Harriet Evans - Love Always

‘Yeah, but he’s not Muslim. There were loads of Hindus there before Partition,’ I explain. Everyone always assumes Arvind is Muslim. I don’t blame them, but his name alone should show he’s not. ‘You’re right, I’d love to go there. I am interested in it. But it’s only a quarter of me, you’re right. There’s another whole half. Look at Jay,’ I say. ‘His mum’s from Mumbai, his dad’s half Indian – he’s three-quarters there. Me, I’m only a quarter there. I used to wonder a lot about the other half.’

‘I would, if I was you,’ Ben says. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘If you ever want some help with it,’ Ben says. ‘Just ask.’

‘What, have you got a DNA database in your studio?’ I ask.

He grins. ‘I mean it. Just – anything I can do. Just someone to talk to.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Thanks, Ben.’

We smile uncertainly at each other in the crowded bar, and there’s a pause, though everyone else around us is laughing and having a good time. Perhaps I should go. I don’t want to, though. I glance at my watch, just as he says, ‘One more drink?’

And I don’t say, No, I’l be off. I look at him, and I think about being at home, waiting for Oli to turn up or not, when I could be here, and I push my glass towards him, and I say, ‘Yes, please. Same again.’

‘Coming right up,’ he says, and we sort of know it’s not going to be just one more drink.

Chapter Thirty-Three

So we have another drink, and another, and it’s seven o’clock and then it’s eight-thirty, and we talk about a new commission Ben’s just got, a photo-essay on a Countryside Al iance march taking place next week, and about my new col ection, and about Les and the writers’ col ective with whom we are both obsessed, and about Jamie’s love life – Jamie being the slightly more amenable of the two receptionists whom I think Ben has a crush on, mainly because she is beautiful, Sophie-Dahl-style, but also fascinating because her boyfriend is an extremely short pockmarked Russian guy, not obviously rich but we think he must be.

Then we have another drink and talk about what we’re working on, and I point out the two girls at the bar and how one of them is wearing this beautiful necklace made up of different charms, and how I want to copy it, and Ben goes up to them super-politely and asks if we can take a photo of her necklace. And he manages to do it without sounding creepy, and the girls are real y lovely, and he snaps away a couple of times because he has a little camera he always carries around with him. Then we have another drink, but somewhere along the line we’ve forgotten we got to the pub early, and nine-thirty seems deceptively early, and we’re so pleased about this we have another drink. In al this time Oli doesn’t cal , and after a while I put my phone in my bag, because I’m sick of checking it every five minutes.

At ten-thirty we are both very hungry, and we know we have to go, and we stumble out of the Ten Bel s onto the street, waving bye to the girls, who are cal ed Claire and Leah and who are lovely.

The road is slick with rain and it is stil freezing cold. It’s mid-March, and this winter feels as though it wil never end. We set off down Fournier Street; I’m just round the corner. As we walk, Ben hums to himself. He always does, I realise. I can hear him in his studio, sometimes, if the window’s open. I don’t think he knows he does it.

‘What are you humming?’

He makes a noise like a scarily authentic trumpet. ‘“When the Saints Go Marching In”,’ he says. ‘It’s a good song to keep you warm. I’m cold.’

‘Me too,’ I say. He puts his arm round me and pul s me tight. He has one of those large, sensible puffa jackets like security guards wear and it is nice and comforting. I lean my head against it as we walk, remembering how comforting he is, though we are walking slightly unevenly.

We’re on the corner of Wilkes Street, and then I’l be home. Ben stops and says, into my ear, ‘Natasha. I’m glad every-thing’s turning out OK for you. I real y am.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure it is, but thanks. I’m glad you think so.’

‘I was worried about you, for a while there.’ His breath is on my ear; it is dry and warm.

I stop, and he nearly trips over me. ‘Ah, that’s nice. Why?’

‘Wel . . .’ Ben says. ‘I just meant . . . Oh, shit.’

‘What?’

‘I’m about to be rude. I’ve had a lot to drink. It’s taken the edge off.’

I close my eyes. ‘I’ve had six vodka lime and sodas. Possibly seven. Eight. Nine. Go on.’

Ben says, ‘I meant you and Oli.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I just didn’t . . . didn’t see you staying together. I know we only met a couple of times, but – just watching the two of you together, the way you talk about him – I always thought he wasn’t good enough for you.’ He nods politely. ‘OK, I’l be off then. Off to bang my head repeatedly against a rock.’ He walks off and I fol ow him.

‘I know,’ I cal . He stops. ‘What?’

‘I know you think that,’ I say. ‘Real y?’

‘Real y,’ I say. ‘I know you didn’t like Oli, Ben.’ He starts to protest but I carry on. ‘I’m not stupid. But he was my husband.’

‘OK.’ Ben nods and runs both his hands over his shorn hair, his kind face smiling at me. ‘You’re right. I’m being a dick, Nat, I’m sorry. It’s just I want you to be happy.’

‘But I was happy,’ I say. ‘We were happy, for a while.’

‘Right,’ he says, but there’s a note of disbelief in his voice and for the first time I feel myself getting angry.

‘We were,’ I said. ‘I loved him – I – I don’t know, perhaps I stil do.’

When I say this out loud, I realise how long I’ve been wanting to say it.

‘You don’t deserve him,’ Ben says. He is staring into my eyes. ‘You should be with someone who wants you to be happy, Nat. Who it’s easy to be with. Easy. Like . . . like it is with you and me.’

He leans forward. I don’t say anything. I just move towards him, resting my head on his shoulder. It is so nice to be held by someone again after so long. He puts his arms round me, and I give in to it, sinking into his comfortable jacket and the comfortableness of him, how lovely he is, how kind, how handsome . . . how my head fits into the crook of his neck the way it’s supposed to. The way it’s supposed to.

I look up at him and he moves his head towards me just enough, so his lips are touching mine. And he whispers, so his lips brush mine, ‘You and me.’

He pushes his mouth against mine, and I close my eyes, feeling the wetness of his tongue sliding into my mouth. He moves against me, and he sighs, and pul s me towards him; his lips are hard on mine, his fingers are on my neck, and it’s as if I’m coming alive again, tingling al over.

His skin is so sweet, the touch of his kiss is so alarmingly exciting, I push myself against him for a few glorious moments. I want him to pul me tighter towards him, to total y sweep me up, to carry on kissing me, feeling his hands on me, holding me close, it is amazing . . .

And then my phone rings. I should ignore it, I should stop. But in the quiet street it is loud. As if I’m coming awake, out of a dream, I pul away from Ben, step backwards. I push him away, my palm flat on his chest, and snatch the phone out of my bag.

‘Ol?’ I say. I pause. ‘Where are you? You’re – now? You’re coming now? OK – um, yeah, that’s – that’s fine. See you in a minute.’ I put the phone away, my eyes stil locked with Ben’s. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and look at my fingers, as if he’s poisoned me. He is staring, standing stock-stil , in the shadow of the huge church, the cobbles shining in the moon and the rain.