Beautiful World, Where Are You

by Sally Rooney

  God, it’s been ages, said Leanne. Here, do you know Paula’s friend Eileen?

  Eileen stood against the kitchen table stroking her necklace absently with a fingertip, looking back at him.

  Ah, he said, we know each other rather well, actually.

  Eileen started to laugh then, touching her lip with her tongue.

  Oh, said Leanne. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.

  Taking a bottle of wine out of his bag, he said in a relaxed tone: No, that’s alright. Eileen and I grew up together.

  Yes, Simon was very fond of me when I was a baby, Eileen said. He used to carry me around my back garden and give me little kisses. So my mother says.

  He was smiling to himself, unscrewing the cap from his bottle of wine. Even as a child of five I had beautiful taste, he said. Only the finest babies made the grade.

  Glancing back and forth between them now, Leanne asked Simon if he was still working in Leinster House. For my sins, he said. Do you see a glass handy? Leanne said all the glasses were dirty, but there were plastic cups on the table. Let me find a dirty one, I’ll wash it, he said. Eileen informed Leanne that Simon would no longer use plastic cups, out of respect for Mother Earth. Simon, who was rinsing a wine glass under the cold tap, said: She does make me sound insufferable, doesn’t she? But Leanne, tell me, how is work? Leanne started to tell him about her job, with specific reference to some colleagues of hers who were friends of his. A man in a denim jacket came inside from the back yard, pulling the door behind him, saying aloud to no one in particular: Getting cold out there. Through the kitchen doorway, Eileen caught the eye of their friend Peter, and waving her hand she went out to greet him. She glanced back once over her shoulder to see Simon and Leanne in conversation, Simon leaning against the kitchen countertop, Leanne standing in front of him, twisting a lock of her hair between her fingers.

  The living room was small and cramped, with a staircase against one wall and potted plants on the bookcases, leaves trailing over the spines of books. Peter was at the fireplace taking his jacket off, talking to Paula about the same political controversy Eileen had discussed with her father the evening before. No, no one comes out of it looking good, Peter was saying. Well, except Sinn Féin, obviously. Someone had connected their phone to the speakers and an Angel Olsen song started playing, while from the hallway their friend Hannah came inside. Peter and Eileen allowed their conversation to taper off while Hannah made her way over to join them, holding a bottle of wine by the neck, bangles clinking on her wrists. Immediately she started to tell a story about a problem with the garage door at her house that afternoon, and how long they’d had to wait for the workman to arrive, and how she had been late to meet her mother for lunch in town. While Eileen listened, her eyes travelled back to the kitchen doorway, through which Simon’s figure was still partly visible, still leaning against the countertop, though several other people had joined him now. Following her gaze, Peter said: The big man. I didn’t know he was here. Hannah had found a clean plastic cup on the coffee table and was pouring herself a drink. She asked who they were talking about and Peter said Simon. Oh, I hope he’s brought Caroline, Hannah replied. At this remark Eileen’s attention moved quickly from the kitchen doorway back to Hannah. No, Paula said, not tonight. Hannah was screwing the cap back on her bottle while Eileen watched. That’s a shame, Hannah said. Leaving the bottle down on the coffee table, she caught Eileen’s eye, and asked: Have you met her yet, Eileen?

  Caroline, Eileen repeated. Is that…?

  The girl Simon is seeing, Paula said.

  Eileen was smiling now, with some perceptible effort. No, she answered. No, we haven’t met.

  Hannah swallowed a mouthful of wine and went on: Oh, she’s great. You’ll love her. You’ve met her, Peter, haven’t you?

  Turning as if to address Eileen, he said: Yeah, she seemed nice. And she’s only about ten years younger than him, so that’s an improvement.

  You are horrible, Hannah retorted.

  Eileen gave a brittle laugh. I never get to meet them, she said. For some reason he doesn’t like to introduce me, I don’t know why.

  How curious, said Peter.

  I’m sure that’s not true, said Hannah.

  To Eileen, Peter went on: Because, you know, I’ve always had that little question mark about the two of you.

  Hannah let out a horrified laugh, and grabbed Eileen by the upper arm. Don’t listen to him, she said. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

  Their friend Roisin came up to join them then, wanting to ask Peter for his take on the same political controversy they had been discussing before. When Eileen went to the kitchen at midnight for another drink, she stopped to look through the back window, where Simon’s figure was visible dimly, talking to the woman whose name was Leanne. A cigarette was hanging loosely between Leanne’s index and middle fingers, and with her other hand she was touching Simon’s shirt collar. Eileen put the bottle away and left the kitchen. In the living room Roisin was sitting on Peter’s lap for the purpose of acting out a funny anecdote. Eileen stood by the sofa sipping her drink, smiling at the punchline while everyone laughed. Afterwards she went out to the hallway and took her jacket from underneath a few others that had been left on the same hook. She went out the front door then and closed it behind her. The air outside was cool. Behind her the living room window of Paula’s house was lit up, a deep warm golden colour, and from within came the muted noise of music and voices. Eileen took her phone from her pocket. The time on the screen was 00:08. She went out the front gate onto the pavement and put her hands into the pockets of her jacket.

  Before she had reached the corner of the street, the door of Paula’s house opened up again and Simon came out onto the front step. Without closing the door behind him, he called out: Hey, are you leaving? Eileen turned around. Between them the street was empty and dark, the curved hoods of parked cars reflecting the streetlights dimly. Yeah, she said. He stood there for a moment just looking at her, maybe frowning. Well, can I walk you home? he asked. She shrugged. Wait there for a second, he said. He went back inside and she stood with her hands in her pockets, elbows out, staring down at the cracked pavement surface. When he re-emerged and closed the door behind him, the sound echoed against the walls of the terrace opposite. Bending down, he unlocked his bicycle from the railing of Paula’s front yard, and then put his bike lock and key into the canvas bag he had brought with him. She stood watching him. Straightening up again, he wheeled his bike over to where she was standing. Hey, he said. Is everything okay? She nodded her head. You left kind of abruptly, he said. I was looking for you.

  You couldn’t have been looking for very long, she said. It’s an extremely small house.

  He gave a kind of puzzled smile. No, well, you hadn’t been gone for very long, he said. You’re only about fifty feet from the door.

  Eileen started walking again and Simon went along with her, his bike clicking quietly between them.

  I thought it was nice of Leanne to try and introduce us earlier, he said.

  Yes, I noticed she got a hug. I didn’t even get a handshake.

  He laughed. I know, I really behaved myself, didn’t I? he said. But I think she got the idea.

  Tonelessly, Eileen said: Did she.

  Looking down at her now, he was frowning again. Well, I didn’t want to embarrass you, he answered. What do you think I should have said? Oh, Eileen and I don’t need to be introduced. Actually, we’re lovers.

  And are we? she asked.

  Hm. I suppose that’s one of those words nobody uses anymore.

  They reached the corner of the street and took a left to leave the estate and walk back toward the main road. Above them, narrow trees planted at intervals along the footpath, in full leaf. Eileen’s hands were still in her pockets. She cleared her throat, and then said aloud: Your friends were just telling me how great this person Caroline is. The girl you’re seeing. They all seem very fond of her, she’s obviously made a big impression
.

  Simon was looking at Eileen as she spoke, but she was staring fixedly at the pavement ahead. Right, he said.

  I didn’t realise you’d introduced her to everyone.

  Not everyone, he said. She’s come out for drinks with us a couple of times, that’s all.

  Almost inaudibly Eileen murmured: Jesus.

  For a time neither of them spoke again. Finally he said: I did tell you I’d been seeing someone.

  Am I the only one of your friends who hasn’t met her? she asked.

  I know how this sounds, but I really have been trying to do everything right. It’s just—You know, it’s not the most straightforward situation.

  Eileen let out a harsh laugh. Yeah, it must be tough, she said. You can’t fuck everyone, right? Or you can, but things eventually get awkward.

  Simon seemed to consider this. After a moment he said: Look, I understand you’re feeling upset, but I’m not sure if you’re being completely fair.

  I’m not upset, she answered.

  His eyes moved over the street ahead of them. Seconds went by in silence while they walked, cars passing beside them on the road. Finally he said: You know, when I asked you out in February, you told me you just wanted to be friends. You never—and I’m not trying to be accusatory, I’m just giving you my perspective—you never showed any interest in me at all until I told you I was seeing someone else. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong on that.

  Eileen’s head was bent forward, showing the long line of her neck over the collar of her jacket, her eyes on the pavement. She said nothing.

  He went on: And when you did find out I was seeing someone, you decided you wanted to flirt with me and call me on the phone at night, okay, and then you want to come over when I’m in bed and we mess around or whatever, that’s fine, I don’t mind. As far as I can see, I’ve been very clear with you, there is someone else, but it’s not exclusive, so if you want to sleep over in my apartment there’s no problem. I’m not pressuring you to make any decisions about where we stand with each other, I’m happy to just spend time together and see how things go. From everything you said, I assumed that’s what you wanted. And it’s been really nice, for me at least. I completely understand why it’s awkward for you to hear our friends talking about someone else I’m seeing, but it’s not like you didn’t know she existed.

  While he spoke Eileen lifted her hand to her face, pushing her hair back roughly off her forehead, tension visible in her shoulders, in her neck, in the sharp almost jerking movements of her fingers. Jesus, she repeated. How Christian of you.

  What does that mean? he asked.

  With a laugh that sounded almost frightened she said: I can’t believe I’ve been such a fool.

  They had stopped walking, outside the entrance to a block of flats, beneath a streetlight. He was looking at her with concern. No, he said. You haven’t been a fool. And I’m sorry I’ve upset you. It’s the last thing I wanted to do, believe me. I haven’t even seen Caroline this week. If I gave you the impression that I’d broken things off with her after last weekend, I’m really sorry.

  She was covering her face, her hands scrubbing at her eyes, and her voice when she spoke was muffled and indistinct. Oh God, she was murmuring. I just thought—No, I don’t even know what I thought.

  Eileen, what do you want? Because if you seriously want us to be together, I can end things with Caroline any time. I’d be happy to, more than happy. But if you don’t want that, and we’re just playing around and having fun, then, you know. I can’t be single for the rest of my life because it suits you better. I have to, at some point, I have to get over that. Do you see what I’m saying? I’m just trying to figure out what you want.

  Closing her eyes, she said nothing for several seconds. Then she said in a low even voice: I want to go home.

  Right, he said. You mean now?

  She was nodding her head, her eyes shut.

  The fastest thing is probably just to keep walking, he said. Is that okay? I’ll see you to your door.

  She answered yes. In silence they made their way to Thomas Street and turned left, walking over toward St Catherine’s. At the traffic lights a few cars were idling, and a taxi with its light turned on. Without speaking they walked down Bridgefoot Street and crossed the bridge at Usher’s Island. Streetlights fragmented and dissolved on the black surface of the river. Finally they reached the entrance of Eileen’s apartment building and stood together under the projecting arch of the external doorway. He looked at her, and with her head held straight she looked back at him. After taking a deep breath in, she said effortfully: Let’s just forget about it, can we? He waited a moment as if to let her continue, but she didn’t. I’m sorry to sound stupid, he answered, but about what, do you mean? She went on looking at him, her face thin and pale. I suppose about the whole thing, she said. And we can just be friends again. He started to nod his head while she watched him. Sure, he said. That’s alright. I’m glad we’ve talked about it. He paused briefly and then added: I’m sorry if you thought I was ignoring you at Paula’s house. I had been looking forward to seeing you, very much. I didn’t mean to make you feel ignored. But that’s all. I’m going to head home now, okay? I may not see you during the week, but in any case we’ll see each other at the wedding. She seemed to swallow, and then asked haltingly: Is Caroline going to be there? I know you said you were thinking about bringing her. He looked up at Eileen then, and started to smile. Ah no, he said. I never invited her in the end. But if that was all you wanted, you could have just told me. No need for such advanced tactics. She turned her face away, shaking her head. No, it wasn’t that, she said. He went on observing her a moment longer, and then said in a friendly voice: Not to worry. See you soon. He walked away, the wheels of his bicycle padded and quiet on the paved street surface.

  Eileen took her keys from her pocket and let herself into the building, making her way directly up the stairs and through the front door of her apartment. Pushing her bedroom door open blindly and banging it shut, she lay down on the bed and started crying. Her face was red, a vein in her temple was visible. She hugged her knees to her chest and sobbed with a painful catching sound in her throat. Taking off one of her flat leather shoes, she threw it hard at the opposite wall and it fell limply on the carpet. She let out a noise almost like a scream then and put her face in her hands, shaking her head. A minute went by. Two minutes. She sat up and wiped her face, leaving black make-up smudged under her eyes and on her hand. Three, four minutes. She got to her feet, went to the window and looked out between the curtains. The headlights of a car swept past. Her eyes were pink and swollen. She scrubbed them once more with her hand and then took her phone from her pocket. The time was 00:41. She opened a messaging app and tapped Simon’s name. An exchange from earlier that day appeared on-screen. Into the reply field Eileen slowly typed the words: Jesus Christ Simon I fucking hate you. Calmly she surveyed this message, and then, with apparent deliberation, added the lines: Like in your mind we were really just “having fun” all week and you were seeing someone else the whole time? When you were crying all over me the other night telling me how lonely you are, was that your idea of a joke? What the fuck is wrong with you? Her eyes moved once again over the text, slowly, thoughtfully. Then, holding her thumb to the backspace key, she deleted the draft. Taking deep hard breaths now, she began to type again. Simon I’m sorry. I feel awful. I don’t know what I’m doing. Sometimes I hate myself so much I wish something heavy would fall on my head and kill me. You are the only person who is ever nice to me and now you probably don’t even want to speak to me anymore. I don’t know why I ruin everything good in my life. I’m sorry. By the time she had finished typing, the clock on-screen read 00:54. She scrolled back to reach the top of the message, and down again to read over the final line. Then she held the pad of her thumb down once more on the backspace key. Again the reply field was blank, the cursor blinking rhythmically over greyed-out text that read: Type a message. She locked her phone an
d lay back down on the bed.

  20.

  Alice, I am feeling a bit mystified that you’re on another work trip already. When we talked back in February, I got the impression you were leaving Dublin because you didn’t want to see people, and you needed time to rest and recover. When I expressed my concerns about you being on your own all the time, you actually told me that was what you needed. I find it a little bit strange that you’re now sending me these chatty emails about the award ceremonies you’re attending in Paris. If you’re feeling better and you’re happy to be back at work, that’s great, obviously. But presumably you’re flying from Dublin airport for all these trips? Could you not have let any of your friends know you were going to be in town? You obviously didn’t tell Simon or myself, and Roisin has just told me she texted you two weeks ago and got no reply. I completely understand if you’re not feeling up to being sociable, but then maybe you’re pushing yourself to get back to work too quickly. Do you see what I mean?

  I’ve been thinking about the later parts of your message for a few days now—about whether, as you say, ‘the failure is general’. I know we agree that civilisation is presently in its decadent declining phase, and that lurid ugliness is the predominant visual feature of modern life. Cars are ugly, buildings are ugly, mass-produced disposable consumer goods are unspeakably ugly. The air we breathe is toxic, the water we drink is full of microplastics, and our food is contaminated by cancerous Teflon chemicals. Our quality of life is in decline, and along with it, the quality of aesthetic experience available to us. The contemporary novel is (with very few exceptions) irrelevant; mainstream cinema is family-friendly nightmare porn funded by car companies and the US Department of Defense; and visual art is primarily a commodity market for oligarchs. It is hard in these circumstances not to feel that modern living compares poorly with the old ways of life, which have come to represent something more substantial, more connected to the essence of the human condition. This nostalgic impulse is of course extremely powerful, and has recently been harnessed to great effect by reactionary and fascist political movements, but I’m not convinced that this means the impulse itself is intrinsically fascistic. I think it makes sense that people are looking back wistfully to a time before the natural world started dying, before our shared cultural forms degraded into mass marketing and before our cities and towns became anonymous employment hubs.