Conversations with Friends

by Sally Rooney

  Bobbi seemed to enjoy Nick’s presence in our apartment, partly because he made himself so useful. He showed us how to fix the leaky tap in our kitchen. Man of the house, she said sarcastically. Once while he was cooking dinner for us, I heard him on the phone to Melissa, talking about some editorial dispute of hers and reassuring her that the other party was being ‘totally unreasonable’. For most of the call he was just nodding and moving saucepans around on the hob while saying: mm, I know. This was the role that seemed to appeal to him more than anything, listening to things and asking intelligent questions that showed he had been listening. It made him feel needed. He was excellent on the phone that time. I had no doubt that Melissa was the one who’d made the call.

  We stayed up late talking those nights, sometimes until we could see it getting bright behind the blinds. One night I told him I was on a financial assistance scheme to cover my college fees. He expressed surprise and then immediately said: sorry for sounding surprised, that’s ignorant of me. I shouldn’t presume everyone’s parents can pay for that stuff.

  Well, we’re not poor, I said. I’m not saying that defensively. I just don’t want you to get the impression that I grew up very poor or anything.

  Of course.

  You know, but I do feel different from you and Bobbi. Maybe it’s a small difference. I feel self-conscious about the nice things I have. Like my laptop, that’s second-hand, it was my cousin’s. But I feel self-conscious with it, still.

  You’re allowed to have nice things, he said.

  I pinched the duvet cover between my thumb and finger. It was hard, scratchy cloth, not like the Egyptian cotton Nick had in his house.

  My dad’s been kind of unreliable about paying my allowance, I said.

  Oh, really?

  Yeah. Like at the moment I basically have no money.

  Are you serious? said Nick. What are you living on?

  I rolled the duvet cover between my fingers, feeling the grain of it. Well, Bobbi lets me share her things, I said. And you’re always bringing food.

  Frances, that’s insane, he said. Why didn’t you tell me? I can give you money.

  No, no. You said yourself it would be weird. You said there were ethical concerns.

  I would be more concerned about you starving yourself. Look, you can pay me back if you want, we can call it a loan.

  I stared down at the duvet, its ugly printed pattern of flowers. I have money coming in from that story, I said. I’ll pay you back then. The next morning, he went out to an ATM while Bobbi and I ate breakfast. When he came back, I could see he was too shy to give me the money while she was there, and I was glad. I didn’t want her to know I needed it. I went into the hallway with him when he was leaving and he took out his wallet and counted out four fifty-euro notes. I found it unsettling to watch him handle money like that. That’s too much, I said. He gave me a pained expression and said: then give it back another time, don’t worry about it. I opened my mouth and he interrupted: Frances, it’s nothing. For him it probably was nothing. He kissed my forehead before he left.

  *

  On the last day of October, I handed in one of my essays and Bobbi and I went out afterwards to meet friends for coffee. I was happy with my life then, happier than I could ever remember. Lewis was pleased with my revisions and ready to go ahead with printing the story in the January issue of the magazine. With Nick’s loan, and the money I would have left over from the magazine even after I repaid him, I felt invincibly wealthy. It was like I’d finally escaped my childhood and my dependence on other people. There was no way for my father to harm me any more, and from this vantage point I felt a new and sincere compassion toward him, the compassion of a good-natured observer.

  We met Marianne that afternoon, as well as her boyfriend Andrew, who nobody really liked. Philip was there too, with Camille, a girl he had started seeing. Philip seemed awkward in my company, careful to catch my eye when he could and smile at my jokes but in a way that seemed to communicate sympathy, or even pity, rather than real friendship. I found his behaviour too silly to be offensive, though I remember hoping that Bobbi would notice it too so we could talk about it later.

  We were sitting upstairs in a small cafe near College Green, and at some point the conversation turned to monogamy, a subject I didn’t have anything to say about. At first Marianne was discussing whether non-monogamy was an orientation, like being gay, and some people were ‘naturally’ non-monogamous, which led Bobbi to point out that no sexual orientation was ‘natural’ as such. I sipped on the coffee Bobbi had bought me and said nothing, just wanting to hear her talk. She said that monogamy was based on a commitment model, which served the needs of men in patrilineal societies by allowing them to pass property to their genetic offspring, traditionally facilitated by sexual entitlement to a wife. Non-monogamy could be based on an alternative model completely, Bobbi said. Something more like spontaneous consent.

  Listening to Bobbi theorise in this way was exciting. She spoke in clear, brilliant sentences, like she was making shapes in the air out of glass or water. She never hesitated or repeated herself. Every so often she would catch my eye and I would nod: yes, exactly. This agreement seemed to encourage her, like she was searching my eyes for approval, and she would look away again and continue: by which I mean …

  She didn’t seem to be paying attention to the other people at the table while she spoke, but I noticed that Philip and Camille were exchanging glances. At one point Philip looked at Andrew, the only other man seated with us, and Andrew raised both his eyebrows as if Bobbi had started talking gibberish or promoting anti-Semitism. I thought it was cowardly of Philip to look at Andrew, whom I knew he didn’t even like, and it made me uncomfortable. Gradually I realised that no one else had spoken in some time and that Marianne had started staring at her lap awkwardly. Even though I loved to listen to Bobbi when she was like this, I started to wish she would stop.

  I just don’t think it’s possible to love more than one person, Camille said. I mean, with all your heart, really love them.

  Did your parents have a favourite child? said Bobbi. That must have been hard for you.

  Camille laughed nervously, unable to tell whether Bobbi was joking and not knowing Bobbi well enough to know that this was normal.

  It’s not really the same with children, Camille said. Is it?

  Well, it depends whether you believe in some kind of transhistorical concept of romantic love consistent across diverse cultures, said Bobbi. But I guess we all believe silly things, don’t we?

  Marianne glanced at me, just briefly, but I could tell that she felt the same way I did: that Bobbi was being more than usually aggressive now, that she was going to hurt Camille’s feelings, and that Philip would be annoyed. I looked at Philip and saw it was too late. His nostrils were flared slightly, he was angry, and he was going to argue with Bobbi and lose.

  Lots of anthropologists agree that humans are a naturally monogamous species, said Philip.

  Is that really where you’re at theoretically? Bobbi said.

  Not everything goes back to cultural theory, said Philip.

  Bobbi laughed, an aesthetically gorgeous laugh, a performance of total self-assurance which made Marianne wince.

  Oh my God, and they’re going to let you graduate? Bobbi said.

  What about Jesus? I said. He loved everybody.

  He was also celibate, said Philip.

  A matter of historical dispute, Bobbi said.

  Why don’t you tell us about your Bartleby essay, Philip? I said. You handed that in today, didn’t you?

  Bobbi grinned at my awkward intervention and sat back in her chair. Philip wasn’t looking at me, but at Camille, smiling like they were sharing a private joke. I bristled, since I had stepped in to save him from humiliation, and it was graceless of him not to acknowledge my effort. He turned away then and talked about his essay, as if he was humouring me, and I pretended not to listen. Bobbi began to search her bag for a packet of cigarette
s, lifting her head once to say: you should have read Gilles Deleuze. Philip glanced at Camille again.

  I did read him, said Philip.

  You missed his point then, Bobbi said. Frances? Do you fancy coming out for a cigarette?

  I followed her. It was still early evening, and the air was crisp and navy blue. She started to laugh and I laughed too, from the joy of being alone with her. She lit both our cigarettes and then exhaled, a white cloud, and coughed with laughter.

  Human nature, I ask you, she said. You’re such a pushover.

  I think I only appear smart by staying quiet as often as possible.

  That amused her. She fixed a strand of my hair behind my ear fondly.

  Is that a hint? she said.

  Oh no. If I could talk like you I would talk all the time.

  We smiled at one another. It was cold. The tip of Bobbi’s cigarette glowed a spectral orange colour and released tiny sparks into the air. She lifted her face toward the street like she was showing off the perfect line of her profile.

  I feel like shit lately, she said. All this stuff at home, I don’t know. You think you’re the kind of person who can deal with something and then it happens and you realise you can’t.

  She balanced her cigarette on her lower lip, near the corner of her mouth, and started to gather her hair back in a knot with her hands. It was Halloween, the streets were busy, and little knots of people went by dressed in capes or fake spectacles or tiger costumes.

  What do you mean? I said. What happened?

  You know Jerry’s kind of temperamental, right? It doesn’t really matter. Family drama, what do you care?

  I care about everything that happens to you.

  She put her cigarette back between her fingers and wiped her nose with her sleeve. In her eyes the orange light reflected like fire.

  He’s not really on board with the divorce, Bobbi said.

  I didn’t realise that.

  Yeah, he’s being a real jerk about it. He has all these conspiracy theories about Eleanor, like she’s out to get his money or whatever. And the worst thing is that he actually expects me to be on his side.

  I thought of her saying to Camille: did your parents have a favourite child? I knew Bobbi had always been Jerry’s favourite, that he thought her sister was spoilt, that he considered his wife hysterical. I knew he told Bobbi these things in order to win her confidence. I had always thought that being Jerry’s favourite was a privilege for Bobbi, but now I saw it was also something cumbersome and dangerous.

  I didn’t know you were going through all that, I said.

  Everyone’s always going through something, aren’t they? That’s life, basically. It’s just more and more things to go through. You have all this shit going on with your dad that you never talk about. It’s not like things are so perfect for you.

  I said nothing. She exhaled a thin stream of smoke from her lips and then shook her head.

  Sorry, she said. I didn’t mean that.

  No, you’re right.

  For a moment we stood there like that, huddled together behind the smoking barrier. I became aware that our arms were touching, and then Bobbi kissed me. I accepted the kiss, I even felt my hand reaching for hers. I could sense the soft pressure of her mouth, her lips parting, the sweet chemical scent of her moisturiser. I thought she was about to put her arm around my waist, but instead she drew away. Her face was flushed and extraordinarily pretty-looking. She stubbed her cigarette out.

  Should we go back upstairs? she said.

  The inside of my body hummed like a piece of machinery. I searched Bobbi’s face for some acknowledgement of what had just happened but there was none. Was she just confirming that she felt nothing for me any more, that kissing me was like kissing a wall? Was it some kind of experiment? Upstairs we got our coats and then walked home together talking about college, about Melissa’s new book, about things that didn’t really concern us.

  26

  The next evening, Nick and I went to see an Iranian film about a vampire. On the way to the cinema I told him about Bobbi kissing me and he thought about it for a few seconds and then said: Melissa kisses me sometimes. Not knowing what I felt, I started to make jokes. You kiss other women behind my back! We were nearly at the cinema anyway. I do want to make her happy, he said. Maybe you’d prefer not to talk about it. I stood at the door of the cinema with my hands in my coat pockets. Talk about what? I said. About you kissing your wife?

  We’re getting along better now, he said. Than we were before all this. But I mean, maybe you don’t want to know about that.

  I’m glad you’re getting along.

  I feel like I should thank you for making me a tolerable person to live with.

  Our breath hung between us like fog. The door of the cinema swung open with a rush of warmth and the smell of popcorn grease.

  We’re going to be late for the film now, I said.

  I’ll stop talking.

  Afterwards we went to get falafel on Dame Street. We sat in the booth, and I told him my mother was coming to Dublin the next day to visit her sister and that she was taking me home in the car after that for my ultrasound. Nick asked me what day the appointment was and I told him the afternoon of November third. He nodded, he wasn’t forthcoming on these kinds of topics. I changed the subject by saying: my mother is suspicious of you, you know.

  Is that bad? said Nick.

  Then the woman brought us our food and I stopped talking to eat. Nick was saying something about his parents, something about not seeing them much ‘after everything last year’.

  Last year seems to come up a lot, I said.

  Does it?

  In fragments. I’m picking up that it was a bad time.

  He shrugged. He went on eating. He probably didn’t know that I knew he had been in hospital. I sipped on my glass of Coke and said nothing. Then he wiped his mouth on a napkin and started to talk. I hadn’t really expected him to start, but he did. There was nobody in either of the booths near us, nobody listening in, and he talked in a sincere, self-effacing way, not trying either to make me laugh or to make me feel bad.

  Nick told me that last summer he had been working in California. He said the schedule was gruelling and he was run-down and smoking too much, and then one of his lungs collapsed. He couldn’t finish filming, he said he ended up in some awful hospital in the States with no one he knew anywhere nearby. At the time Melissa was travelling around Europe for an essay about immigrant communities and they weren’t in touch very much.

  By the time they were both back in Dublin, he told me, he was exhausted. He didn’t want to go out anywhere with Melissa, and if she had friends over he would mostly stay upstairs trying to sleep. They were bad-tempered with one another and argued frequently. Nick told me that when they first married they had both wanted to have children, but increasingly when he brought it up Melissa would refuse to talk about it. She was thirty-six by then. One night in October she told him she had decided she didn’t want children after all. They fought. He told me that he’d said some unreasonable things. We both did, he said. But I regret what I said to her.

  Eventually he moved into the spare room. He slept a lot during the day, he lost a lot of weight. At first, he said, Melissa was angry, she thought he was punishing her, or trying to force her into something she didn’t want. But then she realised he was really sick. She tried to help, she made appointments with doctors and counsellors, but Nick never went. I can’t really explain it now, he said. I look back on how I behaved and I don’t understand it myself.

  Finally in December he was admitted to a psychiatric unit. He stayed there for six weeks, and during that time Melissa started seeing someone else, a mutual friend of theirs. He realised it was going on because she sent him a text that was intended for the other person. It probably wasn’t great for my self-esteem, he said. But I don’t want to exaggerate. I don’t know if at that point I had any self-esteem left anyway. When he came out, Melissa said she wanted a divorce
, and he said okay. He thanked her for everything she had done to try and help him and suddenly she started crying. She told him how scared she had been, how guilty she felt just for leaving the house in the morning. I thought you were going to die, she said. They talked for a long time, they apologised to one another. In the end they agreed to keep living together until they could find some other arrangement.

  Nick started working again in the spring. He was exercising more, he took a small part in an Arthur Miller play one of his friends was directing. Melissa fell out with Chris, the man she was seeing, and Nick said their lives just sort of continued. They tried to negotiate what he described as a ‘quasi-marriage’. They saw one another’s friends, they ate together in the evenings. Nick renewed his gym membership, took the dog down to the beach in the afternoons, started reading novels again. He drank protein shakes, he put the weight back on. Life was okay.

  At this point you have to understand, he said, I was used to everyone seeing me as a burden. Like my family and Melissa, they all wanted me to get better, but it’s not as if they enjoyed my company. In as much as I was functioning again, I still felt like this very worthless, pathetic person, you know, like I was just a waste of everyone’s time. So that’s kind of where I was at when I met you.

  I stared at him across the table.

  And it was so hard to believe you had any interest in me, he said. You know, you were sending me these emails, and sometimes I’d find myself thinking, is this a thing? And as soon as I thought about it, I’d feel mortified that I would even let myself imagine that. Like, what’s more depressing than some awful married man who convinces himself that a beautiful younger woman wants to sleep with him? You know.