This is the first time Giles has ever heard Oz lie. Well, not lie exactly; he doubts Oz has ever told a direct lie in his life. Everything Oz tells Olivia, in a sudden outpouring of words like rain from a blue-white, arid desert sky, is factually true: their long disagreement over what constitutes a neutral color; paint that dried to a grim yellow-beige and had to be redone; a collapsed shelf; and the complications of Giles' preferred book-organizing system. It all happened, but none of it is the reason why there are still a dozen heavy boxes in the sitting room and they've barely begun trying to arrange the kitchen to suit them both.
As Oz talks, he glances sideways at Giles every so often, as though making sure this wall of half-truths is thick enough for Giles to feel safe. I'm all right, he wants to say. Ten minutes ago I was worrying about you. Instead he rubs Oz's shoulder for a moment and goes back to his half-eaten grouse. But the flavor's gone out of it now, leaving only a chewy blandness like a mouthful of rubber. Giles is all right, provided he doesn't think about certain things, but not thinking numbs him, turns the world to a distant, untouched image. Novocaine in the bloodstream, deadening every limb and every sense.
There's only so long he can bear not thinking. Oz has given up trying to stop him reading the papers or watching new programs, although he's careful not to leave Giles' side. Always there, ready to bring Giles paracetamol if one of the headaches comes on, ready to hold him if he starts to shake or to cry. Every day Giles has to know the news, has to think about it all. It's a sort of painful relief, like scratching an itch raw and bloody.
Now, though, is not the time. Numbness is better than the risk of breaking down in the middle of a restaurant. Giles moves a couple of slices of grouse around with his knife and fork, but Oz must notice that he's not eating. His hand creeps over to Giles' and holds it, while he gamely listens to Olivia's explanation of her joke about Changing Rooms. "It's a sort of decorating program . . . " She talks about zebra-striped walls and gothic four-poster beds constructed out of industrial plastic, but her eyes keep coming back to their joined hands and her smile looks puzzled.
"Didn't you meet that designer once at a party?" Giles asks Olivia. "The mad one with the chintz suits?" It's important to keep the conversation going, to look as though he's perfectly fine. To Giles' surprise, he doesn't want to tell Olivia about the last few days. She's worried enough over him lately, and anyway, it's his secret and Oz's.
As Oz talks, he glances sideways at Giles every so often, as though making sure this wall of half-truths is thick enough for Giles to feel safe. I'm all right, he wants to say. Ten minutes ago I was worrying about you. Instead he rubs Oz's shoulder for a moment and goes back to his half-eaten grouse. But the flavor's gone out of it now, leaving only a chewy blandness like a mouthful of rubber. Giles is all right, provided he doesn't think about certain things, but not thinking numbs him, turns the world to a distant, untouched image. Novocaine in the bloodstream, deadening every limb and every sense.
There's only so long he can bear not thinking. Oz has given up trying to stop him reading the papers or watching new programs, although he's careful not to leave Giles' side. Always there, ready to bring Giles paracetamol if one of the headaches comes on, ready to hold him if he starts to shake or to cry. Every day Giles has to know the news, has to think about it all. It's a sort of painful relief, like scratching an itch raw and bloody.
Now, though, is not the time. Numbness is better than the risk of breaking down in the middle of a restaurant. Giles moves a couple of slices of grouse around with his knife and fork, but Oz must notice that he's not eating. His hand creeps over to Giles' and holds it, while he gamely listens to Olivia's explanation of her joke about Changing Rooms. "It's a sort of decorating program . . . " She talks about zebra-striped walls and gothic four-poster beds constructed out of industrial plastic, but her eyes keep coming back to their joined hands and her smile looks puzzled.
"Didn't you meet that designer once at a party?" Giles asks Olivia. "The mad one with the chintz suits?" It's important to keep the conversation going, to look as though he's perfectly fine. To Giles' surprise, he doesn't want to tell Olivia about the last few days. She's worried enough over him lately, and anyway, it's his secret and Oz's.
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