by Hayley Doyle
‘Did you manage to check your emails?’ I ask. No idea why.
Justin’s no longer in his traveller trousers, but a pair of grey joggers. Nothing on top.
‘The connection was bad,’ he says.
I don’t think he’s managed to shower, either. For such a clean, well put together man, he still looks damp with sweat, tired and dishevelled. In this moment, I like it, and I’m aware of the fact that I’m standing in his room not wearing a stitch beneath the cotton rag hanging over my body. Justin’s hands are on his hips, his biceps prominent yet neat. Dark, curly hair decorates his chest, something I hadn’t paid attention to when we were in the hot tub yesterday.
‘I thought this wasn’t the season for typhoons,’ I manage.
‘It happens.’
His room is bigger than mine. Almost identical, just enlarged. I’m not sure if this makes me feel more safe, or more exposed. The lights flicker and I look up, giving it my most intense teacher’s stare to stop it misbehaving. Justin leans across to the wall and turns the lights off.
‘That’ll give us a heart attack,’ he remarks.
‘Yeah. You read me mind.’
His hand is still on the wall, beside the light switch. I feel my breath lighten, getting faster. I tilt my head a little and my hair brushes his outstretched arm, my lips almost touch his skin. He takes a step closer to me, just a small one. I sense his hesitation.
I want to say it’s okay. It was my choice to come here.
I want to be okay.
To have choices.
I look at him briefly in the small pool of moonlight. My eyes are beginning to adjust to the darkness. But I close them tight, hoping to disappear whilst also wanting to be present. Wanting to be wanted.
The wind is getting stronger.
Whistles rush through cracks in the door and I move a little closer to Justin, feeling my whole body draw forward, the coolness between my legs becoming warm. My breasts touch his chest, only the thin cotton of my dress separating our skin. As my nipples harden, I slide my arms around him and our lips meet.
He kisses me back with force – no, perhaps relief. He’s glad I made the move, I can tell.
I let my tongue touch his and he grabs the back of my head, his hand squeezing my hair. As I push him forwards, our lips tightly locked, he guides me away from the door, until he’s leaning against the outside of the bathroom wall. I tilt my pelvis close, enjoying the hard sensation coming from him. He runs his hands up my thighs, lifting my dress higher. I’m enjoying this too much – far too much.
I want him to touch me further.
But I hold out.
I wait.
And I want it more and more.
And God, I hate myself. I truly fucking hate myself. I’m a cheat, I’m a slut, I’m everything I hate. I’m a woman who’s supposedly in love with somebody else. I’m having fun and I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t.
Justin’s hands move upwards beneath my dress and I don’t stop him. He takes one of my breasts, massages it gently; I moan when his fingers brush my nipples.
Touch me. Touch me! I want to yell.
I want—
SMASH!!!
We’re pulled apart by an almighty high-pitched shattering noise.
I think I scream.
I’m on the floor, my knees drawn into my chest. I want to scream again, but I can’t – I’m frozen in fear. Justin puts on the light and we see that a broken plank of wood has smashed through the large balcony door. I want to cry – feel the sort of release that only crying can bring – but I’m taken over by an intense trembling.
‘It’ll pass soon,’ Justin cries out.
‘Why should I believe you?’
‘Look, I know I underestimated this weather but, seriously, we’re in the thick of it now. Remember a little while ago, when it felt like it was dying down? That was the calm before the storm, as they say.’
‘That’s actually a thing?’
‘Where do you think the saying comes from?’
More crashing and smashing noises dance around us, louder now through the broken window. Justin’s on his hands and knees crawling closer to the balcony.
‘Justin! What the hell are you doing?’
He doesn’t answer, just continues to edge closer until he can see out of the window.
‘It sounds worse than it is,’ he tells me. ‘The crashing is only tiles falling from the roof.’
‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better?’
I can’t be here, not for a second longer.
I find my feet and scramble to the door, open it and let it slam behind me. I don’t say goodbye. I just keep on scrambling until I’m back in my own room listening to the tiles falling down around me. I heave the mattress off my bed and drag it to the floor, getting as low as possible. And I lie down, the beat of my heart so intense that I’ll never sleep. I never quite realised until now, but it’s impossible to think about anything when you’re scared, other than what you’re scared of. The moment is so enormous, the present so all-consuming.
So I wait.
Crashing subsides into scraping. Scraping becomes rustles. The noise doesn’t die, but it does fade, gradually, ever so slowly. I think I drift into a light slumber, although I’m still fully aware of where I am.
There’s a knock on my door.
Justin.
No. I can’t. I just can’t.
A dark loathing encompasses me. The wind has calmed enough for me to remember.
The knocking gets louder, faster.
Please, leave me alone … No! I should apologise.
He’s almost banging my door down now. I mean, what the—
‘Alright!’ I say, pulling the door but keeping the chain locked.
‘Breakfast, Madam!’
It’s not Justin. It’s a Vietnamese man, smiling and holding a wooden tray with a miniature banana and a croissant on a plate. A dollop of jam and a dollop of butter sit beside the croissant. A bottle of water and a glass of orange juice rattle unsteadily. The man is wearing a crash helmet.
‘I don’t need breakfast,’ I shriek.
‘Please, take breakfast.’
‘No, I mean, you didn’t have to bring anything! Get inside! Shelter!’
He laughs at me and leaves the tray on the floor in front of the door, waving bye-bye. I carefully open the door and pick it up. I eat the banana and the croissant, leaving the jam and butter untouched, and take the bottle of water, slotting it into the front pocket of my suitcase. I put on some underwear, a pair of jeggings and stripy t-shirt. Slipping into my flip-flops, I leave my room and eye up the ripped-apart roof down to the swimming pool. Chairs, tables and tiles are drowning in the water.
It doesn’t take long to check out. The reception is calm and quiet, not a soul around other than the receptionist, who is different from the lady yesterday. I wonder how the little Dutch boy slept, and hope he wasn’t frightened.
A taxi is called and it arrives within minutes.
‘Hoi An town centre?’ I ask the driver as I clamber into the back seat.
If there’s magic to be seen, I should try and find it; especially now the typhoon seems to have finally passed. Opposite the Garden Villa guest house, I see a family fixing the roof of their home. Two fellas are sitting on the tin top and a woman is handing them tools. They all see me watching from the taxi and wave, smiling. Every tree on this road has been uprooted, the thin trunks sprawled in zigzags on the ground.
‘Sorry, Madam,’ the driver tells me. ‘Too much water. River.’
I don’t argue. I won’t contest. This man knows more about this town than I ever will. If the town is flooded, that means the restaurants won’t be open, nor the shops. Nobody will be cycling through the streets, across the bridge. There won’t be any lanterns. Not today.
‘No problem,’ I say. ‘Da Nang Airport, please.’
The magic just isn’t here.
Would there have been magic if Jack was here? God,
imagine how different this whole experience would’ve been if …
Imagine.
That’s all I’ve got. And all I’ll ever have now.
I must go home.
23
I ring the doorbell of the new build. It’s four years old, so not exactly shiny new, but it always has that new smell, as if the paint never quite dried. Usually I’m armed with Prosecco, olives and crisps, ready for a night of board games that end dancing on the kitchen table to the Spice Girls. Today, however, it’s just me and my Thailand clothes.
‘Sis!’ Kit beams as he opens the door.
Throwing his arms around my neck, he plants a smacker on my cheek. It’s comforting that he’s barefoot, wearing shorts and an old Everton football shirt, the same attire he’s worn his whole life on lazy Saturdays. He swoops me up in what I’ve always called a ‘princess carry’, something he’s done for the best part of thirty years despite being both younger and smaller than me. ‘Gareth! Come and get Chloe’s suitcase, will you?’
I’m swept into their home and accidentally kick a topless Gareth in the head in the hallway. Kit’s fault, obviously. He chucks me onto the sofa and their pug, Mabel, jumps onto my lap and licks my hand. Kit chases Mabel into her basket under the stairs as I sink into the soft black cushions. The living room is all tones of grey. Splashes of bold colour spring from three similar framed posters promoting an annual music festival called Sonic on Sea. Gareth’s a graphic designer.
‘Coffee?’ Kit asks. ‘We’ve got a Nespresso, thanks to Gareth’s ma.’
I decline, feeling jittery enough. Kit offers me a range of teas from herbal to builder’s; Gareth suggests a glass of cold elderflower. I go with that. Kit’s unzipped my suitcase and found some pink slouch socks. He pulls my Converse off my feet without undoing the laces and chucks them into the hall, then slips my socks onto my feet. It’s one of those rainy summer days where you stay in wearing a hoody and catch up on crappy telly.
‘I hope these are clean?’ he asks, nodding at the socks, then at his fluffy white rug.
They are.
The downstairs of Kit and Gareth’s house is always spotless. Even after a gathering, one of them is up at the crack of dawn to Dyson the spilt nibbles and take out empty bottles to the recycling. Smoking is permitted, but only on the decking in the back garden using an ashtray. The upstairs, however, is another story. They eat pizza in bed hungover on Sundays and only change their bed sheets every other month. Kit’s promised my mum they’re working on it.
Gareth hands me a tall glass filled with ice and elderflower.
‘I’m so sorry about Jack, Chloe,’ he says, although there’s no need. He sent me some lovely texts when it happened. ‘And I’m so sorry Thailand didn’t work out for you.’
‘I went to Vietnam, too,’ I say.
‘Oh, I love Vietnam.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Bloody hell, Gareth,’ Kit says. ‘Kick her while she’s down, won’t you?’
Gareth blows me a kiss with both hands and then points upwards.
‘I’m just gonna …’ he says. And off he goes to the spare bedroom which is his office stroke studio stroke gym. Of course, it’s Kit’s too, but Kit doesn’t work from home or work out at home. He works for the Liverpool tourist board and plays footy twice a week.
‘How’s the wedding coming along?’ I ask, curling my feet beneath me.
Kit raises his eyebrows. ‘Let’s not talk about the wedding.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause we need to talk about you.’
His eyebrows return to their rightful place. They’re such a perfect shape and he insists he doesn’t pluck them. We share the exact same colouring except Kit doesn’t bleach his hair like I do. He leaves it au naturel, mousey working so much better on him than it does on me, perhaps due to the way he styles it; neatly shaved around the back with a lovely quiff on top that he washes and blow-dries every day.
‘Okay, well if you’re not gonna talk, Chlo, I will.’ Kit sits down cross-legged upon the white rug. ‘I’m mortified I never came to see you—’
‘No, Kit. Honest—’
‘Sis. Please. You know I haven’t got any annual leave left with the wedding and the honeymoon coming up, but I could’ve got the train down one weekend, stayed with you and made sure you were alright. Mum kept saying you were coming home and I shouldn’t’ve listened, shouldn’t’ve waited. I should’ve been there for you. And I’m dead sorry.’
‘Honestly, I didn’t want anyone coming to stay. No offence.’
‘Highly offended.’
‘Tough. I liked being on me own.’
‘You liked it?’ Kit asks, as if he’s just choked on one of Mabel’s dog biscuits.
I take a velvet cushion to my chest and hug it. ‘No. It was awful.’
Kit leans back on his hands, sighs. ‘I feel a thousand times more guilty now.’
‘Don’t feel guilty, hun. I’m the one who’s gonna be making a show of meself at your wedding, aren’t I?’
‘Oh, ’cause your plus-one is …’ and Kit pretends to slit his throat with his finger and sticks out his tongue, which I find very funny. Nobody else could ever make a joke like this, but Kit can. He always can.
‘Got any chocolate?’ I ask.
Kit grabs my hands, pulling me to standing.
‘Don’t tell Gareth,’ he whispers, leading me into the kitchen by my index finger.
I sit at the table and Mabel joins us, getting herself all cosy by the washing machine. Kit takes down a large Jacob’s cracker box from the tins cupboard and tells me to open it. Inside, it’s full of broken chocolate, all sorts, from white to milk to dark.
‘Easter eggs,’ Kit says without moving his lips. ‘Gareth thinks I took our eggs into work, you know, so we could kick start our wedding diet. But I lied. I bashed them all up and put them in here.’
‘You do know marriage is based on trust?’
Kit wafts a hand in my face and pops a triangle of white chocolate into his mouth. Mabel jumps onto his knee and he kisses her and tickles her, whilst I dig in to the cracker box. Kit clears his throat, leans in and speaks with his mouth half full.
‘Guess who’s not coming the wedding?’
‘I thought we weren’t talking about the wedding.’
‘Hush. Guess.’
‘Erm. I give up.’
‘You’re no fun anymore.’
‘Glad you noticed.’ I bite into a long slab of dark chocolate. ‘Come on, who?
‘Gareth’s dad.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Pulled out “officially” a few weeks ago. Work commitments, apparently.’
‘What?!’
‘Gareth was devastated, but he’s kind of relieved now. Bastard.’
‘God. I got the feeling they weren’t best mates, but this.’
‘I know, it’s been quite the drama, sis.’
The bitter cocoa coats my back teeth and I lick it with my tongue. I had no idea about this situation. My mum hadn’t mentioned it, I don’t think. Kit’s rubbing the back of his neck, something he does to distract himself from biting the skin around his thumb when he’s anxious.
‘Sorry, Kit. I must’ve missed this, you know, with Jack dying.’
‘It was before then. Around the time you moved to London.’
‘Oh,’ I say, sensing the disappointment he’s trying to mask. ‘Ah, shit. Is this why you kept ringing me? I thought you were gonna try to persuade me not to move in with Jack.’
Kit puts the lid on the Jacob’s cracker box and snatches it away from me.
‘I’d never do that, sis. I’ve got me own life to worry about.’
I swallow, feel a burning in my cheeks. ‘I honestly didn’t have a clue.’
Kit rustles my already messy hair.
‘No probs, sis. You were in your little Chloe bubble.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Oh, come on. You’ve always been all or nothing when it comes to
men.’
‘Hardly. Jack was the first fella I’d ever moved in with. At my age!’ I push my chair back a little. ‘You saying Jack was just another fling?’
Kit slaps his hands over his eyes and shakes out his head.
‘Jeez, Louise. This has all got a bit …’ and he flashes his teeth, tensing the muscles in his neck, ever so Deirdre Barlow. ‘And anyway, I thought we were (or were not) talking about me wedding.’
We giggle a little. Kit slides the Jacob’s cracker box back towards us and flicks the lid off again. We’re both keen to keep eating chocolate rather than bicker. I go for a large slab of what looks like a decapitated Lindt bunny, but Kit gets there first and my hand lands upon his.
‘Snap!’ I say.
Kit squeezes my hand and yanks me into him, giving me a giant hug. My throat tightens and I don’t want to cry, not now, so I break away.
‘I’m such a dickhead,’ I say, stealing the broken bunny, ‘I’ve always thought of meself as carefree when it came to fellas, relationships.’
‘Remember the rotter who only ate Pot Noodles and smelt of soil?’
‘It wasn’t soil. It was weed.’
‘Like that makes it okay.’
‘You know, I thought I’d got me shit together in me thirties, but God, I hated dating. So forced. All that anticipation, then disappointment, and oh, the inevitable drunken sex. I’m not doing it again. No way. I can’t bear the thought of—’
I shut my eyes, shudder, the thought of Justin. What we did. Yeah, Kit’s just taken the piss out of me for flying into flings, but in my heart, in my gut, I always knew when they were over. Some were over after the first snog: a tongue too hard, too slimy, too long. But I’d go back for more, drag it out, give that tongue the benefit of the doubt. I went out with this fella a couple of years ago who was brilliant. Kind of a real-life Tom Hardy, just taller and skinnier. He cooked a prawn curry to perfection, he loved books about the universe, he was a drummer, he went rock-climbing and he was fucking good in bed. But I couldn’t laugh at his jokes. Not one. And I find most things pretty funny. Around the three-week mark, it was obvious we had no future. We called it a day about four months in. I can’t call it a day with Jack. I just can’t.