Love, Almost

by Hayley Doyle

  ‘I can’t do that. She dropped out. She’s unreliable.’

  ‘Trust me. She’s quite the opposite. She just needs a second chance.’

  ‘I’ve reassigned her part.’

  ‘So write her another one.’

  ‘I can’t—’

  ‘You can! It’s your creation. You can do anything you want.’

  He’d been holding a bowler hat in his hands and clearly couldn’t resist the urge to put it on.

  ‘You’re right,’ he’d said, holding back a smile. ‘I can do anything I want.’ But he’d checked his watch and started to panic-push the mounds of material back into the split bin bags. He’d sung out a high-pitched, ‘Agh!’

  ‘You look very pink,’ I’d said.

  ‘Very stressed, you mean.’

  ‘Let me do the costumes.’

  ‘No, you’ve got enough on.’

  ‘Look, if anyone’s got enough to do, it’s you.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Si, give Layla a show-stopping role and I’ll be wardrobe mistress. I’ve got experience, haven’t I? Think of it as my second chance.’

  I’d given Si a little shoulder shimmy and thrown a feather boa around my neck. He’d chuckled and I knew he’d give in. But deep down, I knew I wasn’t giving myself a second chance. I was giving myself a final warning.

  ‘I’ve got a free period now,’ I’d said. ‘Let me sort this utter shite out.’

  ‘It all needs hanging up, though, and some serious TLC. But there’s nowhere to do that in this joke of a school. I asked the head for a costume rail and got laughed out of her office. I mean, look at all that fringe! Tangled! Mangled! Oh—’

  ‘Si. I’ll sort it.’

  I’d rolled a couple of leotards up and popped them into my satchel, planning to repair them tonight while I watch Bake Off. The remaining costumes are stashed in the PE cupboard under the gym horse. God knows if I’ll get away with that. The head of PE is ex-marine.

  I’m almost back at the flat when I decide to join in the fun and get myself an iced latte from the coffee shop by the train station. As I wait for my drink, I catch up on Trish’s text from earlier.

  Dear Chloe, I hope you’re keeping well. It would be greatly appreciated if you could pack Jack’s clothes into his suitcases and bring them to my house when you come to sign the tenancy agreement. Text me a date and time you’re free over the next week or so and let’s get it in the diary. I can be flexible. I’ll ping you a location pin of my address. Regards, Trish.

  My name’s called and I’m handed an iced latte and a paper straw. I take it unwillingly; what I’d thought would be a treat is now just something else I’ve got to carry – it’ll make my hand cold and wet, give me brain freeze and make me feel too bloated to enjoy my dinner. The evening ahead is set to be busy with a task I’m going to find unbearably difficult.

  The ripped leotards will have to wait.

  33

  Jack’s suitcases are above his wardrobe, the smaller inside the larger. I drag a stool from the kitchen to climb up and reach them. They drop onto the bed and land with a hefty, dull bounce. A puff of dust fills the room. I sneeze and rub my eyes.

  ‘The last time we did this, we were going on holiday,’ I sigh.

  I haven’t packed a single sock yet and already this is exhausting.

  Might as well start with socks.

  I toss each pair, untouched since June, into the small case: tennis balls with no bounce.

  ‘Mermaids, clocks or buttons?’ I’d said, indecisive as always. ‘Jack? Oi! Jack!’

  ‘Hmm? Oh, buttons.’

  ‘You’re not looking.’ I could see the yellow bar of the BBC Sports app on his phone. I huffed, then instantly hated a part of myself. ‘Fuck. We’re already that couple.’

  ‘What couple? Where?’ Jack had asked, looking up from his screen and over his shoulder. He still wasn’t listening to me. It would’ve been easy to throw a passive aggressive strop, but we were in Primark. I’d been making a pig’s ear out of choosing patterned socks. Not because I’d needed socks, but because they were a quid a pair. And Jack had been falling perfectly into the stereotypical bored boyfriend mould.

  ‘This is everything I never wanted,’ I’d muttered.

  ‘What’s that, darlin’?’ he’d asked, but it was quickly followed by, ‘YSSSS! Get in!’ And of course, Man United had scored. Then he’d remembered me again, smiling with that innocent butter-wouldn’t-melt look that so many fellas pull on a Saturday afternoon. We were that couple. Replicated everywhere a million times over. We weren’t unique. We weren’t even exciting. We were simply them. I’d put all three pairs of socks back on the hook and sulked my way through the mass of shoppers.

  I’m folding Jack’s boxer shorts now.

  Hold on. What will Trish want with her thirty-eight-year-old son’s boxer shorts? Surely I don’t need to be folding them, holding them …

  I let my fingers run across the elastic waistbands. Remember how his skin felt when I would slide my hands inside. That first time: so vivid. In the hotel after that terrible Brexit musical. Against all the self-help books’ tips on finding love; against every best friend’s advice: fucking at first sight. Our clumsiness was overcome with tipsy giggles. I only felt shy afterwards – that self-conscious lull as if you’re covering yourself with a blanket, except the blanket is transparent, exposing what you want to hide. And why? Because it had been so good. Whoever coined the phrase ‘earth-shattering’ was spot on. The fumbles of two strangers who met in a bar – well, theatre – brought together in sexual confidence by the power of booze and mood lighting, had ended in a brilliant, movie-worthy simultaneous orgasm. I did look into Jack’s eyes. I did well up. I did know for damn certain that this wasn’t a one-night stand. I should’ve just told him I loved him right then and there. Why did I break all the rules but stick to that one?

  ‘I reckon I love you, Chloe Roscoe,’ Jack had said the next morning, mid tickling me so hard I wanted to beat the shit out of him. I was gasping for air, writhing so much I could barely laugh. And why would I want to laugh? Tickling, in reality, isn’t funny. It’s fucking horrible. But I’d fallen in love with this man literally overnight.

  NEVER tell a fella you love him after the first—

  ‘And I reckon I love you, too, Jack Carmichael,’ I’d said, angry and out of breath from his torture. ‘That is your surname, right? Since your mum is the one and only—’

  ‘Ugh, don’t talk about my mother when you’re naked.’

  ‘Oops. Rewind.’

  I start to fold Jack’s t-shirts à la Marie Kondo. It’s therapeutic. I come across an off-white rag with the remains of a fading print: The Mighty Boosh. It smells of musty wood, forgotten in a drawer, belonging to a person I never knew. Jack circa 2005. I think of those who knew him; the Ross Robsons and the Florries. They were a firm part of his past; his history. What am I? His end?

  ‘I don’t wanna go on any more dates,’ I’d told Beth earlier this year.

  We were face to face, sat at a small wooden table against an indoor brick wall, swimming in garlic oil and Rioja. She’d come up to Liverpool for her birthday and we were eating tapas at our favourite spot on Bold Street. We always treat each other to a meal for our birthdays. Rock salt and chilli had tingled my tongue as I chewed the calamari.

  ‘Babes. How are you gonna meet someone if you don’t date?’

  I’d sucked the salty crumbs off my fingertips.

  ‘I have met someone,’ I’d said. ‘Chloe Roscoe’s dating days are done. The end.’

  ‘Since when the fuck do you refer to yourself in the third person?’

  ‘Since I met Jack Carmichael.’

  ‘I like his name. Is he fit?’

  ‘He’s hairy.’

  ‘How long you been keeping him a secret?’

  ‘Erm, I’m not you, pal. He’s no secret. I met him last week.’

  Beth had rolled her eyes, mocking me with a squeaky, annoying voice, using h
er fingers to create inverted commas. ‘“Chloe Roscoe’s dating days are done. The. End.”’

  I’d chucked a calamari ring at her nose. I don’t recall us speaking of Jack again that night.

  With the small suitcase full, I zip it up and move on to the larger one. Opening it out, I spot a lone, creased business card, printed with a photoshopped image of a beach.

  Samui Frog Bar & Grill—‘The best seafood in Koh Samui!’

  Jack had had king prawns, but I didn’t have seafood at this place; I’d opted for a chicken green curry. Hey, I’ve no regrets. It was delicious. And the setting alone was so magical, we could’ve been eating spaghetti hoops for all I’d cared.

  We’d taken a songthaew – a pickup-truck-like taxi – to Bophut Fisherman’s Village on the island of Koh Samui.

  ‘Mojito?’ Jack had asked as we wandered along, although it was more of an excited observation. ‘Mojito!’

  Like a kid to candy, I’d been drawn towards the infinite displays of beaded jewellery. When it comes to bracelets, bangles, even anklets, I can’t control myself. I’d been jingle-jangling so much I was basically wearing a warning bell. Something ice cold had pressed against my upper arm.

  ‘Mojito,’ Jack had said, again. He’d bought two from a street vendor selling freshly made cocktails. The plastic glass was pint-size, the contents sweet, sour and potent. ‘Cheers!’

  We’d meandered through the village sipping our mojitos through straws. The bars had been open onto the streets – no walls, no doors – cosy shacks gleaming with mood lighting in oranges, pinks and yellows. Traveller trousers had hung on rails around market-style shops, rag dresses dangling by their side. I’d been distracted by every trinket, every bamboo coaster. But Jack had been hungry.

  ‘Let’s just go to the next restaurant we pass,’ he’d suggested.

  So we did.

  Samui Frog Bar and Grill had a canteen feel to its interior; rows of square tables each with a single flower in a central vase. Mirrors decorated the main wall and a huge ornate statue of a frog stood proud by the bar. We were asked if we’d like a table inside or outside. When in Rome …

  A waitress had led the way to a small balcony, hazardous and not well lit. I could sense the sea, that subtle cold breeze, echoes of chatter from the sand. I hadn’t realised we were above sea level as the waitress started to descend, reminding us to watch our step. Obeying, I’d clutched the banister – a little rickety I recall – concentrating on my feet as the steep stairs went down, down, down. And then I looked up. Candlelit tables sat upon the sand, each cocooned in their own glow, scattered small fires creating a magical haze. Boats in the distance glittered on the water and the stars danced above us in the clear, black sky. I felt as though I’d entered a beautiful, inviting new world. The warm air embraced me as we sat at our table, water tickling my feet as my toes had sunk deeper into the soft sand.

  ‘It doesn’t get more romantic than this, does it?’ I had gasped.

  Jack had leant across the table and squeezed my hand.

  ‘And I didn’t even have to try,’ he’d chuckled.

  I held his gaze for a second longer than should have been comfortable, and yet, it was.

  The last thing to pack is Jack’s suit – the one he wore the night we met. I’m pretty sure he never wore it again after that. What would’ve happened if I hadn’t let him take that empty seat at the theatre? What if Dan Finnigan’s girlfriend had stayed in Japan a little longer? What if I’d dragged our Kit along? I wouldn’t be folding up a dead man’s clothes, packing for a holiday with no destination, would I? I throw the trousers in without folding them; squash the jacket on top. Then I flop my body over the suitcase and zip, zip, zip; then I grab it by the handles and with a burst of sudden strength, I hurl it off the bed, across the carpet. It knocks against the Ikea drawers, making a dint in the wood, but I don’t care.

  A Sainsbury’s carrier bag peeks out from under the bed, so I shake it open. I throw in Jack’s deodorant stick and his bottles of aftershave – some in their original box, some missing the cap – and an opened tin of hair wax, not that I remember him using it. I open his bedside table drawer and empty the contents into the carrier bag, too. Old papers, brown envelopes, his passport, three wire cables, God knows what for. I tie the handles in a knot. I’m on a roll now.

  Several carrier bags join the two packed suitcases in the hallway. Guilt bubbles inside me, getting rid of all this stuff. Jack’s stuff. From Jack’s flat. I place my hands against my forehead to release the pressure building up and close my eyes.

  Bang … Banging … One, two, three … I hear a shuffle.

  The door.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  I ruffle my hair, slap on a smile, open.

  ‘Chloe! Hey!’

  It’s Giles, from the second floor. He spots the suitcases.

  ‘Going away?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Quite the opposite, actually.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ Giles rubs his hands together, hunches his slender shoulders. A hint of autumn chill hangs in the air and he seems to be enjoying it. ‘Because Ingrid and I would love to invite you up for dinner. At a time that’s convenient for you, of course.’

  From beneath his neat spectacles he’s confident with eye contact, and he talks animatedly with his hands. I imagine he does a lot of presentations in work, pretends to live for the weekend but, in truth, loves his nine-to-five. His faint eyebrows stretch high as he waits for my response. How could I let him down? I don’t think I could bear to see his happy face drop.

  ‘That’d be boss,’ I say. ‘Just say when.’

  Giles gives a tiny, enthusiastic air punch.

  ‘Wonderful, wonderful, Chloe. We’re away this weekend, so how about next Saturday at seven?’

  ‘Next Saturday at seven.’

  ‘And please don’t bring anything except yourself. We’ve got it covered.’

  ‘Pasta?’ I ask, grinning; perhaps confusing poor Giles.

  ‘In abundance! Oh – sorry, do you have any dietary requirements?’

  ‘Not fussy at all.’

  Giles and Ingrid must already know that, having seen the pizza boxes piling up in the bins out front, the microwave meal containers and the random shit. I went through a phase of eating avocados, potato waffles and pickled onions, sometimes with a knife and fork but mainly with my fingers. I can’t even remember if it tasted good.

  ‘Thank you, Giles,’ I say. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  He repeats his air punch and skips away backwards. And I want to mean it; want to look forward to it. I’m touched by his kindness. Let’s face it, I’ve been nothing more than a slob in mourning for months, and they’re officially welcoming me into their home.

  I put the kettle on. I’m going to watch Netflix, start something new. I text Trish with a few options for dates to meet. I think about the wardrobe in the bedroom, sitting empty. Then I message Si.

  Evening hun. I’m envisioning you rocking in a dark corner, sweating over creased costumes. But fear not. I’ve found a solution and enough space to hang every last sequin. Now go to sleep. Night, night.

  The kettle boils.

  The man sat in the shopping trolley looks at me, unimpressed.

  ‘You’re nothing,’ I say. ‘Maybe this was all nothing.’

  Yet, if it was nothing, why can’t I take the picture down and put it with the rest of Jack’s things?

  34

  Is it bad that putting on some boots, leaving the flat to walk twenty steps and ringing the doorbell to Giles and Ingrid’s flat feels like a monumental effort?

  Maybe I won’t put boots on.

  I’m not really going out.

  This afternoon I’d bumped into Ingrid in the Sainsbury’s Local. I’d only nipped in for loo roll and I was in the queue for the till when she snapped me out of a trance by singing, ‘Yoo-hoo!’, which was a first. I didn’t think anybody said that in real life, especially below the age of seventy-five or not from the doorst
ep of a thatched cottage. I’d waved, of course. Said, ‘Hiya!’ Ingrid had waved back with an aubergine and then pointed to it and given me a thumbs up.

  ‘For tonight!’ she’d shouted with a crazed excitement, as if the aubergine was a bag of Ecstasy pills.

  Beside me, the floor-to-ceiling wine fridge had buzzed. I’d grabbed a bottle.

  ‘This too!’ I’d shouted back.

  ‘Oh, no need, Chloe. We have plenty.’

  ‘Don’t be soft. I’m not gonna come empty-handed.’

  ‘Giles is making fresh pasta!’

  God, they’re making a spectacular effort. I’d lifted the bottle to see what thoughtless choice I’d made. Blossom Hill. On offer, a quid off. I should’ve at least swapped it for an Oyster Bay but I’d suddenly been at the front of the queue and the fella behind had been giving me a gentle nudge. I was holding everyone up.

  Ugh. It feels so unnecessary to put on my boots and tie the laces just to go upstairs. I’m wearing black tights and an oversized jumper dress with a knitted leopard print; comfy and cosy, edging on smart. Slouch socks will work. Oh, come on. I can’t.

  When Ingrid answers the door, her makeup-free skin gleaming like a sunbeam, her natural smile straight off the billboard for a new holistic anti-ageing cream, she goes straight in for a hearty hug. A proper squeeze, in all the right places. I melt into her cashmere jumper. I want to stay here. Permanently.

  ‘Chloe, come on, come in. Take off your boots, make yourself at home.’

  I bend down to unlace my just-laced boots. Blood rushes to my head and I’m flustered with the effort. God help me if I ever find myself cooking aubergines and fresh pasta for a guest.

  ‘White or red?’ Giles calls from the kitchen.

  ‘White, please,’ I reply.

  If I’m honest, I fancy red, but there’s a hell of a lot of white stuff in this flat. I feel a bit like a penguin. Ingrid takes my bottle of Blossom Hill with such gratitude – as if I’m presenting her with a trophy – that I’m convinced she’s possibly (hopefully) never heard of it before. As she slinks off to the kitchen to put it in the fridge, I notice how she wipes her hand on her skinny jeans, wet from the cold condensation of the bottle. Giles’s head and upper body poke around the door frame and he waves, assuring me he’s not being rude, he’s just snowed under. He’s wearing a blue and white striped apron. The aubergine is in his hand.