would you be alright with it,
Robbie?’
‘Probably not, no.’
He bites his thumbnail briefly, then rubs his chin with the
palm of his hand. I wonder why I sound so angry when I suddenly feel safe and warm.
He tries again.
‘He was pissed.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Not that that helps.’
‘No.’
‘I did Sweet Caroline
once, when I was pissed. That’s my point.’
‘Sweet Caroline
wasn’t the bittersweet soundtrack of your recently-failed marriage though. Was
it?’
He sighs, leans back against the desk, and searches the
ceiling for inspiration. He hasn’t noticed that I’m smiling.
‘Look, I’m just… He’s having a sort of…
Martin-Clunes-does-divorced-dad-for-BBC-2 moment. Going through the motions to
see if anything helps. Tonight was just the whisky and singing stage. It won’t
last.’
‘It’s alright, Robbie. You’re off
the hook.’
He looks at me properly, and is relieved enough to show his
teeth when he smiles, taking himself by surprise.
‘Sorry, that was shit. I’m not
really—’
‘No. Was good. Thanks... I’m
alright.’
Seconds pass, silent. I feel buoyed up by his care for me, as
though a fragile, transparent film surrounds us and his bedroom, floating away
from the other rooms of the house, the street beyond, the fears of tomorrow.
Robbie’s bedroom is a tiny planet, drifting in the gentle night time, with new
and delicate rules of gravity. I want to stay here, to hold on tight to the yellow
warmth.
Robbie stretches back against his chair. His thin black
jumper rises for a second to reveal a sliver of navel. As I watch him, my
thoughts are stolen by another memory.
I’m sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor in our
old living room, covering my school jotters with wrapping paper. I can just
hear the puffs and sighs of Mum’s iron over the radio. The song changes: Natural Woman, by Carole King.
‘Listen to this one,’
says Mum.
I pause in my jotter-wrapping, intrigued by the rapt, dreamy
look in her eyes as she sings along quietly, fluently.
‘Looking out on the
pouring rain, I used to feel uninspired…’
I listen for a while,
before going back to my jotters.
‘Yes, well,’ says Mum. ‘Give it about ten years. You’ll know
what she’s on about.’
Presently, Robbie opens his eyes, gazing at the ceiling. I
know how I want to thank him. Test these new rules of gravity. Cross the room,
settle my body around his on the chair, draw his face to my neck, let my hair
fall around him. Let him make me feel graceful. For a second, it feels almost
possible. Natural.
He looks at me, worried about my silence. I smile.
‘It’s alright, Robbie. Really. Whatever
it is I’m feeling, I’m going to channel it. I’m going to make it into something
good.’
He frowns, puzzled.
I close the door softly as I leave.
☾⋆
