‘Win, darling, please,’ he said. ‘In you come.’
A dog barking.
‘Shall I lock my bike out here?’
‘Nah, take it in.’
Barking.
I wheeled the bike into the living room, saw a balding man on the sofa, a French bulldog on his lap.
‘Noel? Hi, I’m Chris.’
‘Nice to meet you, Chris.’
Noel seemed shy – I liked that. I was shy too. ‘What are you watching?’
‘Bachelorette,’ he said, trying to settle the dog. ‘Biddy’s in the garage. This is Cedric.’
I smiled again, waved, pulled the kitchen door closed behind me, heard Cedric’s muffled barking, propped my bike against the laundry door, saw the door to the garage.
‘Hello,’ Biddy said. Red pyjama pants, a matching top, an oversized wool cardigan, and –
Woah. Cardboard boxes, fairy lights, costume jewellery, outfits, books, a motorbike helmet, kitchen utensils, dusty CDs, Biddy’s black Lekker, suitcases, plastic skulls, firewood, camping chairs, magazines, sleeping-bags, a sofa, exercise equipment, bead curtains, potting soil, fertiliser, candle holders, a traffic cone, fake cobwebs, real cobwebs, half-empty glasses, ashtrays spilling over, chocolate wrappers, dog shit on the concrete floor …
‘Welcome to the crack den.’ She hugged me, smelt good, felt good.
‘Very homely,’ I said, squeezing. ‘Is that your piano?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, letting go. ‘You like it?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
We sat on the sofa. Oh. I sat forwards quickly, it was –
‘Yeah, sorry,’ she said – she was sitting on the hard edge. ‘The sofa’s a bit fucked. It’ll eat you alive if you let it. How’s your recovery been? How was the party?’
‘Yeah, good. I’m tired.’
‘And Sarah?’
‘Yeah, she’s taking it easy tonight.’
I listened to myself talking and saying nothing, watched Biddy listening and not reaching out for me. We changed topics, listened, talked, my back hurt, the sofa, talked, laughed, it was cold, changed topic, listened, talked about global politics. It wasn’t working – Sarah and her conquests would have been banging by now.
‘I know,’ Biddy said. ‘The situation’s so messed up.’
‘Have you been there?’
‘To Palestine? No, never. Have you?’
‘I have to go.’
‘Will you need a visa?’
‘I mean home,’ I said. ‘I have to go. I’m working tomorrow, the kids, I’m pretty wasted.’
‘Oh.’ She sat forward, made to stand. ‘Shall I play you something before you head off?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
She sat at the piano with her back to me, played, sang with … a deeper voice than I’d expected. I watched her from the edge of the sofa, checked the time on my phone – fuck – Biddy’s blue-grey hair, the nape of her neck, her shoulders, her back, her behind, her hands on the keys, her extra finger.
Beautiful. It was beautiful. A song about giving up on the dream of finding someone. We’d had sex. She’d found me. Nobody else had for years. They hadn’t tried. I had to go.