Page 60 of We All Live Here
“That’s it! More! You got it! Now walk to that tree.”
She starts to walk, lengthens her stride, keeps her chest up. She feels a little self-conscious, but she doesn’t want him yelling at her in public so she tries her hardest to stay really upright. It is actually a little shocking to feel how different this is from how she has been walking.
“Breathe! C’mon! A lot of this is in your breath. Breathe deep from in here! You’re strong! Powerful! You’re in a bubble that they can’t penetrate. Now walk back past me and give me some attitude!”
He really isn’t giving up. She turns, lifts her chin and walks back toward him.
He’s animated now, gesturing toward her. “I’m one of those girls, okay? Look at me, being all mean and pouty.” He flicks at his hair and purses his lips. “You know what I’m up to but you don’t care. I’m basically beneath you, Celie. I’m pitiable! You put it on, baby, your body is going to start feeling it! And then you’re going to feel it! C’mon!”
He is yelling now, pouting his lips together, and it makes her half embarrassed, half want to laugh. She slows her walk as she passes him, lifts her head and gives him a faint, dismissive smile.
“Yes! That’s what I’m talking about! Sassy Celie! Give me Sassy Celie!”
She laughs. He is so ridiculous.
“C’mon. Back again! Give it to me worse now. Hands on hips! You can’t even be bothered to engage with me! I’m barely worth your attention! I’m dirt under your shoe!”
She pivots, walks past him the other way, and she gives it to him. A sly flick of her gaze, up and down and up again, the smallest of sneers in her smile. She tells him silently he is nothing. Her chin is up, her shoulders locked, and she pivots again.
“Oh,yes! C’mon, baby. Now you’ve got it! Oh, man. More of that look! I’m dying here. I’m shrinking. I’m shrinking. Look, I’m nothing!”
Gene is crumbling, falling to his knees and then onto the ground. “I’m dead!” he says, flopping backward onto the grass. “I’m actually dead. You killed me.”
She stops, laughing, feeling suddenly lighter. Weirdly, it works. She doesn’t know how well she’ll pull it off on Monday, but it does work. Or, at least, it’s something, a tiny piece of armor to take to the war zone. She thinks of walking past Meena and China and their shock as they see she doesn’t care what they say. She visualizes the bubble protecting her. She will move through her day like this, letting their unfriendly staresbounce off her, their whispered words unable to get through her invisible shield. Then she relaxes her position and grins, waiting for him to get up. He rolls over onto his side and pushes himself up to a sitting position in the grass, staring at his legs.
She waits. Finally he raises his head and looks at her, and lifts a gnarled old hand, puffing slightly. “Yeah, you’re gonna have to give me a hand up, pumpkin. The old knees aren’t what they were.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Lila
Lila breaks first. She texts him on Thursday morning, after deliberating for an hour. It is the thought of Eleanor’s exasperatedWell, why don’t you just ask?that finally propels her to the little keyboard on her phone.
Hey—are we still on for this evening?
He doesn’t reply for a couple of hours—probably stuck in meetings—and then just after midday her phone pings.
Sure. Early drink? You okay to come to near my work? Can’t be back late because of Lennie.
Early drink is a little disappointing, carrying as it does the implication that it will finish fairly quickly, but everyone’s lives are complicated at Lila’s age, and she knows this better than anyone. And, besides, Lila is determined not to let this date be too big a deal. She works until two, if you can really call scrolling distractedly through the internet work and, yes, she goes to get a blow-dry but she’s wanted to try out the new salon on the high street for ages. And while she’s there it seems daft not to get a manicure, because manicures always make you feel better about life generally—she read that in a magazine. She wears her good lingerie because it’s important for women to feel good, even if nobody is going to see it. And if she takes a long time to get ready, it’s because the weather is really changeable at the moment and she isn’t sure what kind of venue they’ll be meeting in (googling the bar really doesn’t help—what if they’re seated outside?) so the fact that she takes most of the day to get ready is really just a coincidence. As is the fact that she gets there twenty minutes early and has to hover at a street corner in Clerkenwell two blocks away so that she doesn’t look too eager. You can never tell with public transport, these days.
He arrives ten minutes late, walking into the bar in a bluster of apologies. A meeting overran, he’s so sorry, he hopes she hasn’t been waiting long. The bar—a pub that has clearly been stripped back to wood and white, its tables marble and its chairs mismatched and antique—is swiftly filling with office workers, people jostling for tables and shedding bags and formal jackets, the detritus of the working day. She stands to accept a kiss on the cheek, and feels herself color at the contact. “No! No, it’s fine. I just got here.”
She had bought herself a still water, and he buys a beer after he checks that she doesn’t want anything else. He’s in a soft, midnight blue shirt and light brushed-cotton jeans, and she suspects his wardrobe is full of such clothes: unshowy in a way that tells people in the know that they cost a fortune. She’s in a black V-necked sweater and black jeans, anoutfit so neutral that she could fit in anywhere. He smiles as he arrives back at the table, and sits down, and for one terrifying moment she wonders if she’ll be able to speak, if they’ll have anything to talk about.
“So you escaped today’s school run, then?” he says, his eyes crinkling.
“My stepfather does it half the week.” He has slim, slightly tanned fingers, and there is a callus on his middle finger, probably from all the architectural drawing. “Also, that way I get an occasional break from seeing the Bendy Young Mistress.” She blushes as she realizes she shouldn’t refer to Marja that way. “That’s what my stepdad calls her,” she adds quickly, glancing up at him, but he’s smiling. He is actually beautiful when he smiles.
“Hah. He’s quite right. Nice to have someone at home to help, though. Half the time I feel like I’m running on the outer limits of what’s possible. Lennie seems to have so many appointments and after-school things. Half of them her mother put in place before she went, and I haven’t the heart to tell her she can’t do them any more.”
Lila really wants to ask about his wife, but feels it may be too early in the date, so she says: “What does Lennie like to do?”
“Ballet, modern dance—although between us, she’s like a baby elephant clumping around the room. Zero natural ability, bless her. She does a needlework class nearby on Saturdays and horse-riding on Sundays. We gave up Mandarin Chinese. That was the one thing I felt was a little overboard. I mean, she’s barely seven.”
They talk aimlessly about children and schedules and the impossibility of work-life balance for a bit, and Lila tries to focus on what he says, but the physical reality of being near him seems to send her nervous system into a kind of rapid spiral. When she looks up from her drink he is gazing at her, his expression soft.
“It’s nice knowing you’re going to be at the school gates. It always makes me feel better.”
