‘What?’
‘You say you wanted to hear all my school news. But now I’m showing you, you’re reluctant. So, which is it? Do you want to know what happened here or not?’
He peers out at me from behind his hands. ‘You’re playing games. Word games, lawyer games.’
I push through the double doors. This is what I’m looking for. The courtyard. The grounds beyond. ‘I’m not playing games. I’m not playing at all.’
44
Door
Then
Iknow something’s the matter as soon as Daniel steps out of the butchers. I am attuned to his body, there’s a synchronicity as he steps into my orbit, any disruption sounding the alarm. Now, it blares. His features are rigid. He doesn’t smile at me, doesn’t even look at me, he is looking over my shoulder. I trace the laser beam of his stare, across the road to the jetty, where Alex is shouting my name as he climbs out of his boat.
I don’t wave back. I am paralysed, dumbly aware that I should do something, I am scrambling to figure out what that might be and then those seconds where I could have walked away are lost. Alex has crossed the road. He steps onto the pavement in his waders and boots. ‘I thought that was you! Shall I bring the snorkelling gear on Monday? Dad says it’s going to be calm, if we go during slack tide, there’ll be good visibility for the eelgrass meadows.’ He pauses because I am not saying anything.
It is Daniel who steps in. Daniel who clears his throat, breaks the silence. ‘Are you going to introduce me to your friend, Lauren?’
My name on his lips confuses me, aren’t I ‘Lolly’ anymore? Then, I am unravelling, sycamore seed skittering to the ground, ‘Lolly’ is just for him and me, but I am also Lauren, his stepdaughter, his wife’s daughter, Alex’s friend and the crash of the two names, two worlds, splits me wide open.
‘Lauren?’ he repeats.
They both stare at me. I stumble over simple words. ‘This is Alex.’
‘Alex who?’ asks Daniel.
Alex laughs. He realises what we both realise: I don’t know his surname, he doesn’t know mine, we’ve never needed to exchange surnames, or histories, or truth. He puts his hand out and shakes Daniel’s. Alex’s hand – large and calloused and fleshy – swallows Daniel’s up. ‘Alex Moore.’
‘Alex,’ Daniel repeats, without warmth. He takes in the breadth of Alex’s shoulders, his sandy hair, his green eyes. ‘Lauren, I think Alex asked you a question. Snorkelling on Monday?’
My cheeks flush.
‘If you don’t want to go snorkelling, we can go swimming in the creek,’ says Alex, ‘the weather’s going to hold.’
Daniel flinches. And I understand, suddenly, why Daniel hates swimming. It is the swimsuit. For me, the plain, black costume, streaked at the waist from wear, holds no significance, no memory but the chlorine of the public pool where the school took us for lessons. But now, I see it is the singularity of the clothing that’s the problem. How it is one piece away from the bareness of my skin.
‘Snorkelling,’ I say quickly. The wetsuit, the mask, the ridiculousness of the flippers surely add many layers of cover.
‘Okay, I’ll pick you up. It was nice meeting you.’ Alex waves and then, is gone.
In the car, the silence between us vibrates. Half of me is in overdrive, spinning defences, long-winded rationalisations, but the other half is detached, curious about the precise texture of Daniel’s anger. I’ve never seen him angry before and the scientist in me, or is it the teenager, is experimentally bold. What will I discover about him, about me.
At the cottage, he puts away chicken thighs, beef medallions, he starts washing fruit. I don’t help. I lean against the island on one foot. He turns off the tap, shakes his hands of the water. He doesn’t turn round. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’ He spins round. ‘You don’t know? Let’s try an easier question, see if you can answer this one, Lolly—’
There it is, his name for me, except I’ve never heard him spit it like that, like it belongs on the ground.
‘—How did you meet him?’
‘Those weeks when we weren’t talking.’
‘When you started swimming?’
I nod.