Talking It Over by Julian Barnes Read Free Book Online Page B

when he was beside her. He even danced better. I mean, Stu would never attain anything more than a kind of addled bopping,but that summer he brought a certain careless vivacity to the matter of heel-and-toe. For myself, on those occasions that Gillian embellished my dance-card, I reined myself in, generously not seeking to provoke dismaying comparison. Was I even, at times, uncharacteristically gauche as I jig-a-jigged the parquet? Perhaps. Everyone must decide for himself.
    So there we were, that summer. Woes were not on the agenda. At Frinton we played a one-armed bandit for two whole clattering hours and never attained three fruits in a row – but did we mope? I do, however, recall one moment of piercing sadness. We were on a beach, and someone – probably me in my cheerleader mode – suggested we engrave our names in big letters upon the sand, then one of us would mount the promenade and photograph inscription plus inscriber. A cliché in Beowulf’s time, I know, but you can’t keep coming up with new games. When it came to my turn to be recorded, Gillian went up to the promenade with Stuart. Probably he required help with the auto-focus. It was the end of the afternoon, an east wind was chivvying its self-important way across the North Sea, the sun was losing its heat, and most people had gone home. I stood alone on the beach next to the elaborate italics of Oliver (the others had done capitals, of course), and I looked up towards the camera, and Stuart shouted ‘Cheese!’ and Gillian shouted ‘Gorgonzola!’ and Stu shouted ‘Camembert!’ and Gillian shouted ‘Dolcelatte!’ and suddenly I had this crying fit. I stood there gazing up and blubbing. Then the sun got into my tears and I couldn’t see anything, just a blinding coloured rinse. I felt I might cry for ever, whereupon Stu shouted ‘Wensleydale!’ and I just howled some more, like a jackal, like a pathetic pye-dog. Then I sat inthe sand and kicked at the r of Oliver until they came and rescued me.
    Shortly afterwards I was jolly again, and they were jolly too. When people fall in love they develop this sudden resilience, have you noticed? It’s not just that nothing can harm them ( that old suave illusion), but that nothing can harm anyone they care about either. Frère Ollie? Crying fit on the beach? Broke down while being photographed by his friends? No, that’s nothing, call off the men in the white coats, send back the padded van, we’ve got our own first-aid kit. It’s called love. Comes in all sorts of packaging. It’s a bandage, it’s a sticking-plaster, it’s lint, it’s gauze, it’s cream. Look, it even comes as an anaesthetising spray. Let’s try some on Ollie. See, he’s fallen down and broken his crown. Spray spray, whoozh, whoozh, there, that’s better, Ollie, up you get.
    And I did. I got up and was jolly again. Jolly Ollie, we’ve mended him, that’s what love can do. Have another squirt, Ollie? One last pick-me-up?
    They took me home that night in Gillian’s rebarbatively quotidian motor-car. Definitely not a Lagonda. I got out and they got out too. I kissed Gillie briefly on the cheek, and ruffled the pelt of Stuart, who was beaming concern at me. So I Nureyeved the front steps and flowed through the door in a single motion of Yale and Chubb. Then I lay upon my understanding bed and burst into tears.

4: Now
    Stuart It’s now. It’s today. We got married last month. I love Gillian. I’m happy, yes I’m happy. It finally worked out for me. It’s now now.
    Gillian I got married. Part of me didn’t think I ever would, part of me disapproved, part of me was a little scared, to tell the truth. But I fell in love, and Stuart is a good person, a kind person, and he loves me. I’m married now.
    Oliver Oh shit. Oh shit shit shit shit SHIT. I’m in love with Gillie, I’ve only just realised it. I am in love with Gillie. I’m amazed, I’m overawed, I’m poo-scared, I’m mega-fuckstruck.I’m also scared out of my