I nod almost reflexively.
Adam offering Eve an apple – a small, brittle, plastic apple. And there’s nothing I can do but accept it.
10 Nobody Puts Bobby in the Corner
Thursday 24 November, 11:43 p.m.
In the back of the car, Edward’s silent presence beside me, I watch New York glide past the window as I replay the events of the evening in my mind.
‘What did you talk about?’ he asks finally, with a commendable lightness. The question must have been burning a hole in his thoughts since I followed Robert out of that dining room. I pause before replying because, the truth is, I’ve been trying to figure that out myself since I left Robert Holbeck’s study.
‘Well, we spoke about writing, how he lost his parents – and he spoke about you.’ I say this in a very particular order.
‘Wait, he told you about his parents?’ Edward repeats, surprised.
I nod and he raises an eyebrow, incredulous. ‘Right. Okay. Why? He never talks about them. In what context did he talk about them?’
There’s an edge in his tone that I don’t quite like, a glimmer of derision, and it’s my turn to look incredulous. ‘In the context of what he and I have in common, Ed. His parents died young; my parents died young. Remember? He was trying to find common ground with me.’
Edward considers this for a moment before responding. ‘I see. Common ground. And he managed to find some.’ It’s the first time I’ve seen Edward be genuinely sceptical of someone’s motives. ‘He didn’t mention anything else – about his parents, or our family?’
It’s an odd thing to say.
Suddenly I remember Bobby, the intensity of the rest of the evening having overshadowed him until now.
‘Talking of family, who the hell is Bobby, Ed? Because I get the distinct feeling I could have used that information tonight, or, I’m guessing, at some point over the last year! Am I supposed to know who he is? Because everyone else there tonight seemed to.’
‘My father mentioned Bobby?’ Edward asks, suddenly direct.
‘No, Lila did. And then your nephew Billy seemed to know all about him too, and he’s a child.’
‘Billy talked about Bobby?’ he echoes, and there’s an odd timbre to his voice.
‘Yeah, the older boys were scaring him with stories.’
‘Jesus,’ Edward breathes, rubbing his eyes. A weariness seems to overtake him, but looking at me he senses he really needs to start talking.
‘This is not how I would have done this…’ he continues, his voice trailing off to such an extent that I can suddenly see where this story is going. Bobby is dead.
In the silence that follows, I give Edward’s hand a squeeze to let him know I am here for him, no matter what. After a moment he squeezes back, straightening in his seat.
‘I should have told you this before. Someone was bound to mention him eventually but I’ve always found remembering so much more unhelpful than forgetting.’ He looks away from me, eyes glistening in the passing streetlights.
‘I think I really need you to remember for me at this point, honey,’ I nudge him gently, my tone sensitive but clear.
‘Yeah. So,’ his features scrunch with discomfort, ‘I find it hard to talk about growing up. The tough bits, whatever,’ he says, finding the words as he says them. ‘I mean, people like us, we’ve hardly had it hard. What goes wrong is easy to box up and store. There’s an expectation we won’t dwell.’
‘Who was Bobby, Ed?’ I repeat.
‘My brother. Our brother.’