by Hayley Doyle
‘It’s okay,’ he says, in a calm, deep voice. ‘Take your time.’
19
His name is Justin. He’s Canadian.
I see his feet before I take in his face; sports sandals that have seen much better days, although pretty clean toes for the streets of Bangkok. He’s wearing what I call traveller trousers, the sort on sale at every Southeast Asian tourist market for the equivalent of a few quid, baggy on the legs with elasticated ankles and waist. They’re worn by backpackers from the moment they arrive until the moment they get home, and then demoted to pyjamas. Justin’s are petrol blue, patterned with circles and grey elephants. His t-shirt is plain black, his smooth arms slim, muscular. Dark stubble covers his chin, his jawline; his deep brown eyes are squinting with concern.
‘Feeling better?’ he asks, crouching down to my level.
‘Thanks,’ I say, in a state of confusion. ‘I’m not sure what just happened.’
‘I don’t know either. I’m sorry if I frightened you.’
‘No, no, you didn’t. I’m grateful.’
‘Drink a little more water – it always helps.’
‘I think I need to go back to me hotel,’ I say, standing, although a little shaky. ‘It’s kind of manic out here.’
‘Your first time in Bangkok?’
‘First time alone.’
I’m on the verge of tears, my dignity shot. I hand the water bottle back to Justin, who pushes out his lips and declines, telling me to keep it.
‘Do you wanna get a proper drink?’ I ask, surprising myself with the suggestion.
Justin gives a relaxed shrug. ‘Sure. Around here?’
‘No, the hotel I’m staying at has a happy hour that should be called happy “any” hour. It’s also got a hot tub. Not that it’s cold outside, clearly; but you know, what are holidays for if you can’t get drunk in a swimming cozzie?’
He laughs, although I’ve no clue whether he’s laughing at me or with me. I’m going to take a wild guess that he finds my accent funny.
‘Swimmin’ cozzie!’ he tries to imitate.
I guessed right.
The tuk-tuk ride to the Asia Palace Hotel is filled with pleasantries, comments about cool places either of us have already been to in this city. I mention the green curry, and of course, Justin has his own – equally as amazing if not better – recommendation. He’s yet to see the Ladyboys of Bangkok and hasn’t made up his mind about spending the money on it. I say it’s kind of impressive, but a lot of miming to show tunes. I think I’ve put him off. We pass the Siam Garden Grand, a more upmarket hotel, and Justin points out that that’s where he stayed for his first three nights. Fancy. He’s now in more modest accommodation near the Khao San Road.
‘I plan to be travelling for a long time,’ he says. ‘And money doesn’t grow on trees.’
We squabble about who’s paying for the ride. I insist, and Justin backs down.
‘I’ll meet you up there,’ I say, showing him the signs to the rooftop bar before I disappear off to my room. For all I know, he’ll be gone when I decide to go up there, and what does it matter? I’ll just talk to someone else. I’m in Bangkok, and if there’s one thing a city like this can do for a solo traveller, it’s ensure they don’t drink alone. And God knows, I need a bloody drink.
I enter my room and see Jack sprawled on the bed. His beard and hair are dripping from the shower and he’s covering himself with the towel I used this morning. I focus, not wanting to lose the picture I’ve created of him.
‘You made a friend quick,’ he says.
‘You’re judging me?’
‘No. I’m jealous.’
‘Ha. That’s ridiculous,’ I say, taking my clothes off and rummaging through my suitcase for my swim stuff. ‘You’ve got nothing to be jealous of, hun. I almost lost the bloody plot out there. Did you see the souvenirs? The ones that’ve shat all over what we thought was unique?’
I tie the halterneck of the tankini and by the time the knot is done, Jack’s gone. The towel is exactly where I left it before going out earlier, thrown carelessly onto the bed. I must’ve forgotten to put the sign on my door for the room to be cleaned.
‘I’ve got to stop this,’ I mumble to myself.
I just had a manic meltdown in the middle of one of the world’s busiest cities. I came out of it unscathed, partly thanks to a kind Canadian fella, partly due to luck. I could still be out there, vulnerable. What if I’d been robbed? Trodden on? Is that a bit too far-fetched? Is that my problem? I came all this way to search for something that doesn’t exist. That’s not normal, is it?
No. It’s not.
But it’s what Jack would’ve wanted. In a teeny, tiny way, I’m glad he’s not here to feel this major slap in the face of disappointment. He’d be sulking now. And I mean seriously sulking. Lip out, heavy breathing, the lot. I manage a smile.
I throw on my cotton rag holiday dress and plonk my sunnies on my head.
The bar is small. A balcony overlooks the surrounding streets, although the view is made up of neighbouring hotels since the Asia Palace is only eight storeys high. The river can be seen in the distance between buildings. Justin’s in the hot tub chatting away to a young couple, the girl with strands of long, adorable braids in her hair and the fella buffed up like a rugby player. The three of them sip massive cocktails, no other punters around.
‘This is my friend, Chloe,’ Justin says and waves me over. ‘She’s a Scouse.’
‘Scouser,’ I correct him and turn to the young couple. ‘From Liverpool.’
‘Cool,’ they sing.
They’re Jojo and Lachlan, who quit their bar jobs in Perth, Australia, six months ago to go travelling and have no plans to go back anytime soon. I feel ancient next to them, with their sparkling smiles and melodious vibe. They’re also super cute, tucked into one another like koala bears. The shared love they’re feeling on their journey of discovery is so apparent they might as well get it tattooed all over their beautiful, youthful skin. Justin, beside them, could be twice their age, although that’s not to say he doesn’t glow, too. I must look like Casper the (trying-to-be) Friendly Ghost as I order a mai tai and slip into the hot tub beside them all.
‘So where did you guys meet?’ Lachlan asks, looking between Justin and me.
Justin smiles, throwing the opportunity at me to answer.
‘Shopping,’ I say. ‘It was quite embarrassing, really.’
‘Oh, no. Why?’ Jojo asks, her concern quite convincing.
‘Because I’d just tripped up, right over on me ankle,’ I lie.
‘No way!’ Jojo squeals. ‘Oh, you poor thing.’
‘Tragic,’ Lachlan says, and Jojo agrees.
If only they knew.
‘Justin helped me get back here,’ I say. ‘What a gent, eh?’
Lachlan raises his hand and fist bumps Justin. Jojo gives a little round of applause.
‘It’s kind of romantic.’ She sways beneath the bubbles as Justin and I both say something about it not being anything of the sort. ‘Hey it is! You know, like Cinderella.’
‘How so?’ Lachlan teases, splashing her face affectionately.
‘Because Cinderella was probably scrubbing the floor and the prince had to help her up to try on the glass slipper. And today, Chloe fell over and Justin had to help her up. He’s like her prince.’
We all laugh and poor Jojo keeps protesting, trying to explain her notion further, digging herself into a deeper hole. She’s talking about knights in shining armour now and being rescued from towers.
‘I think society’s moved on,’ I say gently, not to sound too cynical.
‘No way, Chloe. Girls still love to be swept off their feet,’ Jojo states. ‘Fact.’
‘Or a boy might love to be swept off his feet,’ I contest. ‘Right, Lachlan?’
‘Erm … Let’s ask Justin? What do you think, man?’
Justin shakes his head. ‘Don’t ask me. Romance and the do’s and don’t’s are so far off my radar r
ight now, I’m almost definitely gonna say the wrong thing.’
‘Ah, no,’ Jojo sighs. ‘Lachlan, look. He’s totally heartbroken.’
‘She’s right,’ Justin confirms. ‘I got dumped.’
‘You see, Lachlan? I’m always right.’
Lachlan nods, probably not out of choice. I turn around to the bar and order another round of cocktails. Justin washes his face with the hot tub water and shakes off the drips, a miniature wake-up call.
‘Fuck it,’ he says, flashing a toothy smile, although his dark eyes don’t glisten. ‘It happens to the best of us. And let’s look on the bright side, folks. I wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t decided to end it. So … Cheers!’
A waiter approaches with our tray of drinks and we each take one to raise a glass for Justin’s toast. Jojo tells Justin how he must take all the time he needs to heal, repeating over and over again how it’s the worst thing ever, the worst thing ever, the worst thing ever, how she understands heartbreak and fuck, it really is, the worst thing ever. Lachlan is sombre. He agrees with Jojo.
‘Getting dumped sucks ass,’ are his precise words.
‘It’s cool, buddy,’ Justin says. ‘She wasn’t anybody special.’
I pull all the generic facial expressions, pretending to join in their solidarity. It’s a relief when Lachlan confesses he’s so hungry he might pass out, so he and Jojo get out of the hot tub. Justin tells them the drinks are on him. Jojo gushes her thanks and Lachlan shoots out another fist bump. Their energy has drained me. I order a beer.
‘Make it two,’ Justin calls out.
‘Well, let this be on me,’ I say.
‘I appreciate it. How’s the ankle?’
I grimace.
‘It’s okay, Chloe. You don’t have to tell me what really happened.’
The cold beer is a treat; better than the sugary mai tai itching my back teeth. I love the bubbles, the instant satisfaction. I spread out in the hot tub, dip my head back, wet all of my hair. In another life, I could be on a real holiday right now.
‘I lied, too,’ Justin tells me, a short nod of his head in the direction of the young Aussies, now gone from sight. ‘A white lie, of course.’
‘You weren’t dumped?’ I ask.
‘Oh, no, that part was true. I lied when I said she wasn’t anybody special. She was my wife.’ Justin swigs, sighs. ‘My wife of twenty-one years.’
I almost spit out my drink.
‘Ah, hun. That’s rough.’
‘Is it bad that I didn’t tell the truth to those guys? I don’t even think they’re twenty-one themselves yet. I didn’t wanna alienate them, or make myself feel so goddamn old. Does that make me horribly vain?’
‘God, no. I felt like a granny next to them two.’
‘And you’re still pretty young.’
‘Well … not really. But I’ll take the compliment. Ta.’
We clink bottles, drink.
‘She left you after twenty-one years?’ I ask, but quietly and more to reiterate the point, not expecting him to elaborate.
‘Twenty-four years, actually. We were high school sweethearts: met young, married young, as soon as we’d both finished college. She was the love of my life. The only life I’ve ever known. Apologies for sounding, I dunno – kinda cheesy.’
‘It’s not cheesy at all. It’s the truth, right? You basically spent your entire adult life with her. The end of your childhood, too.’
‘Right. I can’t be the same guy as I was before I met her, but I also don’t know who I am without her. What were you like twenty years ago? Wildly different, you think? Or, do we never change? Are we actually always the same?’
‘Oh, wow. I dunno. I think I was the same. Well, I was sort of the same until … recently.’ I sink a little lower into the hot tub, enjoying the comfort of the water hugging me like a blanket. I think about myself as a teenager, spending my Saturday job wages in Miss Selfridge. I used to laugh with my mates so much. About everything, about nothing. Going to the library satisfied me. Getting a phone call enthralled me. ‘I was just younger. Happier.’
‘I want that again,’ Justin says, unconvincingly.
‘So, what happened? Did she just decide she was done? I mean, don’t answer if you don’t want to, Justin, I’m being a right nosy cow.’
He laughs. Again, I imagine it’s my accent.
‘I guess she was done, yeah. Done with me, that’s for sure. Not the new guy at her work, though. She’s not done with him. Oh, no. She’s doing him! Doing him so much, she’s having his goddamn baby. We never had kids. We tried, but …’
‘Oh, Justin. And here was me thinking, oh, whatever. You got dumped. Boo fucking hoo. Goes to show, everyone’s got their pain.’
‘And you?’
‘And me, what?’
‘Your pain. It’s evident. If you wanna talk about it?’
‘Me fingertips’ve gone all wrinkly,’ I say, splaying my hands out. ‘How about we dry off and hit another bar. I might feel like talking about it then.’
‘And if you don’t, I might insist we play my favourite game?’
‘Yeah, I love games. What is it?’
‘Creating the most evil insults possible to describe my ex-wife.’
I don’t disapprove, but that sounds like a bullshit game.
20
We go to the Happy Beer Garden.
It’s a popular spot. I went there with Jack the night after we took the photograph, and I know I shouldn’t be putting myself in a position to drag up old memories, but I wasn’t a fan of the craziness of the Khao San Road and I didn’t fancy shopping around for a decent bar with Justin. Too much pressure.
We get a little table outside, kind of a two-seater bench, facing the traffic flowing past slowly, tuk-tuks piled up. Neon strips and fairy lights hang above our heads. A young girl tries to sell us a flower and when we decline, she pulls out the wooden frogs. Justin buys two.
‘For my nephews,’ he says.
We order a couple of beers.
‘Are they in Canada?’ I ask.
‘My nephews? Yeah. Toronto. God knows when I’ll see them again, though.’
‘Of course – you said you plan to be travelling for a long time.’
‘I have to. I can’t function at home.’ He plays with the damp beer mat between his fingers. ‘I don’t know how to be without Sabrina. You know, the last time I remember doing anything before she became a major player in my life was when I went to the movies to see Toy Story. The first Toy Story! And even then, she was probably there, too, with her friends, because we were from the same town, went to the same elementary school. So, in the words of some terrible, mediocre philosopher, I need to go forth and well, find myself. Do I sound like an even bigger douchebag than before?’
‘Absolutely,’ I say, not leaving it too long before I add, ‘Only messing.’
Our beers arrive and the waitress asks us where we’re from and if we’re married. We bypass the first question and say no regarding the second.
‘Why? Why you not married?’ she asks, quite offended. ‘Be happy!’
‘We’re just friends,’ I tell her.
She rolls her eyes, tuts at us.
‘You want tequila?’ she asks.
‘Sure,’ I reply. ‘Why not?’
‘I hate tequila,’ Justin says. ‘I’m too old for that stuff.’
‘Fine, I’ll drink both.’
I’m thinking about what he said, about finding himself. I’ve never met anybody in real life who’s used the term seriously. Jack went on a gap year, like all the posh kids do, and he told me it was to find himself, but he was totally taking the piss. He was interrailing and getting smashed with his carefully saved allowance, his parents’ credit card tucked into his wallet if things went tits-up. The only thing he found that he previously didn’t know about himself was a tattoo on his left calf, of a pizza slice. But let’s be serious for a second here. If I wanted to find myself – because let’s face it, I’m pretty fucking l
ost right now – surely all I’d need to do is go home to Liverpool. Thirty-six-year-old Chloe Roscoe had been plodding along fine a matter of months ago. There was no thought of moving to the big smoke, no dead boyfriend to deal with. But would trying to erase the first half of this year be disrespectful to Jack? To what we had? Or would it be a smart move?
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Justin asks.
‘Sorry. I’m terrible company. It’s a symptom of what happened … about six weeks ago.’
The waitress returns with two shots of tequila. Justin impulsively takes one and downs it, grimacing at the taste and sticking out his tongue.
‘Nobody forced you to do that,’ I laugh.
‘So what happened about six weeks ago?’
We’re in danger of having to slag off Sabrina if I don’t open up.
‘Okay,’ I begin. ‘Me boyfriend, Jack, died—’
‘Oh man! Chloe—’
‘Just let me unleash. You can give me sympathy later. Or more tequila. We’d only just moved in together. I met him in January and before the end of June, he was dead. Hit by a van. So the whole relationship never got a shot … I mean, say we were to break up – not that it was on the cards – I never got the chance to find out enough about him to dislike him, to hate him. His faults weren’t as obvious as they would be further down the line. And if we were meant to be together – you know, get married, have kids, well, that’s never gonna happen. Ever. So, where does that leave me? I’m not a widow, but I’m not fighting heartbreak or trying to convince myself I’m better off without him. I’m just … sad.’
Justin’s dark eyes narrow and he cocks his head to the side, intent on listening. An older Thai lady stops at our table and tries to sell us some trinkets from a basket hanging around her neck. He reaches into his pocket and gives her one hundred baht. She leaves a small garland of white flowers – or malai as I recall from chatting to a local last time – beside our beers.
‘Can I ask why you’re in Bangkok?’ Justin prompts.