by Jason Arnopp
Scott says, “Ah, there she is.” He puts down his drained glass and stands, his smile worryingly thin. Seems that my lateness really has pissed him off, until his grin breaks like sun through cloud. “I was just starting to wonder if I’d been blown out.”
“Really sorry,” I say, air-kissing him. No kiss on the cheek back this time – no doubt his impulse back at the retreat in Wales had been inspired by red wine. Sigh. “Let me get you another pint… unless you’re about to flounce off?”
He scoffs at the suggestion. “Now you’re actually here, I’ll have a Crafty Fox.”
As the drinking begins, we both seem on best first-date behaviour: all enthusiasm, positivity and wit. Can’t help noticing, though, that Scott seems less cheery and carefree than he was during the retreat. That smile of his remains present, but doesn’t always reach the eyes. Could he be more stressed now that he’s back in civilisation – back in work mode? Now that it’s just the two of us, he might feel as nervous as me, if that’s even possible.
Or maybe you’ve already bored him with your talk of unpredictable working hours.
Silence, brain. He did ask about my job. Besides, neither of us seem overly concerned with discussing anything of great importance. Right now, we’re talking about the fact that we both wear contact lenses.
Scott carefully removes his pint of Crafty Fox from our wobbly table. “Here’s a fun fact for you,” he says, between sips, “although you probably know this already. The average disposable contact lens user, over a period of fifteen years, ends up with an average of ten lost lenses permanently stuck to some part of their eyeballs.”
“To be honest, that sounds distinctly… untrue.”
Scott shakes his head, gently insistent. “It’s a fact, I swear. A good friend of mine’s an optician.”
Could this actually be true? My own pint of Crafty Fox has already fuzzed my head. Really should’ve had more than a vegan sausage roll on the way here. Blinking rather a lot, I’m very conscious of the fact that (a) I’ve used lenses for almost twenty years, and (b) I’m now trying to detect anything chafing between my eyeballs and my eye sockets. “Jesus. Is that… ten on each eye?”
He seems to consider placing his pint back on the table, then puts it on the ground beside him instead. While using a folded beermat to fix the wobbly leg, he says, “No, five on each. I mean, it’s an average. But it makes you think about all the times you’ve come home after a few shandies and only thought you’d removed your lenses. Oh! And most of those lost lenses end up around the back of the eye.”
“Fuck off,” I say, aware that this is watershed moment. Is Scott the kind of guy who minds being told to fuck off in public, even in disbelieving jest? Happily, he seems unfazed. We talk some more about whether contact lenses stuck to the back of your eyeball could actually have any negative health impact, then thankfully turn to films.
“So, Mr Palmer,” I say, excited, hopeful, “what would be your favourite film ever?”
Sitting back in his seat, Scott goggles at this, quietly appalled. “Wow. That’s pretty hard to narrow down. Do you know yours?”
“Of course. But I asked first.”
“I’m still trying to think. It’s between three or four movies. Maybe five.”
“There can be only one,” I insist. “And no, mine isn’t Highlander. I mean… what’s your ultimate desert-island movie?”
A flotilla of ducks drifts past our terrace as Scott stares into space. Lines multiply across his forehead until they resemble the front grill of a truck.
“I’m going to have to put the clock on you,” I prompt, while thinking, Please say True Romance. Please say True Romance.
Scott makes a sound like a goose being strangled. Then he says, “True Romance.”
I got chills, they’re multiplyin’. “Jesus, that’s mine too!”
He looks sceptical. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”
“Why wouldn’t it be my favourite film? It’s got everything a person could ever need.”
There follows an energetic burst of True Romance discussion. We rave about everything from the scene between Christian Slater as Clarence and Gary Oldman as drug-dealing pimp Drexl, to Dennis Hopper and Christopher Walken’s big face-off, to the relative merits of the theatrical and alternate endings.
One drink later, Scott’s phone rings. Sheepish, he pulls it from his pocket, apologising, but then we both laugh.
Scott’s ringtone is Hans Zimmer’s main orchestral theme from True Romance.
Well, spank my ass and call me Alabama, if Scott couldn’t yet be my very own Clarence Worley.
The drinks and the conversation flow beautifully for the rest of the night. The eye contact becomes more and more lingering…
And then confusion reigns all over again.
Poor Izzy, having to hear all my crap in the early hours of the morning.
KATE
Sorry to be texting so late. Had to talk to someone! And you’re always the first person I think of.
IZZY
no problem babe… was my fault for not muting my phone… haha… so did mr mixed messages not even kiss u tonight
KATE
Oh he kissed me all right… but only on the cheek.
IZZY
u do mean the cheek on your face right n not yr ass
KATE
Yes, sadly I do mean my facial cheek. Izzy, I have no idea if that was even a date.
IZZY
ok think i need the whole story
KATE
So after the bar, we were standing outside, doing that weird thing where you keep talking while waiting for one person to suggest going to a place with a bed. He didn’t invite me to his hotel, so I thought fuck it, this isn’t 1953, and I asked if he wanted to walk me home.
IZZY
jesus like u should even have to ask
KATE
Well, he did at least seem glad I asked… I think… and we walked across town. One good thing with Scott is, the chat never runs out. The only awkward moments come at the very end of the nights.
IZZY
so what happened when u got home
KATE
More awkwardness. We talked outside my flat for about TWO YEARS, and then I decided to grab the nettle.
IZZY
u decided to grab what
KATE
Grab the nettle. Have you never heard that expression?
IZZY
no
KATE
Why have you never heard of any expressions I ever say?
IZZY
cuz you make em up
KATE
I do not. Anyway, I decided to take the bull by the horns – you heard of that one?
IZZY
yes
KATE
I asked him in for a drink. And that’s when he pulled his phone from his pocket, as if it had buzzed, but I didn’t hear a buzz. He read the screen, looked apologetic and said he’d been “called”. Apparently he’s on a 24-hour call with his job, apparently, so he had to go back to his hotel.
IZZY
u just wrote apparently twice btw
KATE
That’s rich, coming from someone who barely writes in English.
IZZY
haha… hmm ok n he just so happened to get “called” when u asked him in
KATE
What does it mean, Izzy? I think I know, but…
IZZY
what do u think it means
KATE
I’m one of those girls who guys sort of like, but not enough. I’ve had that before – when I can tell a guy can’t fully decide if he fancies me.
IZZY
fuck off girl ur drop dead gorgeous
KATE
We both know that’s not true. But what do you think happened there?
IZZY
hate to say it but maybe he has a gf/wife
KATE
Shit. Yeah, that did occur to me too. I’m gonna wait for him to get in touch
next, if he even does. If we meet again, I’ll either suss him out some more or just ask.
IZZY
straight talkin i like it… sounds like a plan
KATE
It does. But is it really an actual plan? WAIT, hold on…
IZZY
what what what
KATE
He just texted me…!
IZZY
tell me what he said right now bitch don’t make me hobble over there
CHAPTER TEN
3 October
My hand actually trembles as I open the wooden box that houses the wall-mounted entryphone panel. Could I convincingly write off this tremble as being down to the cold?
Feels as if I’m about to ring the entryphone of a total stranger. I have the deeply weird sense that reality itself has shifted and Scott no longer exists – or no longer wants me to move in with him, which would amount to much the same thing.
Having entered the digits for Flat Twenty-Three, I hit Call and stare at the entryphone’s speaker grill. A ringtone pipes out through this cluster of tiny holes in the stainless steel.
My heart fills my mouth.
Three rings later, Scott’s wonderful warm voice bursts out of those holes.
He blurts, “Kate? Thank God! I’m so sorry, there’s been this whole crazy thing going on where my phone totally stopped working. The whole thing just died and your number was only on my phone, nobody actually remembers numbers these days, do they, and… and… Anyway, sorry, come on up!”
Buzzzzz, clunk. Door opens electronically. Hooray, we live happily ever after.
Except none of this actually happens. This was only a stupidly optimistic scenario in my head.
What really happens is the entryphone keeps on ringing. Such a cold, empty, soulless sound.
How big is Scott’s flat? I picture his bedroom, the part that’s furthest away from the entryphone. I picture how long it would take for him to cover the L-shaped hallway corridor that leads to the door so he can grab the cream-coloured plastic handset off the wall-mounted cradle. Twenty seconds, max?
What if he’s in the shower, or lounging in the bath?
Oh, you sad, sad person. Next, you’ll seriously consider how he might be trapped under a fallen wardrobe.
The ringing stops and so does my breath. Did Scott pick up?
Nope, because now there’s only this dead tone. The system must disconnect the line after a limited number of rings. The small LCD screen has reset itself to await new requests.
What the hell do I do now?
Could there really have been some kind of vastly coincidental comms breakdown – one that even includes the functionality of Scott’s entryphone? He did mention deadlines when we last spoke, so he may have buried his head so deep in the sands of work that he’s forgotten what day it is. And his entryphone could be on the blink.
Look, he’s dead or he’s dying or he hates you.
A powerful pocket of icy wind swoops in from the beach, as if urging me to leave right now. Maybe the wind even wants me to cancel The Beardie Boys, who’ve texted to say they’re en route down from Leeds with all my boxes, and save myself any further embarrassment.
No. I’m sure there’s still a perfectly good explanation for all of this.
Two, Three, Call.
The entryphone’s ringtone witters on, while my fertile mind enters overdrive. What if Scott is secretly a druggie? Cocaine might be his bag, or even heroin. Yeah, what if he’s a great big smackhead who’s trying to quit but decided to have one more blowout for old time’s sake before I moved in? And what if he got a little too enthusiastic while riding that horse and OD’d himself into oblivion?
Ack. Here’s where my job’s a real bitch. Because of course now I’m thinking about all the dead junkies I’ve encountered while at work. And that’s just in the office.
Ha ha. Hello, I’m Kate Collins and I make jokes to stave off bad thoughts. Right now, though, that method isn’t working so well because my brain presents me with a delightful dead-junkie montage video.
Cold, pale flesh. Blue lips and fingernails. Sightless pupils, the size of pinpricks.
Come to think of it, Scott did look pretty bloody pale, last time I saw him. What if he didn’t really have a virus, like he claimed? What if he actually had the raging heroin-hungers and couldn’t wait for me to leave so he could chase that dragon?
Keen to stem the panic that wraps sly tendrils around me, I stare at a seagull violating a sealed black rubbish bag with savage tugs of its beak. God, I admire seagulls so much. They care about nothing except food, squawking and flying about. A seagull would surely not give two feathery fucks if another seagull invited it to move into a nest then enigmatically disappeared.
An explosive clunk jangles my nerves as the front door bursts open.
A thin, jittery woman in her early thirties is leaving the building. She’s pushing two babies in one wide pram, so I hold the door open for her. Having shredded the bin bag, the seagull delves inside. Time for me to do the same with the Van Spencer.
“Good timing,” I say with a smile, and make to enter.
She holds up a hand to block my path. “I’m really sorry, but we have to keep strangers out.”
A stranger. That’s what you are here now, and that’s all you’ll ever be.
“Otherwise, homeless people get in,” she goes on, “and drug people, and…’
Who does this woman think she is: Gandalf? You shall not pass? Her voice trails off and she looks awkward, as we both consider her implication that I resemble one of those people. And in truth, I don’t look my best. Before leaving the Leeds flat, I’d pulled on the first practical, drive-comfy clothes that hadn’t already been boxed. My favourite jumper with the big holes in it, saggy jeans and the most knackered trainers known to man. And now that my mascara’s all runny from the rain, I probably resemble The Joker.
I approximate what I hope is a reassuring grin. “I’m sure you can make an exception for me, since I’m moving in today.” But I speak these words with zero conviction, because I don’t fully believe them. This sounds, for all the world, like the desperate ploy of someone who secretly needs to take a really big dump in the stairwell.
“Sorry,” she says primly, “it’s just the rules. I have to stick to the rules.” Then she clunk-slams the big door, and her pram wheels rattle off along Marine Parade.
Fuck you, Gandalf. My quest ain’t over yet.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
28 June
Soon as I emerge from the ticket barrier at Brighton train station, Scott slides one hand around my waist and presses his lips against mine.
Our first ever kiss really fucks me up, even though I totally knew it was going to happen.
Thanks to our nightly sext-a-thons, Scott and I have established our kissing preferences. We both like that gentler, teasing approach, the one that builds up to something hotter and hungrier. I suppose that’s something in dirty digital comms’ favour: you can work things out beforehand, rather than have the awkwardness of trying stuff the other person doesn’t like.
Admittedly, sexting does rob you both of that super-special first night when you stay up together until 5 a.m., wondering if sex will happen. Mind you, those nights always stressed me out. I’m too old for them. And besides, Scott’s tongue has brushed my top lip and my body’s responding in no uncertain terms.
Couldn’t care less how many commuters tut and growl as they’re forced to swerve past us. When you’re falling for someone, it’s like you shift into another dimension. Nothing else matters, besides staying there.
Did I just say falling for someone?
Careful, Kate. You might just be Scott’s bit of fluff, or even his northern mistress.
Our sext-life began in the early hours of 18 June, when Scott texted to thank me for our apparently awesome date in Leeds. Having sunk a few drinks, and feeling I had little to lose but my dignity, I decided to test the temperature of the water between us. The salacious sc
reen-tapping started moderately enough, when I instigated a general discussion of bedtime behaviour. The importance of kissing, for instance, and how it’s as intimate as sex itself.
Only a few exchanges later, the floor of our politeness collapsed, plunging us both into a swamp of depravity.
One minute we were indulging in fairly witty oral sex innuendo, the next it was all take you deep this and push your legs apart that. This chat provided much-needed relief in more ways than one, because I finally knew Scott was into me.
How weird to share intimacy from afar, before it actually happens in the flesh. When you next meet the person, you feel as though you’ve already slept with them. And if the true value of a relationship lies in the mental connection, which it clearly does, then for all intents and purposes you really have slept with them.
One thing’s for sure, it’s the safest sex you can get.
After our first sext-fest, I asked Scott why he hadn’t already tried to do all these lewd things to me in person. There followed a five-minute gap between messages – the kind of pause that would be downright bizarre in person – before he replied, I suppose I’m a bit of an old-fashioned guy.
Hmm. Not a bad answer, so I let that pass. Especially as he then asked if I fancied a visit to the seaside. Apparently I was very welcome to stay at his place. Given the utter filth we’d hurled at each other, this made me cackle. All of a sudden, we were back to being quite formal. After typing fuck yessss at the climax of our little chat, Scott had remembered his manners.
At least we resisted the temptation to swap pictures of body parts. You really do have to hold something back for an actual up-close-and-personal meet.
I mean, the cleavage shot I sent him obvs doesn’t count.
A stocky businessman with the classic alcoholic’s nose storms through the ticket barrier. On his way past us, he rams into Scott’s shoulder and mutters, “Out of the way.” Having been spun around a quarter turn, Scott throws this suit the evil eye…
… the eye of the wolf…
… then returns his attention to me. It takes a moment for those eyes to cool down and regain their twinkle, as he slips his fingers between mine.