Free Untold Story by Monica Ali Page B

more, and excuse. Words, however, failed me and all I could do was press on.
    The large round bed was, naturally, the centerpiece of the room. By the window there stood a recliner with adjustable foot stirrups, set up as if for a gynecological examination. Two television screens played “adult” channels, which I rushed to turn off at once. I apologized profusely, of course.
    “Why, Lawrence,” she said, stalking the perimeter, “I’ve never seen you quite so pink.”
    She examined the minibar, the wall-mounted tissue dispenser, the lubricant sachets, and wore a puzzled expression as she inspected what looked a bit like a diving board, which was positioned to jut over the foot of the bed. “At least I understand this,” she said, pulling back the sheet to reveal the mattress’s plastic sheath.
    I said to her that I would rent another apartment for myself if she preferred and that I had prevaricated about whether that would be better for her. “Of course it wouldn’t be better,” she said. “You’re not going to leave me on my own.”
    Mother never got over her disappointment that the knighthood she believed was due me failed to materialize. She couldn’t understand that I was simply in the wrong royal camp. That day, however, was all the reward I needed. I slept, or tried to, on the recliner and despite the farcical aspect of the arrangements, I was sorely honored that I was the one to be there.

Chapter Eight
    On Sunday morning Lydia awoke to the smell of coffee and the sound of a chain saw. When she looked out of the window she saw Carson cutting down the dead oak. He stepped well back and raised his visor. The tree held its breath for a moment or two and then fell in a slow swoon across the lawn.
    Lydia opened the window and poked her head out. “You forgot to say ‘timber,’” she called.
    “Did I wake you?” said Carson. “Good. It’s breakfast time.”
    He had the pancake mixture ready and they ate them with blueberries and syrup at the kitchen counter.
    “Who taught you to cook?” said Lydia.
    “The television,” said Carson. “What? I’m serious. Who taught you? Your mom?”
    “No, she wasn’t . . . I went on a Cordon Bleu cookery course when I was young, and then I didn’t cook for years and years. I don’t know. I taught myself.”
    “Okay, that goes in the dossier. Cordon Bleu course.”
    “What dossier?”
    “The one I’m compiling. You hardly tell me anything, so it’s a very slim document.”
    “What do you want to know?”
    He folded his arms. “How about you start at the beginning and don’t leave anything out?”
    “You’d be bored to death,” said Lydia. “Are you going to chop up that tree?”
    “I’ll chop it and stack it and when it’s dried you can use it on the fire. You use the fireplace in winter, right?”
    “You do come in handy.”
    “Thanks. Now, nice try with the distraction technique, but it didn’t work.”
    Lydia started to clear the plates. He put a hand on her arm. She said, “I don’t think I can do this.”
    “Once you stop holding back, it’ll just get easier. It won’t be so bad, you’ll see. I’m a darn good listener.”
    “No, I mean, this whole thing. Us.”
    “Hey,” he said, “come on.”
    “Really,” said Lydia, surprised at how fast the tears had formed. “I don’t.”
    He took his hand away and sat there with a dazed expression. “Okay.”
    She wanted him to argue with her but he didn’t. She wanted him to tell her to stop being so ridiculous.
    “Well,” he said, finally. “Is it something I did? Something I said?”
    “No, it’s not you . . .”
    He laughed. “‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ Don’t I deserve better than that? Guess not.”
    She held on to her tears. He was getting up, and in another few moments he’d be gone and that would be for the best. It wasn’t fair to him to let it drag on. And she wasn’t going to get into a situation where she would be vulnerable. She liked her life the