“For the second thing I said I’d do.” And then he’s gone and I hear his tread on the staircase and the slam of the front door as Grant leaves.
Chapter 22
Hannah
George is comingaround tonight. It’s my turn to cook, which is a bit annoying for two reasons: (1) I have a huge presentation I’m meant to be prepping for; and (2) I’m crap at cooking.
Also he’s trying to make sure that I “engage fully with healthy eating” when he’s not around to advise on meal prep, and so we’re going to make some kind of ornate salad that includes kale. I don’t swear often when it comes to vegetables but, dear God, I bloody hate kale. No matter what you do to it, it still tastes like kale.
When George arrives, brandishing all the ingredients, he bounces in, back in his Duracell Bunny mode that I’ve been witnessing more of recently. He’s been upping the ante on all the green vegetables he can get his hands on. He has really been led by my enthusiasm that I’ve lost a bit of weight and feel a little healthier now. The personal trainer in him doesn’t want me to give up, especially because, as he says, “It takes a long time to build a healthy-eating habit.”
Even so, I don’t really want to eat what he’s suggesting for dinner. There’s a part of me that could murder some Nutella right now instead. Not evenonanything. Just with a spoon. My eyes glaze over as I think about this, and then I’m reminded that it’s my turn to cook and he holds out the bag of kale and I smile thinly.
“So what you want to do with the kale, Gallagher—”
“Is put it straight in the bin?” I suggest and then stop smiling as I see George roll his eyes, following the action up with a frown. He is trying, bless him, and making time for me—giving over a good proportion of his energy and spare time to being with me.
“No, we’re going to salt it—not too much—and then…”
My mind goes elsewhere as George drones on. I thought it was my turn to cook, but he’s practically doing it all for me.
After dinner, which I need a lot of water to wash down, we settle in to watch TV together, with strict instructions that when we’re done we either engage in some next-level shagging so that we can work off some calories (from kale? I wonder) or we’re going for a run. I opt for sex, obviously, because I am learning to hate running. As part of my plan toLet George In—to really be part of each other’s lives and give a bit more of myself to him—we’re finally going to watchA Room with a Viewtogether. I’ve summarized the plot, I’ve warned him it’s old. He’s in.
“If it’s your favorite film, then I’m sure it will be good.”
I am obviously dreading this. I dreaded it when Davey and I watched it, but he really enjoyed it. Even he was surprised, I think, but he kept pausing to ask questions; and unless he was lying, he loved the scenery, the characters, the time, the place.
We start the film and I find myself watching George rather than the film. His eyes are narrowed for a while. I remind myself it was his suggestion that we watch this. Not mine.
He turns his head to me. “They’re in funny outfits.”
Is he joking? “They’re Edwardian.”
He grimaces, then switches it to a smile. “Righty-ho.”
“We don’t have to watch—”
“No, no, I want to,” he says.
We keep going and I become more engrossed in Helena Bonham Carter being scooped up in the hero’s arms in an Italian piazza, because she’s just witnessed a murder and fainted. It’s soromantic, in a weird way, and I glance over at George, who is busy scrolling through his phone.
“You’re not enjoying this?”
He drops his phone into his lap. “I am loving this.”
I shuffle on the sofa. Now I just want the film to end, but there’s ages to go yet. I pick upmyphone because I can’t concentrate. I need a distraction.
I’m drawn to all the social-media channels and find myself flicking to see if Davey’s updated anything recently. He hasn’t. He never has. What am I expecting? A smiling picture of him hooked up to his meds? I wish I didn’t think about him so much. I wish I hadn’t sent that message telling him that I could see him typing. That merely turned him cold. He’s never been online since, as far as I can see. And he never replied. Maybe that was the time hewasgoing to hit send and I put him off. I could kick myself. I often wonder what he was going to say. I’ll never know.
The film ends, George is practically asleep, and I nudge him as the credits roll. “Not your cup of tea?” I offer.
“Not really,” he says. “I’m glad it’s yours, though,” which is a statement that makes no sense but I go with it.
I’m not really in the mood for sex or running, and I suspect neither is George, but he stands, stretches, blinks a few times. “Shall we?” he asks. “The Flats?” he says, referring to the park near me.
“For sex or running?” I say provocatively.
“Running,” he laughs.
