by Nick Hornby
“So. Who got you interested in Hardy?” said Lucy.
“Joseph told me about your thing,” said Hanna.
They both laughed.
“Different subjects,” said Lucy.
“Very,” said Hanna.
“My feeling is that yours wins. I don’t think Thomas Hardy can ever be an elephant in the room.”
“That would be like a good writing exercise,” said Hanna. “Write a story in which one character has to say, at some point, ‘The elephant in the room here is Thomas Hardy.’”
“I’ll try it at school. I’d have to explain the expression, then who Thomas Hardy was. And then I’d get a ton of stories about either gang fights or terrible revenge wreaked on faithless boyfriends, and at some point in the middle someone would say, for no apparent reason, ‘The elephant in the room here is Thomas Hardy.’”
They went back to silence.
“OK then,” said Hanna. “I had an amazing English teacher.”
“Hooray.”
“And she used to take me to one side after class and give me books. She gave me Black Boy by Richard Wright. And she gave me The Color Purple. I was like, fourteen. She gave me Things Fall Apart and Go Tell It on the Mountain and Their Eyes Were Watching God. And then she gave me Jude the Obscure and told me it was her favorite novel.”
“Wow.”
“And the weird thing was, it made sense to me. In the context of the others. Because it was about outsiders and poverty and class and all that.”
“This teacher sounds like a star. Where did you go to school?”
“Edmonton. St. Thomas à Becket.”
“Anyone getting kids to read Hardy in Edmonton should be made Minister for Education.”
“Yeah. I’m not sure it was kids plural. I was a weirdo.”
She went back to looking out of the window.
“The problem was, I didn’t actually ask you a question. About Joseph. You asked me a question about Hardy and I answered it.”
“Good point. So is there anything you want to know?”
“I dunno. No. Tell me something.”
“Ummm. It was nice, and it came to a natural end, for all the obvious reasons. And I’m very glad he has a girlfriend who is more appropriate for him.”
“The trouble is, I’m not appropriate for him either. Or he’s not appropriate for me.”
“Yeah. I can see that.”
“Poor Joseph. Not appropriate for either of us.”
Lucy laughed. She wanted to tell Hanna that it wasn’t true.
“Joseph and I . . . We haven’t quite got enough,” said Hanna. “It’s been a nice summer, though.”
She didn’t seem to want to say any more, so Lucy changed the subject.
“Do you like any other Victorians? Apart from Hardy? Oh, you want to know my favorite Hardy fact? Well, there are two. One—he’s buried in two places. They cut his heart out and it’s down here somewhere. The rest of him is in Westminster Abbey.”
“Wow.”
“Can you believe it? That happened in the twentieth century. And the other—he drove himself, in a car, to see a movie adaptation of one of his novels.”
“No way.”
“True.”
And the rest of the drive passed in a blur of plots, characters, scenes.
* * *
—
They poked around the house, although neither of them felt any magic emanating from the brown furniture; they bought postcards in the gift shop, went to visit the grave of Wessex the dog. As they were leaving, an elderly lady in an anorak, wearing a badge with the E.U. logo, peered dimly at Hanna and stopped.
“Excuse me.”
“Hello,” said Hanna. “I like your badge.”
“Oh. Thank you. What a bunch of bloody idiots. Anyway. Can I just say that it’s marvelous you’re here.”
“Sorry?”
“I just think it’s wonderful.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
The lady turned her attention to Lucy.
“Well done.”
She nodded and walked on. Lucy stared after her.
“Fucking hell,” said Lucy.
Hanna shrugged.
“I suppose there was a time when she might have stopped me to say she didn’t want my type here,” she said. “So, you know.”
* * *
—
On the way back, Hanna asked Lucy about her marriage, and heard the sad story of Paul.
“But if he stays sober . . .?”
“Maybe in twenty years or something.”
“You’d get back together in twenty years?”
“That’s about how long I’d need to trust it. And anyway, there’s nothing there. He killed it.”
“He wasn’t himself, though.”
“I know that. But there’s only one of him. So it doesn’t help. The man I married was also the man who became an alcoholic and a coke addict. Now I just feel nothing when I see him, and he’s lucky it’s only nothing.”
“And what about Michael?”
“Oh. It’s . . .”
It was a friendship, was what it was, but Michael didn’t seem to see it. Maybe that was unfair; maybe that simply wasn’t what it looked like from where he was standing, but that made the friendship difficult. She had no other friends who were expecting their relationship to turn some kind of corner and end up in a bed somewhere. She did have them, once upon a time, but everything settled down in the end. Her relationship with Michael was so polite and gentle that it was impossible for her to imagine the kind of eruption, or disruption, anyway, that sex required.
“Complicated?” said Hanna.
“No. Not really. He’s nice, and I like him.”
“Won’t that do?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“So . . .”
“There’s no ‘so.’ That’s it. Where are you getting a ‘so’ from?”
“Sounds like you could do a lot worse.”
“Oh, I could. And I have done. But you’ll be forty soon enough, young lady. And you won’t feel ready to settle for the least bad option either.”
They turned down the drive and walked around the back of the cottage to find Joseph and the kids playing a violent and apparently hilarious version of water polo with a football, and Lucy wondered how many versions of a nice life she had a right to expect.
Joseph got out of the pool and sat with Hanna and Lucy, and they watched the boys play their game.
“I can’t believe how nice it is here,” said Hanna.
“I can’t believe this house came out of a guy’s head,” said Joseph.
“What do you mean?” said Lucy.
“I mean, this guy just thinks stuff up, and then he buys a house with a pool.”
“As well as his house in London,” said Hanna.
“Does it piss you off?” said Lucy.
“No,” said Hanna.
“Me neither,” said Joseph. “Why should it? Does it piss you off?”
“No. It’s not like he’s done anything bad to get it. But.”
She was getting into deep water again.
“You piss me off more than him,” said Hanna. She was laughing as she said it.
“Me?” said Lucy.
“Yeah. How come you know people like this?”
“It’s true,” said Joseph. “We don’t have any friends who invite us to their second home.”
“With a pool,” said Hanna.
“Neither did I, when I was your age,” said Lucy, but even as she said it, she realized it wasn’t true. Her friend Joanna at college went to France every summer, to the house in Nice her parents rented. Lucy had gone one year.
“You’re right,” said Joseph. “It’s an age thing. My mum and dad go to places like
this all the time.”
Hanna laughed.
“Mine too,” she said. “They’re sick of it.”
Lucy hadn’t thought of that. She was a teacher—a head of department, yes, but she still earned less than a lot of people she knew. And yet this wasn’t the first time she’d been given access to a private pool. She, Paul, and the boys had received invitations to villas abroad a couple of times, to Italy and France and Spain. She was lucky to know Michael, of course, but it wasn’t a miracle. She knew other people like him, people with the same kind of income, and the same kind of life. Having friends with money, she realized, didn’t make her resentful; rather, they provided an occasional escape route, an extra room in one’s mind, one that stopped her from feeling shut in, and she had never noticed that until just now.
“Sorry,” said Lucy. “It was a stupid thing to say.”
* * *
—
They went to the seaside on Sunday. They swam in the astonishingly cold sea, looked for fossils, ate lunch in a café on the beach—more fish and chips for the boys, crab for Hanna and Lucy.
“So are you Joseph’s girlfriend or what?” said Al to Hanna.
“What,” said Hanna.
“What does that mean?”
“You gave me two choices.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“She did,” said Dylan. “Girlfriend or what? First choice, girlfriend. Second choice, what.”
“Oh, I get it,” said Al mirthlessly.
“It wasn’t great,” said Dylan.
“Anyway, why is it what?”
“Why is what what?” said Dylan.
“I’m talking to Hanna. I don’t understand why she’s only what, not girlfriend.”
“Perhaps Hanna doesn’t want to talk about it,” said Lucy.
The café was packed. People were ambling around with trays full of drinks that were constantly on the verge of sliding off, looking for tables, and as a consequence there was always somebody at their elbow. The hot, harassed waitresses were walking around with plates of food, shouting out numbers to customers who were too deep in conversation to hear, or who had mislaid their tickets, or who had wandered off to look at the sea. It wasn’t the best environment to discuss affairs of the heart.
“Well,” said Hanna. “Boyfriend and girlfriend . . . That’s sort of permanent, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” said Dylan. “I had no idea.”
“Well, you know. Not permanent. That’s the wrong word. Official.”
“Official?” said Al. “How?”
“Well, not official like a marriage.”
“Which, by the way, is not permanent,” said Dylan. “As we know.”
“So not permanent and not official,” said Al.
Joseph started laughing.
“What’s funny?” said Hanna.
“You shouldn’t have started this.”
“If it’s not permanent and not official, why isn’t he your boyfriend?” said Al.
“You sleep together,” said Dylan.
“Seventy-TWO,” shouted a young woman with a lobster on a plate standing right next to them and looking as though she might cry.
“Maybe I’ll explain later,” said Hanna.
“Would you say she’s your girlfriend?” Dylan said to Joseph.
“Well, I wouldn’t now,” said Joseph. “Not if it’s not mutual.”
“What does that mean?” said Dylan.
“Well, if she’s not my girlfriend, I’m not her boyfriend.”
“Why did you and Mum split up?” said Al.
Both boys started giggling uncontrollably then.
“Oh, you’re such an idiot, Al,” said Dylan.
“You wanted to know too,” said Al.
“For God’s sakes,” said Lucy. “What are you talking about?”
“We’re not stupid,” said Dylan.
“Why on earth do you think we split up?”
“Because you were together, and now you’re not.”
Joseph was watching her carefully, looking for some kind of guidance. Hanna was watching her too, but Lucy imagined that was simply curiosity. She’d be curious too, in Hanna’s position.
“We weren’t together. We were just keeping each other company.”
“So why did you stop keeping each other company?”
“Because Joseph got a girlfriend.”
“She’s not his girlfriend,” said Dylan triumphantly.
Lucy felt cold, and a little sick. Of course they’d have noticed things. As Dylan had pointed out, they weren’t stupid. She could only hope that the things they’d noticed were little clues, rather than something more explicit. They’d had sex on the sofa that first time. What if one of the boys had wandered down the stairs and then fled in terror?
“Sixty-EIGHT!”
“I’d be annoyed if I was sixty-eight,” said Joseph.
“Because they just called seventy-two, you mean?” said Lucy.
“We’re not going to change the subject and talk about numbers,” said Al. “Nice try, though.”
“We do like you, by the way,” said Dylan to Hanna. “We’re not protesting or anything. And anyway, Mum can’t date Joseph.”
“Why not?” said Hanna.
“They have a lot of issues.”
Lucy was almost lured into an argument with them, but managed to resist. If they thought there were a lot of issues, then that was all for the best. And anyway, there were a lot of issues.
“What time’s the train?” said Hanna.
“There’s one at ten past five. Plenty of time. We’ll take you to the station.”
“We’re going to play that game in the pool again,” said Dylan. “So we won’t be coming.”
“I can’t leave you on your own in a swimming pool,” said Lucy.
“Joseph’s staying,” said Dylan.
“Is he?”
“Oh,” said Joseph. “Yeah. If that’s OK.”
“It’s fine with me.”
Lucy looked at Hanna.
“I told him to stay,” said Hanna. “He loves it here.”
* * *
—
Hanna got a taxi in the end. Neither of the women wanted another conversation in the car, although of course they were both prepared to spend the journey to Crewkerne chatting amicably and avoiding subjects if they had to. Hanna pointed out that Lucy would be sitting in the car for the nicest part of the afternoon, and Lucy asked whether she’d mind terribly, and Hanna said of course not, and Lucy said she had the app for a local firm on her phone and they were cheap and she wouldn’t dream of taking any money off her. When the cab arrived at the house, Hanna and Lucy hugged, and then Lucy ushered the boys into the house to get changed for their swim.
11
She’s lovely,” said Lucy when the boys had gone to bed.
“Yeah,” said Joseph.
They were drinking outside, by the pool, side by side. It seemed easier for Joseph to look at the water or the night sky than at Lucy.
“You should try and keep hold of that one.”
“She’s just gone.”
“Only until Tuesday.”
“Not sure.”
“Not sure what?”
“Whether she’s only gone until Tuesday, or whether that was it.”
“You might have split up while she was getting into the taxi? Bloody hell.”
“No, no.”
“So what happened? I had such a nice time with you both.”
“It was just all a bit weirder than I’d imagined.”
“What sort of weird?”
“I dunno. Well, I do.”
“Weird because of me?”
“Yeah, sort of. She loved meeting you, but she was weird about you. Behind closed
doors, sort of thing. She didn’t feel comfortable . . . Anyway.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“I wasn’t, really. I was probably a bit weird about you too. Like, a bit, you know. Squirmy.”
“Perhaps it was all a bit ambitious,” said Lucy.
“Did you feel weird?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Is that too blunt?”
“No. I mean, it was blunt, but not too blunt.”
“It seemed right,” she said.
“What?”
“You and her. A very handsome and charming young couple.”
“Can we talk about something else?”
“Sure. Do you have a subject in mind?”
“No. I just don’t want you banging on for the rest of the evening about why I should be with Hanna. Because I won’t be for much longer, so you’re wasting your breath.”
“It felt really weird,” said Lucy.
“What did?”
“You being here with her.”
“That is exactly the question I asked you! And you said no!”
“I know. I thought it was easier not to tell the truth.”
“Well. I’ve had a nice time,” said Joseph ruefully.
“Do you think we shouldn’t be seeing each other at all?” said Lucy.
“No. I just think maybe we shouldn’t be double-dating just yet.”
Lucy laughed.
“I can’t imagine you and Michael chatting away at dinner.”
“No, me neither,” said Joseph.
“Are you being mean?”
“Are you? Also, are you officially seeing Michael?”
“Not officially until Wednesday. There’ll be an announcement in the Telegraph.”
“I wondered how you people did these things.”
“‘You people’? Since when did I become ‘you people’? Why aren’t you ‘you people’?”
“Because I can’t be, can I?”
“Why not?”
“Because if I say ‘you people,’ then I’m not including myself. ‘Me people.’ That’s not a thing.”
“What about ‘us people’? ‘Us lot’?”
“You think me and you are ‘us lot’? There isn’t a single way in which we’re ‘us.’ That was the whole problem. We were only together in bed or in front of the telly.”
