‘So,’ said Laurel, pouring for each of them, ‘dare I ask what you’ve been working on?’
‘Just today I finished an article on the feeding habits of teen-age galaxies.’
‘Hungry are they?’
‘Very, it seems.’
‘And older than thirteen years, I’m guessing.’
‘Little. Around three to five billion years after the Big Bang.’
Laurel watched as her brother went on, talking eagerly about the ESO Very Large Telescope in Chile—‘It does what a microscope does for a biologist’—and the way faint blobs in the sky were actually distant galaxies, and that some—‘It’s incredible, Lol’—appeared to have no rotation of their gas, ‘none of the current theories predicts them’; and she nodded and reacted, though somewhat guiltily because she wasn’t really listening to him at all; she was thinking about the way, when Gerry was excited, his words tumbled into one another, as if his mouth was having trouble keeping up with his beautiful mind; the way he took breaths only when he absolutely had to; the way his hands opened expressively and his long fingers strained, but with precision, as if they balanced stars on their very tips. They were Daddy’s hands, Laurel realised as she watched him; Daddy’s cheekbones and gentle eyes behind his glasses. In fact, there was a lot of Stephen Nicolson in his only son. Gerry had inherited his laugh from their mother though.
He’d stopped talking and was gulping now from his wine glass. For all the nervousness Laurel felt about this quest she was on, in particular the conversation she knew was still ahead of her, there was an uncomplicatedness about being with Gerry that made her yearn for something she couldn’t quite articulate. The echo of a memory of how things used to be between them, and she wanted to draw out the feeling a little longer before she spoiled it with her confession. She said, ‘And what’s next? What can possibly compete with the eating habits of teenage galaxies?’
‘I’m creating the Latest Map of Everything.’
‘Still setting yourself small achievable goals, I see?’
He grinned. ‘Should be a breeze—it’s not like I’m including all of space, just the sky. Only 560 million stars, galaxies and other objects, and I’m done.’
Laurel was contemplating that number when their pizzas arrived, and the whiff of garlic and basil reminded her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She ate with the tenacity of a teenage galaxy, quite sure no food anywhere had ever tasted so good as that pizza right then. Gerry asked after her work and, be-tween mouthfuls, Laurel told him about the documentary and the new version of Macbeth she was filming. ‘At least, I will be. I’ve taken a little time off.’
Gerry held up a large hand. ‘Wait—time off?’
‘Yes.’
He tilted his head. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Why does everyone keep asking me that?’
‘Because you don’t take time off.’
‘Nonsense.’
Gerry lifted his eyebrows. ‘Are you making a joke? I’ve been told I miss them sometimes.’
‘No, I’m not making a joke.’
‘Then I have to inform you that all empirical evidence goes against your assertion.’
‘Empirical evidence?’ Laurel scoffed. ‘Please. You can hardly talk. When’s the last time you took time off?’
‘June 1985, Max Seerjay’s wedding in Bath.’
‘Well then.’
‘I didn’t say I was any different. You and I are two of a kind, both wedded to our work: that’s how I know something’s wrong.’ He swiped his paper napkin across his lips and leaned back against the charcoal- coloured brick wall. ‘Anomalous time off, anomalous visit to see me—I can only deduce the two are related.’
Laurel sighed.
‘Stalling exhalation. All the proof I need. Want to tell me what’s going on, Lol?’
She folded her napkin into half and half again. It was now or never; all this time she’d been wishing Gerry were along with her for the ride—now was the time to buckle him in. She said, ‘Do you remember that time you came to stay with me in London? Right before you started here?’
Gerry answered in the affirmative by quoting from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. ‘Please! This is supposed to be a happy occasion.’
Laurel smiled. ‘Let’s not bicker and argue over who killed who. Love that film.’ She shifted a piece of olive from one side of her plate to the other, hedging, trying to decide which words were the right words. Impossible, because there were none, not really, best just to leap—‘You asked me something, that night on the roof; you asked me whether anything happened back when we were kids. Something violent.’