Normal People (Page 17)

I don’t know, he said. This is a pretty good arrangement, from my point of view.

Well, I do my best.

He got back into bed beside her and kissed her face. She had been sad before, after the film, but now she was happy. It was in Connell’s power to make her happy. It was something he could just give to her, like money or sex. With other people she seemed so independent and remote, but with Connell she was different, a different person. He was the only one who knew her like that.

*

Eventually Peggy finishes her wine and leaves. Connell sits at the table while Marianne sees her out. The outside door closes and Marianne re-enters the kitchen. She rinses her water glass and leaves it upside down on the draining board. He’s waiting for her to look at him.

You saved my life, he says.

She turns around, smiling, rolling her sleeves back down.

I wouldn’t have enjoyed it either, she says. I would have done it if you wanted, but I could see you didn’t.

He looks at her. He keeps looking at her until she says: What?

You shouldn’t do things you don’t want to do, he says.

Oh, I didn’t mean that.

She throws her hands up, like the issue is irrelevant. In a direct sense he understands that it is. He tries to soften his manner since anyway it’s not like he’s annoyed at her.

Well, it was a good intervention on your part, he says. Very attentive to my preferences.

I try to be.

Yeah, you are. Come here.

She comes to sit down with him and he touches her cheek. He has a terrible sense all of a sudden that he could hit her face, very hard even, and she would just sit there and let him. The idea frightens him so badly that he pulls his chair back and stands up. His hands are shaking. He doesn’t know why he thought about it. Maybe he wants to do it. But it makes him feel sick.

What’s wrong? she says.

He feels a kind of tingling in his fingers now and he can’t breathe right.

Oh, I don’t know, he says. I don’t know, sorry.

Did I do something?

No, no. Sorry. I had a weird … I feel weird. I don’t know.

She doesn’t get up. But she would, wouldn’t she, if he told her to get up. His heart is pounding now and he feels dizzy.

Do you feel sick? she says. You’ve gone kind of white.

Here, Marianne. You’re not cold, you know. You’re not like that, not at all.

She gives him a strange look, screwing her face up. Well, maybe cold was the wrong word, she says. It doesn’t really matter.

But you’re not hard to like. You know? Everyone likes you.

I didn’t explain it well. Forget about it.

He nods. He still can’t breathe normally. Well, what did you mean? he says. She’s looking at him now, and finally she does stand up. You look morbidly pale, she says. Are you feeling faint? He says no. She takes his hand and tells him it feels damp. He nods, he’s breathing hard. Quietly Marianne says: If I’ve done something to upset you, I’m really sorry. He forces a laugh and takes his hand away. No, a weird feeling came over me, he says. I don’t know what it was. I’m okay now.

Three Months Later

(JULY 2012)

Marianne is reading the back of a yoghurt pot in the supermarket. With her other hand she’s holding her phone, through which Joanna is telling an anecdote about her job. When Joanna gets into an anecdote she can really monologue at length, so Marianne isn’t worried about taking her attention off the conversation for a few seconds to read the yoghurt pot. It’s a warm day outside, she’s wearing a light blouse and skirt, and the chill of the freezer aisle raises goosebumps on her arms. She has no reason to be in the supermarket, except that she doesn’t want to be in her family home, and there aren’t many spaces in which a solitary person can be inconspicuous in Carricklea. She can’t go for a drink alone, or get a cup of coffee on Main Street. Even the supermarket will exhaust its usefulness when people notice she’s not really buying groceries, or when she sees someone she knows and has to go through the motions of conversation.

The office is half-empty so nothing really gets done, Joanna is saying. But I’m still getting paid so I don’t mind.

Because Joanna has a job now, most of their conversations take place over the phone, even though they’re both living in Dublin. Marianne’s only home for the weekend, but that’s Joanna’s only time off work. On the phone Joanna frequently describes her office, the various characters who work there, the dramas that erupt between them, and it’s as if she’s a citizen of a country Marianne has never visited, the country of paid employment. Marianne replaces the yoghurt pot in the freezer now and asks Joanna if she finds it strange, to be paid for her hours at work – to exchange, in other words, blocks of her extremely limited time on this earth for the human invention known as money.

It’s time you’ll never get back, Marianne adds. I mean, the time is real.

The money is also real.

Well, but the time is more real. Time consists of physics, money is just a social construct.

Yes, but I’m still alive at work, says Joanna. It’s still me, I’m still having experiences. You’re not working, okay, but the time is passing for you too. You’ll never get it back either.

But I can decide what I do with it.

To that I would venture that your decision-making is also a social construct.

Marianne laughs. She wanders out of the freezer aisle and towards the snacks.

I don’t buy into the morality of work, she says. Some work maybe, but you’re just moving paper around an office, you’re not contributing to the human effort.

I didn’t say anything about morality.

Marianne lifts a packet of dried fruit and examines it, but it contains raisins so she puts it back down and picks up another.

Do you think I judge you for being so idle? says Joanna.

Deep down I think you do. You judge Peggy.

Peggy has an idle mind, which is different.

Marianne clicks her tongue as if to scold Joanna for her cruelty, but not with any great investment. She’s reading the back of a dried apple packet.

I wouldn’t want you to turn into Peggy, says Joanna. I like you the way you are.

Oh, Peggy’s not that bad. I’m going to the supermarket checkout now so I’m going to hang up.

Okay. You can call tomorrow after the thing if you feel like talking.

Thanks, says Marianne. You’re a good friend. Bye.

Marianne makes her way to the self-service checkout, picking up a bottle of iced tea on the way and carrying the dried apples. When she reaches the row of self-service machines, she sees Lorraine unloading a basket of various groceries. Lorraine stops when she sees Marianne and says: Hello there! Marianne clutches the dried fruit against her ribcage and says hi.

How are you getting on? says Lorraine.

Good, thanks. And you?

Connell tells me you’re top of your class. Winning prizes and all kinds of things. Doesn’t surprise me, of course.

Marianne smiles. Her smile feels gummy and childish. She squeezes the package of dried fruit, feels it crackle under her damp grip, and scans it on the machine. The supermarket lights are chlorine-white and she’s not wearing any make-up.

Oh, she says. Nothing major.

Connell comes around the corner, of course he does. He’s carrying a six-pack of crisps, salt and vinegar flavour. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and those sweatpants with the stripes down the side. His shoulders seem bigger now. And he looks at her. He’s been in the supermarket the whole time; maybe he even saw her in the freezer aisle and walked past quickly to avoid making eye contact. Maybe he heard her talking on the phone.

Hello, says Marianne.

Oh, hey. I didn’t know you were in town.

He glances at his mother, and then scans the crisps and puts them in the bagging area. His surprise at seeing Marianne seems genuine, or at least his reluctance to look at or speak to her does.

I hear you’re very popular up there in Dublin, Lorraine says. See, I get all the gossip from Trinity now.

Connell doesn’t look up. He’s scanning the other items from the trolley: a box of teabags, a loaf of sliced pan.

Your son’s just being kind, I’m sure, says Marianne.

She takes her purse out and pays for her items, which cost three euro eighty-nine. Lorraine and Connell are packing their groceries into reusable plastic bags.

Can we offer you a lift home? Lorraine says.

Oh, no, says Marianne. I’ll walk. But thank you.

Walk! says Lorraine. Out to Blackfort Road? Do not. We’ll give you a lift.

Connell takes both the plastic bags in his arms and cocks his head towards the door.

Come on, he says.

Marianne hasn’t seen him since May. He moved home after the exams and she stayed in Dublin. He said he wanted to see other people and she said: Okay. Now, because she was never really his girlfriend, she’s not even his ex-girlfriend. She’s nothing. They all get in the car together, Marianne sitting in the back seat, while Connell and Lorraine have a conversation about someone they know who has died, but an elderly person so it’s not that sad. Marianne stares out the window.

Well, I’m delighted we bumped into you, says Lorraine. It’s great to see you looking so well.

Oh, thank you.

How long are you in town for?

Just the weekend, says Marianne.

Eventually Connell indicates at the entrance to the Foxfield estate and pulls in outside his house. Lorraine gets out. Connell glances at Marianne in the rear-view mirror and says: Here, get in the front, will you? I’m not a taxi driver. Wordlessly Marianne complies. Lorraine opens the boot and Connell twists around in his seat. Leave the bags, he says. I’ll bring them in when I’m back. She puts up her hands in surrender, shuts the boot and then waves them off.