We first flat-shared years ago, then went our separate ways. We both broke up from serious relationships around our thirtieth birthdays, neither of us could afford our own place, or bear to be alone, so we got a place together again. It was convenient, often fun. It was supposed to be a temporary measure; we didn’t buy, not wanting to tie up our cash. That was three years ago. Property prices have gone up so much since then. We should have bought.
Fiona puts on her headphones and closes her eyes. I reach for my paperback. I open it where the bookmark nestles but don’t start reading. The sun is glaring, the glass of prosecco I’ve already downed is oozing around my bloodstream. I keep losing my spot on the page, rereading the same paragraph over again. I let my gaze drift to those around me. I like people watching. I always have. In fact, I secretly feel considerably more comfortable observing than participating. Sunglasses offer a benefit. No one can tell if you are staring at them too long, too hard, trying to work them out. That is my habit. Working people out. Trying to solve the puzzle of who they are and what makes them tick. I’ve been told it makes me a little intense. It’s just I believe that there are people in this world who are simply better at living and being involved than others. They have the knack. A zest. I’m not one of them. I think maybe if I stare at such people for long enough, I’ll learn, discover the capability of being adult, of fitting in, maybe even thriving—something that seems eternally elusive to me.
I’m not deluded. As I glance about I see that there are cranky, cross parents squabbling with one another because one of them is fed up of pushing their offspring on the swing, while the other has their phone glued to their ear. Some are bickering, others have nothing to say to one another. Family life isn’t a guarantee for happiness. God, I know that. But I also see the families that are the goal. The ones that laugh at the cuteness of their chubby toddler doing something mundane like picking a daisy or petting a dog. The ones that hand over enormous ice creams to grasping pudgy hands and bask in the beam that the child throws out in return. I know it’s a habit I need to kick. This professional voyeurism. It’s unhealthy. I need to get involved, not ceaselessly hover around the edges of life. If I could afford to see a therapist, she’d most likely want to talk about my confronting my fertility issues. I wouldn’t want to talk about the matter. It’s probably a good thing I can’t afford a therapist.
His hair is thick and black. So black I think he must dye it because I’d put him in his late thirties, early forties, and most people that age are fighting gray, right? Fleetingly, I think less of him for it. A man carrying such vanity seemed off-putting. Which is a） stupid because this man I’m staring at hasn’t asked me to ogle him and probably doesn’t care at all what I think of his grooming habits and b） it’s deeply hypocritical of me, sexist, because I dye my hair, always have. Since my teens, for fun and fashion. And—for about the past three months—for what I think of as necessity. Holding back the tide. Prematurely （I like to think） some nasty white hairs （not gray—straight to white—I’m that extreme） have suddenly started to sprout around my hairline like mushrooms in a boggy autumnal field.
But his eyebrows are dark, and the hairs on his legs are dark too so maybe he doesn’t dye it. He has a great jawline, strong, definite. He’s tanned. A lot of London men spend long hours hunched over laptops and it shows. This man looks like he spends a significant amount of time outdoors. This handsome man is only average height, five ten, maybe eleven, but he looks especially strong and purposeful. He’s muscular, he picks up his boys and swings them onto his shoulders with ridiculous ease. Both boys at the same time, like someone performing in a circus! I don’t think he’s trying to draw attention, but he is. He’s compelling. I notice a number of women take furtive sideways glances, even the ones with their own husbands and children. The boys look aged about two and five years old. They both look like their father. Stocky, strong, easy-to-tan golden limbs. They ooze a boyish energy and ferocity. They each have a mop of dark hair, like their daddy, and although I’m not close enough to know for certain, I imagine thick long lashes, the sort that can create a breeze when they blink. The only difference between them is that the younger kid looks open and light—he’s quick to smile and laugh—the elder has a furrowed brow, like his father. He’s serious-looking.
I’m looking at this very handsome man and while appreciating him and enjoying that, I’m also stung by a familiar but always uncomfortable emotion. I feel jealous of his wife. Not that she is anywhere to be seen. He’s playing with his two little boys alone, no doubt giving her an afternoon off. Maybe she’s having a manicure, drinking chardonnay with her girlfriends. I imagine him saying, “Go on, darling, you deserve it, you have them all week. It’s my turn.” I hate his wife. I mean, obviously not really; I don’t know his wife.
But sort of.
It happens in a flash. A moment that’s over before it’s begun and yet is instantaneously tattooed on my memory in slo-mo, forever. He looks away for only a nanosecond. The elder boy calls, “Look at me, Daddy!” He is standing on the swing, bending his knees inexpertly to try to create some momentum. The chains of the swing rattle.
“Sit down at once,” the father instructs. Concern making him sound ferocious, old-fashioned. The boy’s face flickers with worry, he was showing off, doing something adventurous and remarkable, he doesn’t quite understand why he is in trouble. “You will fall,” yells the father for clarity. “Do you want to give me a heart attack?”
Then, as the elder boy follows instructions—slowly, precariously bending his knees, the swing wobbling as he finds a safer seated position—the little one impatiently slips his hand out of his father’s and tries to set off down the slide alone. Instead, he tumbles over the side. He plunges headfirst toward the tarmac, as though he is diving off a board into a pool. His chunky little body rushing after. Creating momentum, even though the fall is less than two metres. The smack of his baby body hitting the ground shakes my bones.
Nose, lips, head bleed the most.
I’m up in a flash. Running toward them. Normally, I’m someone who hesitates, but not now. The father is just staring at the kid. Frozen. He hasn’t instinctually bent to tend to him, which is odd. I guess he’s shocked. The child isn’t howling, which would be reassuring, normal. Is he unconscious? My hand tentatively touches his warm little arm and he blinks. He’s not unconscious but stunned. Why isn’t he crying? He looks at me wide-eyed, trusting. I have no idea why the kid thinks he can trust me. I don’t know about children or injuries or what to do. I don’t know anything and yet, he needs me. He’s looking at me as though I’m all he’s got and as his father is frozen, temporarily useless, I am.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s all going to be fine. I’ve got you,” I murmur as I pull out my phone and call an ambulance.
I am wearing a vest top with an open shirt over it. I quickly shrug out of the shirt and press the cloth around the gash on his head. I have no first aid training （why the fuck haven’t I got first aid training?!） but instinctually I feel I need to slow the bleeding. The older boy has run to his father’s side now. They both watch me, but stay distant from me and from each other. I haven’t got time to be annoyed or to wonder why. They watch, fearful, and I see something in their gaze. They are people who have seen tragedy, who expect the worst. They are terrified.