Love, Almost

by Hayley Doyle

  But why hide it behind the picture?

  Why not just give it to me before I went to work?

  The train emerges from the tunnel and my 4G returns. I pass the time scrolling through birthday messages on Facebook, mostly people I haven’t seen for years who aren’t aware of what’s happened to me this year. There’s a few who’ve acknowledged it, some keeping it subtle. Some, not.

  Si Sully

  How could I not? x

  … and a YouTube link to ‘Being Alive’ from Sondheim’s Company.

  Gareth Allen-Roscoe

  HB. You deserve the world

  Carol Dooley

  Happy Birthday dear Chloe. Your mum said you don’t want to celebrate this year and that’s understandable but hope you have a lovely day anyway and get spoilt rotten and enjoy a drink or three. See you soon. Your mum misses you loads. Love Carol and family. Xxxxx

  Under an old photo of me as a baby:

  Sue Roscoe

  Can’t believe I’m the mother of a thirty-seven year old. Where does the time go? Always a baby to me Chloe Roscoe love you millions xxx

  There’s never been a better time to delete my account.

  I tap through the settings, get a bit lost in the whole app. Why’s it so hard to delete? And hold on – if I do delete it, do I lose everything? Forever? Maybe I need to spend some time going through my profile, seeing what I want to keep and what I’m happy to kiss goodbye to.

  I abandon Facebook – it’s too complicated to think about – and switch to Instagram. I find the unread message from Justin, still there …

  Shit! The train doors slide open and I almost miss my stop!

  Almost.

  I run to the house and down the stairs to the basement flat. I can’t get my key in the door quick enough. I don’t kick off my Converse; I let my suede coat drop to the floor and it lands upon two envelopes, one pink and one lilac, Liverpool postmarks. I’ll open them later. I’m not going to hesitate any longer. I’m doing it. I drag a stool to the cooker and clamber onto it, kneeling up and steadying myself with my hands against the mug cupboard. I reach over. One hand. I tap the bottom edge of the picture, lifting it gently, sliding my fingers beneath the canvas. With a little push up, it unhooks from the wall. Afraid of what might fall down from behind it, I jump down from the stool and duck, but I trip, fall, and lose my grip on the picture.

  I land on my hands and knees, the kitchen tiles a cold slap to my palms.

  The picture tumbles down beside me, clattering like a dull cymbal.

  My eyes dart about the floor, looking for something.

  What? What? What am I looking for?

  I pull myself up on the work surface and scour the hobs, hunt behind the chopping board. Did something fall down the back of the toaster? All I find is old crumbs. How old are those crumbs?

  I shake the picture.

  Nothing falls out.

  ‘No!’ I cry out. ‘There can’t be nothing!’

  There must be something.

  I pace the flat. I need to sense him, feel him. But I can’t. It’s been a while since I imagined Jack, and even longer since his presence was so huge that I believed he was still here. His scent has been washed away with the candles I’ve burnt, the windows I’ve opened. His clothes are in his childhood home. His bedsheets have been washed. The bathroom is a feminine shrine to Boots, and the last male deodorant in there was Freddie’s. I pick up the picture of the man sat in the shopping trolley, hold it out: just canvas on a wooden frame. I shake it again.

  ‘No!’ I cry again.

  I close my eyes. Tears.

  They kiss my eyelashes, stream down my cheeks.

  ‘No!’

  For almost six months, I’ve been searching for answers to questions I was never asked, holding tight onto something that was already gone. I wail, releasing long, loud sobs, desperate to be free.

  And then I see it.

  Through my tears, through the canvas, through the white wall that now hangs bare. I see it all. Everything that was behind the picture.

  Everything.

  I see my lips, intense red and puckering up to the mirror as I apply an extra coat for good luck. I see the empty seat at the Everyman Theatre, the one that Dan Finnigan should’ve sat in. I see Jack’s suit, his hand brushing my leg, the froth from his pint that sat on the tip of his beard that I didn’t have the heart to tell him about, the chips and curry sauce we ate for breakfast the morning after because it wasn’t morning, it was three in the afternoon – oh yeah, we’d stayed in bed until then.

  I see the trains, going north, going south, meeting in the middle; the gin in a tin and packets of M&S crisps; always meeting by the Burger King.

  I see the flights and the frogs, Patpong and ping-pong, a Ladyboy winking.

  I see the key.

  I see the school, the double doors, the desk, the interview, the pints and pizza after I got the job, and God – that was it – the night we’d joked about Vegas – that was it.

  I see Jack pulling my socks off my feet when I’m watching Netflix, squashing them into a ball and trying to throw them into an empty mug, annoying the shit out of me every time he did it, and he did it a lot. I see him missing and knocking the mug – which wasn’t empty after all – onto the carpet.

  I see his chest resting against mine, keeping me warm – sometimes too warm – and I’d have to wait until he fell asleep to unravel myself.

  I see us brushing our teeth, elbowing each other until it became a strange little dance, bobbing and swaying in the small cabinet mirror.

  I see his phone and him fixating at the footy scores.

  I see us getting Belgian waffles in Covent Garden and both coming to the conclusion that they smell better than they taste.

  I see us wake at four in the morning, gravitating into each other, making love that’s slow and sleepy.

  I see us in a beer garden, laughing about the ridiculous names people call their kids these days and losing it when we imagine a baby named Barry.

  I see Jack walk in on me having a moment, playing the Evita soundtrack and giving it my best Eva Perón out of the bedroom window when I thought I had the flat to myself, and his disgust at either my singing or my taste, or both, but I never asked.

  I see us dancing, headbanging and slow dancing, whatever took our fancy, whilst swigging from a bottle of Prosecco, ’cause it was Friday and ’cause we could, and we’d talk about how this was it, we did it, we found each other before forty.

  I see us bickering, Jack making me a fried egg because he asked if I wanted eggs and I said, ‘ooh yeah, fried please,’ and he hated making fried eggs because he always broke the yolk, but he never told me, just muttered under his breath, passive aggression, which led to us yelling at one another, our first fight, which made us both cry, and – eventually – laugh.

  I see Rudolf.

  I see the fridge and Jack telling me he’d won a raffle.

  I see my hand encased by Jack’s, in a kebab shop near the flat, and we order shish taouk and chips and extra garlic sauce and as we wait, we kiss, like really kiss – snog – and the fella behind the counter mocks us, calls us a pair of lovesick teenagers, and we keep kissing – snogging – our teeth touching because we’re both smiling, bashful yet brazen, a kiss that’s addictive and desperate and ends with sex.

  I see the pecks on the cheek, the lips, the neck; busy kisses that get us through busy weeks and that morning peck before rushing off to work. I see the Rice Krispies. I see myself opening the fridge and saying, ‘we’re out of milk again’.

  I see Jack.

  And then I go.

  And I never ever see him again.

  ‘No, no,’ I sob, heaving with cries, emptying out all I have until there’s nothing left.

  I can’t keep looking for something which isn’t here.

  I grab hold of the picture again, but I don’t look at the man sat in the shopping trolley. Instead, I turn it around, look at the canvas stretched over the wooden fr
ame. This picture was from the height of our happiness. I’d written him a message, short and sweet, but now faded, smudged. I’d used a pencil – the pen in my satchel had run out of ink before I got through the first letter. The message simply said, of course:

  And I reckon I love you, too, Jack Carmichael.

  I blink, hard. Thick, satisfying tears drip from my cheeks and splash onto the canvas. Right there, above the words I originally wrote, is another sentence, added later and written in bold capitals, in permanent black marker pen:

  I RECKON I LOVE YOU, CHLOE ROSCOE.

  This is what we were. What we will always be.

  Not love. But almost.

  I breathe in.

  I breathe out.

  I’m alive, and at last, I let go.

  EPILOGUE

  Three months later

  ‘That’s the last one,’ Si says, relieved.

  Lugging boxes up two flights of stairs isn’t Si’s forte. He takes a crumpled tissue from beneath his sleeve and dabs his brow, then checks himself from head to toe in the long mirror on the wall of my bedroom. He turns to the side, sticks out his belly and grabs it, giving the small roll of flab an angry shake.

  ‘Malcolm!’ Si exclaims. ‘He puts full-fat cream in everything!’

  ‘It’s called the Relationship Stone,’ I tell him. ‘Everybody puts on weight when they fall in love.’

  ‘Thanks for confirming I’ve let myself go, Chloe.’

  ‘To be honest, hun, I think you look better than ever.’

  Si blushes and his eyelashes genuinely flutter. It’s adorable to see him so happy. He digs into his pockets again and takes out his keys. He removes the keyring and holds it out for me to take. It’s a silver flip-flop with the Mamma Mia! logo printed on the sole.

  ‘A reminder of our first date which wasn’t a date,’ he grins. ‘And how far you’ve come.’

  ‘How far we’ve both come,’ I smile, dangling the flip-flop between our noses.

  ‘I better go. You know how I can’t abide being late.’

  ‘Give Malcolm me love. Enjoy the matinee.’

  ‘And you enjoy the party.’

  I attach the flip-flop to my keys and toss them onto the king-size bed, waiting for the front door to slam shut. As it does, I release a sigh followed by taking an indulgent breath in through my nose, and out. The space is all mine to enjoy – and wow, there’s a lot of it.

  I moved out of the Carmichaels’ basement flat this morning. I gave my official notice after Christmas, knowing wholeheartedly that in order to get on with my life, I needed to get out. Finding a new place that’s affordable but suitable has been a challenge. My mum tries to entice me back up north daily; this morning it was news of a fabulous new boutique opening on Bold Street, yesterday a photo of the sun setting on the Mersey. Tempting as it is, I’m officially a permanent member of staff at the school now. Plus I love the friends I’ve made in London. I’ll miss being so close to Giles and Ingrid, but they’ve put their flat on the market in the hope of finding a house in the area, and Neil travels so much, he’s never there anyway. We’re all going to a dim sum place in Soho next week, before he heads off to Brazil.

  As of today, I’m Si’s flatmate. Sounds like a step backwards, right? A regression to student life, or a refusal to grow up? I assure you, it’s the opposite. You see, Si’s never at home these days – he spends the majority of his time at Malcolm’s mews house in Hampstead. I mean, who wouldn’t? I spent a weekend there recently and as the log fire burnt bright, casting an orange haze across his immaculately kept bookshelves, I expected Emma Thompson to pop over with an apple pie or Bill Nighy to rock up and give us a well-meaning back-handed compliment. Anyway, Si’s old flatmate has relocated to Scotland, so he had a spare room with an en suite bathroom to fill. I’m not joking when I say this room is bigger than that whole basement flat. My plan is to flatshare and save, so I can get a deposit together for my own place and finally get on the property ladder.

  I’ll unpack the boxes later. My clothes are already hanging up and I run my fingers along the garments, unsure whether to change my outfit. I’m wearing a neon-pink jumper with denim miniskirt, tights and boots. It’s the neon pink I’m unsure about. I’m going to a gender reveal party. I don’t want to look like I’m hoping for the baby to be a girl. Plus if the baby is a girl, doesn’t neon pink scream gender stereotype? Help! I’m a gender reveal party virgin. What’s the vibe? At least it’s not a baby shower. They are, by far, the most difficult social events to nail. I mean, there’s usually booze for all except the mama-to-be, but nobody drinks it. There’s always games, and they always suck. Guessing the size of the bump? Please, somebody tell me, who the fuck thought that was a bright idea for shits and giggles? And talking of shits, the last baby shower I went to had real nappies open on the nibbles table filled with Malteasers.

  Ah, fuck it. I’m sticking with the pink. It goes great with my hair. It’s currently an ashy-grey silver, and honestly, I love it.

  Do you know what else I love?

  The picture of the man sat in the shopping trolley.

  Thanks to Justin, it now has a whole new meaning.

  So, yeah, I finally read his message.

  During my time with Jack, we’d had the odd chat about Christmas – you know, family traditions, memories of meeting Santa – but we never discussed how we’d spend the next one. We never got that far. In the end I’d enjoyed a quiet Christmas back at home, but I stayed with Kit and Gareth rather than my mum and dad. They got a sofa bed as a wedding gift from Gareth’s aunt, so luckily I wasn’t forced to spend Christmas Eve in a tent. I realise I’ve said enjoyed. I did. With the strength and love of my brother and brother-in-law, we embraced a different Christmas, indulged in festive activities we always said we’d do each year but never got round to doing; ice skating, going to see It’s a Wonderful Life at the Philharmonic Hall, building a gingerbread house with Gareth’s nieces. On New Year’s Eve, sitting in Kit and Gareth’s kitchen with Mabel nibbling my slouch socks, and before getting my creative genius into a serious game of Pictionary, I decided to read Justin’s message;

  Hey there Chloe, look what I did. I hope this makes you smile. Jx

  Attached was a photo. Of Justin. Sat in a shopping trolley.

  Outside a Seven Eleven at night-time, he was giving a double thumbs up. His long legs, in purple traveller trousers patterned with tiny white elephants, were outstretched and crossed at the ankles, his calves resting on the edge of the trolley, his flip-flops flapping away from his hardened heels. Behind bushier facial hair than I’d remembered him with, his grin was goofy, his eyes dancing with a self-conscious chuckle. I imagine he’d asked another backpacker to take his picture and maybe there was a faff, or somebody walked past the pose, allowing Justin a bit too much time to feel silly, wishing he hadn’t bothered with the effort.

  Beneath the photo was another message, sent some days later.

  I hope this picture didn’t offend? That wasn’t my intention at all. I just wanted you to see a guy sitting in a trolley. A real guy. Somebody you spoke to. Somebody you knew stuff about. I could print this photo a thousand times and give it away to random strangers, all of whom will just see a guy they don’t know. It will mean nothing to them. But those who do know me will see something. They’ll see part of my story. They might know about my marriage and wonder if I’m okay. Or it will remind them of me acting like a dork in high school. It could prompt somebody to check in on my parents, wonder if I’m still into snowboarding (I am!), ask when I’m coming home or where I’m going next. What I’m trying to say is, I’m a real guy, with a real story. The guy in your picture isn’t nobody, isn’t nothing. He’s just a guy who you don’t know. Whether he was posing for a picture to make souvenirs or not, he will have a childhood, a family, a thought to the future of some sort. You might never know the story behind his picture, but there will be a story. Like mine. Like yours. Jx

  Below this message, the following day, Justin had
added two more photos.

  Both images were of people I don’t know sitting in the same trolley outside the Seven Eleven. One of a young Thai girl, cross-legged with her smiling head popping over the edge, giving the peace sign. The other a Western woman, plump and sweating, her hair pulled up into a high bun and her tongue sticking out. Justin included a further message;

  The Thai girl is Sopa. She’s seventeen and her family have a small laundry business in Bangkok. She has two sisters. Her passion is singing and she played ‘Hero’ by Mariah Carey on her phone and sang along to it right there on the street. She was amazing! Her dream is to go to London one day and become a student.

  The other photo is Nat. She’s British, from a place called Huddersfield. Do you know it? She’s on her honeymoon but her new husband ate some king prawns in the hope his seafood allergy had magically disappeared, and he’s room-bound, or in her words ‘loo-bound’. She’s a TV script writer and huge fan of Leeds United. Her mom died last year and she found her whole wedding tough to get through. I had a few drinks with her and when it comes to doing shots, you and her could be kindred spirits!

  Anyway, I could have taken more photos. That happened to be a super friendly Seven Eleven! I hope you’re doing great and doing whatever makes you happy. I’m heading back to Canada in the spring. If you’d ever like to visit, see the sights, don’t be a stranger. Jx

  When I’d finished reading Justin’s messages, our Kit slid an opened Cadbury’s selection box across the table. Along with Mabel, he’d sat with me as I’d read, for no other reason than to be there. The Wispa and the chocolate buttons had already mysteriously disappeared so I selected the Fudge, chewing the soft sweetness quietly. I’d passed my phone to Kit, opened the Dairy Milk and broke it into two halves to share with him as he read what Justin had to say. Mabel stopped nibbling my slouch socks; my feet were warm and heavy. I could feel her heartbeat as she slept, the gentle comforting vibrations of her snores.