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.