He chomped on a handful of peanuts. “Eleanor,” he said, nut crumbs falling from his mouth, “can I ask you something?”
“You may certainly ask,” I said. I hoped he would swallow again before he spoke.
He looked closely at me. “What happened to your face? You don’t”—he leaned forward quickly, touched my arm over the blanket—
“you definitely don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’m just being a nosy bastard!”
I smiled at him, and took a gulp of wine. “I don’t mind telling you, Raymond,” I said, finding, to my surprise, that it was true—
I actually wanted to tell him, now that he’d asked. He wasn’t asking out of prurience or bored curiosity—
he was genuinely interested, I could tell. You generally can. “It was in a fire,” I said, “when I was ten. A house fire.”
“Christ!” he said. “That must have been terrible.” There was a long pause, and I could almost see questions crystallizing,
as though letters were emanating from his brain and forming words in the air.
Faulty wiring? Chip pan?” “It was started deliberately,” I said, declining to explain further.
“Fucking hell, Eleanor!” he said. “Arson?” I sipped more velvety wine, said nothing. “So what happened after that?” he said.
“Well,” I told him, “I mentioned before that I never knew my father. I was taken into care after the fire.
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