‘That’s more like it. See you tomorrow, yeah?’
I’m lively from the exercise and get on great with Fionn. I ask him about his writing, how it works and I’m interested in how he’s putting his poems together.
He speaks about visualization. ‘The poem comes to me unformed. It’s a static-like entity in my mind. I have to tune it into itself.’
‘How do you know it’s a poem?’
‘I know my process at this point. I recognize the creative entities from the other white noise of my thoughts. I’m lucky, I guess.’
‘Sometimes I wonder why the bad things I think come true. That maybe I’ve been born with an unlucky streak,’ I say. ‘Am I inviting them in from the white noise?’
‘Maybe. Why use your imagination as a weapon against yourself?’
‘I don’t know, Fionn, it’s the way I am.’ I take a big mouthful of water.
He says, ‘Sorry, Natalie. It’s only easy for me to say this now I’m writing. Now I’ve reined it in again.’
I offer him a lift in the morning when I’m going to work but he says morning is when he works too.
The thought of him writing out his entities gives me a tiny bit of relief; at least something fruitful is coming from this.
I sleep without interruption for the whole night, but in the morning my legs and arm muscles throb. To sit in my office chair, I have to inch down; each movement highlights pain in my body.
Andrea laughs at me, but when I try to join in, my stomach hurts.
‘This is all your fault,’ I say.
‘Again, pick your words carefully, Natalie, pick the right ones.’
‘I didn’t think much about Fionn, my new housemate, so that’s good, I suppose. Even now, he’s not bothering me. He’s here a week today. What if I showed him where the bus and train station are this evening? Would that work?’
Andrea drinks something green and slimy.
‘I won’t even ask what that concoction is.’
‘Wheatgrass, spirulina, spinach, apple, banana.’
‘Fucking yuck,’ I say.
‘Don’t knock it till you try it.’
After work, I bring Fionn on an outing to town, ‘one last drive before you go.’
I show him the stations and also let him know there’s a private coach to the city too from the square – he can catch that. He seems to be taking it all in.
At the house, I ask him if he has all his things packed.
‘I’ve got so little with me, it’d only take me a few minutes to pack up.’
I go to bed again, confused. Has he taken the hint or not?
On Saturday my body’s not as sore from the spin class and Fionn’s still perched at Gran’s, like she’s his own grandmother. I try putting him off when he comes out for lunch.
‘Let’s go fill the big turf bucket!’ I say to him.
‘Let’s powerhose the gable!’
He comes with me.
‘Let’s clean the floors!’
‘Let’s give the stray sheepdog a bath!’
‘I’m really enjoying country living,’ he says as he suds up the dog in the yard. ‘Maybe it’s something I should consider doing full time.’
I press my temples with my index fingers.
He says it’s amazing how enthusiastic I am about everything too. Even shitty chores. That I have some sort of Zen Buddhist attitude.
Despite it being Saturday, my day off, I can’t bear the thought of the long afternoon ahead with him so I go to the leisure centre to a different spin class, run by Mikolaj, the Lithuanian instructor.
It’s equally as torturous as Andrea’s. Probably worse.
When I come home I fake that me and Gran have to go into town for the evening to visit family. Maybe we can drop Fionn in when we’re going?
‘Are we visiting, Natalie? I don’t remember that?’ Gran asks.
‘Yes. We’ll call into my folks, they’ll be expecting us.’
‘I must be getting forgetful.’
We all have a laugh but I feel bad – there hasn’t been an appointment. And now I’m gaslighting my grandmother.
Still he doesn’t take the hint. I’ll have to let my parents know we’re coming.
Fionn says he’ll take it easy for the evening and waves us off.
On Sunday morning, I go on a cleaning frenzy.
‘Fionn.’ I knock, disrupting his routine. ‘I want to change the sheets and sort this room out. I’m putting a wash on and Gran’s hips aren’t able to do the beds.’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll go for a stroll.’
I tidy the room to look like it did before he came. I half-pack up for him. When he comes home, he thanks me.
‘Will we do one last thing before you go?’
Fionn yawns. ‘I’m a bit shattered. Writing into the early hours last night. I might have a nap,’ he says.
I’m furious. I tell him a lie about an awful guest called Keano my aunt had in Australia who wouldn’t leave.
He’s shocked. ‘Wow, what a dick.’
I invite Andrea over in the afternoon, to see if she can scoot him.
‘There’s a hotel in town,’ Andrea says. ‘It has social dancing and gigs a lot of the nights. You’d probably get ideas for your writing there.’
Fionn smiles at her.
I say, ‘I could pay for you if you wanted to check it out?’
Why have I offered to pay for a hotel for him?
‘That’s so kind of you, Nat.’
Andrea tries to bring him to town with her when she’s leaving but he declines.
On Monday morning, I ask him if he wants to have breakfast before he departs. He can even bring it with him on the bus. He eats the breakfast but doesn’t go with me.
On Monday evening, I go to a spin class Pat’s instructing. It’s still tough but I know what to expect a bit more. I vent by pedalling hard.
That night, when I get home, I ask Fionn to do the dishes and to sort the fire out. He does so without complaint. Then I ignore him.
Same again Tuesday evening. We all watch TV in silence. Gran’s still cooking for him.
On Wednesday morning I go to work early to catch the morning spin.
‘Is he still there?’ Andrea asks.
‘Yep. Almost two weeks now.’
‘Jesus. Do you want me to try move him again?’
‘I don’t think he will be moved. It’s some sort of rebellion. He’s squatting in my gran’s.’
‘I’ll call round though, I don’t care if he doesn’t like me.’
‘I don’t care either, Andrea,’ I say and fold my arms.
‘You must do, otherwise you’d tell him to leave.’
When she visits, we talk about the intricacies of the most boring girly stuff we can think of. The differences between acrylic nail and gel nail treatments, wedding decor ideas, then I start talking about my menstrual cycle. Andrea discusses hers. Fionn doesn’t seem bothered or like he’s intruding on an intimate conversation. He’s completely at ease.
On Friday, I go to spin class again when I finish my shift, to stay away from the house. I buy a bottle of wine after.
I have to tell him. I have to say, just fucking leave. I’m not asking. I have to tell him directly.
I drink half the bottle myself. When he comes to watch the news at 9 p.m., I offer him a glass.
He accepts.
‘Look, Fionn, this isn’t a free hotel, you can’t stay indefinitely. If you want to remain you’re going to have to pay rent. It’s not courteous to be here all the time and eat our food and use our stuff and then make no shapes for going. It’s time to leave.’
On Saturday morning, I wake with a thumping headache. I go to the bathroom and notice Fionn’s bedroom door is open. The curtains are drawn, sunlight spills in. His bed is made.
I step in. There’s a note on the bed.
His handwriting is beautiful, curled and joined, calligraphic: