The Lesser Bohemians - Hardcover

EIMEAR McBRIDE was born in 1976 and grew up in Ireland. Her debut novel, A Girl is a Half-formed Thing, was published in 2013 and catapulted the author to international recognition, earning her numerous prize nominations and wins. The novel won the 2013 Goldsmiths Prize, was shortlisted for the Folio Prize and won the Baileys Women's Prize for Fiction in 2014. McBride currently lives in Norwich with her family. The Lesser Bohemians is her second novel. The author lives in Norwich, UK.

I sleep so safe here, far from the world. Rousing only when I’m stirred by him, climbing across. Go back to sleep     I’m just making some notes, tucking the duvet round. Then through til morning. Light and smoke. Drowse-eyed watch him push his glasses up, stretch, light another cigarette, itching to run my hands down his back. And what can want mean? Something in here. So tumble out to kiss his messed hair with a Morning – then a mis-angled Love. Morning, he says still writing though, in his loping old-fashioned longhand. Do you want to come back to bed? He kisses my wrist Do you mind if I don’t? I’m just      Fine – but a little put out – Tea? Yeah    that’d be nice. Then Actually, would you go get some breakfast in? Like what? Eggs, bread, butter – not that spread shit – and whatever you want yourself, any cash in my wallet? I check Receipts. Take my switch card then and get out fifty quid. The number’s three six seven eight.
     Ambling Camden, before Sunday breaks loose, I divine this money thing means trust, so take it out, get what he wants, make sure of receipts. Check his balance? No. Don’t. Be better than you’d like to be.
     Here’s your wallet, the receipt and your change. Chuck it anywhere. Oh   okay   scrambled eggs? Please, he says and while I make it, boxes get dragged out. What’re you looking for? Old records       might just remind me of stuff. Strew. Some I’ve heard of. Most, I’ve not. A player and speakers dug from a box filled with postcards of the sea. Before I ask, he asks Know this? No, I don’t. Wild World it is then. Hey!
     It plays as we eat. Repeat. Repeat. He cleans his plate and makes the tea but with all his other self listens until I can see old weather in his eyes. You like The Birthday Party? I did, he says. So why are the records put away? I don’t remember     maybe     I got too keen. What? But he’s back to the desk. Repeat and repeat. On he writes so I read and, in a little, sleep.
     Don’t move. What? Don’t open your eyes yet. Why? You look so peaceful   and you get so pink. Shut up! Lazy lapse to a kiss. But. I’ve got homework, I better head. Still, there’s wrestling before I persuade off the bed and only then permitted by letting him walk me back.
     Light, this winter wander. Kentish Town. High on the night and eyeing his hand but Don’t take it. Kissing at the gate. Devil don’t care for the London Irish social’s today, meaning she and all the rest should be out til six. So    sneak in with me? And I don’t have to ask twice.