by Maria Goodin
I open my mouth to ask about her fiancé, just because it seems like an obvious next question, but then I think better of it. It’s too personal and none of my business.
Libby fiddles with the label on her empty Appletiser bottle. “Actually, my dad’s seen you a few times over the years,” she says, “you know, when he’s stopped around here.” She waves her hand towards the canal, as if his boat might be moored just on the other side of the wall that separates us from the waterway. “So I knew you were still in Timpton.”
“Yeah, I see him around town now and then,” I admit.
Seeing Libby’s dad always left me unsettled for a few days afterwards. It was like a piece of her returning out of the blue. I’d never approached him. I hadn’t even been sure he’d recognise me, although clearly I’d been wrong about that. Even when I was with Libby, I’d only met him a handful of times, and although he’d been friendly enough, he’d also seemed edgy and distracted, like he was already itching to be off somewhere else. Libby always said he was a free spirit, not designed to be in one place for too long. My mum used to say he was more like a freeloader, turning to Harmonie every time he was broke and down on his luck. “Funny kind of feminist,” she used to mutter.
“I even saw your dad in here once,” I add, nodding towards the bar. I don’t mention that it was eight o’clock on a Sunday evening and that he could barely stand, or that I’d left as soon as I saw him.
“I think he still likes to drink down at the Kingfisher mainly,” says Libby.
“Right,” I nod, placing my empty mug down on the table. “I never go there.”
By this I mean I go out of my way not to even walk past the place. I don’t like to remember the last time I was there, the night I burst through the doors breathless and panicked, pleading for someone to call nine nine nine.
Libby meets my eye for a second before we both look away, and I know she understands.
“So, um, are you a full-time artist now?” I ask quickly.
I lost track of the things Libby wanted to be. A geologist. A historian. A doctor. A radiologist. An artist. An architect. She was so smart and studious she could have been anything she wanted.
“Oh, no. The painting’s just a sideline. I was actually working for this big advertising company in London, on the creative side of things.”
“Wow, really?”
“Yeah, lots of very prestigious clients, well-known brands… It was, you know, a lot of… um…”
“Pressure?”
“I suppose you could say that. So I’m just taking a little break right now. Sort of re-evaluating. Figuring out my next career move. I mean, I’ve has some offers, but…”
“Sounds like you can take your pick.”
“And you’re an electrician,” she says, swiftly switching the focus to me. “I was surprised when I googled your name and it came up under the trades directory. That’s what made me unsure if it was actually you. Because it just had your initial. You know, J. Lewis, and I thought Lewis is a fairly common name and I never saw you going into that kind of work.”
“Uh, no, well, things didn’t go quite the way I thought—”
“No, of course not,” she says almost apologetically.
“I scraped through my A levels in the end, and my dad offered to support me through university and take care of Josh, but… well, that wasn’t really an option in the end. Plus, I think my mum wanted me to go down the academic route way more than I ever did. I suppose I just didn’t know what else I was going to do. Or maybe I just wanted to keep her happy.”
“Oh well, we can both be disappointments to our mothers then!”
We both laugh politely.
“Are they well anyway, your parents?” she asks.
“Um, yeah,” I lie, not wanting to drag the tone of the conversation down.
“And Josh? You said he’s doing well?”
“Yeah, great. I mean, he’s a challenge occasionally, but you know, he’s fifteen, so…”
“Fifteen,” she mutters, shaking her head disbelievingly. “I can’t believe it’s been that long.”
“It’s crazy, isn’t it?”
“Do you have any photos?”
“Oh, yeah. Do you want to see?” I ask hesitantly, unsure if showing her photos of the child that ended our relationship isn’t somehow a bit weird.
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” she smiles.
I quickly scan through my photos and then hand her the phone.
“Oh my God,” she says, her smile fading as she contemplates the picture. She looks at it for a long time. “He looks so much like you at that age,” she says quietly.
“Really? You think?”
“It’s like going back in time and looking at the fifteen-year-old you.”
When the screen suddenly times out and goes blank, she looks up like she’s coming out of a dream. She hands me back the phone.
“That’s so weird,” she mutters, looking unsettled, and I wonder whether that wasn’t such a good idea. Slowly she stands up and takes the few steps over to the wall, peering down at the canal. She gazes to her left, in the direction of the marina where her boat was moored for all those years.
“Have you ever been back?” I ask her.
She shakes her head and folds her arms around herself. The clouds still threaten rain and now the warmth has gone. Summer’s never quite settled in this year, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to.
“I came to see you, you know,” I say, although I’m not sure why I’m telling her this now. “A couple of months after we broke up. I knew I shouldn’t have done, but I just wanted to make sure you were okay. And to say… well, pretty much what I’ve said today, really. That I was sorry for how things had ended. But you were gone.”
Libby nods slowly. “We went north. Harmonie got offered a business opportunity,” she says vaguely. She turns towards me and shrugs. “But anyway, long time ago.”
I feel relieved by her explanation. I’d always assumed she’d left because of me, but clearly – and a bit embarrassingly – I’ve overestimated my own importance.
She comes back to the table and picks her jacket off the chair. “I should get going,” she says.
There’s so much I want to ask her, so much I want to know. But, of course, that was never the point of today. It was never going to be a question of reviving a friendship. I’m looking to let go, sever, move on, not rebuild something new out of the ashes of the past. It’s been strange, brief, and somehow both more and less than I had hoped for. But it’s done.
I stand up quickly, grabbing my phone and wallet from the table. “I need to get back, too.”
Libby pulls her bag onto her shoulder.
“So, uh…” she splays her hands out in front of her, the universal sign for how do we end this?
“Yeah. Um… thanks for coming. It really meant a lot, being able to just see you again and say, you know, what I said.”
She shrugs. “It’s fine.”
We look at each other for a moment, and suddenly I have an overwhelming urge to reach out and put my arms around her, just like I would have done so many times in the past without a second thought.
“Are you…?” she asks, gesturing towards the bar.
“Yes, right, let’s go,” I say, and lead her back inside.
“All right, Jay?” I hear someone call as soon as I’m through the door.
Leo, Michael’s drummer, is playing pool in the corner with Stu. Leo’s massive frame is hunched over the table, carefully lining up a shot, his eyes on the ball. His long hair hangs limply around his face.
“You enjoy the gig at the weekend?” he asks without looking up.
“Yeah, great,” I say, head down, focusing on getting out of here.
“You looked like you were having fun with, er… what’s her name? Rachel?” He lets out a long whistle between his teeth, takes his shot, misses and curses quietly. The moment he straightens up and spies Libby walking behind me, he flashes
me a guilty look, as if he’s put his foot in it.
“You guys want to play?” asks Stu, stepping forward.
“No, we’re just leaving,” I say, quickly, shooting him a warning look, which he chooses to ignore. Instead, he holds the pool cue out to Libby.
“No, it’s fine, thanks,” she smiles, but those few words are enough encouragement for Stu to start a conversation.
“You from around here?” he asks, smiling broadly.
“Oh, well, not really,” says Libby. “I mean, I used to be. I grew up on the canal, but I’m living in North London now.”
Stu wags his finger between myself and Libby. “And you two know each other…?”
I narrow my eyes and shake my head at him so slightly that only he would notice.
“We used to be… umm…” Libby looks at me uncertainly.
“Friends.”
“Friends,” she affirms, “when we were young. And then we just met up again at… well, at an art exhibition.”
“An art exhibition?” asks Stu, raising an eyebrow at me.
“Well, my exhibition,” Libby clarifies with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I do some painting and Jamie came long…”
“Jamie came along?” repeats Stu gleefully, putting an emphasis on my name. No one round here ever calls me Jamie.
“What kind of painting do you do?” asks Leo, pulling up alongside Stu. He’s a gentle giant of a guy with a soft, rounded belly.
“Oh, nothing much. I just like splashing colours around really,” Libby laughs, self-consciously. But while the last thing I want to do is drag out this conversation, something in me won’t stand by and hear her diminish her talents in that way.
“Libby paints canal scenes,” I clarify. “They’re fantastic.”
A blush rises in her cheeks, and she throws me a smile halfway between thankful and mortified.
“Oh, hey!” exclaims Leo, jabbing Stu in the arm with his pool cue. “You want a canal scene painted on the outside wall, don’t you?”
“I do!” grins Stu, pointing to the wall surrounding the terrace. “I want a canal scene painted right around that wall there. Cheer the outside area up, make it in keeping with the scenery.”
“Or people can just look at the actual scenery,” I say, drily.
“But you can’t see the canal when you’re sitting down, smart-arse,” Stu corrects me, “all you can see is wall.”
“That’s a great idea,” nods Libby, considering the wall like she can already see the painting taking shape. “You could have canal boats, and people walking dogs, and kingfishers, people on bikes… Oh, actually, you could have the seasons changing as the painting goes around. Spring, going into summer, then autumn—”
“Yeah, I like it,” nods Leo, thoughtfully.
Stu claps his hands together loudly. “Yes! Great! When can you start?”
Libby laughs, but her smile falters when Stu doesn’t laugh with her.
“I’m serious!” grins Stu.
“Oh, no, I don’t… I mean… I don’t do murals.”
“But could you?”
Libby looks to me, slightly flustered and confused.
“Libby doesn’t even live around here,” I tell Stu.
“Well, North London’s hardly far! Seriously, how much would you charge for something like that?”
“Stu,” I say, more firmly, “Libby didn’t come here looking for a job. And we were just—”
“Well, actually, I am sort of available for work at the moment…” Libby says, thoughtfully. “I mean, I’ve never done a mural before, but maybe…”
“Fantastic! Well, look, let me give you my number.”
Libby seems unsure, but after a short hesitation she takes her phone out of her bag and taps in the numbers Stu gives her, while I try to get my head around what’s going on. I invited Libby here to get something off my chest – and now she’s being offered a job? So she’s going to be back?! What does that mean? How will that work? This wasn’t what I envisaged at all. I was prepared for seeing her once. Just once.
Oh God, Stu! I could literally kill you right now!
Libby’s brought her website up on her phone and Stu and Leo are both looming over her, gazing at the screen, enthusing about the quality of her paintings – and rightfully so. She’s a good artist and a nice person and I wish her all the opportunities she could ever want. But just not here. I don’t want her here. Because watching her familiar face, her careful smile, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the way she uses her hands to express what she’s saying – too much, too fast – the way she laughs – halfway between gay abandon and self-conscious restraint – I realise with a sinking heart that today isn’t going to help me move on. Not in the way I wanted. Yes, I feel forgiven. Yes, I feel freed from the guilt of the hurt I caused. But I don’t feel freed from my lingering feelings for her. If anything, I’m reminded more clearly than ever of exactly what I lost.
“Call me!” Stu orders Libby, heading to the bar to serve a couple who have just walked in.
Leo pats Libby so hard on the shoulder that she has to steady herself, and then he heads back to the pool table. “Jay, tell your friend we’re not taking no for an answer!” he booms.
My friend?
Yes, maybe that’s what she could be after all. My friend. We’re adults, and whatever I feel can be handled in an adult fashion. So she might be around for a while. So I might end up seeing a bit more of her. Okay, that’s fine. It might even be nice. Perhaps getting to know her again properly will help whatever I feel to subside.
“Well, maybe I’ll be seeing you again after all,” shrugs Libby, turning to me with a smile that suggests she’s both excited and a little overwhelmed by what’s just happened.
“Maybe,” I shrug back, as if it wouldn’t faze me either way.
Friends. I could do that. What could be so hard about being friends?
Chapter 10
Friends
I remember Max staring at the screen and shouting: “Boom, and you’re dead! Again.”
He pushed his glasses up his nose and studied the score. “Two hundred and eighty-five points to… er… twelve.”
Tom, who was lying on his bed flicking through a football magazine, gave a snort of laughter.
Michael put the controls down next to him on the rug with a defeated sigh.
“May I please use your bathroom?” he asked Tom, politely.
“May you?” repeated Tom, without looking up. “Yes, you may, sir. Go hither to the end of the landing and turneth right into the room with a bog in it.”
Michael stood up and carefully picked his way through Tom’s mess of a bedroom.
“You don’t have to take the piss,” I told Tom as soon as Michael had left the room.
“I wasn’t.”
“May I take the piss?” asked Max, and Tom laughed.
“What’s wrong with may I?” I asked.
“Why doesn’t he just say can I, like everyone else?” frowned Tom.
“Because can I means am I able to,” I retorted, “and I’m pretty sure Michael is able to use your toilet. He was asking permission—”
“Oh, shut up,” groaned Tom. “What else is that posh school teaching you? How to hold a teacup with your pinkie finger in the air?”
“How to curtsy?” asked Max, already loading up the next game.
“How to hold a spiffing garden party?”
“How to eat a cucumber sandwich?”
“No one needs to be taught how to eat a cucumber sandwich, you moron,” I tutted.
“Max doesn’t need to be taught how to eat anything,” quipped Tom, puffing his cheeks out.
Max, taking the joke in good humour as always, snorted like a pig.
“So, what do you think of him anyway?” I asked, tentatively.
“Well, he’s crap at video games,” said Max.
“And his hair’s a bit prissy,” said Tom.
“He’s a bit quiet.”
“And his
clothes are a bit stiff.”
“And he looks like he needs some sunlight.”
“And some fun.”
“And he says may I.”
“But apart from that,” said Max, “he’s fine.”
Tom shrugged. “’S’all right.”
“He’s just a bit shy around new people,” I said. “Be nice. He’s cool. Really. He’s funny.”
Max and Tom exchanged doubting looks.
“Really,” I insisted, “you’ll like him once you get to know him.”
I knew they weren’t convinced, but I really wanted them to all get on. Michael and I had become good friends over the past few months, spending nearly all our time together at school, and I didn’t want to keep my two worlds separate anymore.
Michael sheepishly entered the room again and we all fell silent for what felt like an awkwardly long time. Sitting on the bed next to Tom, I pinched his toes hard through his socks and he shot me an angry look. I glared at him and nodded towards Michael, urging him to make conversation. He responded by delivering a discreet kick to my thigh.
“So, Michael, what football team do you support?” chirped up Max.
Thankfully, you could always count on Max to be friendly. He had an ability to put anyone at ease. The fact that he was pudgy and wore glasses could have made him something of a social pariah, but in fact his warm personality and self-deprecating wit made him hugely popular with boys and girls alike.
“I don’t really follow football,” said Michael, sitting down on the rug again next to Max.
Max and Tom looked at each other, and then at me, in silent confusion. Whatever our ability, whichever team we supported, we spent a lot of time talking about football.
“We don’t do football at St John’s,” I reminded them.
Tom raised his eyebrows and shook his head despairingly. He thought St John’s sounded stupid and took every opportunity to make this clear to me. In many ways, I agreed with him. I still couldn’t get used to all the petty rules and regulations, the ceremonies, the pointless traditions – but it was starting to feel like my school, and there were times when I looked around me at the history, the facilities, the buildings and couldn’t believe how lucky I was. Tom’s derision was starting to grate a bit.