hand up to cover it. He was shaking.
"Don't ask me."
"No. Sorry."
"I'll help you," David said, "if that's what you want, if that's what you really want, but don't ask me to join in."
Nathalie said softly, "You aren't really controlling things by just being passive—"
"We're not talking about control."
"Aren't we? Aren't I trying to take it?"
"Don't go on, Nat, don't go on at me—"
"Sorry—"
He took his hand away from covering hers and put his arms round her.
"I'll have to tell Marnie."
"Of course. Don't you tell her most things?"
"Most." He took his arms away. He said in a different voice, looking away from her, "I've never told her about the cutting."
"That was years ago. You were fifteen, sixteen—"
"Nobody but you knows about the cutting. She thinks the scars were some skin allergy."
Nathalie looked up at him. She remembered standing guard outside the bathroom door while David's meticulously organized sessions
with razor blade, tissues, disinfecting cream, plasters were silently, appallingly performed, and how he'd look afterwards,
relieved as if he'd had a holiday from himself.
She said comfortingly, "It's over, the cutting. I'll never tell anyone about it."
"No—"
"Why—why did you mention it?"
"Because when you told me what you wanted to do, I suddenly felt like I did when I needed to cut, I suddenly felt that everything
was spiraling out of control, that I couldn't keep hold of things, that I couldn't keep hold of you—"
"You'll always have hold of me," Nathalie said.
He gave her a shaky smile.
"Just don't ask me to do more than I can—manage."
"Forget it."
"I'll help you—"
"Dave," Nathalie said, "please don't worry. I shouldn't have asked you. I'm a selfish cow."
He gave her another doubtful smile, then he stepped back and opened the door of the summerhouse and took a gulp of damp air.
"No. You're brave."
She put a hand out and touched his sleeve.
"Can't I be brave for both of us?"
He didn't look at her. Instead, he took his plastic-covered plan out of his pocket and stepped out into the rain.
"No," he said, over his shoulder. " No. "
CHAPTER FOUR
T he coffee shop was furnished with chic metal tables and chairs imported from the Continent with, at the back by a window
looking into a small paved garden somebody had devised for the use of summer customers in optimistic defiance of the climate,
two black-leather sofas. On one of these Sasha was sitting, leaning back with one arm along the back of the sofa and her long
legs crossed. She wore black trousers and a little cream-colored cropped jacket and the kind of heavy black laced-up boots
that Steve associated with long-ago Mods and Rockers. He also noticed—he hadn't seen this on their first meeting—that she
had a tiny jeweled stud in her nose, which flashed when she turned her head, a glint of blue-green, like a kingfisher.
He sat opposite her on the second sofa, leaning forward, his elbow on his knees. He had bought them both lattes—hers with
an extra shot of espresso—and these were on the low table between them in heavy white mugs. When Sasha had rung to thank him
warmly for passing on her request to Nathalie, his first impulse had been to say, "No problem, glad it worked out," and put
the phone down. But something else had intervened, an uncomfortable something about the way Nathalie was behaving at the moment,
about the atmosphere of distinct but undefinable edginess there was in the flat which was making—no getting round it—both
Polly and Steve behave edgily too.
So instead of putting the phone down on Sasha, he'd found himself asking her to meet him for coffee, and then was disconcertingly
pleased when she didn't sound even much surprised, and said she'd love to.
"A sort of debrief," she said.
He'd given an anxious little laugh.
"All above board—"
"Oh yes," Sasha said. She managed to sound both reassuring and at the same time shocked that disloyalty to Nathalie was even
a
"Don't ask me."
"No. Sorry."
"I'll help you," David said, "if that's what you want, if that's what you really want, but don't ask me to join in."
Nathalie said softly, "You aren't really controlling things by just being passive—"
"We're not talking about control."
"Aren't we? Aren't I trying to take it?"
"Don't go on, Nat, don't go on at me—"
"Sorry—"
He took his hand away from covering hers and put his arms round her.
"I'll have to tell Marnie."
"Of course. Don't you tell her most things?"
"Most." He took his arms away. He said in a different voice, looking away from her, "I've never told her about the cutting."
"That was years ago. You were fifteen, sixteen—"
"Nobody but you knows about the cutting. She thinks the scars were some skin allergy."
Nathalie looked up at him. She remembered standing guard outside the bathroom door while David's meticulously organized sessions
with razor blade, tissues, disinfecting cream, plasters were silently, appallingly performed, and how he'd look afterwards,
relieved as if he'd had a holiday from himself.
She said comfortingly, "It's over, the cutting. I'll never tell anyone about it."
"No—"
"Why—why did you mention it?"
"Because when you told me what you wanted to do, I suddenly felt like I did when I needed to cut, I suddenly felt that everything
was spiraling out of control, that I couldn't keep hold of things, that I couldn't keep hold of you—"
"You'll always have hold of me," Nathalie said.
He gave her a shaky smile.
"Just don't ask me to do more than I can—manage."
"Forget it."
"I'll help you—"
"Dave," Nathalie said, "please don't worry. I shouldn't have asked you. I'm a selfish cow."
He gave her another doubtful smile, then he stepped back and opened the door of the summerhouse and took a gulp of damp air.
"No. You're brave."
She put a hand out and touched his sleeve.
"Can't I be brave for both of us?"
He didn't look at her. Instead, he took his plastic-covered plan out of his pocket and stepped out into the rain.
"No," he said, over his shoulder. " No. "
CHAPTER FOUR
T he coffee shop was furnished with chic metal tables and chairs imported from the Continent with, at the back by a window
looking into a small paved garden somebody had devised for the use of summer customers in optimistic defiance of the climate,
two black-leather sofas. On one of these Sasha was sitting, leaning back with one arm along the back of the sofa and her long
legs crossed. She wore black trousers and a little cream-colored cropped jacket and the kind of heavy black laced-up boots
that Steve associated with long-ago Mods and Rockers. He also noticed—he hadn't seen this on their first meeting—that she
had a tiny jeweled stud in her nose, which flashed when she turned her head, a glint of blue-green, like a kingfisher.
He sat opposite her on the second sofa, leaning forward, his elbow on his knees. He had bought them both lattes—hers with
an extra shot of espresso—and these were on the low table between them in heavy white mugs. When Sasha had rung to thank him
warmly for passing on her request to Nathalie, his first impulse had been to say, "No problem, glad it worked out," and put
the phone down. But something else had intervened, an uncomfortable something about the way Nathalie was behaving at the moment,
about the atmosphere of distinct but undefinable edginess there was in the flat which was making—no getting round it—both
Polly and Steve behave edgily too.
So instead of putting the phone down on Sasha, he'd found himself asking her to meet him for coffee, and then was disconcertingly
pleased when she didn't sound even much surprised, and said she'd love to.
"A sort of debrief," she said.
He'd given an anxious little laugh.
"All above board—"
"Oh yes," Sasha said. She managed to sound both reassuring and at the same time shocked that disloyalty to Nathalie was even
a
Similar Books
