Page 165 of Proof By Contradiction
Femi and Allan come to visit us in Wales for a day. Allan drives a car so small that Femi’s knees are against the dashboard, and his expression upon arrival suggests the journey was a near-death experience.
The four of us are in the garden. The sun is out for once, the hills are green, and the sheep are maintaining their judgmental distance.
Beers. Crisps. Allan tells a story about a second-year student who got locked in the library overnight, and Femi interrupts to correct the details. Allan interrupts Femi’s interruption, and they argue with the fluency of long practice. The argument is the intimacy.
‘If someone had told me a year ago—’ Femi says.
He’s leaning back in the plastic chair with his beer and the sun on his face, and the sentence doesn’t need finishing.
I look at him, he looks at me. Just—looking. No sweep, no passing through. The look of someone who already knows and keeps looking anyway.
Sunday evening, the flat. Rain again, Manchester, not Wales, the familiar rain, the rain that sounds like home now.
Laurence is at the kitchen table. Laptop open.
‘Hugo emailed.’
I look up. His voice is neutral, studied neutral. The neutrality of a man testing whether a grenade still has its pin.
He turns the laptop towards me. First time. Every other Hugo conversation has been held at a distance, told, not shown. This is the screen itself—the email.
I read it briefly. Friendly. Something about a conference, a paper Hugo published, a casual sign-off. No undercurrents. No blades hidden in the pleasantries. Just a man writing to another man about work once the wreckage has been cleared.
‘Fine,’ I say. And mean it. The jealousy that would have eaten me alive six months ago is muted. Laurence chose me. Hugo can email, Hugo can publish, Hugo can exist in his tailored shirts and his perfect fucking face.
I looked him up last week. The jawline still exists. It just doesn’t land anymore.
I’m the one sitting on the sofa.
Laurence types a short reply. Closes the laptop. ‘That chapter is closed.’
‘I know.’
‘You’re not.’
‘I’m not.’ I go back to the book. ‘I’m secure in my position, Dr Haldrey. Though the job security’s a bit shaky.’
Laughter doesn’t break.
FaceTime. Ron’s face fills the screen; the angle is bad, and the ceiling of his Lewisham bedroom is visible behind him.
‘I went back to that bar last weekend. Sorry I didn’t came to visit.’
I wait. Every nerve sayspush, but pushing is the old move. It’s always the wrong move with Ron.
‘They were there. Writing, as usual. The pencil.’ He shifts his gaze, the distant focus of someone watching a scene in their memory. ‘I sat at the next table. Didn’t say anything.’
‘And?’
‘They looked up. And smiled.’ He pauses. ‘Like they recognised me.’
I sit with it. Between Lewisham and Manchester, between two screens.
‘Next time,’ I say, ‘say hello. And offer them a pint.’
‘Yeah.’ He rubs his palm. The circuit. ‘Yeah. Maybe.’
The screen goes dark. I put the phone down. Laurence is watching from the kitchen doorway. Coffee in hand. The knowing on his face.
