"Hey,"
Gemma would know that Hey anywhere. She has dreamt about that Hey. Fantasised about it at length. She simultaneously freezes, blushes, stops breathing and then, belatedly, turns around.
By the time she does he's almost caught up with her. He's standing on the pavement, a bit slimmer than she remembers him. He's wearing her favourite jeans and that old, old pink t-shirt she knows the exact smell of.
"Hi, Dylan."
Also his beard is gone so his whole face is there, not two feet away from hers and that makes it so, so hard to think. Or breathe.
Gemma closes her eyes and tries to picture Queen Floris as she waddled back down into the hive, and to her brood.
She opens her eyes again. Dylan looks younger beardless. This is a good sign, it means Gemma is capable of coherent thought again, if not of useful thought yet. He's smiling. Breaking the silence suddenly becomes burningly urgent.
"You OK?"
"Fine - you?"
"Fine, 'you back for the weekend?"
"Aha."
"Well it's nice to see you but I… I'm visiting a flat."
"Oh that's right, you moved out on your Dad."
She nods.
"And he survived?"
"We both did, but I don't think my bank account will, if I stay in short term rental for much longer."
"I see. Perhaps I should I tag along?"
Another skipped heartbeat:
"Sure."
She starts, and he locks steps with her:
"Where is it?"
"Ten minutes' walk, towards Hyde Park."
Silence, then:
"' that a pink beesuit in your gym kit or is it just pleased to see me?"
Her gym bag is indeed a little small for both her gym things and her beesuit, so that the latter is bulging out of the zip.
What Dylan is playing at is anyone's guess, but it feels cruel.
"That's my beesuit, yes."
"So you're a keeper now?"
"I'm trying to. That is, I think mostly I'm trying Agnes' patience at the moment, but she's really cool about it."
"Great, when do I get to taste your honey?"
It's Dylan. It sounds and feels like the old Dylan, or rather the much younger one, before the beard and the amazing sex, before all the fights and the ghosting and...
Switzerland. And Kat. It's really not fair to bring that Dylan back for the evening, only for him to swan back off to Geneva on Sunday night.
Maybe Agnes was right and it's better that they didn't stay friends. Maybe it's better that she doesn't have to see him every so often, only to let him go again.
"It's the bee's honey, not mine," she says, "and they hardly made any this year."
"Bummer."
"Agnes had to do a Bailey during the first flow and we did a Pagden just before the second."
"I take it that's bad?"
Gemma realises she's just turned into Agnes: filling speaking time with pointless beekeeping technicalities because she's scared out of her wits. She had never understood until now how much comfort is to be had from words like Pagden Artificial Swarm and Bailey Comb Change. They are words that keep her mind on what is practical, tangible and, to a small but infinitely precious extent, within her control.
"But the Bailey means we've got wax," she says, in the same spirit.
"Really? Shame I shaved this morning, I'd have used some on the old beard."
"…"
"Not shaving wasn't nearly as much fun anymore, you know, without anyone to nag me about it."
Why is he doing this? Has he come all this way just to torture her? If so it's working. It really is.
"So you're not scared of bees anymore?"
"Oh no no, I still am."
"Interesting."
No it's not. It's not interesting, it's agonising. Thankfully they turn another corner and here is the estate agent – well, hopefully that's him:
"Ripal?"
Ripal, for it is he, nods.
"Hi! Gemma Woodhouse?"
"That's me, it's so nice to meet you."
They shake hands.
"Oh, and this is Dylan Mann, is it OK if he…"
"Of course, of course!" Ripal says. "How are you doing tonight?"
"Well, thanks," she lies, "I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long?"
"Not at all, no. But I should let you know, the flat is a little on the small side for two of you."
Skipped heartbeat again. She checks Dylan's face. He's enjoying this, of course he is. She turns back to Ripal:
"No it's just me looking, Dylan's just here for the weekend, he lives in Geneva."
x
There, she's said it. Dylan lives in Geneva. As does Kat. He's here for the weekend. If she's lucky she'll get to hang on to Queen Floris for a couple of years but Dylan, he's not hers to keep.
Never was anyway.
Right now he's having such a good time watching her crawl up this sad excuse of a staircase to what might be the only home she can afford on her new salary, it's hard to believe that Dylan didn't travel to London solely to torment her with his banter and his newly beardless good looks. Not to forget his supremely appropriate girlfriend and his perfect tax-free happiness. Today is just his lucky day, that's all.
By the look of this staircase, it's not going to be Gemma's.
"How long ago was the water leak?" Dylan asks as they climb past a particularly egregious patch of peeling plasterboard.
"Hmm?" says Ripal, motoring on up. On the fifth floor he unlocks a door and says:
"This flat is quite self-explanatory, feel free to try the taps and switches and everything. I'll stay out here to give you guys some space," he says, pulling out his phone.
Dylan steps in and almost straight into the bathroom, which is tiny and has no window.
"I believe the French call this bijou," he says, stepping out and back enough to let Gemma get in, but not enough for her to do that without having to brush past him.
There are blue glass tiles behind the sink, she thinks as she waits for her right arm to stop tingling where it's touched Dylan. About half a square foot of nice tiling on a grid pattern of grouting black with mould. She checks the taps, any excuse to shake some sense back into her arm. The taps work fine.
Dylan's gone to stand at the far end of the kitchen. It must have taken him all of four strides. Gemma takes three shorter ones and stops, to leave a few feet between them. There are no windows here either, just a neon strip above their heads, running along a very narrow galley between a bare wall and some cupboards.
"You hardly used to eat anyway," Dylan says, leaning against the sink behind him.
"It all looks very clean," she says.
"True. And I can see a minibar-type fridge down there, but the washing machine must be in the utility room."
There is, clearly, no utility room, and no washing machine either.
But in a way this is good because if the flat was any less tiny Ripal might be standing here with them right now and going through this in front of him would be even worse.
Small mercies. Gemma turns away, pretending to look into a cupboard but really closing her eyes and trying to think of Floris, to remember the smell of the hive. She marked a queen today. She can do this. It will pass.
"So the question is, can you see yourself cooking up a storm in here?"
Of course she can't, not least because she still can't cook for toffee. Never could, as Dylan found to his cost when he broke his collarbone flying a kite after dropping out of the national ultimate frisbee's quarter finals. Many many moons ago, when they still liked each other.
"I'm getting better," she says, "Yesterday I made an omelette."
"Wow, omelette. How long did that take you?"
"Half an hour? Forty-five minutes?"
"With or without beetroot?"
"With beetroot salad on the side."
"Interesting."
She walks out. The only way is straight ahead and into the bedroom. There's an almost double bed, a wardrobe so close to it that it has to have sliding doors, and the flat's only window. The room is light, high ceilinged, not unpleasant. About two thirds of the size of Gemma's bathroom at Heath View Lodge.
Except that's not her bathroom anymore.
Dylan is hot on her heels, he prods at the bed, then sits on it, then sprawls across it and folds his hands behind his head.
"Not bad," he says, "you prefer beds squishy, don't you?"
Nice touch. This hurts so bad, and by the look on his face Dylan knows it. Gemma yields to a sudden urge to open the window. The bottom sash glides up and she leans out through the open frame. Air, she needs air. And not to look at Dylan sprawled across the bed in her favourite of all of his clothes.
"Question is," he says behind her, "Can you see yourself waking up here?"
She can't look at him, or speak, let alone see herself waking up in that bed.
"And can you see yourself standing here in the morning, drinking your first coffee of the day?"
While saying this he's come to stand behind her, and set his hands on the window frame on either side of her. Now there's not enough air in the whole of WC1 to keep Gemma breathing. She clings on to the edge of the windowsill and closes her eyes.
When she opens them again all she can see is that they are blurred with tears.
"Well, what do you think?" Dylan asks, lowering his head next to hers. His mouth almost touches her ear. Gemma lets go of the windowsill to dab at her eyes with her wrists, and turns to face him. He moves back a fraction, but there's less than a foot of space between them.
"What do I think?" she asks, still dabbing at her eyes, "Let's see: I think that I can't see myself learning to cook here, no," she shakes her stupid head to hold back the sobbing, "Or waking up in this bed, or making coffee here, or drinking it. Not here, not anywhere else, Dylan, because everywhere I look these days, other than inside a hive, all I can see is the great big hole you left when you went away, and it hurts. It still hurts, like nothing's ever hurt before."
He's smiling.
"I realise I deserve this, I deserve to hurt, a hundred times over. I do, and I'm sorry if I ever made you suffer a fraction of what you're putting me through right now. But I never knew you could be so cruel, Dylan. Why are you being so cruel? Why are you enjoying this?"
Her eyes, damn them, have welled right up again.
Who cares?
"I'm enjoying it because all is well," he says.
She can't speak anymore so she just shakes her head, shuts her stupid wet eyes and shakes her head.
"No no it is, Gem, I promise."
He whispers it into her ear, as two hands come to cup the sides of her head, which can only be his hands. She almost chokes on her next sob. She shakes her head again but his hands follow her. They follow her until she tires herself out, as Floris did under the crown of thorns. Gemma reopens her eyes. She can't see yet, but she feels his thumbs wipe her cheeks.
She bats the last tears out of her eyes until she can see that Dylan's smiling, smiling his beautiful smile less than an inch away from her face. If he doesn't kiss her now, right this second, her head will explode and then she will die, she knows she will. She puts her hands on the sides of his head and pulls him in, and they kiss.
She's been far too upset to remember this, but of course time stops and gravity ceases to apply whenever their lips meet. The window behind her is wide open and if he carries on leaning into her they might fly off and up and God only knows where whether or when they might ever land again.
It will therefore never be possible to establish how much time elapses before their lips separate again and they look at each other, astonished at what they have done. Now that they are no longer kissing reality catches up with Gemma and hits her in the face, cream-pie style.
All is not well.
"This isn't right, Dylan. You have to go. You have to go away again on Sunday night and go do your job and be with your perfect girlfriend."
"You think I should?"
"Well, yes, it's not fair on her for us to stand here and…"
"Gem, I'm messing with you, Kat and I broke up. Ages ago."
"But she was so nice! Way nicer than…"
"…you? Naah, you're a keeper now. Apparently. You got the bee-suit and everything..."
He's beaming at her, but also running his hands over her hair like someone who can't quite believe his eyes.
Well it's good news he's single again. Excellent news, even, but…
"What about your job in Geneva?"
"Just come with me on Sunday."
"But Dylan, I can't, we're in the middle of…"
"For the week. Come with me for the week, help me finish negotiating my way back here?"
It's a good job she's still hanging onto him, because this is like all the Christmases come at once and it's making her dizzy. In a great way, but:
"I mean," he says, "unless you'd rather that I stayed out there in the mountains, and you hung out with Hansi here at the weekends, like we've been doing. That's what I came back here to check with you."
"No! No please, please don't stay in the mountains!" she says, her head still spinning. "Come back, yes. That's a much better idea. And I'll come over with you for the week if you like. Not that I can think of how that's going to help but…"
"It's more that now I don't want to let go of you again, even for just a week."
"Good plan, Dylan. Wow, you've thought this over. Can we be back on Friday in time for my next inspection though?"
"Your hive inspection?"
She nods, he smiles.
"Sure, OK."
"Thanks, but… how's it going to work for you? I mean long term: you here with the fund in Geneva?"
"Over Zoom, it'll be fine. I'll travel over there whenever you're in France or wherever, it'll be fine."
"You're going to lose your tax status."
He shrugs.
"And the ski season."
"And the ski season. But if you can learn to keep bees you can definitely learn to ski as well, right?"
"OK."
He tilts his head back, dubious:
"Gem, my love, it involves mountains, you know, cold mountains. And falling."
He's still playing with her hair. Perhaps her hair is his necklace – what he reaches for when he's not 100% sure of himself.
"I marked a queen today, I'll be fine on a glacier. As long as you help me get back up when I fall and carry my rucksack."
"You don't need a rucksack to ski."
"Even better, you can carry my skis instead."
"Deal."
"Ahem," says Ripal out of the doorframe, "so do you have any questions?".
So, so many questions, yes. But none of them for Ripal.
"I don't think this is the place for us, sorry."
Ripal understood this a while back, and can't get them out of the place fast enough.
"She needs somewhere she can wash her bee-suit," Dylan explains, grabbing her hand as they file out of the flat, down the stairs and onto the pavement. They watch Ripal vanish, already on the phone to his next client.
x
"Great stuff," Dylan says, "now how about a date?"
She turns to look at him.
"A date?"
"Can you believe all these years we never went on a date?"
"I know, that's because Dylan Mann never used to do dating."
"I know, and I'm sorry. Clearly that was one of Dylan Mann's many problems."
"Until Kat, that is."
"Hey, I know I've got a lot of explaining to do, and some grovelling too, but please let's not talk about her now. Later. On our date. I'm thinking the Connaught's not far and you like it there, right?"
She laughs.
"Of course, but we'll never get a table on a Friday night, Silly."
"Good job I booked then."
"What?"
He smiles his smug, devastating smile:
"Like you said: it gets pretty full on a Friday, so I knew we couldn't just swing by."
"And you booked the Connaught for tonight… when?"
"Ages back, it's really popular but look, I'll tell you all about it if you just please go on a date there with me. Please?"
Gemma looks up at him and thinks back to Agnes's saintly patience with her today, then her sudden eagerness to kick her out of the apiary in time for that flat visit: pregnancy intuition, yeah right. This has been in the offing for however long, only no one's seen fit to tell her about it.
"On one condition," she concludes.
Dylan frowns and squeezes her hand, as if she's going to take it away.
She does.
But only so she can grab onto both sides of his gorgeous head and kiss him. At first her fingers can't decide whether they want to stroke that freshly beardless skin on his cheeks, or get tangled and lost into his hair. They want to do both, but since he's kissing her back all she can do is hold on tight and glide lips to lips with him across space-time continuums. Then somehow, sometime, they land back where they started and try and catch their breaths.
"So what's the condition?" he asks, panting.
"That was the condition."
Copyright 2021 Mel Liffragh, All rights reserved