Finally in December he was admitted to a psychiatric unit. He stayed there for six weeks, and during that time Melissa started seeing someone else, a mutual friend of theirs. He realised it was going on because she sent him a text that was intended for the other person. It probably wasn’t great for my self-esteem, he said. But I don’t want to exaggerate. I don’t know if at that point I had any self-esteem left anyway. When he came out, Melissa said she wanted a divorce, and he said okay. He thanked her for everything she had done to try and help him and suddenly she started crying. She told him how scared she had been, how guilty she felt just for leaving the house in the morning. I thought you were going to die, she said. They talked for a long time, they apologised to one another. In the end they agreed to keep living together until they could find some other arrangement.
Nick started working again in the spring. He was exercising more, he took a small part in an Arthur Miller play one of his friends was directing. Melissa fell out with Chris, the man she was seeing, and Nick said their lives just sort of continued. They tried to negotiate what he described as a ‘quasi-marriage’. They saw one another’s friends, they ate together in the evenings. Nick renewed his gym membership, took the dog down to the beach in the afternoons, started reading novels again. He drank protein shakes, he put the weight back on. Life was okay.
At this point you have to understand, he said, I was used to everyone seeing me as a burden. Like my family and Melissa, they all wanted me to get better, but it’s not as if they enjoyed my company. In as much as I was functioning again, I still felt like this very worthless, pathetic person, you know, like I was just a waste of everyone’s time. So that’s kind of where I was at when I met you.
I stared at him across the table.
And it was so hard to believe you had any interest in me, he said. You know, you were sending me these emails, and sometimes I’d find myself thinking, is this a thing? And as soon as I thought about it, I’d feel mortified that I would even let myself imagine that. Like, what’s more depressing than some awful married man who convinces himself that a beautiful younger woman wants to sleep with him? You know.
I didn’t know what to say. I shook my head or shrugged. I didn’t know you were feeling like that, I said.
No, well, I didn’t want you to know. I wanted to be like this cool person you thought I was. I know sometimes you felt like I wasn’t expressive enough. It was hard for me. That probably sounds like I’m making excuses.
I tried to smile back, I shook my head again. No, I said. We let a little pause form between us.
I was so cruel sometimes, I said. I feel horrible about that now.
Oh no, don’t be hard on yourself.
I stared at the tabletop. We were both quiet then. I finished my glass of Coke. He folded up his napkin and put it on his plate.
After a while, he told me that was the first time he had ever told the story of that year and what had happened. He said he had never actually heard the story from his own point of view before, because he was used to Melissa telling it, and of course their versions were different. It feels strange, he said, hearing myself talk about it like I was the main character. It almost feels like I’m lying, although I think everything I said was true. But Melissa would tell it differently.
I like the way you tell it, I said. Do you still want to have children?
Sure, but it’s off the table now I think.
You don’t know. You’re young.
He coughed. He seemed on the point of saying something and then he didn’t. He watched me sipping my Coke and I looked back up at him.
I think you’d be a great parent, I said. You have a kind nature. You’re very loving.
He made a funny, surprised face, then exhaled through his mouth.
That’s intense, he said. Thank you for saying that. I have to laugh now or I’m going to start crying.
We finished our food and left the restaurant. Once we crossed Dame Street and got down to the quays, Nick said: we should go away together. For a weekend or something, would you like that? I asked where and he said, what about Venice? I laughed. He put his hands in his pockets, he was laughing too, I think because he was pleased at the idea of us going away together, or just that he had made me smile.
That was when I heard my mother. I heard her say: well, hello, missus. And there she was on the street in front of us. She had a Bally black winter coat on, and a beanie hat with the Adidas logo. I remember Nick was wearing his beautiful grey overcoat. He and my mother looked like characters from different films, made by totally dissimilar directors.
I didn’t realise you were coming up tonight, I said.
I’ve just this minute parked the car, she said. I’m meeting your auntie Bernie for dinner.
Oh, this is my friend Nick, I said. Nick, this is my mother.
I could only glance at him quickly, but I saw that he was smiling and he held out his hand.
The famous Nick, she said. I’ve heard all about you.
Well, likewise, he said.
She did mention you were handsome all right.
Mum, for God’s sake, I said.
But I had you pictured older, said my mother. You’re only a young fellow.
He laughed and said he was flattered. They shook hands again, she told me she would see me the next morning, and we parted. It was the first of November. Lights sparkled on the river and buses ran past like boxes of light, carrying faces in the windows.
I turned to look at Nick, who had his hands back in his pockets. That was nice, he said. And no pointed remarks about me being married, that’s a bonus.
I smiled. She’s a cool lady, I said.
*
When I got home that night, Bobbi was in the living room. She was sitting at the table, staring at a print-out which was stapled together in one corner. Nick had gone back to Monkstown and said he would email me later about Venice. Bobbi’s teeth were chattering faintly. She didn’t look at me when I came in, which gave me a weird sensation of disappearance, like I was already dead.
Bobbi? I said.
Melissa sent it to me.
She held up the print-out. I could see it was double-spaced, with long paragraphs like an essay.
Sent you what? I said.
For a second she laughed, or maybe exhaled a breath she had been holding very tightly, and then she threw the pages at me. I caught them awkwardly against my chest. Looking down I saw the words printed in a light sans-serif font. My words. It was my story.
Bobbi, I said.
Were you ever going to tell me?
I stood there. My eyes ran over the lines I could see at the top of the page, the page where I described myself getting sick at a house party without Bobbi when I was still a teenager.
I’m sorry, I said.
Sorry for what? said Bobbi. I’m so curious. Sorry for writing it? I doubt you are.
No. I don’t know.
It’s funny. I think I’ve learned more about your feelings in the last twenty minutes than in the last four years.
I felt light-headed, staring down at the manuscript until the words wriggled like insects. It was the first draft, the one I had sent to Valerie. She must have let Melissa read it.
It’s fictionalised, I said.
Bobbi stood up from her chair and looked my body up and down critically. A strange energy wound itself up in my chest, as if we were going to fight.
I heard you’re getting good money for it, she said.
Yeah.
Fuck you.
I actually need the money, I said. I realise that’s an alien concept for you, Bobbi.
She grabbed the pages out of my hands then, and the back of the staple tugged against my index finger and broke the skin. She held the manuscript in front of me.
You know, she said. It’s actually a good story.