Are you in love with her? she says.
Yeah. I do love her, yeah.
Now Marianne starts crying, the most embarrassing thing that has happened to her in her entire adult life. Her back is turned but she feels her shoulders jerk upwards in a horrible involuntary spasm.
Jesus, says Connell. Marianne.
Fuck off.
Connell touches her back and she jolts away from him, like he’s trying to hurt her. She puts the cup down on the counter to wipe her face roughly with her sleeve.
Just go away, she says. Leave me alone.
Marianne, don’t. I feel awful, okay? I should have told you before, I’m sorry.
I don’t want to talk to you. Just leave.
For a while nothing happens. She chews on the inside of her cheek until the pain begins to settle her nerves and she’s not crying anymore. She dries her face again, with her hands this time, and turns around.
Please, she says. Please just go.
He sighs, he’s looking at the floor. He rubs his eyes.
Yeah, he says. Look, I’m really sorry to ask, but I do kind of need that money to get home. Sorry.
She remembers then and feels bad. In fact she smiles at him, that’s how bad she feels. Oh god, she says. In the excitement there I forgot you actually got assaulted. Can I give you two fifties, is that okay? He nods, but he’s not looking at her. She knows that he feels bad; she wants to be a grown-up about things. She finds her purse and hands him the money, which he puts in his pocket. He looks down, blinking and clearing his throat, like he’s going to cry too. I’m sorry, he says.
It’s nothing, she says. Don’t worry about it.
He rubs at his nose and looks around the room like he’s never going to see it again.
You know, I didn’t really know what was going on with us last summer, he says. Like, when I had to move home and that. I kind of thought maybe you would let me stay here or something. I don’t really know what happened with us in the end.
She feels a sharp pain in her chest and her hand flies to her throat, clutching at nothing.
You told me you wanted us to see other people, she says. I had no idea you wanted to stay here. I thought you were breaking up with me.
He rubs his palm flat against his mouth for a second, and then breathes out.
You didn’t say anything about wanting to stay here, she adds. You would have been welcome, obviously. You always were.
Right, okay, he says. Look, I’ll head off, then. Have a good night, yeah?
He leaves. The door clicks shut behind him, not very loudly.
In the Arts Block the next morning Jamie kisses her in front of everyone and says she looks beautiful. How was Connell last night? he says. She grips Jamie’s hand, she gives a conspiratorial roll of her eyes. Oh, he was so out of it, she says. I got rid of him eventually.
Six Months Later
(JULY 2013)
He wakes up just after eight. It’s bright outside the window and the carriage is warming up, a heavy warmth of breath and sweat. Minor train stations with unreadable names flash past and vanish. Elaine is already awake but Niall is still sleeping. Connell rubs his left eye with his knuckles and sits up. Elaine is reading the one novel she has brought with her on the journey, a novel with a glossy cover and the words
Whereabouts are we, do you know? says Connell.
Elaine looks up from the book. We passed Ljubljana about two hours ago, she says.
Oh, right, he says. We’re not far, then.
Connell looks over at Niall, whose sleeping head is bobbing slightly on his neck. Elaine follows his gaze. Out for the count as usual, she says.
There were others at the beginning. Some friends of Elaine’s went with them from Berlin to Prague, and they met a few of Niall’s Engineering classmates in Bratislava before they crossed over to Vienna on the train. Hostels were cheap, and the cities they visited had a pleasantly temporary feeling about them. Nothing Connell did there seemed to stay with him. The whole trip felt like a series of short films, screened only once, and afterwards he had a sense of what they were about but no exact memories of the plot. He remembers seeing things out the windows of taxis.
In each city he finds an internet cafe and completes the same three rituals of communication: he calls Helen on Skype, he sends his mother a free text message from his phone network’s website, and he writes Marianne an email.
