Love, Almost

by Hayley Doyle

  ‘Cheers!’ Ingrid says, elegantly clinking her large wine glass – quarter-filled with a red I bet the Sainsbury’s Local does not stock – with my cold, delicate glass of white. I return the cheers with a ‘Woop!’ and sip.

  ‘God, that’s good,’ I say, a delightful tingle dancing along my tongue.

  ‘A wedding present,’ Ingrid tells me, almost apologetically. ‘My cousin knows her wine.’

  I think about my mum and Carol. No wonder I chose Blossom Hill.

  The gentle tones of electronic jazz filter through the room from carefully positioned speakers. It’s the sort of music I imagine is played by a live DJ at expensive beach bars during sundowners. Ingrid invites me to fall into a fluffy sofa and bounces herself down on the opposite one.

  ‘Chloe! Sit, sit!’

  ‘It’s so funny to be in here,’ I say.

  ‘Why?’ She looks around, startled, as if a joke might be hanging on the wall.

  ‘Oh, no. I mean, although I live in this actual house, it’s like stumbling upon a secret room, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, fantastic, Chloe.’

  ‘I mean, it’s practically Narnia.’

  Ingrid laughs and I gulp twice in succession.

  ‘It’s gorgeous, Ingrid.’

  It’s much bigger than my basement. It takes over the whole second floor. At first glance, the inviting lounge is very monochrome-meets-Morocco, just the right amount of black to break up the fluffy white rug, delicious white sofas, floor-to-ceiling white bookshelves. Black Moroccan lamps stand alone, burning with cosy white candles, casting a twinkling cocktail of light and shadow in sporadic patches around the room. A grand black hanging shade matches, the light dimmed to a flicker. Wooden shutter blinds dress the double-fronted bay windows. The dining table is smooth black, set for three but with four cage-like metal chairs. They look torturously uncomfortable. I bet they’re engineered to encourage the perfect posture.

  From the sofa, I gush about various pretty items dotted about. Oh, the stylish singular wedding photograph; oh, the coffee-table books on fashion and feminism; oh, the silver sculpture of a slim figure running. Ingrid calmly responds to all of my comments as if I’m interviewing her for the Sunday Times mag.

  ‘Yes! We got married in Dubrovnik. Popular, I know, I know.’

  ‘Yes! Giles has a talent for picking birthday gifts.’

  ‘Yes! My brother is an artist. He has a studio in Oslo.’

  Of course he does. I’m conscious of drinking my wine too quickly so I stand and wander across the carpet to admire the bookshelves. I sway to the electronic jazz, just a little.

  ‘I had so many good intentions of setting some time aside to do this on Jack’s shelves,’ I say, as I look at all the book spines arranged in colour order, red flowing into orange into yellow into green into blue into purple into black. ‘But, you know, tragedy struck.’ I accompany my words with a click of my fingers and a swing from my forearm, a silent, ‘Darn it’. There. I’ve done it. Addressed the white elephant – camouflaged well in this room – in a light-hearted fashion.

  She’s behind me now, Ingrid. Her hand on my shoulder. She doesn’t hesitate to turn me around and pull me close. I think she pecks me lightly on my cheek – or perhaps I’ve just imagined that – but I’m so taken aback that I try to jovially break apart from her, only to elbow the wine glass in her hand. It falls to the floor and a red pool in the shape of Africa bleeds into the white carpet.

  ‘Shit! I’m so sorry, Ingrid. I can’t believe it. Oh, shit …’

  Giles wanders in, apron on, smiling like an innocent puppy. He’s holding a glass of white wine in one hand and the bottle I presume to be the wedding present from Ingrid’s cousin in the other. I’m hit with a waft of warm garlic and spices from the kitchen, and I want to die.

  SPLAT!

  Giles has tipped his glass of wine onto the red stain, a perfect aim.

  ‘White gets rid of red,’ he sings, merrily.

  ‘Yes!’ Ingrid agrees, snatching the whole bottle from her husband and pouring the remaining contents all over the floor. And she’s laughing, as though this is a game they regularly play on a Saturday night. Giles has gone off to get ‘the cloth’. Not a cloth. The cloth. The one that magically removes wine stains created by clumsy guests.

  I’m apologising profusely, the sound of my voice whiney and irritating. Giles and Ingrid both tell me, ‘It’s nothing,’ and ‘It’s no trouble,’ and ‘Really, Chloe, it’s nothing.’ I don’t do a single thing to help. Ingrid insists that I make myself at home, again.

  ‘I already overstepped the mark,’ I cry.

  Giles jumps up to standing from a crouch. He clicks and points at the pink stain followed by a thumbs up and a closed-mouth grin, then repeats his routine in reference to the kitchen. Feeling the need to explain himself, he clears this throat.

  ‘Stain – tackled. Food – ready,’ he says, slapping his hands on his hips.

  Ingrid gives a ‘Yay!’ Then she pulls a cage-like chair out from beneath the dining table and gestures for me to sit. ‘Chloe, let’s eat, and you can talk to us as little or as much about Jack as you’d like. Your choice.’

  I’m so shocked at this suggestion that I just say, ‘Thanks.’

  We get through the burrata starter with politeness, made very easy by the universal language of good food. Giles and Ingrid are equally passionate about eating well and sourcing locally. The cheese is from a deli in Dulwich they were recommended by a work colleague. According to Ingrid, it’s their new favourite place on earth. Bold statement. The tomatoes are from Giles’s dad’s allotment. Pretending to know what the fuck I’m talking about, I ask who’s responsible for the delicious homemade pesto.

  ‘Sainsbury’s!’ Giles admits.

  Plates are cleared and it’s time for the main. Giles has made ravioli. I’m running out of improv so I thank them both for inviting me tonight.

  ‘I’d like to say it’s done me good getting out the house, but …’

  They laugh, heartily. Kindly.

  ‘So how are you guys?’ I ask. ‘Work going well?’

  ‘I’m very lucky,’ Ingrid smiles. ‘My work have been incredibly supportive, under the circumstances.’

  She speaks as if I’m clued up. But before I have to awkwardly ask what circumstances, Giles explains, with the same concise enthusiasm he used to describe his dad’s tomatoes.

  ‘We had a miscarriage,’ he says. ‘It was our second round of IVF.’

  Ingrid shrugs, leans her head into her left shoulder. ‘Maybe we’ll be third time lucky,’

  ‘At least we know we can get pregnant.’

  They’re saying the clichés, out loud, about themselves. I think of Beth and Fergus, how a similar situation drove them apart. In a thoughtless moment of what I’d thought to be support, I’d once told Beth she might be third time lucky. She’d told me to go fuck myself and only come back when I had something original to say. Now, as I chew this fresh homemade pasta, I wonder how Giles and Ingrid remain – or seem – so strong.

  ‘I’m forty next year,’ Ingrid says. ‘Hurry up ovaries!’

  ‘Yeah, forty’s approaching fast for all of us,’ I say, ashamed to bring the conversation back to me, but it seems the safest way to avoid saying the wrong thing. ‘I’m thirty-seven next month …’ and I stop talking. The rest of that sentence would be a waffling mess about how I’m unlikely to find another love of my life anytime soon, if ever, and the prospect of having a family has gone from being a big fat ‘yay’ to an even bigger and fatter ‘nay’ in less than a year now that I’m single.

  Oh God. Single.

  I haven’t thought of myself as single. I guess I’d been so busy with being grief-stricken that I hadn’t labelled myself. We weren’t married, so I’m not a widow. Why isn’t there a name for the partner left behind?

  Unless it’s simply ‘alone’.

  ‘Chloe, are you alright?’ Giles asks. He sounds genuinely concerned.

  ‘God, I’m dea
d sorry. Lost in me thoughts. I’m really sorry about your miscarriage. You’re both amazing and you’ll make amazing parents one day. And thanks for being so honest, you know, you didn’t have to tell me that, it’s so private. Me best friend’s had fertility struggles, and God, she’d be so mad I told you that. Anyway, you’re both strong. Positive. Stay that way. So, yeah …’ See? Wafflehead. Waffle Queen. Where are the waffles? Chloe’s mouth …

  ‘Oh, no. We’re not strong!’ Ingrid laughs. ‘We’re a mess, aren’t we, Giles?’

  ‘A total mess! Monumental.’

  ‘And the arguments it’s caused! Right, Giles?’

  ‘I’ve raised my voice more in the last few weeks than ever in my whole life. Ingrid’s been wondering who the hell she married, haven’t you? Who knew I could shout like that?’

  ‘It’s made me really hate you!’ She’s still laughing.

  ‘All these irrational outbursts,’ Giles says, splayed hands winding around helping him to get the words off his chest. ‘Blaming you, blaming me, back to blaming you. And that time I got mad about my brother posting a photo of his baby on Instagram, like he was doing it to annoy me! I broke a mug, didn’t I, Ingrid? Then blamed you again. I cooled off by walking to the Sainsbury’s Local and buying some superglue. I’m just so grateful we live in such an old house with thick walls. Poor old Neil downstairs would be putting in a complaint to Neighbourhood Watch!’

  I laugh. It’s not funny, but Ingrid’s laughter is infectious.

  ‘Neil?’ I say, catching a breath. ‘I’ve never met him, you know. I’ve heard him – and the wheels on his suitcases – but never actually met him.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be along shortly,’ Giles tell me. ‘He likes to pop up for a drink on a Saturday evening. Our doors are always open for our neighbours. Pudding?’

  Ingrid howls.

  ‘We’ve been together for almost a decade and it still makes me laugh when Giles says “pudding” for dessert. It’s such a silly word! Pud-ding, pud-ding, pud-ding!’

  Giles stands with a satisfying, ‘ahhhh’, as if he feels light, like a fairy in flight – although he’s eaten all his pasta – and starts to clear the plates. He offers me a choice of ice cream or lemon meringue or a bit of both, apologising for not baking something from scratch. Ingrid gasps and reminds Giles of the cheeseboard.

  ‘Blimey!’ Giles says. ‘Can’t believe I forgot about that.’

  We all agree on having the cheeseboard for pud-ding and Giles grabs another bottle of red from the wine rack, plonking it onto the table. He tells me just to holler if I want ice cream or lemon meringue and I’m so overwhelmed by the warm hospitality that I jump on the honesty bandwagon.

  ‘I’ve been doing stuff … without Jack,’ I blurt out. ‘As in, stuff we should’ve been doing together. That sounds so crazy out loud. Shit.’

  Giles stops spreading Camembert onto a cracker to give me direct eye contact.

  ‘Unfinished business?’ he asks; helping me, prompting me.

  ‘I even went to Thailand. Bangkok. And then to this little town in Vietnam.’

  Ingrid nods for me to go on as she stuffs her mouth with a large slice of blue cheese, sucking the tips of her fingers and then wiping her hands with the tea towel Giles left on the table.

  ‘It wasn’t long after Jack died. And it was stupid. I was convinced it’d mean something – God knows what – but I seemed to think I’d have some sort of epiphany and feel happy again. Or make sense of Jack being killed. And all it did was make everything worse.’

  ‘Worse than Jack dying?’ Ingrid asks. She really does have a knack, doesn’t she?

  ‘No. No, not worse. You’re right. But it definitely never made it better.’

  ‘There’s no quick fix for grief, Chloe,’ Giles says, edging the cheeseboard closer to me. ‘Something broke inside me the day my mother died. I can’t say it ever fixed. But now I try to accept that it’s changed, rather than broken. Easier said than done, though.’

  The gentle headspin created by the wine makes me speak before I think. ‘You knew your mother your whole life,’ I say. ‘I’d only known Jack for a smidgeon of mine, except I thought I was gonna know him for the rest of it. It’s made me do some really stupid things …’ I trail off, aware that I’ll sound unhinged if I mention the quest for the man sat in the shopping trolley. ‘God, I’m so sorry, Giles. I was really presumptuous then, wasn’t I? I hope you weren’t little when your mum—’

  Giles holds out his hand, gives it a shake, along with his head.

  ‘It’s okay, it’s fine,’ he says. ‘I was seventeen.’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell.’

  ‘No, really. I got a whole childhood.’

  Ingrid starts to clear the cheeseboard.

  ‘What stupid things did you do, Chloe?’ she asks. ‘Tell us, tell us!’

  ‘I kissed a guy.’

  In the silence as Giles and Ingrid wait for me to elaborate, I remember the message request I received from Justin, still unread. The thought of opening it fills me with the fear that he will mention that night and make me relive what we did. But who am I kidding? I don’t need a message to remind me. I torture myself with the memory daily.

  ‘What’s considered “too soon”?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t think like that, Chloe,’ Ingrid says. ‘We’re going to start trying for a baby again next month. Is that too soon? I don’t know. But it doesn’t concern anybody other than Giles and me. I would guess that the only person who cares about that kiss being “too soon” is you.’

  ‘Because nobody in Jack’s life gives a crap about me?’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘I was only with him for five months. They didn’t know me.’

  ‘Look, did kissing this guy hurt anybody?’

  I frown, shake my head.

  ‘You see? So long as you’re not hurting anybody, do whatever you need to do to feel better. Kiss a guy. So what? Kiss fifty guys! There’s no rules, no laws. Just get by. You’re doing great.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not. I hurt me best friend – I was so oblivious to the shit going on in her life. And I’ve hurt me mum. And me work colleague. ’Cause I’ve been selfish, or childish, or—’

  ‘Grieving?’ Giles suggests. ‘Sounds like the person you’re hurting most is yourself.’

  Ingrid nods, standing to pick up the cheeseboard and take it into the kitchen.

  ‘And don’t you think you’ve been hurt enough?’ she says over her shoulder, raising her voice slightly as she heads into the kitchen. ‘I went out shopping and bought a new dress yesterday because the alternative was to stay in bed and cry. And you know, I bought a lipstick, too. Something I never do. I just saw it and liked the colour and thought, yes, I’ll buy this. When I turned the lipstick upside down, its shade was called “Angel”. I’m not into things like that – hidden messages – but in that moment, I felt warmth. Silly, perhaps. But it’s how I felt. And it was good. Good must come from bad, Chloe. It must. Now give yourself a break. And Giles, give her some more wine.’

  I’m not sure this is the best idea, but I hold the stem of my wine glass as Giles tops me up. The candlelight around the room is dancing furiously. Giles takes out his phone and after a few taps, the electronic jazz – which had built up to quite a crescendo – stops abruptly.

  ‘Time for a bit of nineties trance?’ Giles asks. ‘Or Motown? Meatloaf?’

  ‘Erm … Motown over Meatloaf, please. No offence to Meatloaf, like.’

  ‘He’d take over, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘And probably overstay his welcome,’ I laugh, as does Giles.

  That unmistakeable sixties sound of rattling drums fills the air, and I’m glad to be here. Ingrid returns with a small cordless vacuum in her hand and zaps up the crumbs on the table like a Ghostbuster.

  ‘How about a game of Trivial Pursuit?’ Ingrid asks, leaning her weight onto one hip and resting the nozzle of the vacuum on her shoulder pretty damn stylishly. ‘I’m terrible at it, but I like to try my best.
I’m much better at Pictionary—’

  ‘Oh, I love Pictionary,’ I butt in. ‘Ah, of course. We need a fourth person.’

  I look to the unused chair, the cage that nobody has sat upon this evening. If Jack had gone to work that day, he’d be sitting in it now. We’d be about to play Pictionary with our charming neighbours, or perhaps be having a light-hearted debate about whether we should play Trivial Pursuit instead. Jack had a love/hate relationship with board games. When I tried to suggest a game of Scrabble in the local pub, he’d told me about how competitive his mum and his brothers were and how Christmas Day always ended in arguments. Apparently Jack and his dad would slip away from the dining table, unnoticed, and play a few rounds of poker together in the study. My heart sinks as I think about John Carmichael and what he might do this Christmas when Trish stops at nothing to get the brown Arts and Literature cheese. Where will he go?

  There’s a knock on the door, a friendly rat-tata-tat-tat.

  ‘Ah, that’ll be Neil,’ Giles says, jumping up to answer.

  Keen to put a face to the owner of the noisy suitcase, I stand and hold out my hand as Giles introduces us. Neil is so tall he ducks to enter the flat. His handshake is surprisingly warm and full of gusto. He’s older than I imagined, perhaps older than my dad, with curly grey hair and a gentle but crisp clear voice. He reminds me of my old English teacher, who managed to make even Coriolanus interesting. Before he removes his coat, he reaches inside a pocket and removes a large Toblerone. Ingrid applauds and Giles jumps with delight.

  ‘He never fails!’ Giles adds, patting Neil on the back.

  ‘Duty-free,’ Neil tells me. ‘Are you as crazy about chocolate as these two?’

  ‘I don’t know how crazy they are,’ I say, ‘but I’m pretty fucking crazy.’

  ‘And we love her!’ Ingrid cries. ‘Now, Neil, you’ve arrived right on time. We’re about to play Pictionary.’