Belinda McKeon - Tender

“I’ll be back in a minute,” James said, after maybe half an hour of this, or maybe an hour, and he kissed her on the cheek and went to the bathroom, or wherever, and he did not come back in a minute, and when Catherine went to look for him, she could not find him, and she could not work it out, how this place worked, how it was laid out, Michael and Julia Doonan’s mezzanine and Michael and Julia Doonan’s split-level kitchen and Michael and Julia Doonan’s little balcony out onto the street; might James be on it, the little balcony out onto the street? So she stepped out there, and she looked at the moon, which was still out, stubborn against the sunrise, which was coming, which would be beautiful. But fuck it, all sunrises were beautiful. Who had time for sunrises? And someone took her elbow, and she was frightened because she was on a balcony, and because the fresh air — fresh air, she now remembered, was the worst thing for drunkenness; it was like taking drunkenness and jeering at it, so that it became riled up and driven to do its very worst — had made things pitch and spin, had made them unpredictable, but it was James, thank heavens, and James was telling her something about a goat.

“Coat,” he said, urgently, shaking his head. “Coats, Catherine. Where are they? Where did that girl put them when we got here?”

A girl had put things somewhere; that was right, the girl who had allowed them, for a few minutes, to pretend that this was their home; the home in which they sat and listened to music and were served wine by girls in white shirts and black waistcoats.

“They must be in the downstairs bedroom,” James said. “Fuck.”

“Why fuck?” Catherine said, almost dreamily.

“You’re going in to get them,” he said, steering her down the wooden staircase, steering her towards a door — she had not seen it until now — at the end of the corridor leading away from the big central room.

“OK, Mother Superior,” she said, sniggering at him, and then they were at the door, and he was opening it, and pushing her into the room.

Nate was there, asleep on the bed, fully dressed, asleep on top of a pile of coats, which made her snigger again: he looked so untidy, lying there, so unkempt and so undignified. One arm stretched out towards the head of the bed, and his legs spread-eagled; Catherine felt the irresistible urge to take off his shoes. Not out of kindness, not out of consideration, or wanting to help him to be more comfortable; just out of mischief. She would put them, maybe, on top of the wardrobe, or she would find, in the wardrobe, a pair of Michael Doonan’s shoes and replace Nate’s with them. But as soon as she kneeled to reach Nate’s shoes, he woke up, and sat up, and planted his feet firmly on the ground, and there she was kneeling in front of him, and he blinked at her, looking almost scared.

“What the fuck?” he said, gasping. “Were you in here all the time?”

“No,” she said, frowning at him. “All what time?”

“Where’s James?”

“He’s outside,” Catherine said. “We don’t go everywhere together.”

“Outside the house?”

“Outside this room.”

Nate stood, rubbing his hand across his mouth. “OK.”

“I have to get our coats,” Catherine said.

“Yeah, there are some coats,” he said, and he gestured sloppily to the bed behind him. He looked at her. “Why are you kneeling on the floor? Are you praying?”

“That’s right,” Catherine nodded, slowly, deliberately, keeping her voice low and even, and she watched him, kept her eyes on him, as he left the room, and as he did so he was looking at her as though she was completely and certifiably insane.

In the sitting room, the dregs were left: Ed Dunne, and the Doonans, and two or three other people, and James, who was standing on the other side of the fireplace, the side closest to the door, talking very intensely to Julia.

“Coat,” Catherine said, and she handed James his coat, and Nate appeared to help Catherine on with hers.

“Oh, what a gentleman, isn’t he, Catherine?” Ed said drily.

“Catherine and James,” Julia said, with a huge smile. “It’s been such a pleasure. Do you want me to show you where to get a taxi?”

“No, no,” James said. “It’s not far. At least not for Catherine.”

Catherine stared at him. Sobriety seemed to jolt through her. Would he not come back to Baggot Street? It was so close. It made no sense, surely, for him to go all the way back to Thomas Street, not for the sake of a couple of hours — and besides, it had been so nice, cuddled up to him, cozied up to him in the alcove of rugs and roses — would he not, would he not, come and stay?

They called goodbye to everyone, and Julia said she would walk them out, and as she left the room, James went with her — not, Catherine noticed, saying goodbye to Nate, which made her, in turn, want to say to Nate a much more effusive, pointed sort of goodbye.

“I’ll keep praying for you,” she said, putting her arms up to be embraced by him.

“Pray hard, Catherine,” Ed said from the sofa. “Pray long and hard.”

And then she was at the front door, with James and with Julia, and Julia, her new friend, was so nice to her, and seemed to really like and respect her, and told her that she had a beautiful singing voice, and that it mattered nothing at all about the words.

“James,” Nate said, from behind them; from the middle of the big, now empty, central room. They glanced around at him, all three of them, and he beckoned to James, who muttered, to Julia presumably, his apology, and stepped towards Nate with, Catherine thought, something almost businesslike in his eyes. And left alone together now, Catherine and Julia could chat a bit more, and so they did, and Julia was so friendly, so easy to talk to, and when she smiled at Catherine, Catherine felt so much approved of, and when, in the next instant, her gaze traveled over Catherine’s shoulder, and caught on something there, and decided on something — made a very obvious and conscious decision — to come back to Catherine, but looked different as soon as it did so, looked full of something else, some wariness or wryness; when her gaze did this, Catherine knew that it was telling her not to look around, not to look to the middle of the room. Julia’s eyes were fast on hers; they were full, Catherine thought, of the sentence Stay here, and Catherine was so very proud of herself then, because she was quick enough, in that next moment, as she turned towards James and towards Nate, to turn her inward gasp into a noise of amusement, of enjoyment — the noise of someone who took everything in her stride.

“The art of goodbye,” Julia said, from behind her, and Catherine dug up a laugh, and laughed it low in her throat where it sounded so much in control, and she took the movement her shoulders wanted to make, which was to slump, and she made them shrug.

James’s mouth on Nate’s mouth. James’s hands on Nate’s arse. Nate’s hands in James’s hair. Tongues; even in that brief glimpse she could see that there were tongues.

“Well,” Catherine said to Julia, shrugging again, and again Julia smiled. It was probably best now, Catherine thought — how utterly sober she felt, now, how capable, if she had had to, even of driving home — to talk about the weekend, and about what she was doing for the weekend, and that in a few hours, she would take the train home, and yes, she was so much looking forward to seeing her family, and yes, and yes, and yes, and then, once again, Julia’s gaze shifted, and something in it told Catherine she could turn around, now, and there was James, coming towards her, looking past her, and there was the space where Nate had been.