have to wear trousers my whole life, do I?’
‘No,’ Thomas said. ‘But you also don’t have to wear exactly what Lydia likes.’
Thomas used to make comments like that a lot. Of course I wasn’t blind to the fact that things hadn’t clicked between him and Lydia. It was a shame, but Thomas and Sylvie – who Lydia didn’t like either – were my friends and it wasn’t the end of the world if Lydia didn’t like them.
‘What do you like about Thomas?’ Lydia once asked when we were sitting in her back garden. ‘He sticks to you like a limpet. It’d drive me crazy.’
It was a hot day last year. Valerie was in the paddling pool and I was explaining how I’d helped Thomas to photograph a disgraced politician for the
Rotterdam Daily.
That’s to say, I was planning to tell her about it in detail, but Lydia didn’t give me the chance.
‘He might be a bit different,’ I said, ‘but he’s a very good friend.’
‘A bit different?’ Lydia’s manner was disapproving. ‘He’s a weirdo. He doesn’t look at you, he leers at you. And when he smiles it’s like his mouth is twitching.’
She was exaggerating, but the grain of truth in her words made me uncomfortable. Instead of defending Thomas or telling Lydia how horrible I felt when she attacked him, I kept silent. I turned my head away, in exactly the same way as shealways did. I saw the movement reflected in the window of the house and Lydia did too. You could say a lot about her, but not that she didn’t pick up signals.
‘I guess you form a bond when you’ve known each other as long as you have,’ she said. ‘And you’ve never had that many friends.’
As if I was socially handicapped. But I didn’t feel like a fight, so I didn’t let my irritation show. Instead, I looked over at Valerie, who was stretched out on her stomach in the pool, and I pretended to be shocked every time she splashed me. When I looked up again, Lydia was studying me.
‘Elisa,’ she said. ‘You’re not in love with him, are you?’
‘Certainly not, we’re just friends.’
‘It just worries me. I don’t think Thomas is good for you, not even as a friend.’
I frowned and wanted to snap at her, which is unusual for me, but she changed the subject.
‘How do you like Valerie’s new bikini?’ Valerie stood up proudly. ‘Nice, isn’t it? She chose it herself!’
Lydia should see Thomas now. A warm tide of affection washes over me. So many people have tried to console me: some have tried to talk me out of my grief, others have ignored it. I’ve heard so many meaningless expressions – ‘life goes on’, ‘you’ve still got so much to be thankful for’. Thomas and Sylvie have never made that mistake. Well, Sylvie sometimes, but she’s also been so supportive that I forgive her. But Thomas has always been able to adapt to my mood. If I don’t feel like talking, he doesn’t either. If my tone is light, so is his. And if I need to cry, he wraps his arms around me and I see that his eyes are brimming.
I look on with some sympathy while Thomas pulls a beer mat apart, searching for something to talk about. I feel sorry for him through my grief. It’s the first time since Lydia died that I’veworried about what another person is feeling. Perhaps that’s a good sign. I make an effort to chat, but after a while the inevitable silence descends. I look into Thomas’s eyes. Warm, brown, with a small splash of yellow-gold in the middle.
‘How’s the police investigation going?’ he asks.
The question sends us back to the subject he was just trying to avoid. ‘I don’t think the police are any further than they were at the start. First they cross-examined Raoul, then me, then my parents, Lydia’s colleagues and students, but I don’t know what they’re doing now. Bilal Assrouti has an alibi.’
‘That he was at a night club with a group of friends?’ Thomas says, his voice doubtful. ‘Don’t the police keep you informed about any new
‘No,’ Thomas said. ‘But you also don’t have to wear exactly what Lydia likes.’
Thomas used to make comments like that a lot. Of course I wasn’t blind to the fact that things hadn’t clicked between him and Lydia. It was a shame, but Thomas and Sylvie – who Lydia didn’t like either – were my friends and it wasn’t the end of the world if Lydia didn’t like them.
‘What do you like about Thomas?’ Lydia once asked when we were sitting in her back garden. ‘He sticks to you like a limpet. It’d drive me crazy.’
It was a hot day last year. Valerie was in the paddling pool and I was explaining how I’d helped Thomas to photograph a disgraced politician for the
Rotterdam Daily.
That’s to say, I was planning to tell her about it in detail, but Lydia didn’t give me the chance.
‘He might be a bit different,’ I said, ‘but he’s a very good friend.’
‘A bit different?’ Lydia’s manner was disapproving. ‘He’s a weirdo. He doesn’t look at you, he leers at you. And when he smiles it’s like his mouth is twitching.’
She was exaggerating, but the grain of truth in her words made me uncomfortable. Instead of defending Thomas or telling Lydia how horrible I felt when she attacked him, I kept silent. I turned my head away, in exactly the same way as shealways did. I saw the movement reflected in the window of the house and Lydia did too. You could say a lot about her, but not that she didn’t pick up signals.
‘I guess you form a bond when you’ve known each other as long as you have,’ she said. ‘And you’ve never had that many friends.’
As if I was socially handicapped. But I didn’t feel like a fight, so I didn’t let my irritation show. Instead, I looked over at Valerie, who was stretched out on her stomach in the pool, and I pretended to be shocked every time she splashed me. When I looked up again, Lydia was studying me.
‘Elisa,’ she said. ‘You’re not in love with him, are you?’
‘Certainly not, we’re just friends.’
‘It just worries me. I don’t think Thomas is good for you, not even as a friend.’
I frowned and wanted to snap at her, which is unusual for me, but she changed the subject.
‘How do you like Valerie’s new bikini?’ Valerie stood up proudly. ‘Nice, isn’t it? She chose it herself!’
Lydia should see Thomas now. A warm tide of affection washes over me. So many people have tried to console me: some have tried to talk me out of my grief, others have ignored it. I’ve heard so many meaningless expressions – ‘life goes on’, ‘you’ve still got so much to be thankful for’. Thomas and Sylvie have never made that mistake. Well, Sylvie sometimes, but she’s also been so supportive that I forgive her. But Thomas has always been able to adapt to my mood. If I don’t feel like talking, he doesn’t either. If my tone is light, so is his. And if I need to cry, he wraps his arms around me and I see that his eyes are brimming.
I look on with some sympathy while Thomas pulls a beer mat apart, searching for something to talk about. I feel sorry for him through my grief. It’s the first time since Lydia died that I’veworried about what another person is feeling. Perhaps that’s a good sign. I make an effort to chat, but after a while the inevitable silence descends. I look into Thomas’s eyes. Warm, brown, with a small splash of yellow-gold in the middle.
‘How’s the police investigation going?’ he asks.
The question sends us back to the subject he was just trying to avoid. ‘I don’t think the police are any further than they were at the start. First they cross-examined Raoul, then me, then my parents, Lydia’s colleagues and students, but I don’t know what they’re doing now. Bilal Assrouti has an alibi.’
‘That he was at a night club with a group of friends?’ Thomas says, his voice doubtful. ‘Don’t the police keep you informed about any new
Similar Books
