by Sally Rooney
24.
Dearest Alice—just a quick note to say the wedding was very beautiful, and we’re on the train heading for Ballina as we speak. I always forget Simon is in essence (though he denies this) a politician, and therefore knows literally everyone in the country. He is currently in a long conversation with some random man I have never seen in my life while I sit here typing this message. It’s making me think about what you wrote in your email about beauty, and how difficult it is to believe that beauty could be important or meaningful when it’s just random. But it brings some pleasure into life, doesn’t it? You don’t need to be religious to appreciate that, I believe. It’s funny that I have only two best friends in the world and neither of them remind me of myself at all. In fact the person who reminds me most of myself is my sister—because she is completely insane, which I also am, and because she makes me so angry, which I also do. She looked very beautiful yesterday, by the way, although her dress was strapless, and I know you disapprove of those. The random man who’s talking to Simon is now sitting down at our table and showing him something on his phone. I think it might be a picture of a bird? Maybe the man is some kind of bird enthusiast? I don’t know, I haven’t been listening. Anyway, I’m looking forward to seeing you. I think I had an idea in my mind about beauty, or about the wedding, or about you and Simon and how you don’t remind me of myself, but I can’t remember what the idea was. You know the first time I went to bed with Simon was almost ten years ago? I sometimes think it would have been a nice life for me if he had done the Christian thing and asked me to marry him then. We could have had several children by now and they would probably be sitting on the train with us at this very moment, overhearing their father’s conversation with a bird enthusiast. I just have this sense that if Simon had taken me under his wing earlier in life, I might have turned out a lot better. And even he might have, if he’d had someone to care for and confide in all that time. But I’m sorry to say that I think it is too late to change the way we have turned out. The turning-out process has come to an end, and we are to a very great extent what we are. Our parents are getting older, and Lola is married, and I will probably continue to make poor life decisions and suffer recurrent depressive episodes, and Simon will probably continue to be a highly competent and good-natured but emotionally inaccessible person. But maybe it was always going to be that way, and there was never anything we could have done. It makes me think about the first day I ever saw you, and I remember the knitted green cardigan I was wearing, and the hairband you had in your hair. I mean the life we’ve had since then, together and not together—whether it was already there with us that day. The truth is that I really love Lola, and my mother, and I think that they love me, although we can’t seem to get along with one another, and maybe we never will. In a funny way maybe it’s not important to get along, and more important just to love each other anyway. I know, I know—she goes to Mass a couple of times and suddenly she wants to love everyone. Anyway, we’re already at Athlone so I should probably stop writing this email. Just remind me that I have an idea for an essay about ‘The Golden Bowl’ that I want to run by you. Have you ever read such a juicy novel?? I threw it across the room when it was finished. Can’t wait to see you. Love love love. Eileen.
25.
On the platform of a train station, late morning, early June: two women embracing after a separation of several months. Behind them, a tall fair-haired man alighting from the train carrying two suitcases. The women unspeaking, their eyes closed tight, their arms wrapped around one another, for a second, two seconds, three. Were they aware, in the intensity of their embrace, of something slightly ridiculous about this tableau, something almost comical, as someone nearby sneezed violently into a crumpled tissue; as a dirty discarded plastic bottle scuttled along the platform under a breath of wind; as a mechanised billboard on the station wall rotated from an advertisement for hair products to an advertisement for car insurance; as life in its ordinariness and even ugly vulgarity imposed itself everywhere all around them? Or were they in this moment unaware, or something more than unaware—were they somehow invulnerable to, untouched by, vulgarity and ugliness, glancing for a moment into something deeper, something concealed beneath the surface of life, not unreality but a hidden reality: the presence at all times, in all places, of a beautiful world?
* * *
When Felix pulled up outside Alice’s house after work that night, the lights were on in the windows. It was after seven o’clock, still bright out, but colder now, and beyond the trees the sea showed green and silver. With a backpack over his shoulder he walked with a jogging step up to the front door, rapping the knocker twice in quick succession against the brass plate. Chill salt air stirred over him, and his hands were cold. When the door came open, it was not Alice standing inside, but another woman, the same age, taller, with darker hair, dark eyes. Hello, she said. You must be Felix, I’m Eileen. Come on in. He entered and allowed her to close the door behind him. He was smiling distractedly. Yeah, he said. Eileen, I’ve heard about you. Glancing at him she said: Good things, I hope. She told him Alice was cooking dinner, and he followed her down the hallway, watching the back of her head and her neat narrow shoulders proceeding ahead of him to the kitchen door. Inside, a man was seated at the table and Alice was at the stove, wearing a dirty white apron tied around her waist. Hello, she said. I was just draining the pasta. You’ve met Eileen, this is Simon. Felix nodded, fingering the strap of his backpack as Simon greeted him. The kitchen was a little dim, with just the worktop lights switched on, and candles on the table. The back window was fogged with steam, the glass velvety and blue. Can I give you a hand with anything? Felix asked. Alice was patting her forehead with the back of her wrist, as if to cool herself. I think it’s all under control, she said. But thank you. Eileen was just telling us about her sister’s wedding. Felix hesitated for a moment, and then sat down at the table. At the weekend, was it? he asked. Turning her attention on him with a delighted expression, Eileen began talking again about the wedding. She was funny and moved her hands a lot. Occasionally she invited input from Simon, who spoke in a relaxed voice and seemed to find everything amusing. He too paid a good deal of attention to Felix, catching his eye now and then and smiling in a vague conspiratorial way, as if pleased by the presence of another man, or pleased by the presence of the women but wanting to share or acknowledge this pleasure with Felix. He was handsome, wearing a linen shirt, thanking Alice in a low easy way when she refilled his glass of wine. The table was set with small patterned side plates, silver cutlery, white cloth napkins. A large yellow salad bowl, the leaves inside oiled and glistening. Alice brought a plate of pasta to the table and laid it down in front of Eileen. Felix, I’m serving you last, she said, because the other two are my guests of honour. Their eyes met. He smiled at her, a little nervously, and said aloud: That’s alright, I know my place. She made a sarcastic face and went back to the cooker. He watched.
* * *
When they had finished eating, Alice got up to clear the plates from the table. The rattling and scraping of cutlery, the noise of the tap. Simon was asking Felix about work. Tired now and contented, Eileen sat quietly with her eyes half-closed. A fruit crumble warming in the oven. On the table the detritus of the meal, a soiled napkin, sodden leaves in the salad bowl, soft drops of blue-white candle wax on the tablecloth. Alice asked whether anyone wanted coffee. For me, please, said Simon. A carton of ice cream melting slowly on the countertop, wet rivulets running down the sides. Alice unscrewed the base of a silver coffee pot. And what do you do for a job? Felix was saying. Alice told me you work in politics or something. In the sink a dirty saucepan, a wooden chopping board. Then the hiss and spark of the gas burner, and Alice saying: Do you still take it black? Eileen opening her eyes simply to see Simon half-turn toward Alice where she stood at the burner and say over his shoulder: Yes, thank you. No need for sugar, thanks. His attention returning to Felix then, resettling, and Eileen’s eyes fluttering almost
closed once more. The white of his throat. When he trembled over her, blushing, murmuring, is that okay, I’m sorry. The clanking noise of the oven door, the fragrance of butter and apples. Alice’s white apron discarded over the back of a chair, strings trailing. Right, we worked with him on something last year, Simon was saying. I don’t know him well, but his staff speak very highly of him. And the house around them quiet and solid with its nailed-down floorboards, with its bright burnished tiles in the candlelight. And the gardens dim and silent. The sea breathing peacefully outside, breathing its salt air through the windows. To think of Alice living here. Alone, or not alone. She was standing at the countertop then, serving the crumble out into bowls with a spoon. Everything in one place. All of life knotted into this house for the night, like a necklace knotted at the bottom of a drawer.
* * *
After dinner Felix went outside to smoke, and Eileen went upstairs to make a phone call. In the kitchen Simon and Alice washed the dishes together. Through the window over the sink Felix’s slim small figure was now and then visible as he wandered around the darkening garden. The lit tip of his cigarette. Alice watched for the sight of him while she dried the dishes with a chequered tea towel and stacked them away in the cupboards. When Simon asked her how her work was going, she shook her head. Oh, I can’t talk about that, she said. It’s secret. No, I’m retired. I don’t write books anymore. He handed her the damp dripping salad bowl and she patted at it with her tea towel. I find that hard to believe, he said. Felix was no longer visible out the window then, he had gone around the other side of the house, or further back among the trees. You’ll have to believe it, she said. I’m burned out. I only had two good ideas. No, it was too painful anyway. And I’m rich now, you know. I think I’m richer than you are. Leaving the salad tongs down on the wire rack beside the sink, Simon said: I’ll bet. Alice put the bowl away and closed the cupboard door again. I paid off my mother’s mortgage last year, she said. Did I tell you that? I have so much money I just do things kind of randomly. I will do other things, I have plans, but I’m very disorganised. Simon looked at her but she looked away, taking the salad tongs off the rack, wrapping them up in the tea towel to dry them. That was generous of you, he said. She was embarrassed. Yes, well, I’m only telling you so you’ll think I’m a good person, she said. You know I long for your approval. She dropped the tongs into the cutlery drawer. I approve of you completely, he said. Her shoulders jolted up, and she replied, half-joking: Oh no, I’m not to be completely approved of. But you can approve of me a little bit. He was silent for a moment, wiping down a roasting dish with the sponge. Restless now, she glanced out the window again and saw nothing. The light fading. Silhouettes of trees. Anyway, she isn’t speaking to me anymore, she said. Neither of them are. Simon paused, and then put the dish down on the rack. Your mother and your brother, he said. She took the dish up and started dabbing at it with the towel, quick hard little dabs, saying: Or I’m not speaking to them, I can’t remember which. We had a falling-out when I was in hospital. You know they’re living together again now. He had let the sponge float down through the dishwater to the base of the sink. I’m sorry, he said. That sounds miserable. She gave a raw laugh, scalding her throat, and went on dabbing at the roasting dish. The sad thing is, I feel better when I don’t have to see them, she said. It’s not very Christian, I know. I hope they’re happy. But I prefer to be with people who like me. She could feel him watching her as she bent down and thrust the roasting dish noisily into the back of a cupboard. I don’t think that’s un-Christian, he said. She gave another trembling laugh. Oh, what a nice thing to say, she replied. Thank you. I feel much better. He retrieved the sponge from the bottom of the sink. And how are you? she asked. He smiled down at the dishwater, a resigned smile. I’m alright, he said. She went on watching him. Glancing at her he said humorously: What? She raised her eyebrows, innocuous. I’m not sure what the story is, she said. I mean, with you and Eileen. At that he returned his attention to the sink. Join the club, he answered. She was twisting the tea towel thoughtfully between her hands. But you’re just friends now, she said. He was nodding his head, dropping a spatula on the drying rack, answering yes. And you’re happy, she went on. Finally he gave a laugh. I wouldn’t go that far, he said. No, it’s the old life of quiet desperation for me, I’m afraid. The back door opened and Felix came inside, stamping his shoes on the mat, closing the door behind him. Beautiful evening out there, he said. And overhead the creak of footsteps, Eileen’s soft tread down the stairs. Alice folded the damp wilted tea towel in her hands. They had all come to see her. For this reason they were all in her house, for no other reason, and now that they were here it did not matter much what they did or said. Felix asking Simon if he had ever been a smoker. No, I didn’t think so. Too healthy-looking. And I’d say you drink a lot of water as well, do you? Conversation and laughter, these were just pleasant arrangements of sounds in the air. Eileen in the doorway and Alice getting up to pour her another glass of wine, to ask her about work. She had come to see her, they were together again, it did not matter much now what they said or did.
* * *
A little after one in the morning they went upstairs to bed. Lights switched on and off again, the noises of taps running, cisterns refilling, doors opened and closed. Alice let the blind down in her room while Felix sat on the side of the bed. She came to him and he started to unbutton her dress. I’m sorry, he said. She put her hand on his head, smoothing his hair back. Why are you saying that? she asked. Because we had a fight? He exhaled slowly and for a moment said nothing. It wasn’t really a fight, though, was it? he said. I don’t mind. You can call it that if you want. It won’t happen again, whatever it was. Sadly she went on looking down at him a little longer, and then she turned away and finished unbuttoning her dress. Are you giving up on me? she asked. He watched her slip the dress from her shoulders and drop it into the laundry basket. Ah no, he said. I’m just going to try being nice to you for a while. Unhooking her bra, she let out a high laugh. I might not like that, she answered. He got onto the bed then, smiling to himself. No, I thought not, he said. But you can’t always get what you want. She lay down on the bed beside him. Stroking her breast with his hand, he said: You’re happy she’s here, aren’t you? Your friend. After a moment, Alice said yes. Yeah, it’s cute the way you love each other so much, he said. Girls are like that. You should get time on your own with her while she’s around, don’t let the lads crowd in on you. Alice smiled. We’ve been apart for too long, she said. We’re shy with each other now. He turned over on his back and looked up at the ceiling. That won’t last, he said. And I like her, by the way. Alice smoothed her hand slowly down his shoulder, down his arm. Will you spend some time with us tomorrow? she said. He made a kind of shrugging gesture. Yeah, why not, he said. Closing his eyes, he thought again, and then added: I’d like to.
