The Time of Our Lives

by Portia MacIntosh

  It’s amazing, how much you can tell about a person from their Facebook feed.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, Whitesnake’s “Slide It In” isn’t going to hit the spot, is it?’

  Tom sniggers at my choice of words.

  ‘Well, I think Kat will get her way,’ he says.

  ‘My money is on Eighties – bloody hell, how many flights of stairs are there? This place is like a labyrinth.’

  ‘These are the last few steps,’ he tells me. ‘Actually, there’s a door here that leads straight into the marquee. I’ve seen the staff using it.’

  ‘We’re probably not supposed to use it,’ I reply. ‘Let’s just walk around.’

  ‘Listen though, music … it sounds like we’re missing their dance.’

  ‘But if it’s closed …’

  ‘Luca, it’s just a door,’ Tom says, followed by one of his easy laughs. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

  ‘OK,’ I say as we approach the door. ‘If you think it’s better for slinking in …’

  I follow Tom through the doorway, which leads straight onto the dance floor. It only takes me a second to realise that we are just a few feet away from Matt and Kat, who are currently in the middle of their first dance. We are so close to them, in fact, that we’re actually standing in their spotlight.

  Everyone’s eyes were on them; now, they’re on us too. Our audience looks confused, seeing us burst onto the scene like this. And Tom thought we were so clever, sneaking in through the staff door … that’s the last time I listen to him.

  I just stand there, awkwardly frozen on the spot. I don’t know what do but it doesn’t matter, Tom has this. He takes me by the hand and places the other on the small of my back.

  ‘Are we … are we crashing their first dance?’ I ask him quietly.

  ‘Looks like it,’ he replies. ‘But if we own it, it will look like it was on purpose.’

  ‘Will it though?’ I reply in disbelief.

  ‘I’m the best man and you’re the only bridesmaid without swollen feet,’ he whispers back as we slow dance. Finally Matt and Kat notice us next to them. For a moment they look confused, but they carry on dancing. To be honest, I don’t think they care that we’ve joined in. They look so in love and so happy.

  ‘It’s practically a requirement that we dance together.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I reply with a smile. ‘I daren’t even look at our audience. I’m so embarrassed.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ Tom says, pulling me closer. ‘Have you noticed what song we’re dancing to?’

  For a second, I forget my embarrassment, or how fast my heart is beating being so close to Tom (coupled with the four flights of stairs I just hurried down) and I listen to the music. We’re dancing to a cover of REO Speedwagon’s ‘Can’t Fight This Feeling’ and, as soon as I realise, I take a deep, sharp breath.

  ‘It’s …’

  ‘It’s our song,’ he replies with a smile. ‘You remember that night?’

  ‘I do,’ I reply. How could I forget it? Tom pulled me close – close like we are now – and slow danced with me. I remember melting into his arms, feeling so safe and happy, until we were interrupted. Then it was like someone pulled the rug from under us. But this time we’re on a dance floor – we’re supposed to be dancing. There’s nothing to stop us this time.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, erm … the bride and groom would like to invite you onto the dance floor with them,’ the DJ says. He sounds a little confused, reading the announcement when he’s supposed to, because we’ve definitely jumped the gun.

  As soon as we’re joined by plenty of others, I feel myself relax. Without really thinking about it, I rest my head on Tom’s chest. He gives me a squeeze. We couldn’t be physically closer right now if we tried. It’s a shame we feel so far apart otherwise. It’s a horrible thing, to run into the person you’ve always believed you’re supposed to be with when you’re both with other people … it’s even worse when only the other person is probably going to end up with someone else, and you’re so very, very alone.

  ‘Tell me this isn’t fate,’ he whispers into my ear.

  ‘Everyone keeps talking about fate today,’ I reply with a sigh. ‘Like everything happens for a reason, and everything happens exactly as it is supposed to, to ensure we all end up where we’re supposed to be.’

  ‘What if that’s true?’ he asks.

  I lift my head to look at him. He’s deadly serious.

  ‘Where’s my sceptic, atheist, cynical friend gone?’ I ask him.

  ‘He’s under the influence of an Eighties power ballad,’ he replies. ‘Or a cover of one, at least. Hey, I suppose we were both right.’

  ‘We were?’

  ‘Yeah. You said Eighties, I said modern. This cover sounds like both, so we’re both right.’

  ‘That’s the key to a perfect relationship, right?’ I reply.

  ‘What, us both being right?’ he asks.

  I laugh.

  ‘No, compromise. They compromised on a song they’d both love.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t expect you two to be dancing with us,’ Kat says.

  I was so caught up in Tom, I forgot there was anyone else in the room. But the song has ended and Matt and Kat are standing next to us.

  ‘We wondered through the wrong door,’ Tom says. ‘Best cover-up I could think of.’

  Kat smiles. I’m relieved she isn’t mad at us for ruining it.

  ‘Luca, what did you think of the song?’ Matt asks.

  ‘One of my favourites,’ I reply. ‘I hadn’t heard the cover before though.’

  ‘It’s from Glee,’ he laughs. ‘Kat loves Glee, I love the song … you’d never know, right?’

  ‘Wow, you wouldn’t,’ I reply. Well, I definitely wouldn’t, because I haven’t seen any Glee.

  ‘Buddy, maybe don’t tell anyone else that,’ Tom tells him with a chuckle.

  ‘Right,’ he replies. ‘Well, I think we’re going to have another dance, so we’ll catch you two later.’

  ‘Fancy another dance?’ Tom asks me.

  The DJ is playing ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’ by Whitney Houston.

  ‘Erm …’

  ‘Go on,’ he says. ‘What if we don’t see each other for another ten years?’

  There’s something about his face, about his smile, about his eyes … I can’t say no.

  ‘OK,’ I reply.

  ‘Unless you do want to go for that drink with me in Manchester,’ Tom eventually says as we move to the music.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Did you always play so hard to get?’

  ‘I might be moving to London,’ I tell him.

  ‘Since when?’ he asks, taken aback.

  ‘It’s a recent development,’ I admit. ‘Pete said he’d put me forward for a job.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I watch the smile fall from his face and the colour drain from his cheeks.

  ‘So, you’re just going to leave? Just like that?’

  ‘I mean, it’s of no concern to you and yours, is it?’

  Tom pulls me close to him again. I feel like he’s about to say something when, for the second time in ten years, our dancing is interrupted by the rug being pulled from under me, but this time it’s literal. I catch a glimpse of Tom as I slowly and clumsily make my ungraceful descent and I see the look on his face change. He reaches out to grab me, and I try to grab his hand but it’s no use, he can’t get a hold of me – and isn’t that just the story of my life? As I’m about to hit the ground I wonder to myself just how much more embarrassing this scenario can get. And then I hit my head on the speaker on the floor next to us.

  Chapter 26

  Then – 2nd June 2009

  I’m never convinced I’ve been to a party, unless it ends with me in my room, alone and in tears. ‘What am I upset about today?’ I hear you ask. What am I always upset about? Men. It’s always – always – bloody men.

  Things with Alan just aren’t working. It’s n
ot that he isn’t good-looking, or that he isn’t a nice guy, deep down, when he’s not telling me I’m getting fat. It’s just … something is missing, and it isn’t just that he isn’t Tom. I’ve been going with the flow, waiting for the strong feelings to kick in, but they haven’t yet, and if they haven’t four months down the line, I think it’s safe to say they aren’t going to, are they?

  With our third year coming to an end, and Alan planning on moving back home to Norwich, I’ve been forced to think carefully about what I want, and I just don’t want Alan. This relationship doesn’t work anyway, so it definitely doesn’t stand a chance long distance. I gave it my best shot, but I just don’t think he’s right for me, and I don’t think I’m right for him either.

  When I told him we were having a house party tonight, he had absolutely no interest in coming – which wasn’t surprising, but it felt like the motivation I needed to break it off with him. I brought up the fact that we had nothing in common, ready to break up with him, but then he did something that caught me completely off guard … he said he’d come to the party. I was taken aback and quickly lost the nerve to break up with him – well, my whole break up speech was based on the fact that he’s never interested in doing the things I wanted to do, and there he was, suddenly saying he would do something that I wanted to do.

  Flash-forward to now and the party is well and truly over, both here in the house, and between Alan and me.

  You can tell the house party is over by the bodies littered all around the room, like the end of a battle between two sides. The music is still playing, but there isn’t a sign of life anywhere. It’s just me, walking through the hallway, like the lone survivor of a zombie apocalypse.

  It’s amazing really, that there are people crashing here, because Matt’s Eighties playlist is still going strong. You know it’s been a good party when the guests stay so long, and have such a good time, that they happily fall asleep.

  It’s coming up to 2 a.m., but while we’re pretty late in the day (or early in the morning, if that’s the way you operate) this is a relatively early night for us, and our parties.

  Tonight’s theme, selected by Matt – the only other housemate who shares my passion for the decade – was the Eighties, and we definitely partied like it was the Eighties, that’s for sure.

  I was having a great time … until Alan showed up. For someone who was supposedly making an effort, he made no effort at all.

  I know that not everyone likes to participate in fancy dress, but Eighties-themed attire is not exactly a bizarre spectacle to behold if you don’t want it to be. Sure, some of us have gone all-out, but simply wearing jeans and a T-shirt would’ve done the trick. And if he didn’t want to dress up, he could’ve at least dressed nice. Instead, Alan turned up in his gym gear.

  I definitely went all out for this one, and I’m so glad that I did, seeing as though this is probably the last party we’ll have before we all move out. I made my newly peroxide coloured hair absolutely massive and I got into my Madonna groove with a heavily accessorised black outfit, topped off with a black bow in my hair.

  Everyone else came dressed up too … everyone but Alan. And then he did nothing but complain. He didn’t like the music, or any of the party games. He complained about the food (what kind of student complains about free pizza?) and he even complained about the Eighties décor for the evening because, all around the house, we’d made these near little lines of sherbet, to give the party a real Eighties vibe. But it was just sweets. It was just a bit of fun. The whole night was fun, but Alan was having none of it. As far as I’m concerned, it seems like Alan just doesn’t know how to have fun. Fun to Alan is three sets of fifty reps, followed by a protein shake – and you don’t get much of either of those things at house parties.

  Maybe because he was being especially boring, I had more to drink that I usually would at these kinds of gatherings. I think it was that, coupled with the fact that Tom and Cleo were here, both looking amazing in their Eighties gear, both all over each other. The last time I saw them, they were cuddled up on the sofa together. I was jealous anyway – of course I was. I still feel like it should be me on that sofa with him, not her. But seeing them together and then walking into the kitchen, where Alan told me off in front of everyone for eating a slice of pizza … well, that was it. I’d had enough.

  ‘Are you really going to eat that?’ he asked me.

  ‘I am,’ I told him. ‘I’m going to eat this, and then maybe another one, and if you have a problem with that I’ll eat you too.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ he replied. A blatant dig at the fact that there hasn’t been much going on in the bedroom with us recently but … I guess I just don’t fancy him. Something is just missing, and it’s something that I need to be happy.

  At that point, it really felt like there was no turning back, so I took him to my bedroom and sat him down, ready to lay my cards on the table. At first I tried to be subtle, gentle even … but the big, dumb, meathead assumed I’d taken him up there to shag him, after he made that little dig about our sex life. I didn’t want to hurt him or make him feel bad, but the last thing I wanted to do was sleep with him. I didn’t want to be intimate with him. I didn’t want to be with him at all … but I just couldn’t bring myself to be cruel to him. I felt so heartless, dumping him, but that was no reason to stay with him, unhappy … so I lied to him to spare his feelings. I told him that it wasn’t him, that is was me. That I had a problem with commitment.

  I might have spared his feelings a little, but Alan still got upset. Very upset, in fact. He shouted at me, told me I was making the biggest mistake of my life, that he was going to be someone someday, and I was going to be single forever if I kept pushing people away. Before storming out, his final words to me – or rather, about me – were him musing about what my problem was, but I know what my problem is. No matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, my problem is that he isn’t Tom.

  I take a sip as I hover in the kitchen for a second, debating whether or not to poke my head into the living room, to see if Tom and Cleo are still there. I’ll bet they are, snuggling on the sofa, fast asleep together. I don’t know why I want to look – it would be painful to look – but I just can’t help myself.

  I brace myself as I look through the door, but the last thing I’m prepared to see is Tom, sitting on the sofa, wide awake and alone. I jump out of my skin.

  ‘Oh my gosh, you scared me,’ I say.

  ‘Sorry,’ he replies with a half-smile.

  Tom is wearing a cream suit (with the sleeves rolled up on the jacket, of course) with a pink T-shirt underneath. His hair, which is usually spiked up as tall as gravity will allow, is straight and flat, and hangs down around his face – something I’ve never seen before and it makes him look so different. But the thing that stands out the most is the glum look on his face, and the fact that Cleo is nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Look at you,’ I say to him. ‘You look fresh out of Miami Vice.’

  ‘That was the idea,’ he replies. ‘You look … well … not too different to usual.’

  ‘You know I love the Eighties,’ I say. ‘The clothes, the music. It’s the main thing Matt and I have in common. He says he was born at the wrong time, that being born in the late Eighties meant he was too young to enjoy it.’

  I feel a text message come through on my phone. It’s from Alan, saying that he thinks we can make it work, that we can both change, that if I reply to him right now, he’ll come back and he’ll make things right. I consider whether I’m being too critical of him … perhaps half our problem is that I just can’t help but compare him to Tom. Am I going to do this with every man I meet?

  ‘You had a good night?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ I lie. ‘You?’

  ‘Erm, I’ve had better,’ he says. ‘I think Cleo and I are over.’

  Those are the last words I expected to hear him say. I feel my eyebrows shoot up and my eyes widen.

  ‘Oh no,
what happened?’ I ask, sitting down next to him.

  ‘I’m just not sure we’re right for each other,’ he says. ‘I think we want different things. She wants to go travelling, pretty much as soon as we finish uni, but I’ve got this summer work placement at Manchester Live. I’ll probably make more cups of coffee than I’ll write articles for the website, but it’s a foot in the door and I’ve been really looking forward to it.’

  ‘I totally get it,’ I assure him. ‘Alan and I just broke up.’

  ‘Luca, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine, really. We wanted different things too.’

  ‘You don’t think you can work it out?’ he asks.

  ‘Sometimes people are just wrong for each other and there’s nothing that can be done to make it work,’ I reply. ‘But I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Cleo and I argue a lot,’ he confesses, but I already knew that. I think everyone knows that. They’re always having these big arguments … but then they always make up again. ‘But I think this is just too much this time, expecting me to give up my placement to travel. We could travel after, or years from now – but no, it has to be now, because Cleo says so.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.

  ‘What a sad pair we are,’ he replies with a big sigh. ‘Let’s not wallow, let’s dance.’

  ‘Now?’ I laugh.

  ‘Now.’ He stands up and offers me his hand.

  REO Speedwagon’s ‘Can’t Fight This Feeling’ starts playing. Isn’t it funny, how life always has a way of imitating art … or is art imitating life?

  I wrap my arms around Tom’s neck as he places his hands on my waist.

  ‘How did we end up in such a mess?’ he asks. ‘I thought we were the sensible ones? Well, after Ed, at least.’

  ‘Yeah, no one is as sensible as Ed,’ I reply. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s weird how things play out, isn’t it? I didn’t think things would end up this way. The way I ended up with Cleo …’

  ‘Ah, don’t worry about it,’ I say. Well, what’s the point?

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have ended up with her,’ he says softly as he nuzzles his face into my neck. As we slow dance, I feel Tom’s hands move from my waist to my bum. I have my face pressed into his neck, so close to him I can smell his aftershave. He’s so warm and he smells so good. I press my body against his and he holds me tight. I didn’t think that things with Alan felt right but here, now, feeling this … this feels right.