Emily Barr - The Sleeper

He is unlocking our front door. I look at his back and imagine the hurt expression that would appear on his face if I told him the truth: I am tired because I was drinking gin and wine until two with my new great friends, and discussing him in some depth. And by the way, a handsome man pressed his knee against mine and I liked it. Then I nearly kissed him.

‘I never sleep well on the train,’ I say instead.

‘I know. You poor thing. We could look at the flights sometime, if you wanted?’

‘No, I enjoy it really. Honestly. A bit of coffee and I’ll be perfectly all right. And breakfast. I couldn’t stomach the railway croissant this morning. I’m starving.’

‘Well, that’s good news, because I’m going to make you the best breakfast you’ve ever had in your entire life,’ he says, and I put my handbag down, and take off my coat, and go to the coffee machine and pour myself a cup. I am home.

That afternoon we go to one of the pubs in town. It is still sunny, but cold, with a wind blowing straight off the Atlantic. I am wearing my Cornwall uniform of skinny jeans, a blue and white striped top and a coat I bought in New York five years ago, before we spent all our money on useless fertility treatment. Sam looks every inch the Cornish shipyard worker in a massive cuddly fleece, jeans and clunky Timberland boots, again purchased years ago when we had cash.

‘Cheers,’ I say with a bright smile, holding up my vodka and Coke. Short of Red Bull, which would have raised an eyebrow, that seemed like the most stimulants I could cram into one glass. The alcohol makes me feel sick, coming as it does on top of an unshakeable secret hangover, but I press on, and soon I feel a million times better.

‘Lara!’

I look round, grateful to whoever this might turn out to be, and see Iris. I have not seen her since I bustled her out the day she came for tea. I still feel bad about that.

‘Hello!’ I pat the wooden seat next to me. We are sitting at a huge round wooden table, and Sam and I are, naturally, right next to each other. There are acres of table free, kilometres of bench. ‘Come and sit down. Sam, you remember Iris.’

‘Yes,’ says Sam, verging on the rude. ‘How are you?’

‘Oh, you know,’ says Iris. She is looking more eccentric than ever, or perhaps she just seems that way to me, used as I am now to corporate London. She is wearing a pair of striped tights, a tiny velvet skirt that, I have to admit, she carries off magnificently, and a fluffy jumper. Her hair is still dark at the roots and blond at the ends, and it is loose down her back. ‘Fine,’ she adds. ‘How are you? Aren’t you working in London these days?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ I do not want to go into details. ‘Back for the weekend. How about you? What are you up to?’

She smiles. ‘Oh, nothing much. Working. Staying at home with my cats. Dancing round the kitchen. Nothing as interesting as you.’

I remember that she has a boyfriend whom she described as ‘a recluse’, and that the two of them rarely leave the house.

‘How’s your partner?’ I ask.

‘He’s great, thanks. He’s well. I miss London, actually. Occasionally.’

Sam snorts. ‘Yeah, right! You live here, in the best place in the world.’

‘I know. Easy to miss city life from a distance. Hey, Sam, it must be nice having Lara back?’

He nods. ‘Certainly is.’

‘I won’t barge in any longer,’ says Iris, getting up. ‘I’ll leave you two to it.’

‘Are you sure?’ I ask. ‘Join us for a drink.’

Sam starts to stand up. ‘What can I get you?’ he asks, in a tone that clearly conveys that he wants her to insist on leaving.

She takes the hint and waves her hands theatrically. ‘No, absolutely not. Thank you, though. I need to get going anyhow. Can’t be drunk in charge of a bike again. Hey, have fun. Enjoy London. And if you’re ever in Budock, look me up.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, and I watch her weaving her way through the crowds and disappearing. I wish she’d had her boyfriend with her: they could have sat with us and we could have had a drink together and the intensity of everything would have been diluted. We would have been like a normal couple, with friends.

‘Enjoy London?’ Sam looks confused. ‘Weird thing to say.’

‘Oh, she was just being nice. Hey, Sam, do you want to come to London one weekend?’ Getting him a surprise trip for Christmas suddenly doesn’t seem like a very good idea after all. ‘We could drink cocktails and go to the Globe Theatre and things like that. Stay in a nice hotel. How about you do the reverse commute one weekend? Christmas shopping and stuff.’

‘Hmm. Could do.’

He hates the idea.

‘Don’t worry. It was just a thought.’

He looks up. ‘Oh, here we go again. Bloody hell. Adrian.’

A man in a pale blue V-neck jumper is standing between us.

‘You two! Nice to see you out. Hey, Lara. Thanks for putting a smile on this one’s face. He’s been moping about since you left.’

‘I didn’t leave,’ I tell him. I have never liked this man, one of Sam’s colleagues. ‘As you can see, I’m here.’

‘Yes, yes, but he’s quite the moper during the week. He misses his wife. Sweet. The rest of us would jump at the chance, you know what I mean, but not our Sam. You’ve got a good one here.’

‘I know,’ I say, turning away, forgetting to pretend to be polite.

‘Yes,’ says Adrian. ‘Well. Have a happy weekend. Have lots of fun together. You know what I mean.’

As soon as he is out of earshot, I say: ‘That man is such a twat.’

Sam looks hurt. ‘He’s all right, you know. Him and his wife keep inviting me to dinner.’

‘You should go, then. Since you like him.’

I watch a seagull landing on the recently vacated table next to ours, and extracting crisps from a ripped-open packet that instantly blows away.

‘No. You hate him.’

‘I won’t be there.’

‘You want me to keep myself busy?’

I look at him. ‘Of course I want you to keep busy, you idiot. I don’t have a moment in London to pause. Then suddenly it’s Friday. I want you to do the same. It makes it easier.’

Sam tries to swirl his pint around, but a bit slops over the edge of the glass and on to his hand. I watch him lick it off, relieved to find myself overwhelmed, at last, by tenderness.

‘Shall we go to the cinema tonight?’ I ask him, remembering the day we met.

‘The cinema?’ He thinks about it. ‘Is there anything on?’

‘There’ll be something.’

‘And we can afford it?’

‘Yes. Nowadays, we can afford it.’

‘You’re sure? The last thing we need is for you to be doing this job and us to fritter the money away and end up back where we started.’

‘Sam. We’ve been through this. We’re not even going to go for dinner anywhere more expensive than Harbour Lights until the debts are paid off. What we can do is spend, what is it? Fifteen quid? Going to watch a film. Another few pounds on a drink to take in with us. It’s fine.’

I shiver in my lightweight coat and think of the money I spend in London without even noticing it. Tuesday will be the first day of November. The past month has been tempestuously autumnal: sunny for five minutes, then suddenly hailing, then sunny again. When I have been in Falmouth, the sky has filled with rainbow after rainbow. They must happen in London, but I never notice a rainbow in London. There is always a building in the way, or something happening at eye level.

‘Cold?’ my husband asks, and I nod. ‘Let’s go home.’

‘It’s already been a month,’ I remind him, as we cut through the marina, using the five-digit code to get through the heavy metal gates. We are not supposed to do this, but whenever they change the code, Sam finds out the new one from work, and we use it as a cut-through constantly. It saves us a few minutes, but more than that, it is always interesting: today, for instance, there are some dressed-down but clearly rich people down on the wooden jetty, fussing around next to a small yet magnificent yacht. They look up as the gate slams behind us, and raise their hands in an efficient wave of acknowledgement. If we have the code to the marina, we are in their circle and worthy of a wave. Our feet clang as we cross the metal bridge, and there is, as there always is, a puddle on the other side of it which requires nimble skirting.