Beautiful World, Where Are You Read online

  Eileen took her phone back from his hand and looked down at it. I only brought up the wedding thing because Mary asked me to, she said. But then when I complained to her about these horrible text messages, she was like, well, that’s between the two of you, that’s nothing to do with me.

  But if you had sent a message like that to Lola—

  Right? Exactly. Mammy would be on the phone to me saying, how dare you speak to your sister like that?

  I suppose there’s no point talking to your dad, he said.

  She locked the phone and left it down on the floorboards. No, she answered. He’s the only one who’s not crazy, obviously. But he knows that we’re all crazy, so he’s too scared to get involved.

  He lifted her feet into his lap. You’re not crazy, he said. The other two, yes, but not you.

  Smiling, she settled back against the armrest. Thank God there is one person in the world who can see that, she said.

  Happy to help.

  For a moment she watched him while he rubbed the arch of her foot with his thumb. Then in a different voice she asked: How was your day?

  He glanced up at her, and then back down again. Fine, he said. And yours?

  You look a little bit tired.

  Lightly, without looking up, he replied: Do I?

  She went on watching him, while he avoided her eyes. Simon, she said, are you sad today?

  He gave a kind of embarrassed laugh. Hm, he said. I don’t know. I don’t think so.

  Would you tell me if you were?

  Am I that bad?

  Playfully she prodded at him with her foot. I’m asking you about your day right now and you won’t tell me anything, she said.

  Catching her ankle in his hand, he answered: Hm. Let me see. I had a phone call with my mother this evening.

  Oh? How is she?

  She’s okay. She’s worried about my dad, but that’s nothing unusual. He has—He’s fine, but he has high blood pressure, and she thinks he’s not taking his medication properly. It’s more psychological than anything else, you know the way families are. And he’s pissed off with me because—But that’s boring, it’s all to do with work.

  But your dad isn’t working anymore, is he? she said.

  Absently he went on circling his hand around her ankle. Right, I mean my work, he answered. You know, we don’t see eye to eye politically. It’s fine, it’s the normal generational thing. He thinks my political views are like, an outgrowth of my stunted personality.

  Quietly Eileen said: That’s not very nice.

  No. I know. Although I think it hurts my mother’s feelings more than mine. It’s actually—If you heard him, it’s quite a detailed theory he’s developed. Something to do with a Messiah complex. I’m not going to be able to do it justice, because honestly, I kind of tune out when he starts talking about it. But he seems to think I want to go around saving people because it makes me feel powerful and virile or whatever. The funny thing is that my job has absolutely nothing to do with helping people. Maybe if I was a social worker or a doctor or something, but I actually just sit in an office all day. I don’t know. Last time I was home we got into this truly bizarre conflict because I woke up with a headache one morning. He didn’t talk to me all day, and then in the evening he gave me this big long speech about how much my mother had been looking forward to seeing me and how I had ruined her whole weekend by having this headache. He can never say he’s angry with me himself, he always has to project his feelings onto Geraldine, like it was a personal insult to her that I had a migraine. He has a thing about migraines, because she gets them as well, and he’s convinced they’re psychosomatic. Anyway, she wants me to call him tomorrow about this medication thing, for his blood pressure. Not that it’s going to make any difference what I say. I’m sorry. I feel like I’ve been talking out loud for about a year now, I’m going to stop.

  While he spoke, he had been touching the back of Eileen’s calf, the back of her knee, with his fingers, and with his last remark he drew his hand away and sat up.

  Don’t, she said.

  He looked over at her. What? he asked. Don’t stop talking, or don’t stop doing that?

  Either.

  He put his hand back where it had been before, under her knee. In response she made a low pleasurable noise like: Mm. He let his thumb brush the inside of her thigh, under her skirt. Kind of sounds like your dad is jealous of you, she remarked. Fondly he went on watching her. What makes you say that? he asked. She leaned her head back on the armrest, looking up at the lit glass lampshade overhead. Well, you’re young and handsome, she said. And women love you. Not that your dad would mind that, if you looked up to him and tried to be like him, but you don’t. Obviously I don’t know him that well, but in my experience he’s very domineering and rude. It probably drives him crazy that you’re so nice to everyone, and nothing seems to bother you. Simon was stroking the underside of her knee, nodding his head. But in his view, I’m only nice to everyone because it makes me feel good about myself, he said. Eileen made a baffled face. So what? she replied. It’s better than bullying everyone to feel good about yourself, isn’t it? God knows we have enough sadists in the world. And why shouldn’t you feel good about yourself? You have integrity, and you’re generous, and you’re a great friend. Mildly he raised his eyebrows and for a moment said nothing. Then he replied: Eileen, I didn’t know you thought so highly of me. Closing her eyes, she smiled. Yes you did, she said. He glanced over at her where she lay with her head tipped back, her eyes shut.

  I’m very happy you’re here, he said.

  She made a funny face and asked: You mean like, platonically?

  Moving his hand up under her skirt, he was smiling. No, not platonically, he said.

  She wriggled down a little against the armrest. You know when you sent me that text saying—What did it say? she asked. Put your shoes on, I’m calling you a taxi, or something like that. It was nice.

  I’m happy you thought so.

  Yeah, it was weirdly sexy. It’s funny, I think I enjoy being bossed around by you. A part of me is just like, yes, please, tell me what to do with my life.

  He was laughing then, touching the inside of her thigh with his fingers. You’re right, he said, that is sexy.

  It makes me feel very safe and relaxed. Like when I’m complaining to you about something and you call me ‘princess’, that turns me on a little bit. Do you hate me saying that? It just makes me feel like you’re in control of everything, and you won’t let anything bad happen to me.

  No, I love that kind of thing. The idea of taking care of you, or you need my help, whatever. I probably have a thing about that anyway. Whenever a girl asks me to open a jam jar, I kind of fall in love with her.

  She had the tip of her finger in her mouth. And I thought I was special, she said.

  With you it’s a little bit more than that, though. Actually, I remember Natalie once said to me about you—This is probably a weird thing to tell you, but anyway. You were coming over to see us in Paris and I was like, worried about you getting on your flight, or whatever. And Natalie said something like, oh, Daddy’s little girl is all on her own, something like that. It was funny. I mean, I think she was kidding.

  Eileen covered her eyes then, laughing. I have one, she said. I got a text from you one night, and Aidan was just near my phone so he checked the message for me. And when I asked him who it was, he showed me the screen and went, it’s your dad.

  He was pleased, embarrassed, shaking his head. I feel like if I tried to explain this to anyone else they would call the police, he said.

  Just because of the Daddy’s princess thing? Or like, you also want to tie me up and torture me.

  No, no. But that would be a lot more normal, wouldn’t it? My idea is more like—I hope you’re not horrified with me saying all this. But I think the fantasy is just that you’re really helpless and wet, and I’m like, telling you what a good girl you are.

  Coyly she looked up at him through her eyelashe
s. And what if I’m not a good girl? she said. You don’t want to put me over your knee and punish me?

  He moved his hand over the thin damp cotton of her underwear. Ah, but not to hurt you, he said. Only to make you behave.

  For a moment she said nothing. Then she said: Will you tell me what to do?

  In his ordinary, relaxed, half-amused voice he answered: Will you do what you’re told?

  She started laughing again. Yes. It’s funny how much it turns me on. It’s weird. I’m really excited to think what you’re going to do to me. Sorry if I’m breaking character.

  No, don’t be in character. Just be yourself.

  He leaned over then and kissed her. Her head against the armrest, his tongue wet in her mouth. Passively she let him undress her, watching his hands unbutton her skirt and roll down her underwear. Reaching up under her knee, he lifted her left leg over the back of the sofa and moved her other foot down onto the floor, so her legs were spread wide open, and she was shivering. Ah, you’re being very good, he said. Shaking her head, she let out a kind of nervous laugh. Lightly with his fingers he touched her, not penetrating her yet, and she pressed her hips down into the couch and closed her eyes. He put a finger inside her then and she exhaled. Good girl, he murmured. Just relax. Gently then he pressed another finger inside her and she cried out, a high ragged cry. Shh, he said. You’re being so good. She was shaking her head again, her mouth open. If you keep talking to me like that I’m going to come, she told him. He was smiling, looking down at her. In a minute, he said. Not yet. He took his clothes off, and she lay with her eyes closed, one knee still hooked over the back of the sofa. In her ear he said: And it’s okay if I come inside you? With her hand she clutched at the back of his neck. I really want you to, she said. He closed his eyes for a moment, nodding his head, not speaking. When he entered her, she cried out again, clinging to him, and he was quiet. I love you, she said. He breathed in carefully and said nothing. Looking up at him she asked: Simon, do you like it when I say that? Awkwardly, trying to smile, he said yes. I can feel that you do, she answered. He went on breathing, his upper lip was damp, his forehead. Well, I love you too, he said. She was sucking on her lip now, watching him. Because I’m such a good girl, she answered. With the tip of his index finger he touched her. You are, he said. She closed her eyes again, her lips moving but making no noise. 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 programme was ending then, the production credits rolling. Still with her eyes on the screen she went on lightly: Look, I know you don’t want to talk about it. But what you said earlier, about feeling lonely. I feel like that all the time. I’m only saying that because I want you to know you’re really not alone in that feeling. In case you think you are. And just from my perspective, whenever I get really lonely, you’re the person I call. Because you have a soothing effect on me. You know, the things I would normally worry about, they don’t really seem that worrying when I talk to you. Anyway, what I’m saying is, if you ever want to call me when
you feel that way, you can. You don’t even have to say why you’re calling, we can just talk about other things. I’ll complain to you about my family, probably. Or I can come over here and we can do this. Okay? Not that you have to call me, obviously, but you can. Any time. That’s all. He did not take his eyes from her while she was speaking, and when she had finished he was quiet for a moment. Then in a mild, friendly tone of voice he said: Eileen, you know on the phone the other night, you were saying I should find a wife for myself? Laughing, she turned to face him. Yes, she said. He was smiling, looking happy and tired. You meant like, some new person who was going to come into my life and marry me, he said. Someone I’ve never met before. Eileen interjected to add: And very beautiful. A younger woman, I think we said. Not too intelligent, but sweet-tempered. He was nodding his head. Right, he said. She sounds fantastic. Now, I have a question. When I get this wife, whom I can presume from the thrust of your remarks is not the same person as you— With mock indignation Eileen interrupted: Certainly she’s not me. For one thing, I’m a lot better-read than she is. He went on smiling to himself. Sure, he said. But once I find her, whoever she might be, will you and I still be friends? She sat back against the sofa cushions then, as if to consider the question. After a pause, she replied: No. I think when you find her, you’ll have to give me up. It might even be that giving me up is the precondition for finding her in the first place.

  As I suspected, he said. I’ll never find her, then.

  Eileen lifted her hands up in astonishment. Simon, she said. Be serious. This woman is your soulmate. God put her on earth for you.

  If God wanted me to give you up, he wouldn’t have made me who I am.

  For a moment they looked at one another. She put her hand to her cheek then, and her face was flushed. So you’re not going to renounce our friendship, she said.

  Not for anything.

  She reached her hand out and touched it to his. I wouldn’t renounce it either, she said. And you can believe me, because none of my boyfriends have ever liked you, and it never made any difference to me.