style="font-size:15px;"> “Well, not out on the street in Soho. Obviously, we went back to Victoria Park Road. I’ve been there often enough, with Jude.”
“They’re divorced.”
“I happen to know that.”
“So you didn’t go back there with Jude.”
“Oh, never mind! I only had two tokes, and then he played a million practice frames and totally ignored me, and then rode me home. I just thought you’d be amused. In fact, I was sure you’d say I was ‘juvenile.’ ”
“You were juvenile.”
“Thanks. That was obliging.” She had wanted to—to tell him something else of course, but like the deluxe sashimi platter there were no substitutions.
“Nuts, I don’t want to miss the beginning.” Lawrence reached for the remote.
“We’ve five minutes yet. Oh, and I almost forgot!” She sprang from her chair. “I made you a pie! Would you like a slice? Rhubarb-cream. It came out fabulous!”
“I don’t know,” he said, peering at her with the intense examination to which she had subjected Lawrence himself not long before. “I had a snack on the plane …”
“I bet you spent all your free time in the hotel gym. And we’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?”
“That you’re home, silly!”
His head tilted. “What’s with you tonight? You’re so—bubbly. Sure that dope’s worn off?”
“What’s wrong with being glad you’re back?”
“There’s glad and glad. It’s late. You don’t usually have this much energy. Not sure I can keep up.”
“Tih ustal?” she solicited, in their tender minor key.
“Yeah, pretty whacked.” His eyes narrowed. “Have you been drinking?”
“No, not a drop!” she declared, wounded. “Though speaking of drops, would you like a beer with your pie?”
“Whatever you’re on, I guess I’d better have some, too.”
Scrutinized for signs of inebriation and disgusted with herself for having overimbibed the night before, in the kitchen Irina poured herself an abstemious half-glass of white wine. She pulled out the pie, which after chilling for a full day was nice and firm, and made picture-perfect slices that might have joined the duplicitous array of photographs over a Woolworth’s lunch counter. She shouldn’t have any herself; oddly, she’d snacked all afternoon. But countless chunks of cheddar had failed to quell a ravenous appetite, so tonight she cut herself a wide wedge, whose filling blushed a fleshy, labial pink. This she crowned with a scoop of vanilla. Lawrence’s slice she carefully made more modest, with only a dollop of ice cream. No gesture was truly generous that made him feel fat.
“Krasny!” Lawrence exclaimed when she set down his pie and ale.
“That’s ‘red,’ you doorak,” she said fondly. She always found Lawrence’s incompetent Russian adorable. Maybe because he was otherwise so sharp, and an Achilles’ heel was humanizing. Besides, his tin ear for Russian was a useful leveller. Without it, a PhD might have made her feel stupid, but he always humbly deferred to her mastery of the tongue. “‘Beautiful’ is krasivy. Red Square, krasnaya ploshchad, da?”
“Konyeshno, krasivy!” He knew she was charmed by his mistakes, and this one was so primitive that he probably made it on purpose. “As in, krasivy pirog”—she gave his memory of the word for “pie” an appreciative nod—“or, moya krasivaya zhena.”
He mightn’t have legally married her, but whenever Lawrence used the word wife—which sounded more cherishing in Russian—Irina basked in the pleasure of being claimed. She understood his superstition about the institution. Sometimes when you tried too hard to nail something down you crushed it. Still, there were scenes in ER when a man would exclaim over a stretcher, “That’s my wife!” and Irina’s eyes would film. The word went to the centre. “That’s my partner!” would never have made her cry.
Tucked into her armchair, Irina forked a first bite of pie with a sensation that all was right with the world—or her world, the only one that mattered at the moment. The creamy filling was balanced perfectly between tart and sweet, and struck a satisfying textural counterpoint with the crisp lattice crust. Late Review had just run its opening credits. Germaine Greer was on tonight, an articulate woman who had once been a knockout but who had aged honestly and was still classically handsome. She was that rare animal, a feminist with a sense of humour, who stuck to her guns but was not a pain in the ass. Moreover, this fifty-something writer radiated a compensatory beauty of wisdom and personal warmth. Germaine gave Irina hope for her own future and broadly bolstered her pride in her gender. The waft from the open windows was the ideal temperature, and for the time being Irina was able to put out of mind when last she reflected on that precise fulcrum of the neither too hot nor too cold. She was not a faithless hussy. Lawrence was home, and they were happy.
Yet Irina had once tucked away, she wasn’t sure when or why, that happiness is almost definitionally a condition of which you are not aware at the time. To inhabit your own contentment is to be wholly present, with no orbiting satellite to take clinical readings of the state of the planet. Conventionally, you grow conscious of happiness at the very point that it begins to elude you. When not misused to talk yourself into something—when not a lie—the h-word is a classification applied in retrospect. It is a bracketing assessment, a label only decisively pasted onto an era once it is over.
She didn’t intend to be dire, or to detract from her pleasure in Lawrence’s return, Germaine Greer’s astute commentary on Boogie Nights, and the splendid rhubarb-cream. In fact, Irina reasoned that, for so much of the world to be roiling with war and animosity, there must be an international deficit of compelling men, BBC2 reception, and pie. Still, there was a weed in this garden, or none of her self-congratulation would have made itself felt. She had only been alerted to her own happiness by a narrow brush against an alternative future in which it was annihilated.
Whatever it was, that crossroads last night was one of the most interesting junctures she had arrived at in a long time, and the only person with whom she really wanted to talk about it was Lawrence, the one person with whom she couldn’t. The singular prohibition didn’t seem fair. On the other hand, it probably was. A don’t-make-waves constitution was one of the things that she and Lawrence, perhaps tragically, had in common. Irina didn’t like confessions, either—that is, other people’s—and Irina, too, wanted everything to be fine. For her to be able to introduce with the gravity the subject deserved, “I almost kissed Ramsey last night; I didn’t, but I wanted to, badly, and I think we should talk about why I might have wanted to,” without all hell breaking loose would have required a kind of work during the last nine years that they both had shirked. She hadn’t made the bed for that honesty, so she couldn’t lie in it. Or she had to lie in it, in the other sense of the word. That they could not hunker down right now and turn off the TV and come to grips with what exactly had happened last night was a grievous loss. At once, there seemed some sneaky connection between the fact that they couldn’t talk about it and the fact that it had happened at all.
“That looks worth seeing,” said Lawrence. “Though you
