Читать книгу Glover’s Mistake - Nick Laird - Страница 12

Monday morning began with a double period of David’s A-level group, where he distributed his printouts and they discussed the symbolism of ‘The Pardoner’s Tale’. Lunchtime brought no respite.

Aside from occasionally letting a student borrow his cigarette lighter at the steps by the side entrance, PMP’s debating society was David’s only extra-curricular activity, and since the teacher who ran it had gone on maternity leave, he was now required to attend every weekly meeting. This House Believes that America No Longer Leads the Free World.

The in-house genius in the debating society was little Faizul, the Egyptian. He proposed the motion, voice fluttering between outrage and plea, hands frantic as shadow puppets. The rebuttal was provided by myopic, ungrammatical Clare, Queen of the Home Counties, and David watched the fifty golden minutes of his lunchtime tick away.

Before afternoon class he checked his email in the computer lab and found Ruth had replied to his message thanking her for the trip to the gallery. He’d also asked her if she fancied catching the latest ridiculous Hollywood remake—she’d mentioned her inexplicable weakness for blockbusters—and she suggested Wednesday night. And did he want to ask Glover, since he’d said he wanted to see it as well?

The movie was exceptionally poor, David thought, though Ruth claimed to agree with Glover’s verdict of ‘silly but fun’. As David walked out onto the pavement ahead of them he was already writing The Damp Review’s post in his head: Never remake monster movies. It’s always a mistake. One can upgrade certain things—special effects, sets, costumes, even the actors—but one cannot get the better of nostalgia. One can’t improve on memory: that subtle, slanted light.

Ruth and David lunched the next week, and he met her for a drink after she’d been to a gallery opening. And so it continued. He would sit opposite and watch the internal weather of her emotions play on her beautiful face. She lived at the surface of her life. Nothing yet had happened between them but David felt the sheer intensity of their interactions precluded his role from being the usual one of confidant. Sometimes she held his look for a second or two longer than necessary, and sometimes she smiled in an impudent, daring way that David would think about later. In the meantime she was laden with a great deal of emotional baggage—this dancer called Paolo, still calling from America.

One chill November night the three of them saw Othello at the Globe and, after hailing a cab on Blackfriars Bridge for Ruth, the flatmates began the footslog back to Borough. The streets were almost deserted, plucked clean by the cold, and the icy pavements glinted like quartz. The play had not been good and David was extemporizing. After a pause, occasioned by his comparing the director to a back-alley abortionist, Glover said, ‘How do you really feel about Ruth? I mean honestly.’

‘I really like her,’ David said, mimicking his emphasis. ‘Why, don’t you?’

‘Of course, but I was wondering if you were going to do anything about it.’

David knew what he meant immediately, but something in his tone—some hint of irritation—offended him. Glover was always trying to push him into the world, offering to try internet dating with him, suggesting they reply to the newspaper personals, telling David to walk up to girls in pubs. He thought Glover considered him inert, as if he just needed a shove in the back to start rolling forward, but David was acquainted with rejection. He could only proceed at his own pace.

‘We’re old friends, you know? Really old friends.’

A crisp packet scraped along the pavement, worried by the wind, and Glover kicked at it. It flipped up over his track shoe and settled back, face down.

‘I suppose the question is whether you’re attracted to her.’

David bristled again and sighed with impatience. ‘Anyone can see she’s attractive.’

‘Yeah, I think so.’

He didn’t reply. What was it to Glover? They’d reached the front steps of their flat and the conversation was parked there, by the wheelie bins and the recycling box in which someone had dropped a half-eaten kebab.