On the platform of a train station, late morning, early June: two women embracing after a separation of several months. Behind them, a tall fair-haired man alighting from the train carrying two suitcases. The women unspeaking, their eyes closed tight, their arms wrapped around one another, for a second, two seconds, three. Were they aware, in the intensity of their embrace, of something slightly ridiculous about this tableau, something almost comical, as someone nearby sneezed violently into a crumpled tissue; as a dirty discarded plastic bottle scuttled along the platform under a breath of wind; as a mechanised billboard on the station wall rotated from an advertisement for hair products to an advertisement for car insurance; as life in its ordinariness and even ugly vulgarity imposed itself everywhere all around them? Or were they in this moment unaware, or something more than unaware – were they somehow invulnerable to, untouched by, vulgarity and ugliness, glancing for a moment into something deeper, something concealed beneath the surface of life, not unreality but a hidden reality: the presence at all times, in all places, of a beautiful world?
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When Felix pulled up outside Alice’s house after work that night, the lights were on in the windows. It was after seven o’clock, still bright out, but colder now, and beyond the trees the sea showed green and silver. With a backpack over his shoulder he walked with a jogging step up to the front door, rapping the knocker twice in quick succession against the brass plate. Chill salt air stirred over him, and his hands were cold. When the door came open, it was not Alice standing inside, but another woman, the same age, taller, with darker hair, dark eyes. Hello, she said. You must be Felix, I’m Eileen. Come on in. He entered and allowed her to close the door behind him. He was smiling
distractedly. Yeah, he said. Eileen, I’ve heard about you. Glancing at him she said: Good things, I hope. She told him Alice was cooking dinner, and he followed her down the hallway, watching the back of her head and her neat narrow shoulders proceeding ahead of him to the kitchen door. Inside, a man was seated at the table and Alice was at the stove, wearing a dirty white apron tied around her waist. Hello, she said. I was just draining the pasta. You’ve met Eileen, this is Simon. Felix nodded, fingering the strap of his backpack as Simon greeted him. The kitchen was a little dim, with just the worktop lights switched on, and candles on the table. The back window was fogged with steam, the glass velvety and blue. Can I give you a hand with anything? Felix asked. Alice was patting her forehead with the back of her wrist, as if to cool herself. I think it’s all under control, she said. But thank you. Eileen was just telling us about her sister’s wedding. Felix hesitated for a moment, and then sat down at the table. At the weekend, was it? he asked. Turning her attention on him with a delighted expression, Eileen began talking again about the wedding. She was funny and moved her hands a lot. Occasionally she invited input from Simon, who spoke in a relaxed voice and seemed to find everything amusing. He too paid a good deal of attention to Felix, catching his eye now and then and smiling in a vague conspiratorial way, as if pleased by the presence of another man, or pleased by the presence of the women but wanting to share or acknowledge this pleasure with Felix. He was handsome, wearing a linen shirt, thanking Alice in a low easy way when she refilled his glass of wine. The table was set with small patterned side plates, silver cutlery, white cloth napkins. A large yellow salad bowl, the leaves inside oiled and glistening. Alice brought a plate of pasta to the table and laid it down in front of Eileen. Felix, I’m serving you last, she said, because the other two are my guests of honour. Their eyes met. He smiled at her, a little
nervously, and said aloud: That’s alright, I know my place. She made a sarcastic face and went back to the cooker. He watched.
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When they had finished eating, Alice got up to clear the plates from the table. The rattling and scraping of cutlery, the noise of the tap. Simon was asking Felix about work. Tired now and contented, Eileen sat quietly with her eyes half-closed. A fruit crumble warming in the oven. On the table the detritus of the meal, a soiled napkin, sodden leaves in the salad bowl, soft drops of blue-white candle wax on the tablecloth.
Alice asked whether anyone wanted coffee. For me, please, said Simon. A carton of ice cream melting slowly on the countertop, wet rivulets running down the sides. Alice unscrewed the base of a silver coffee pot. And what do you do for a job? Felix was saying. Alice told me you work in politics or something. In the sink a dirty saucepan, a wooden chopping board. Then the hiss and spark of the gas burner, and Alice saying: Do you still take it black? Eileen opening her eyes simply to see Simon half-turn toward Alice where she stood at the burner and say over his shoulder: Yes, thank you. No need for sugar, thanks. His attention returning to Felix then, resettling, and Eileen’s eyes fluttering almost closed once more. The white of his throat. When he trembled over her, blushing, murmuring, is that okay, I’m sorry. The clanking noise of the oven door, the fragrance of butter and apples. Alice’s white apron discarded over the back of a chair, strings trailing. Right, we worked with him on something last year, Simon was saying. I don’t know him well, but his staff speak very highly of him. And the house around them quiet and solid with its nailed-down floorboards, with its bright burnished tiles in the candlelight. And the gardens dim and silent. The sea breathing peacefully outside, breathing its salt air through the windows. To think of Alice living here. Alone, or not
alone. She was standing at the countertop then, serving the crumble out into bowls with a spoon. Everything in one place. All of life knotted into this house for the night, like a necklace knotted at the bottom of a drawer.