Patrick said, ‘Interesting, okay’ and went back to making the tea. He brought mine over and put it in front of me. He had taken the bag out because he knew with it in, I would feel like I was trying to drink out of the Ganges without getting any semi-submerged rubbish in my mouth.
I thanked him and he went back to where he was before. Leaning against the counter again, the folded arms. ‘The thing is, I will never change my mind about you.’ He said, he hadn’t read Sophie’s Choice but nevertheless, he understood the reference. ‘And this isn’t an impossible decision Martha. This is no decision. Whether or not I want children, I want you more.’
I just said, ‘Okay, well’ and touched the rim of my mug. It was strange, to be wanted so much. I said well again. ‘There’s also the issue of my predisposition.’
‘What predisposition?’
‘Towards insanity.’
He said, ‘Martha’ and for the first time sounded unhappy. I glanced up. ‘You’re not insane.’
‘Not presently. But you have seen me like that.’
That day in summer: he came to pick me up from Goldhawk Road at lunchtime. I was still in bed because my dreams had been grotesque and they had lingered like a physical presence in the room after I woke up, making me too afraid to move. I knew it was the beginning of something.
Patrick had knocked and asked if he could come in. I was crying and couldn’t get the air to say anything.
He came over and felt my forehead, then said he was going to go and get me a glass of water. When he came back, he asked me if I wanted to watch a movie and – I remember – if I was okay with him sitting on the bed next to me, he said ‘with my legs up I mean.’ I moved over a little bit and while he was choosing something on my laptop, he said, ‘Sorry you’re not feeling great.’ I had known Patrick for so long. Most of the time – still sometimes then – my ordinary presence made him nervous. This way, he was so calm.
He stayed with me all day, and that night he slept on the floor. In the morning I felt normal. It was already over. We went to a pool. Patrick swam laps and I watched, holding a book, feeling mesmerised by the continuous movement of his arms, the way he turned his head, his endless progress through the water. Afterwards, he drove me home and I apologised for being weird. He said, ‘Everyone has bad days.’
I do not know if it was on purpose that he repeated it then, in the kitchen, everyone has bad days. ‘And I’d be fine with it, if you actually were. Insanity,’ he said, ‘is not a deal-breaker. If it’s you.’
I looked down and picked the edge of the table again. ‘Can I please have a biscuit?’
He said, ‘Yes, in a second. Could you look up, Martha?’ I did. We had the same conversation again. I told him we shouldn’t see each other and he asked me to marry him. That time, with his hands in his pockets, the same as always and I started laughing because it was just him. It was just Patrick.
I said, ‘If you are serious, why aren’t you kneeling down?’
‘Because you would hate it.’
I would hate it.
‘Fine.’
‘Fine what?’
‘Fine I will marry you.’
Patrick said, ‘Right, okay,’ surprised and not immediately coming over. I had to get up before he moved and then, standing in front of me, he asked how I felt about – he said ‘you know’ and meant, being kissed.
I said incredibly uncomfortable.
‘Good. So do I. Let’s just ah –’
‘Get it over with.’ I kissed him. It was peculiar and extraordinary and of some duration.
Separating, Patrick said, ‘I was going to say, shake hands.’
It is hard to look into someone’s eyes. Even when you love them, it is difficult to sustain it, for the sense of being seen through. In some way, found out. But, for as long as the kiss had lasted, I didn’t feel guilty for saying yes and being so happy when I had just taken something away from Patrick so that I could have what I wanted.
He asked me if I still wanted a biscuit. I said no.
‘Come with me then. I have something for you.’ He said he had been waiting to give it to me for a long time and now that I had made him the happiest man alive by saying fine, he was going to go and get it.
I let him lead me by the hand into his bedroom. I knew it would be his mother’s wedding ring. I stood and waited while he looked for it in his drawer with a gathering sense of not wanting it.
He said, ‘It might not be in very good condition. I haven’t got it out for ages. It might not even fit.’ I was holding my hands together and wasted the final seconds of being able to tell him to please keep it – something so precious, which had belonged to a woman he loved who we could only assume would have hated me – by silently rubbing the back of my left hand as though the ring was already on it and I could somehow rub it off.