Anouk looks like she’s about to say something else, then stops. When we reach her place, a yellow-doored end-of-terrace with two palm trees in the front garden, she pats Nike on the back. “Why don’t you go around the back and play in the garden with Cola, doodle?”
“Okay, pukey Anouky.” Nike sticks out his tongue.
I sit on the sofa while Anouk makes tea. The living room has a nautical theme: blue and white furniture, shells on the mantelpiece, a framed print of a life preserver on the wall. A lot of Cornish homes are decorated like this. The main difference between Anouk’s front room and most of the others around here is the statue of Ganesha next to the television.
Anouk brings in the teas and sits beside me. “I’m glad you got in touch,” she says, an unfamiliar vulnerability in her voice. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a smooth green pebble. “I’ve been carrying this around with me lately, but I’d like you to have it now.” She passes it to me. “It’s malachite. For protection.”
Anouk used to work in a crystal shop in Camborne, near the Giant’s Quoit: a mysterious megalithic tomb. She took several boxes of stock home with her when the shop closed down, and she would jokingly administer “stones for yer bones” when we met up. “This one will cure your cold,” she’d say, or, “This one will stop you and James arguing over the remote.” Anouk is not laughing now.
“You know I’m proud of you, girl,” she says, looking at the carpet. “But be careful, okay?”
I frown. Has James told her he wants to try for a baby?
“I saw this documentary a couple of nights ago,” she says. “The guy on it, a diver, he made one tiny mistake. He opened a valve at the wrong time, and the whole chamber blew up. I don’t want you to explode, Solvig.”
Anouk must be talking about the Byford Dolphin case. When the chamber exploded, one of the divers was propelled through a sixty-centimetre opening. Fragments of his body were found ten metres away. “It was one of the tenders outside the chamber who made the mistake,” I tell her. “Not a diver.”
Anouk scowls.
“You big dafty,” I say, giving her arm a squeeze. I mean, really, I’m not going to come out and say it, but there’s no way a lump of rock is going to save me. It’s like the old saying goes: if it’s your time to be forced through a sixty-centimetre opening, it’s your time to be forced through a sixty-centimetre opening. Strange to hear Anouk worrying like that, though. She used to call my job “badass.”
I pick up my cup of tea. “Anyway, how’s your work going?”
“It’s fine,” she says. “I mean, it’s awful. Exhausting. Brilliant.”
“Anouk,” I begin.
Anouk looks at me. I notice the dark, puffy skin under her eyes. I think about how she’s been carrying a pebble in her pocket for protection.
“Listen,” I tell her. “If you ever need a night off, and you want me to babysit, let me know. I’d be happy to look after Nike.”
Anouk bites down on her lower lip. “Thank you, Solvig. By the way, you’ll know when danger is coming, because the stone will shatter. If that happens: watch out.”
•
“Good run earlier?” James calls.
I take off Cola’s lead, then go into the kitchen and see James shredding celeriac. He’s been talking about this recipe for days. Crispy catfish with black-eyed peas and Southern-style slaw. The key to this meal, he says, is coating the fish with cornflakes instead of breadcrumbs. It sounds . . . gross.
“My run was great, thanks,” I lie.
I look in the fridge at the selection of half-drunk reds and whites. I take a red and pour it into two glasses without bothering to try any, then put a glass on the counter next to James.
“Cheers,” he says.
“Bottoms up,” I reply.
I wonder if we’re going to keep carrying on as though the conversation earlier never happened. Maybe it’s my responsibility to bring it up first. James said I could take my time to think about it. What would happen if I thought about it for a year? Ten years? I put on my best smile. “Want some help?”
“No need.” James grabs my waist. His breath is vegetal. James once showed me a YouTube video of a whisky taster who advised viewers to develop their palates by tasting unusual things. He recommended starting with a fresh bay leaf. I had a pack of dried leaves in the cupboard, and they were so sharp they sliced my tongue.
I politely extricate myself from James’s grip and put out food and medication for Cola, then collapse on the sofa. Being on the verge of leaving really makes me appreciate what I’ve got here. We might not have cornicing, ceiling roses, or fancy banisters like the homes facing the sea have, but our house—which looks over the harbour—is cosy, with big windows. The winter can be a pain, though. The house gets damp and freezing, and once it’s dark, all you can see out of the windows is yourself.
My reflection is just starting to appear in the window now. I can see James’s too. I’m embarrassed by how we look together. The same height, both with blond hair and blue eyes. James’s hair is long and mine is short. Does that help? Not really. I once bought some dye, but I never used it.
“I picked up a couple of books for you on my way home,” James says, nodding at the coffee table.
I get a lot of reading done on my dives. Problem is, the library lends books for only three weeks, so I have to buy them. Inevitably, I end up taking a weird mix of whatever secondhand books this seaside town has to offer. Fortunately, the wintertime choice is generally more interesting than the summer. Come July and August, the shops are brimming with discarded tourist reads. That’s how I ended up with three books on the history of fascism in November, whereas in August, it was seven romcoms by Marian Keyes.
I look at the books on the table: a crime novel and a book of Cornish folktales.
“I had a flick through,” James says. “Some of the folktales look more disturbing than the thriller.”
I laugh. “Thanks. You really don’t need to make such a fuss. It’s my job.”
“I’m worried about you,” James says, stirring the black-eyed peas. “This—I don’t know what it is—depression, or whatever you’re feeling.” He carefully places two fillets into a sizzling pan. “You don’t have to do it, you know. We can find something else. Some of those inland diving jobs are—”
“Love you,” I say, getting up from the sofa and going to give him a kiss. My lips miss and hit the corner of his mouth.
•
“Soul food.” James puts a plate in front of me.
There’s a vase of snowdrops on the table and Van Morrison is singing about the fires of spring on the record player.
“Turns out breakfast cereal and fish are a great pairing,” I say, after taking a small bite.
James sighs. There are dark circles under his eyes. “Needs more spice.”
I put down my fork. “How was work, love?”
“The customer wanted a jellyfish at the bottom of his back. He said he wanted it to literally glow . . . I’ll show you the crime scene later.” “Crime scene” is what we jokingly call the photos James takes straight after he’s done a tattoo, when the customer’s skin is raw and beads of blood are bubbling up out of the puncture wounds. I love those pictures; James is normally so gentle that it excites me to see evidence of his brutality.