Love, Almost

by Hayley Doyle

  The lights went down and the show recommenced.

  Jack and I laughed at the exact same moments, many of which weren’t at all funny; our laughter was subtle, and perhaps cruel. I could feel his eyes burning into me when the operatic sing-off between Boris and Jeremy kicked off. I glanced his way and scrunched up my nose, cringing. He mimicked me and I elbowed him. I didn’t mind when his knee rested against mine, whether on purpose or due to lack of space. During a boring scene, the most drama being a group of audience members shuffling out of their seats and leaving, I zoned out and imagined that our legs were touching because Jack wanted them to. I was surprised by the shock of electricity it set pulsing through my body. I put my hand on his arm when the lady to my left gestured that she wanted to get out. We both twisted our bodies to the side, allowing her to leave.

  ‘Guess you and I are Remainers, then?’ Jack whispered, which tickled me.

  I realised my hand was resting on his arm, and removed it to twiddle an earring.

  When the show finished and us ‘Remainers’ did our best to give the cast a warm applause, Jack said he’d get me a drink as thanks for the seat. I met his assertiveness with a thanks, but no thanks, I was going to the after-show party. Edging our way out of the auditorium, he showed me his ticket, printed with VIP in the corner.

  ‘Me too,’ he grinned.

  ‘So are you a reviewer? Or friend of the cast?’ I asked.

  ‘Neither. I have a well-connected mum.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘She’s a journalist. She’s on daytime TV a lot, arguing for the sake of arguing.’ He lowered his voice and whispered right into my ear, ‘She’s made a fortune being the kind of woman people love to hate. Her Twitter feed is attacked by evil cretins but she doesn’t care. And people are always lovely to her in real life, quite adoring.’

  ‘Oh, my God. You’re not talking about Patricia Carmichael, are you?’

  ‘I am indeed.’

  ‘Wow. She’s your mum?’

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ he held up his hands.

  ‘Is she here? I’d love to meet her.’

  ‘See? People love meeting her! But no. She’s not here tonight. She gets free invites all the time, and a musical about Brexit, well, that’s right up her street, but she couldn’t be bothered travelling all the way up to Liverpool. She’ll catch it in London, if the show makes it that far.’

  The private bar was in the bistro, cordoned off for the party. Jack helped himself to two glasses of bubbly from a waiter floating around with a silver tray and offered me one. Thanking him, I tried to think of encouraging words to give to Vicki Richards and now that I had company, I hoped Jack would be kind, too.

  ‘I still don’t understand why you’re here,’ I said, looking out for Vicki.

  ‘You mean I don’t strike you as a raving musical theatre fan?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Correct, I’m not. I was in Liverpool for a meeting yesterday and Mum suggested I take her hotel and ticket, since she wasn’t using it and it’d only go to waste. Who doesn’t love a freebie?’

  ‘I’d totally do the same.’

  ‘Right! I’ve been on a couple of stag dos here in Liverpool. Great city, awesome night out. And when I realised Liverpool was playing at home to Man U – my team – well, I decided to make a weekend of it.’

  ‘You went to the game today? How did you get a ticket so easily?’

  ‘I just told you who my mum is.’

  ‘Hmm. It really is cool to be famous, then?’

  ‘Well, I get the perks without the fame. Best of both worlds.’

  ‘Mummy’s boy.’

  ‘Oh, I am. I really am.’

  ‘You wanna know what I am?’

  ‘Shockingly beautiful.’

  I knocked back my bubbly, not expecting that brazen compliment.

  ‘No,’ I said, my cheeks flushing. ‘I’m a Blue.’

  ‘An Everton fan?’ he asked, confused. ‘Why?’

  ‘You know it’s so annoying when non-Scousers ask that,’ and before I could get into a petty debate about football, all five foot two of Vicki Richards bounced over and hugged me so tight I lost a few breaths.

  ‘It’s the woman with the incredible voice!’ Jack bellowed.

  ‘Me?’ Vicki asked; hopeful, anxious.

  Jack took both her little hands within his and they disappeared in his grasp.

  ‘You’re a wonderful singer,’ he told her. ‘I got that spine tingle. Thank you!’

  And Vicki’s wide doe eyes grew even larger, relief flooding through her tiny bones. It was obvious she wasn’t expecting much praise, but Jack said the right thing – and in my opinion, it sounded genuine. In that moment, I could’ve easily said to him, ‘And I reckon I love you, too, Jack Carmichael.’

  Of course, I didn’t.

  Vicki gushed her thanks before excusing herself to go and say hello to her agent. Jack and I drank free bubbly, our bodies getting closer and closer the more we talked. When the only parts left to touch were our lips, Jack whispered, ‘Come with me.’

  And I did.

  18

  I don’t rise early. It’s creeping close to midday when I drag myself to the shower. I throw on a light polka-dot skirt and Rolling Stones t-shirt, keeping my bare essentials in Jack’s khaki man-bag. I don’t need a plan of where to go: Bangkok will take me along with it.

  A tuk-tuk pulls up outside the Asia Palace Hotel and without bothering to barter a price, I hop in and simply say, ‘Market.’ I know from experience that anything more specific won’t guarantee I’ll end up where I say. I just need bustle and food.

  I recognise the foot spa Jack and I ended up in once at three in the morning.

  A pub called the Happy Beer Garden.

  The restaurant above a t-shirt store that served the most magical green curry.

  ‘Riverboat ride?’ the tuk-tuk driver asks me.

  ‘No. I’ll jump out here, please.’

  It’s lunchtime.

  ‘Table for one?’ the waitress asks.

  The place is small, neat, and each table has a map of the world beneath a pane of glass. A group of four Westerners are huddled around one table, an Asian couple on another. I recall Jack and me pointing out all the places we’d been to separately, before we’d met, and he told me about how he got all his belongings stolen from a hostel during his gap year.

  I browse the menu, although I know what to order.

  ‘Green curry with chicken and a pad thai, please,’ I say. ‘And a small beer.’

  Eating alone on holiday is not something I’ve ever done before. In the life I’ve always been used to, you go away with the people you love to spend time with. I feel like I’m being watched, silently questioned about why I’m alone, a solo traveller. I mean, I used to sit with my family or Beth or friends from uni – God, this very restaurant not so long ago, with Jack – and wonder why that person didn’t have company. And I could be so fucking judgemental, too. If a British fella in his fifties was having a bowl of noodles and a bevvie on his own, I’d mutter to Jack, ‘Looking for a Thai bride?’ and Jack would agree. Who were we to judge? Maybe that fella had just lost his wife of thirty years and was here in Bangkok to find his equivalent of a man sat in a shopping trolley.

  The soupy curry is placed before me. It’s spiky with sharp heat. My tongue frazzles. The small golden Buddha beside me on the window ledge smiles; a reminder to keep calm. Take it easy. Slow down.

  But I don’t want to slow down. I’m not here to enjoy meals in restaurants: I’m here to keep my relationship alive, to stretch the elastic band a little further. I need to eat and go, get on with the task. I order another beer to keep me motivated and once my belly is full and my body temperature super high, I’m ready.

  I connect to the Wi-Fi and search for shopping malls close by. If I’m not mistaken, the mall I’m after wasn’t far from here. My phone pings with a series of messages, all from people wanting to know if I arrived safely. I
send a thumbs-up emoji to each: Beth, my mum, Kit, and – how sweet – Si. I’d sent a message to Trish a few days ago informing her I’d be away for a week, just in case she stops by the flat and wonders where I am. I get her reply now:

  OK.

  Google Maps has found a mall with a McDonald’s and a footbridge over a dual carriageway. It’s a twenty-two-minute walk from where I’m sat. That must be the one. I thank the staff and exit the restaurant, and as I walk down the steps to street level, I notice the t-shirts on display in the shop. Amongst many ‘I heart Bangkok’ slogans and printed poo emojis, there are lots of replica football tops and fake designer polo shirts, US army shirts and US gas station uniforms. I tap to open the photos in my phone. I find the all-important image; the one Jack had sent to me on WhatsApp moments after it he took it; the image I used to get the picture printed onto canvas for our home. I zoom in to the man and look closely at his shirt. I’d presumed it was a uniform for a hotel he worked at, and that it would be easy to find. I couldn’t work out the writing on the logo, which is why I never researched for a specific hotel before I arrived. I was waiting to get here, to ask around. But shit. He could be wearing any old replica shirt bought from one of the thousands of shops in Bangkok, just like the one I’m standing outside now.

  I zoom in further and see that the badge sewn to the right of his chest is yellow, with a shape embroidered in black cotton. A vehicle perhaps? Is he a taxi driver? He’s not wearing matching blue trousers, either. He’s wearing jeans, with the bottom all frayed. How had I not noticed this detail? I’ve looked at it every day, thought he was in overalls or a more formal uniform. Now what I’m seeing, in the city where I thought it would be possible to actually find him, is something rather different.

  ‘Four hundred baht,’ the fella in the shop says to me.

  He’s scrawny, an emoji poo t-shirt hanging off his small frame. I look at him, confused.

  ‘Like ten dollar,’ he explains. ‘Same, same. Any t-shirt.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He takes a replica Real Madrid shirt off a hanger and holds it against me.

  ‘Oh, no,’ I wave my hands. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Good price,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, it is—’

  ‘Yes?’ He’s already rolling it into a small plastic bag.

  ‘No!’

  I show him the image on my phone to change the subject. I want to ask about the logo on the shirt. He shakes his head.

  ‘Not here,’ he says, as if he can read my mind.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘No. Just t-shirt here,’ and he steps outside his shop and calls me to follow. Lifting his arm, he points down the main road, pointing over and over as if he’s pressing an imaginary button. ‘You go that way.’

  ‘For this?’ I ask, referring to the photo.

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  Does he recognise the man? Or does he know the way to the mall where this man is sitting? Unless he just wants me to get out of his shop because it’s clear I’m not going to buy anything. I still want to ask him about the logo; check if it’s a company here in the city, an aim for my first destination in the hunt. But he’s serving another customer now, a woman serious about buying something from him.

  The map had told me to head this way anyway, so I start the twenty-two-minute stroll.

  A man with only one arm and no other limbs passes by on a skateboard, his torso resting on the board. People push each other out of the way, or jump right over him as he whizzes past. Various women try to entice me into massage parlours. I pick up my walking pace, eager not to be an easy target. I can’t remember speeding anywhere when I was here with Jack. We’d muse about how fast everybody was darting about, whereas we were like Mr and Mrs Soft, gliding through glue, in no hurry to be anywhere. Maybe we’d been easy targets together, although we’d probably wanted to stop for massages and to buy t-shirts, or at least for a bit of a chat with a local.

  The main street’s market stalls and tables, piled with shiny sunglasses and watches, come to an end at a busy junction. I’m one of what feels like thousands waiting to cross. The other side is more spacious: a huge golden Buddha statue rests on a tall marble slab, with tourists and locals alike sitting on the steps or surrounding grass, eating small cartons of street food from an array of vendors. A strong peanut aroma clashes with petrol fumes.

  I walk on through the square city gardens. Another busy road greets me, tuk-tuks jammed beside one another, neon taxis lined up or trying to edge their way into the traffic. This is all so familiar. Although the last time I was here, I wasn’t taking in every inch of my surroundings like I am today. I was meandering with Jack. I was whimsical. I was flying.

  Another market engulfs me. The stalls are selling battery-operated plastic toys, which flash and make whooping sounds. I shimmy through the tourists and slow down to glance at the fridge magnets on the next set of stalls. I don’t want to buy anything, but there are so many people to push past that it’s draining and, well, I’m not in any hurry. I need to breathe. The magnets seem to go on forever. They vary from Buddha to bowls of noodles to the longtail boats from the floating markets. There are flat photograph magnets of the city, the temples, the nightlife …

  And …

  No.

  It can’t be.

  A line of identical rectangular magnets feature a photograph far too similar to the one close to my heart. A man in a shopping trolley. I blink, the jet lag possibly causing unreliable vision. But no. The image is as clear as the one on my phone: Ronald McDonald behind, hands in prayer and grinning. The only difference is the man. My eyes scan further along the stalls. A bonkers, eerie nightmare is starting to unfold. There are more magnets, hundreds of them, all featuring images of men in shopping trolleys. Some are smiling, some sleeping, others seriously pissed off. I look for my guy. Is he here? Will I find the exact same picture that hangs on my kitchen wall?

  The selection of magnets comes to an end with something even more unexpected.

  Framed photos of these men in trolleys are on sale. Plus canvas prints; t-shirts in various pastel shades with the image smack-bang in the centre; tea towels; key rings; a tea cosy. A fucking tea cosy!

  ‘Is this a tea cosy?’ I ask the lady behind the table. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Three hundred fifty baht,’ she replies.

  Kids whizz past me with those plastic, flashing toys. Tourists lean across and barter with the sellers. My mission feels not only incomplete but also unnecessary; I’ve never felt so far away from Jack as I do right now. I’m invisible, as is he; both of us are ghosts, haunting two very different worlds.

  I break free from all the merchandise and refuse to look back.

  The mall is close by, across the main road.

  I cross the footbridge. At the top of the steps, an older Thai woman is holding a baby, begging. Beside her sits a man cross-legged, barefoot, and the sole of his heel so worn away and infected that the bone is visible.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I gasp, trying not to gag, tears prickling instantly.

  Was he here last time? Did Jack and I miss him, caught up within each other? Has this man’s foot been infected all this time? When did the cuts on his heel become a hole? An actual fucking hole? Why the hell hasn’t anybody helped him?

  What is it the Lonely Planet advises? I can’t remember.

  So like every other tourist, shopper, worker, human … I don’t stop. I don’t help.

  The guide books say not to give money.

  I carry on.

  The golden arches are before me. I stand on the steps to see what I’d expected, but not what I’d hoped for. Ronald McDonald’s scary smile is beaming down upon a man in a shopping trolley. Only it’s not the man in my picture. There’s no yellow logo on his shirt. This one is brown striped, unbuttoned. He’s very skinny, his dark hair long and thin, and he’s lapping up the attention by flashing the peace sign, posing. A gaggle of tourists taking selfies consume the space.

/>   This is the spot where Jack asked me to move in with him.

  The exact spot.

  We thought we were witnessing something unique, something that would mark the moment, so we decided to take a leap of faith. I know that’s how Jack’s mind worked, why he said it right here, then.

  And the moment is erased now.

  I erased it.

  It’s all my fault.

  Instead of living in ignorant bliss, holding on tight to what he and I believed, I’ve ruined it. The moment; the memory; the answer Jack was looking for. What would I say to him if he were here? ‘Ah, sorry, hun. There’s nothing behind the picture.’ It’s tourist tat. It’s a gimmick. It’s, quite simply, a fella sitting in a fucking trolley.

  I call out his name.

  ‘Jack!’

  I don’t mean to, it just happens. I could scream and scream and nobody would notice. But in all these faces, the sea of people passing me by, I wish I could see him. Please. Let him appear. Let him frighten me.

  ‘Jack!’

  I know he’s gone. I know he got hit by a van. I know he’s been cremated. I know he’s never coming back. I’m not crazy, I’m not delusional. But, fuck. I just want to see him again. I want proof he loved me: something solid. He ‘reckoned’ he loved me. That’s what he always said, wasn’t it? But I want to know that he wasn’t an acquaintance I got carried away with. I want to know I mattered. God, how I’d love to have one massive, awful argument with him, right here and now, so I can move on from this hell I’m trapped within. I want it so bad that I’ve come on some sort of insane pilgrimage to, to, to …

  … I honestly don’t know.

  God. What am I doing?

  I fall to my knees, my hands landing on the ground before me. My whole body begins to convulse, so I rock, my loose hair hiding my face, my eyes shut tight.

  I don’t know how long I’m there before I feel a hand on my shoulder and someone gently pull me away from the selfie-takers and the mall shoppers. They get me to sit down on a concrete block. It’s part of the mall’s trendy outdoor landscape, fountains splashing up sporadically from grey slits in the floor design. An unopened bottle of water is thrust into my hands; a man urges me to drink it slowly.