Page 37 of A Face in the Crowd
Before we can get any further, the cooker starts to beep, so I shoo Harry out of the kitchen area and unload everything from the oven. There aren’t many places to sit in the flat, largely because there’s so little room, but I do have a fold-down dining table courtesy of the previous tenant. With a clean tablecloth and cutlery, it almost looks as if I don’t live in a one-room dive.
It’s not long before I’ve served everything up, using the only two plates I own, with my only pair of knives and forks. Harry doesn’t need to know that.
I usually eat on the sofa and Billy would be pacing, looking for scraps or hand-outs. Perhaps it’s the table that’s confusing him, but he remains in his bed, half-asleep. Not even an early-evening firework outside does anything other than make him raise an ear.
We start to eat and Harry only needs one bite to tell me my cooking is fabulous. I offer him a sideways raised eyebrow to let him know I’m notthateasily complimented. Besides, it’s not as if I did much myself.
‘Nice place you have here,’ he adds next.
‘You don’t have to say that,’ I reply. ‘What’s yours like?’
He brushes it off with a shrug. ‘It’s an apartment. It is what it is.’
The flat is small enough that the cabinet by the television is within reaching distance. Harry stretches across and picks up one of the photos.
‘Is this you?’ he asks, pointing to a grinning little girl sandwiched between two proud parents.
‘It was after a school play one year,’ I reply. ‘It’s one of my earliest memories. I think I was about six.’
He nods and returns the photo and I can sense him looking around the room for others. Possibly for ones of Ben. I talked about him so much before that it would be no wonder if Harry thinks I’m still somewhat obsessed. Not that I have loads, but everything from the past few years is on my phone anyway.
We continue eating, but it’s suddenly awkward. I try to think of the things I might chat to Karen about, but everything is natural with us. These silences don’t exist. Harry must feel it too, because he glances up from the plate and smiles weakly.
‘The food really is good,’ he reiterates.
‘Thank you.’
There’s more silence and then Harry breaks it in the worst way. I guess things are flatlining to such a degree that there’s nowhere else to go. ‘What’s your favourite movie?’ he asks.
I have a momentary panic in which I can’t think of any movies other thanFace/Off– not because I love it, more that it was on television the weekend before last. I’ve not been to the cinema in years.
‘You first,’ I reply.
‘Die Hard,’ he says in a flash.
‘That’s a good choice,’ I say, playing for time.
‘What’s yours?’
‘ProbablyThe Jungle Book.’ The cartoon version is the first film I can remember seeing as a child.
I wonder if Harry will follow it up, but he nods along. At least I didn’t claim it wasCitizen Kaneor something like that.
‘Favourite song?’ he asks.
This one is easy, but there’s a stumble as I find myself glancing towards the door. ‘“Rocket Man”,’ I say. ‘By Elton John.’
‘That’s an interesting choice.’ For a moment, I think he’ll tell me his but instead he asks: ‘Why?’
I suddenly feel on the spot and vulnerable. As if revealing this information is too personal, like he’s asked for my PIN. ‘I used to listen to it a lot when I was a kid,’ I say. ‘I don’t know where I first heard it, but it was probably Mum. I used to dream of being an astronaut: saying goodbye to everyone and flying off to the moon, or Mars, or wherever.’
Harry has paused with a forkful of fish halfway to his mouth. ‘Do you still dream of that?’
‘I guess not.’
He puts the food in his mouth and starts to chew. I find myself wondering when I stopped thinking big. Whether it’s something to do with me, or something that all children outgrow. He tells me his favourite song is Sinatra’s ‘My Way’ and it’s hard not to pull a face. I’ve always hated it, probably because I associate it with terrible singers shrieking out karaoke versions.
We go back and forth, talking about books, television shows, comedians, sport and other things. It does make conversation, but the one thing of which I’m certain at the end is that we have almost nothing in common.
