Page 106 of Proof By Contradiction
‘You’ve never said his name.’
‘I’m not saying it now. The card has intent, the intent is:go. Be a bloke with a birthday. I’ll see you tomorrow and I’ll ask nothing.’
The samosa in my hand has grease coming through the paper. The rain has opinions about my hair. Femi is wearingthe waterproof jacket that hates wind, and his face is doing that thing it does when he wants to say words softly.
‘Allan’s booked us a table at eight,’ he says. ‘Some Italian place in the Northern Quarter he’s been saving for when it got important enough to save for. First Valentine’s. He’s terrified.’
‘He’s not terrified. You are.’
‘Yeah, I know. Shut up. That wasn’t the point.’ His eyes are level. The Femi look that started in the freshers’ queue in October and hasn’t stopped sharpening since. ‘The point was that you’re not the only one having a loaded day. Celebrate yours. Properly.’
He hugs me, quickly. Embarrassed. Femi’s version, where he manages to look like he invented hugging and is filing a patent.
‘Ewan,’ he says into my shoulder. ‘Nineteen suits you.’
Then he’s off towards the tram stop, waterproof hood up, already late for something I don’t ask about.
I stand in the rain with a bag of warm samosas and a card that sayslove,in Femi’s handwriting—the handwriting of someone who’s been walking beside me since forever and found the word for it.
Nineteen. Maybe it fits slightly better than I thought.
Chorlton. Eight.
I come in, and the door clicks. The flat smells of oil, garlic, something with rosemary, a pan on the hob behaving itself.
‘You cooked.’
‘I followed instructions from a book. It’s not the same thing.’
‘Haldrey. Are you cooking me a birthday dinner.’
‘I am cooking something. It happens to be on a day you happen to have been born on.’ Deadpan Lancashire. The vowelsare their Sunday-morning selves. He’s stirring, all focus on the pot.
I put the samosas on the counter. He glances at them.
‘Offerings from the other shrine,’ I say.
‘You have a network. Good.’
He serves. Pasta with lamb sauce, rosemary, a crack of pepper, olive oil. He puts a bowl in front of me. He puts a bowl in front of him. He sits down opposite me at his own kitchen table and picks up his fork in his left hand.
We eat. Forks and the radiator clicking, and the rain on the window.
‘Ewan.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Happy birthday.’
Two words, Lancashire. Quiet, he says it once. He doesn’t say it again. He doesn’t sayValentine’s, doesn’t look at the date, doesn’t lean on any of the architecture the day has been trying to build around us.Happy birthday.Full stop.
The wiring behind my ribs does the thing.
‘Thanks.’
He reaches beside his chair. Produces a small object wrapped in brown paper, no ribbon. Slides it across.
‘Don’t get excited. It’s not sentimental.’
