Nightingale Point. Luan Goldie

flops down on the sofa, wondering if he should help. Pamela did make Malachi happy while it lasted. It was good for him to get his lanky leg over something, even if it was her. But the drama of them was exhausting, all the crying and the constant threat of her crazy dad hanging over everything. Tristan used to get proper paranoid whenever she was in the flat and the door would knock; he was almost waiting for her dad to bust in and kick Mal’s arse. Or worse. So when Pamela up and left for Plymouth it was sort of a relief.

      ‘Tris? Will you help me?’

      ‘I’m busy,’ he says, and it’s true. Who has the time to go running about, trying to fix up other people’s love lives? Tristan’s not sure if the whole thing was even worth it. He knows plenty of hotter girls that would give it up for less than Pamela. A lot less. We’re talking a bag of chips here.

      ‘Tristan, please, come on. It’s not going to kill you to leave your flat for five minutes.’

      He purses his lips and remembers how Mal pestered him to find out who Pamela was after seeing her run around the field like a hamster in a wheel. It was unusual that he took an interest in any girl, but then he’d been so busy since Nan left, trying to juggle studying and ‘playing dad’. Tristan was glad when Mal gave that up. Finally they started up their Donkey Kong tournament again in the evenings. Except for the times when he would be sneaking about with Pam, probably kissing around the back of the bins or something, or sharing a milkshake in that nasty little café near the swimming pool.

      ‘Why won’t you help me?’ she pleads.

      So pathetic. But they did kind of like each other and it was rare of Malachi to do anything other than frown most days.

      ‘Tris, I’m begging you.’

      ‘Okay,’ Tristan finally says. ‘I’ll think about it.’

CHAPTER TEN

       Chapter Ten ,Mary

      ‘Mary, I didn’t know we were seeing each other today.’

      Mary gives Harris a weak smile as she steps over the threshold and kicks her plimsolls onto either side of the stripy woven mat.

      ‘I’ve just got in.’ He closes the front door from the prying eyes of neighbours before kissing her. ‘I had a union meeting about next year’s exams. Can you believe it? On a Saturday? Went on and on.’ He walks quickly into the large room that makes up the living space of the bungalow and over to the hob, where he fiddles with the knobs and stops the hiss of gas.

      ‘I was trying out a new recipe – cannellini bean mash – but it doesn’t quite look edible.’ He laughs and wipes his hands on the tea towel that hangs over his shoulder. ‘Sorry, I’m rambling. Are you okay, Mary? I really wasn’t expecting you.’

      ‘Harris, I need to talk with you.’ She takes a deep breath but already feels her resolve waver. Something about the smell of lemons, Harris’s frequent failed attempts to cook, and his thin, perpetually tanned arms make her want to change her mind, to not end the affair, to divorce David, to marry Harris and to be with him always.

      ‘I can’t sleep,’ she says. ‘I keep thinking about what we are doing. How wrong it is.’

      ‘Oh, not this again.’ He turns away.

      ‘Yes, Harris. We need to stop. I am having nightmares. All week, these horrible dreams waking me up.’ She does not want to say anymore, for speaking her visions out loud somehow makes them more real.

      ‘You are stressed. Overworked again. I told you, stop taking on so many double shifts.’ Harris sits down next to her; the smell of tobacco on his skin ignites a craving for a cigarette. She takes the fob watch from her pocket and passes it from hand to hand.

      ‘Oh, your watch broke?’

      ‘I’ve had it twelve years.’ David had set the time eight hours ahead when he gave it to her. ‘Now you always know what time it is where I am,’ he said, but she immediately reset it to show her time.

      ‘Here, let me see if I can fix it.’ Harris takes the watch into his speckled hands.

      ‘No.’ She snatches it back. ‘David’s coming home.’

      ‘When?’

      Mary shrugs. ‘He’s on standby for a flight. I’m not sure if he’s coming here directly or stopping by somewhere else. His brother is in Amsterdam – maybe he will go there first. What? Why are you laughing?’

      ‘Typical. So he’s going to show up anytime in the next few weeks and you will accommodate him?’

      ‘He’s my husband.’

      ‘Yes, but he doesn’t have to be,’ Harris says with a raised voice.

      As he turns away the heaviness of what is not being said fills the room: the weight of the question she’s refused to answer, the unworn engagement ring studded with rubies as pink as the hibiscuses back home.

      ‘We need a break, Harris. Please.’ But she doesn’t act on it. Instead, she sits on the sofa and pulls one of the Indian elephant cushions onto her lap for comfort. ‘There is too much going on. I am stressed. My daughter is going back to work and I said I would help out with the kids.’

      He groans. ‘She’s taking advantage. She only works two days a week.’

      ‘Yes, but she needs my help. I’m her mother.’

      ‘I know, but what’s this got to do with us? With what I asked you last week? Why can’t we talk about it, Mary?’

      She taps the face of the fob watch with her short nails. ‘I need to call my work. I’m going to be late.’

      It rings for a long time before being finally answered. ‘Hedley Ward, Nurses’ Station.’

      ‘Hello, it’s Mary Tuazon. I’m running late for shift.’

      ‘Okay, I’ll let the sister know.’

      Mary recognizes the voice as one of the latest in a long line of lazy ward interns.

      ‘Tuazon? Hang on.’ Papers rustle, machines purr and a metal spoon clinks against something ceramic. ‘There’s a message here for you. Your husband called.’

      ‘My husband?’

      Harris straightens his back, like a cat ready to pounce.

      ‘That’s what it says.’ The girl’s disinterest seeps through the line. ‘Says: In Hong Kong. Got direct flight to Heathrow.’ She pauses. ‘That’s all.’

      ‘You are sure? When did he leave this?’

      ‘Dunno.’

      ‘Well, is there a time on the message?’ Mary asks.

      ‘Look, I didn’t write this down, all right?’ She tuts. ‘It’s busy here.’

      ‘Okay, thank you.’ Mary puts down the phone and smiles at Harris. ‘Stupid girl got the message wrong. There’s no way he got a flight so fast.’

      Harris appears to puff up his chest; his body, still frail, seems flooded with energy. ‘So he’s on his way? I feel as if this is it, Mary. You need to tell him. We can do it together.’ Harris uses a tone of voice Mary imagines he rolls out for his students with low self-esteem.

      ‘I’m not ready.’

      ‘You will never be ready. But you need to move on with your life.’

      ‘I took vows.’

      The tea towel slaps against