After a few minutes she told him she was coming. Her breath was high and wavering, her body tensed and contracted in his hands. When she was finished, he said quietly: Can I keep going or do you need me to stop? In an exhausted voice, she said sorry, and asked if he would take long. No, I’ll be quick, he said. But I can stop if you want, it’s alright. She told him it was okay to keep going. He put his hands on her hips and held her against the sofa while he moved inside her. She was limp then, very wet, and unresisting, only letting out a feeble cry now and again. Jesus Christ, he said.
Afterwards, he lay down against her body. They were both still, breathing slowly, sweat cooling on his skin. She smoothed the palm of her hand down his back. Thank you, he said. She smiled, glancing down at him. You don’t have to thank me, she answered. His eyes were closed. Right, he said. But I’m grateful. Not only— I just mean, it’s nice to be with you, I’m happy you came over. Sometimes when I’m here on my own in the evenings, you know, it can be kind of depressing, to be honest. Or just lonely, or whatever. He gave a thin breathless laugh. Sorry, I don’t know why I’m saying that, he said. I’m glad you’re here, that’s all. Do you ever feel, when someone does something nice for you, it’s like you’re so grateful that you actually start feeling bad? I don’t know if other people get that or it’s just me. Never mind, I’m being an idiot. He sat up then and started to dress himself. She lay there naked, watching him. But it’s not like I was doing you a favour, she said. It was mutual. Without turning around he gave another strained laugh and seemed to wipe at his eyes with his hand. No, I know, he said. I think I’m just grateful that you would want to. I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I don’t mind, she said. But I don’t want you to feel bad.
He stood up, he was putting his shirt back on. I’m fine, don’t worry, he said. Would you like a glass of wine? Or we can have ice cream.
Nodding her head slowly, she sat up. Sure, she said. Ice cream would be nice. He went to the kitchen and over the back of the sofa she watched him while she was dressing herself. From behind he looked tall, his shirt a little creased, and his hair was soft and golden under the overhead lights.
I didn’t know you had migraines, she said.
Without turning around he replied: I don’t often.
She was buttoning the waistband of her skirt. The last time I had one, I texted you from bed to complain about how bad it was, she said. Do you remember?
He was taking two spoons from the cutlery drawer, answering: Yeah, I think yours are worse than mine.
She nodded her head without speaking. Finally she said: Will I switch the TV back on?
We can watch Newsnight or something. What do you think?
That sounds good.
He brought over their bowls of ice cream while she turned up the volume on the television. On-screen a British presenter was standing in front of a blue background talking to the camera about a UK party leadership election. With her eyes on the screen, Eileen said: And that’s a lie, isn’t it? Go on, say it’s a lie. But no, they never do. Sitting beside her, Simon was breaking up the ice cream in his bowl with a spoon. You know she’s married to a hedge fund manager, he remarked. While they watched, they talked
intermittently about the possibility of another general election at home before the end of the year, and which members of Simon’s party were likely to hold on to their seats if it happened. He was worried that the people he liked most would lose out, and the
‘careerists’ would more likely hold on. On the television, a party spokesperson was saying: The prime minister— Excuse me, I’m sorry, the prime minister has said time and time again— Eileen left her empty ice cream bowl on the coffee table and sat back with her feet tucked up on the sofa. Remember when you were on TV? she said. Simon was still eating. For like three minutes, he said. With her fingers she was tightening the elastic in her hair again. I got about a hundred texts that night saying, your friend Simon is on TV! she answered. And one person— I won’t say who it was. But one certain person texted me a screenshot of you, and the message said something like, is this the Simon you’re always talking about? With his eyes on the television he was grinning then, but he said nothing. Observing his expression, Eileen went on: I don’t actually talk about you that much. Anyway, I replied like, yeah, that’s him, and she texted back –
word for word – no offence, but I want to have his children. He started laughing. I don’t believe that, he said. Eileen repeated: Word for word. I would have forwarded it to you, except the ‘no offence’ part annoyed me. Like, why should I be offended? Does she think we have some kind of sad unrequited friendship where I’m actually in love with you and you don’t even notice me? I hate when people think that about us. Simon was looking over at her then, her face in quarter-profile, turned toward the screen, the light of the ceiling lamp white on her cheekbone and the corner of her eyelid. All my friends think the opposite, he remarked. Without turning her face from the television she looked amused. What, that you’re unrequitedly in love with me? she said. That’s funny. Not that I mind, it’s good for my ego. Who thinks that? Peter? I doubt Declan does. The