Love, Almost

by Hayley Doyle

  I wheel my suitcase into the noodle bar. Si hasn’t read the messages I sent him two hours ago. After the wedding, he told me he ‘owed me, big time’, and I’ve politely asked if I can crash on his sofa because I couldn’t get hold of Beth. I select a readymade yaki soba and pot of edamame from the self-service counter. Si will respond soon; or Beth might change her mind.

  Speaking of food – my mum made my favourite tea last night; her homemade fish pie. Later, about an hour after I’d gone to bed, she barged her way into my bedroom, knowing I’d still be awake. She planted a loud, heavy kiss on my forehead and said, ‘Love you,’ in the same way she’d say ‘Get up’ if I was having a lie-in. It’s been less than a week since our Kit’s wedding and neither of us has brought up that conversation in the toilets. I would’ve been keen to talk about it and get to the root of our problem, if my mum wasn’t Sue Roscoe. Women like Sue are of a certain ilk, you see: a generation who seem outspoken, but can’t express what’s truly going on inwardly. It comes out wrong. It’s frowned upon. It’s too deep. It’s indulgent. It gets in the way of practical things like getting the tea on the table for six o’clock or watching Corrie to unwind. She’d rather just say ‘Love you’. And at the very least with that, she means it.

  Si still hasn’t checked his messages.

  I message Fergus.

  Hiya! Just checking you’ll be home in 30 min or so? I’m on my way to yours. Ok?

  I don’t mind if Beth goes straight to bed when she comes back from West Hampstead. I just need their guest room and it’s always there whenever I need it. Beth’s words, not mine.

  Fergus replies.

  Aye. Almost home.

  It’s lashing down when I emerge from the tube station. Summer’s on its last legs. My denim jacket gets soaked and sticks to my neck, my back, my elbows. When Fergus answers the door, I run inside and slip off my Converse, leaving them in the hallway with my suitcase, and hang my jacket to dry on the coat rack.

  ‘Get the kettle on,’ I say. ‘I bought some biscuits from M&S. I won’t tell Beth.’

  He obeys my orders with a huff and I chuckle. He’s so easy to wind up.

  I crack out the biscuits and Fergus opens them, taking two and devouring them like a monster. The crunching echoes around the kitchen and crumbs fall onto his rather baggy t-shirt – it’s unlike the usual muscle-hugging ones I’m used to seeing him wear. The kettle boils and he pours hot water into two mugs.

  ‘Teabags?’ I remind him.

  ‘Uh? Oh. Yeah.’

  He finds a box of green tea in the cupboard. Drops a bag into each mug.

  ‘Milk?’ he asks.

  ‘With green tea?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You okay?’

  Fergus presses his hands into the kitchen table and hangs his head down. The veins on his arms pop through his skin and he releases an animalistic growl. I was not expecting that.

  ‘Go on, then,’ he says, standing upright quite abruptly. ‘Hit me.’

  ‘Hit you with what?’

  ‘Chloe. You’ve come here to have a go at me, so just get on with it.’

  He takes another biscuit and eats it whole. A large crumb sits on his pale pink upper lip. Come to think of it, Fergus Douglas has never looked so dishevelled.

  ‘I’m just waiting for Beth,’ I tell him. ‘I’m here to crash.’

  ‘Crash?’

  ‘Yeah, you know Beth’s always said the guest room’s mine whenever I need it.’

  ‘But Beth doesn’t live here anymore.’

  I pull such a series of faces that I must look like a clown. Surely he’s having me on? Although he’d need a personality transplant to attempt that.

  ‘Don’t tell me she hasn’t even told you?’ he yells. The table gets the brunt of it, again.

  ‘Told me what?’

  ‘We’re getting divorced.’

  ‘What the—’

  ‘Yeah. Fuck. Been on the cards for a while but she finally moved out a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Fergus, come on, hun. Stop playing with me head.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Dunno. But correct me if I’m wrong, our Kit’s wedding was only last weekend. You two were like, so loved up. Gareth told youse to get a room at one point!’

  He pulls a chair from beneath the table, scraping it along the tiles like nails on a chalkboard. Plonking himself down, he rubs his eyes and his neck, as if allergies have come to attack him.

  ‘Wasn’t real,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, please. You can’t fake that shit,’ I say and pull out a chair, more carefully than Fergus. I lean in, my elbows on my knees. ‘And why would you bother?’

  ‘Okay, look, it was real.’ His voice is robotic. ‘But it wasn’t our real, real life. At the wedding, we were nostalgic. We hadn’t seen each other for a fortnight. We agreed to show up and have a nice time. And we used it to say a final goodbye.’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’

  ‘Why not? Surely you’ve noticed how toxic we’ve been. For years, Chloe. Years!’

  ‘Yeah, maybe. But I thought that was what made you both, I dunno, tick?’

  ‘Nobody wants to live like that.’

  ‘’Course not, but Beth’s never said anything to me about—’

  ‘Beth’s been trying to talk to you for months. Longer.’

  ‘No she hasn’t.’

  Fergus stands up to get another biscuit.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, lightly, ‘she hasn’t.’

  I don’t like how his tone has changed.

  Nor do I like how I never saw this coming, when it was so obvious. Oh God!

  ‘Where’s Beth living, then?’ I ask.

  ‘Staying with a friend from work, but she wants her own place.’

  Ah, West Hampstead. She was telling the truth.

  ‘Wait,’ I stand up. ‘You thought I was here to have a go at you. To hit you. Oh, Fergus. You didn’t …’

  ‘Huh? No! Fuck, no. I’d never cheat on Beth, ever.’

  ‘So what did you mean? Did you turf her out of the house?’

  He puts his head in his hands and nods.

  ‘It’s only fair, Chloe. It was my parents and my savings that bought this place – Beth’s always just contributed,’ he says. ‘She said some hurtful things. You know how she gets.’

  ‘But she’d never mean any harm, she’s all show when it comes to arguing.’

  ‘I know, I know, but she was cruel. She blames me through and through.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘The baby. Well, lack of.’

  I have to be loyal to Beth, and yet I’m compelled to reach out to Fergus. I launch forward and give him a strong hug, although he doesn’t reciprocate, and he steps away throwing his shoulders back in military fashion.

  ‘I need to find her,’ I say.

  Fergus gives a series of nods.

  ‘You’re more than welcome to stay, though. However long you need.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Although I’m not sure that would be the best idea right now. I give Fergus a closed-mouth smile, which he sort-of returns, and I get my things and leave.

  29

  How’s the viewing, hun?

  She responds quickly.

  Haven’t seen it yet. Owner late back from work :( xxx

  Okay, so I need to get to West Hampstead pronto.

  It takes me about forty minutes – it’s an inconvenient route on the tube. As I step off the train, I keep an eye out for Beth in case she’s waiting on the platform. I know this is a long shot, but these pockets of London aren’t huge; there are just so many of them. How far from the station is the flat she’s been looking at? I’ll wait here, on the platform – at some point, she’ll come here.

  It’s almost eight o’clock, an hour since her last message.

  I give it another ten minutes, then type.

  So …?

  And wait.

  Please, Beth. I need to tell you I’m sorry.
r />   Nah. Not worth it. Heading home. Spk tomo. xxx

  Great! So she’ll be on her way to this station. Now.

  I lug my suitcase up the stairs to street level and wait by the gates. It’s not that busy – the rush died down a while ago. I need to keep an eye out, although it’s unlikely I’ll get swamped. This isn’t Waterloo or Kings Cross. I should be able to spot her any minute.

  But I don’t.

  The thing is, Beth’s not going home, is she? And if I know Beth, I know what she’ll be doing right now.

  I go through the gate and have a decision to make. Left or right.

  To my left, I see a pub on the corner. Dark wood, a lengthy food menu, serves Guinness on draught. Beth wouldn’t be seen dead in a place like that on her own. So I turn right past a deli, a dry cleaners, an estate agent. Within minutes I’m surrounded by cafes, small and intimate restaurants – and bingo. A wine bar.

  Beth is there, easy to find. She’s sat outside the front beneath the white canopy, smoking.

  ‘Since when did you start smoking?’ I ask.

  Her free hand slaps against her chest as she shudders in her seat. Her smoking hand goes to the ashtray in the centre of the circular white table and she stubs the ciggie out so ferociously she might as well be murdering it.

  ‘I wasn’t judging,’ I say. ‘Just asking, like.’

  ‘You’re an actual stalker,’ she says.

  ‘My intentions are good. Promise.’

  ‘Sit down. I feel ashamed you standing over me like some sort of fucking apparition.’

  She’s still in her work clothes; a fitted beige dress with square neckline, the skirt touching her knee. Only Beth can make beige look bold. Her tan hasn’t faltered despite her not having been on a big holiday this summer, and her lip gloss is fresh, as if she applied it seconds before I showed up. She’s twirled her hair into a low bun, showing off delicate gold earrings in the shape of long leaves.

  ‘I feel a bit underdressed for this place,’ I say, referring to my jeggings, Converse and damp denim jacket. Even my pink t-shirt is sticking to my chest. My hair is like a drowned rat left out to dry.

  ‘Nah. Go inside. Everyone in there’s as scruffy as you, babes. I’ve just set a new standard. As always.’ Beth allows herself to smile, closed-lip, one-sided. She’s been crying, a gloss on her eyes that isn’t due to Charlotte Tilbury.

  ‘I saw Fergus. He told me.’

  ‘I wanted to tell you meself—’

  ‘I know. When we went to that bloody ski slope, you wanted to talk. Beth, I’m so sorry. I’ve been the worst friend.’

  Her gaze falls to the drop of white wine left in her glass. She pushes it towards me.

  ‘Look, life hasn’t been kind to you either, babes.’

  ‘No, you should’ve just grabbed me and blurted it out.’

  ‘It’s not that easy to admit. Remember when you couldn’t tell me about Jack?’

  She’s right. Beth carries a wisdom I don’t possess.

  We became friends in high school. I spotted her on day one, her purple drawstring Benetton bag gleaming new. She was the girl every boy fancied and every bully avoided. She didn’t speak to me until the Christmas disco.

  ‘Where’s your bodysuit from?’ she had asked, sipping a can of Coke.

  I’d agonised for weeks about what to wear, trawling through the pages of Just Seventeen for inspiration and finally deciding on red jeans, a floral body suit and a black chiffon shirt which I tied in a knot at the waist. When I stepped off the bus that morning, I instantly regretted the red jeans. I’d shot up in the year between eleven and turning twelve and the jeans brought too much attention to my long legs. What had I been thinking?

  But Beth from Form 7G wanted to know where my bodysuit was from. Beth from 7G liked my outfit.

  ‘Tammy Girl,’ I told her. My mum had taken me shopping and treated me to a whole wardrobe of Tammy stuff for my twelfth birthday. It had been one of the best days of my life.

  Beth smiled, but it was partnered with raised eyebrows and a sigh.

  ‘Cute,’ she said. ‘I saw one almost identical in Topshop.’

  ‘I love Topshop,’ I blurted, although I’d never been inside.

  ‘It’s the only place I shop.’ Beth took another swig of her Coke.

  ‘Me too. Except for Tammy Girl. Obviously, duh!’ I rolled my eyes and hit myself on the head, making Beth laugh. Her dangly earrings jangled and she twiddled the silver dolphin hanging from a fine black cord around her neck. Picking up her Benetton bag from beneath the table she was leaning against, she opened it and fished around inside for something. She pulled out a black velvet hat.

  ‘You’re Chloe, right?’ she checked. I nodded. Then, standing on her tiptoes, she put the hat on my head, her dainty fingers positioning it as she pouted her lips. ‘This looks sooo good on you. I’ve got a right little pin head. You can have it. Merry Chrimbo.’

  In a mix of shock and delight, I struck a pose, kind of John Travolta doing ‘Stayin’ Alive’. Beth grabbed my hand and hauled me to the dance floor in the centre of the sports hall. Blur’s ‘Boys and Girls’ was playing and the whole of Year Seven was jumping up and down. When the Grease Megamix came on and most of the boys decided to go and stand against the wall, I naturally took the role of Danny to Beth’s Sandy. She invited me to a sleepover at her house the following Friday and now, twenty-five years later, here we are.

  ‘Let’s be flatmates,’ I suggest.

  ‘Y’what?’ Beth responds, half of her upper lip rising, her nose wrinkled. Anyone would think I’d burped. Or puked.

  ‘Well, you’d rather live with me than some stranger with a spare room, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Babes, I’m getting me own place.’

  ‘Oh. I just thought we could help each other out – you know, have a laugh.’

  ‘We don’t have to live together to do either of those things.’

  I shift in my seat, lift Beth’s wine glass and down the last drop.

  ‘Same again?’ I stand, holding the glass by its stem and giving it a little wiggle. ‘Or shall I order a bottle?

  ‘Nope. I need to keep me head screwed on.’

  I feel my shoulders slump down to my elbows. Looks like we’re not going to drink and chew the fat, then. Beth’s blown me out twice in the space of a few minutes. The wind has changed. I’m not familiar with this side of her. She’s a million miles away in her thoughts, watching the big red bus crawl past, blocking the view of the independent bookshop and the Greek bakery. She catches me staring and I offer a quick, upbeat smile. I want my friend back. I need her.

  ‘What you gonna do for work down here?’ Beth asks. She’s picking up her handbag, aptly made by Chloé, and about to sling it over her forearm to make an exit. ‘Your mum said you’re quit—’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, you know what me mum’s like, Beth. I’m not quitting.’

  Beth rests both arms on top of her bag and with widened eyes, looks interested in what I’m saying for the first time since I sat down. She tells me to go on, but there’s nothing to go on about. I shrug.

  ‘But you thought about it,’ she says, ‘didn’t you?’

  I give a careless laugh. It’s my turn to watch the next red bus crawl past.

  ‘It’s what? Two weeks before the schools go back? And you probably didn’t even think to hand in your notice or speak to your boss, did you? You were just gonna quit. Like that?’ She snaps her fingers like Mary Poppins.

  ‘Why are you so mad at me? I’ve still got me job! I’m going back next week.’

  ‘Oh, well done. Your sloppiness finally paid off.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You got lucky, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, right. So lucky, hun.’

  ‘You talk so much shit sometimes. Quitting, but not quitting. Worrying the hell out of your mother, treating a bloody good teaching job like it’s an inconvenience—’

  ‘Hold on a mo—’

  ‘No. This is exactly the s
ort of fucked-up nonsense that makes me not wanna live with you. Not because I don’t like you. I hate doing this to you, babes. I love you. But you’d move in and then, what next? Get a dog and decide you don’t like dogs? Move to France, then not wanna learn the language properly?’

  My mouth is gaping open like a docile fish. I close it and try not to sulk, but God, Beth’s being a hardened bitch. She hasn’t got her fella anymore, but at least he’s alive. There’s a chance they could get back together.

  ‘I mean, once, you desperately wanted to go to drama school,’ Beth goes on. ‘And all those nights I sat on your bed, helping you learn fucking Shakespeare speeches and you saying it was boring, and then you’d sing fucking Annie—’

  ‘It wasn’t Annie, it was Miss Saigon—’

  ‘Same fucking thing—’

  ‘No it fucking isn’t—’

  ‘BABES. Stop. I watched you, I cheered you on, I took you to Yates’s Wine Lodge when you got rejected, I held your hair back when you puked, told you to try again. Then I sat through your uni shows, them funny sketches. Whatever became of them?’

  ‘Oh, they were dire.’

  ‘Nobody starts off perfect, Chlo. And now teaching isn’t feeling so easy, so you might jack it in. Or not. Ooh, you might. You might not. That ski lesson was a prime example—’

  ‘Let’s not mention the ski lesson, pal.’

  ‘Fine! But, babes, you just need to put the work in. Whatever it is.’

  ‘And what about you? Your marriage. Aren’t you gonna put the work in?’

  ‘I did. We did. When you’ve tried so hard at something, it’s easier to know when to call it a day.’ She lets out a long sigh, as if she’s been wearing a corset and the laces have been loosened. ‘I’m not saying marriage – relationships – should be plain sailing, but they should never be a constant battle. If anything, the right one, it should be easy; effortless. Then you deal with the hard stuff as a team. Fergus … no, we, didn’t.’

  I nod. ‘You know, I’m starting to think that Jack wouldn’t’ve been so easy.’

  Beth eyes fall onto mine. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just a feeling; that maybe we weren’t what I thought we were.’

  ‘You loved him, though, didn’t you?’