Precocious by Joanna Barnard Read Free Book Online Page A

with a kind of bellow, the mad holler of someone speaking in exclamation marks. ‘I mean, it’s been fifteen years, after all! We’ve both changed!’
    You look at me, click your teeth and make a ‘tsk’ sound.
    ‘Must be a man. Shouldn’t let ’em come between you. I told you that when you were fifteen and fighting over boys. They’re not worth it, kid.’
    I don’t remember ever fighting with Laura over boys back then and I’d love to say you’re wrong about this, now, but you’re not, of course.
    ‘Matt,’ I say miserably, ‘Laura’s fiancé.’
    You nod. ‘A charmer, I suppose.’
    Charm is knowing precisely what to say to make a person feel good about themselves.
You
have it, and it’s all the more powerful for how infrequently you bestow it. Since you, I’ve been looking for that in everyone I meet and I haven’t often found it. Matt could do it; it was as though he had a little window into the specific part of me that was feeling insecure that day, and he could open it up and like a modern day miracle worker, make it right.
    (On the other hand, people who know what to say to make you feel bad about yourself – they’re called husbands, and wives.)
    It was at their engagement party that I realised I had feelings for him. Laura was beautiful in a green dress, and they had a swing band – everything was perfect. As for Matt – he took my hand in the opening chords of ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ and led me to the floor.
    I dreamt about him every night for three nights after we danced. It was a mystery. He had the accent (Scouse) I had never liked. A face I found more inoffensive than attractive, plainly okay-looking but not striking. A nice height – maybe that was it. But there are thousands, millions of men that exact same height and they don’t all kiss me in dreams.
    It was his charm that did it, the charm and then the hands. I have a thing for hands. He held me firmly, one hand in the small of my back, the other grasping my hand, intertwining fingers. His eyes were red from drink, shining, and they seemed to be telling me a secret. I couldn’t look at them for too long.
She’s my best friend
, I kept saying, stupidly, to myself.
    The only conversation we had that night was started at every point by him, and every sentence started with ‘if’:
    ‘If you weren’t …’
    ‘If I wasn’t …’
    ‘If only …’
    But I am, and you are, I told him, and chose those moments to turn around and let him spin me. I was glad I had worn my ‘dancing shoes’. Afterwards I told myself that I had imagined it, that these words were part of the dream, like the kiss, but they weren’t, they happened.
    Never trust a man who can dance, Mari told me once.
    ‘Fiancé?’ you’re saying. ‘So, when’s the wedding?’
    I unfurl my fingers as though counting out weeks.
    ‘Let me see, one, two, ah – never.’
    ‘Oh really?’
    ‘Yeah, he got her the diamond, they had the party, but somehow I just don’t see it happening. It’s almost as though he enjoys keeping her waiting.’
    ‘Well,’ you say darkly, ‘some men are just like that.’ You stop walking, glance at your watch, light another cigarette. I want to tear the watch from your wrist, stop time. Chattering birds sweep down and graze the surface of the canal. You lean over the graffitied railings and flick ash into the water. ‘I need to leave soon, you better hurry up and tell me about the rest of them.’ I frown, but you wink, nudge me playfully. ‘Come on, I want names, occupations … vital statistics! I’ll try and keep up.’
    So although I want to protest (there haven’t been
that
many), and don’t want to think about the men who punctuated the thousands of nights between you and my husband, I am mindful of time, and wonder if by holding your attention I can buy some more. I remember how you used to like my stories, my characters. I list them as you ask me to; I try to keep it light, and witty, and am sometimes even cruel about