Page 8 of One Summer

They haven’t noticed me. They’re still just sitting there watching their blaring action film. Still holding hands. Somehow this low-level closeness is worse than if I’d walked in on them having sex.

That would just be physical, but this is more than that. This is everyday closeness.

They continue not to notice my arrival, which is really quite awkward, because I don’t know how to alert them to it. Eventually, I scuff my foot on the original oak floorboards, but there’s no reaction, probably because I’m wearing the silk slippers.

I clear my throat and it comes out louder than I expected. Max freezes, but the girl still hasn’t noticed me, and she carries on leaning into his shoulder.

‘Excuse me,’ I say.

She flinches at the sound of my voice, so harshly that her braids jump too.

‘Jesus,’ she says. ‘You scared me.’

‘Sorry,’ I say, and then hate myself for it.

‘Oh, honey,’ she says, turning to Max.

‘This is Lindy,’ Max says, because I appear to have lost the ability to talk. He looks shamefaced, but I notice he still hasn’t stopped holding her hand. ‘Lindy and I have been dating for a while.’

We’ve been ‘dating’? Really? Because we almost never go on dates.

‘We’ve been in a relationship,’ I say, but I don’t sound convincing. I’m not sure I’ve even convinced myself.

‘She’s the one?’ Greta says, raising her eyebrows at me, as if surprised that Max would stoop so low. I wish I wasn’t wearing the slippers. How can anyone have gravity when wearing pink, silk slippers?

Max nods. ‘This is not the way I wanted to tell you, Lindy,’ he says and then falls silent. No explanation, no attempt to make me feel better, or stop holding her hand.

‘I’m sorry,’ Greta says, getting up and looking me in the eye. She looks genuinely sad for me. ‘I didn’t mean it to get this far. I knew he had a significant other. I thought we could just be friends without any feelings. We haven’t even kissed yet.’

Then she walks right past me, grabs her biker jacket from the arm of the sofa and leaves.

She doesn’t slam the door; she closes it so gently that it barely registers.

Max is standing now, but he hasn’t moved any closer to me. Perhaps he thinks I’m going to lash out at him. Make a scene. Throw a slipper.

‘I have one question,’ I say in a high voice that doesn’t even seem to belong to me.

He nods for me to continue, looking down at his own slippers. Blue plaid. Burberry.

‘How long has this been going on?’

‘Nothing’s really going on. We watch films,’ he says. ‘It’s just a movie club.’

‘For two people. Who hold hands in the dark,’ I say.

He gets quiet and I can tell he’s trying to work out how to spin this; if he really even wants to spin it.

‘Okay,’ he says, and purses his lips.

‘“Okay”? What does okay mean? How is that a complete sentence?’

‘Okay, maybe there’s more between us.’

‘How much more, exactly?’

I hate that I’ve asked this question. That I’ve needed to.

‘We sometimes cuddle, but that’s it. It’s not sexual.’

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