by Maria Goodin
In the end, I replied with a brief message which was carefully worded to convey neutrality, but which probably just made me sound like a disinterested and cold-hearted dick.
Thanks for meeting with me. Hope the painting goes well.
I still don’t know what to do. Today’s Saturday and as it’s been dry, I’m guessing she might have already started work on the mural, but luckily I’ve been busy finishing off a job that overran, visiting my dad and ferrying Josh between friends’ houses, so going to see her hasn’t been an option. Tomorrow, though, I need to make a decision. Should I call in and see her? Would it be rude not to? Would it be weird to do so?
I’m still agonising over it when I arrive in front of the Canal House. I only intend to stay an hour at the barbecue. Josh is a good excuse for getting away early. If I’m honest, he’s always been my excuse for lots of things – for not dating, for not committing. His growing older and more independent is highly inconvenient. What will I have to face when I don’t have him to hide behind? Anyway, just for tonight I can say he’s home alone, which was true at the point of leaving the flat, but probably isn’t any more, seeing as his friend Sam was on his way over to play video games. In reality, Josh won’t be bothered in the slightest that I’m not there.
The sun is starting to dip, and barbecue smoke carries on the air over the roof of the Canal House and right out to the high street, along with the sound of talking and laughter. Knowing the bar is likely to be even more busy than usual, I open the gate and make my way down the side alley and straight through to the terrace at the back. The tables – adorned with tea lights for this special occasion – are all taken, and groups of people are mingling in the spaces in between, laughing, drinking, eating hotdogs and burgers. It’s not a private party – far too much revenue to be lost on a Saturday night to warrant closing the place – but all the regulars have turned up.
“Jay!” I spy Leo across the terrace, a good few inches taller than anyone else. “All right, mate?”
I give him a nod.
“Where’s Michael?”
I briefly scan the crowd and shrug.
Ah, crap. Don’t say he’s not here. He’s like my buffer in these situations, allowing me to take a back seat. He’s always up for a get-together. Unless… I check my phone with a sinking feeling.
Not going to make tonight sorry, not feeling so good.
Normally he would have been one of the first to arrive, but the text was only sent ten minutes ago. That means he intended to come, he tried, he spent some time working up to it, not wanting to let Stu and Irena down, not wanting to let me down, but in the end, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
I hold my phone up towards Leo and shake my head sadly. He nods, understanding. There’s not that many people that know the other side of Michael, but Leo’s one of them. Michael’s had to cancel too many rehearsals and even the odd gig for any members of his band to be left in the dark.
You okay? I type back. We both know that I don’t really mean are you okay because clearly he’s not. What I mean is Is there anything I can do? Do you need me?
I sigh, my heart suddenly feeling heavy.
“Heeeyyy!” Irena dives towards me and kisses me on both cheeks. She’s in high spirits, her usual brusqueness evaporated. “I was asking people where were you. You don’t have a drink, no? Come, have something to eat—”
“I’m good, I’ll get myself a drink in a minute,” I tell her, “but, listen, congratulations—”
“’Bout bloody time, isn’t it?” she scowls, her accent still thick after all these years. “That son-of-a-bitch slowcoach, it took him seven years, you know?”
“Well, all good things are worth waiting for. Plus,” I add, nodding at her slight swell of a belly, “he’s doing the honourable thing.”
“That’s right,” she smiles, stroking her little bump. “And now I think it’s your turn, isn’t it?” She pokes me hard in the chest. Even when she’s being playful she looks aggressive, her raven black hair and thin, pencilled-in eyebrows doing nothing to soften her demeanour. “Who are we going to find for you, eh?”
I smile and shake my head. “No one. I’m good thanks.”
“No one is good on their own. Especially not you. You are wasted. You and Rachel, I think I can see—”
“You cannot see anything.”
“She would be good for you, I think. Let you have a little fun. She’s a beautiful girl, isn’t it?”
“Stop trying to set me up with people.”
She places her hand on my upper arm, bright red nail varnish adorning fingers that by the feel of her grip must be made of steel. Matchmaking is Irena’s passion, and she doesn’t like to be held back.
“You are infuriating,” she says sternly. “I don’t know what I can do with you.”
“Don’t do anything. Just enjoy your evening.”
“But where is Michael, anyway?” she says, scanning the crowded terrace.
“Sick. A bug.”
“Oh, you kid me! I thought he is coming. Poor him. But still,” she says excitedly, peering around, “your friend is here! Yes, over there.”
Seated at a table with a group of people I vaguely know is Libby, wearing the same jeans and blue T-shirt as last weekend, cradling a glass and looking around uncomfortably. My stomach flips.
“Why is she still here?” I ask, sounding far more accusatory than intended.
“What is point in her going home?” says Irena, taking a step back and looking a little alarmed by my tone. “She is going to stay here and then carry on tomorrow with the painting. No point coming and going.”
“But… doesn’t she want to get back? To her fiancé, or… I don’t know… I mean, it’s not that far for her to get home.”
Irena shrugs and frowns at me. “Well, is nearly an hour, and what for? Just to come back in the morning? No, we agreed. She can stay here. No problem for us. We have the little attic flat. Is sitting empty. And she seems nice. Nice for me to have a girl friend to chat to. Why do I want to hear about football and this boys’ rubbish all of the time?”
“So, you mean she’s going to stay every weekend?” I ask, realising I sound slightly horrified.
Irena frowns and shrugs. “I don’t know. We will see.”
For a moment I contemplate making a discreet exit. I could make my way back through the bar, say a quick congratulations to Stu, who will be stuck serving drinks all night anyway, and then quietly slip away. I’ve shown my face, that’s all I really needed to do.
Irena follows my line of vision, gazing over towards Libby. “Ahh, but perhaps I am climbing up the wrong tree with Rachel,” she says sagely, “perhaps it is this Libby who is someone you like.”
“No! God no. She’s just a friend. I mean, she was a friend. A long time ago.”
“Well, go say hello to your old friend,” Irena orders, suddenly reverting to her usual brusque self and slapping me on the arm. “She knows nobody. Go talk to her!”
As Irena marches off, I stand motionless and watch Libby. She smiles politely at something the guy next to her says – a bloke called Nick, who’s all right when he’s sober but turns into a bit of a letch when he’s had a few. And by the way he’s leaning into Libby, he might have had a few already. I watch her laugh unconvincingly at his joke and then turn casually to the two women on the other side of her, smiling, trying to get in on their conversation instead of being stranded in a one-on-one with leery Nick.
Libby was always confident when it came to chatting to people. She was socially developed beyond her years, comfortable in her own skin. She spent most of her childhood around adults and learned to communicate in an adult fashion at an age when most of us were shifting awkwardly from one foot to another and trying not to look like our very existence was a cause for embarrassment. But she never had any friends. How could she? She didn’t go to school, didn’t mix with people her own age – except me, obviously – and very occasionally Michael, Tom and Max. We’d all hang out
now and again, but in truth it never worked that well.
She got on well with Max – everyone did. He was used to making nice chit-chat due to all the church events he had to attend, and the two of them could hold something of a proper conversation. But Michael – having been in single-sex education from the age of seven and still painfully shy around anyone but us – didn’t know what to say to her. And Tom was too crass, full of sarcasm and bad language. A couple of times she pulled him up on his use of expletives – those that referred to parts of the female anatomy in a particularly derogatory way. She was never fearful of expressing her point of view, and I loved that about her, admired her sense of conviction, but being told off like a naughty schoolboy didn’t go down well with Tom, who doubled his use of offensive language. To make matters harder, although Libby was well-rehearsed in the art of conversation, she didn’t know anything about normal teenage life: TV programmes, video games, celebrities… it meant nothing to her. Thinking back, I can’t imagine what the two of us spent so many hours talking about, or what we could have possibly had in common. I think maybe she was more the talker and I was more the listener. I don’t know. All I know is somehow it worked. Easily. Comfortably.
Right now, though, Libby doesn’t look all that comfortable. The two women (I don’t know their names, but I think Michael might have had a very brief thing with one, or possibly both, of them) are too engaged in what appears to be a hilarious anecdote to notice Libby. Nick keeps edging in close, talking in her ear, and she smiles and replies politely, but she’s leaning away slightly, trying to avoid what I imagine might be beer breath.
I can’t just leave her. I at least have to check if she’s okay.
I weave my way through the groups of people towards her, checking my phone again as I go, wishing Michael would text me back and let me know how he is.
Libby spots me as I approach her table and stands up swiftly. She looks strangely happy to see me, like she’s been awaiting my arrival. She steps forwards, a little unsteady, and with a hint of disappointment I realise her enthusiastic greeting is probably directly related to her alcohol consumption.
“Hi,” she smiles, pink-cheeked, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“Hi,” I respond, stuffing my hands into the back pockets of my jeans.
We stare at each other, waiting for the other one to speak, then we open our mouths at the same time and pause there, like two overly polite strangers standing by an open door. After you; no, after you.
“Having fun?” I ask, braving the first move.
“Um… well…” she glances around her, “I… well… I suppose…”
I laugh a little at her poor attempt at diplomacy, and so does she.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting this tonight and I don’t know anyone, so…”
“Bit weird?”
“Bit weird,” she nods.
I glance at Nick, slumped in his seat, eyeing Libby up and down, his eyes swimming lazily.
“All right, Nick?” I call abruptly.
“All right, Jay,” he drawls, raising his depleted pint to me, before shamelessly going back to ogling Libby.
God, I’m glad I don’t drink if that’s what blokes become after a few pints. He’s not a bad guy really, always friendly and harmless enough, but still, I suddenly have an urge to grab him by the throat and chuck him over the wall into the canal.
“Do you want to…?” I find myself suddenly saying, gesturing somewhere else, anywhere else.
Libby looks longingly in the direction of the canal.
“Actually, do you want to take a walk?” she asks, tentatively, gesturing to the steps in the corner of the terrace that lead down to the towpath.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, so desperate to be out of here and away from all these people that I’m not even worrying about what Libby and I will say to each other or how awkward it’s bound to be.
“Thanks,” she smiles, gratefully, and I realise that she probably was genuinely pleased to see me arrive. We might be out of touch, but at least I’m not a complete stranger. She grabs her half-empty wine glass from the table and then stands expectantly in front of me, waiting for me to lead the way.
“You can’t take that off the premises,” I tell her, realising I sound like a complete killjoy. “Stu’s the one who gets in trouble…”
“Oh, of course!” she says. She takes a gulp of the wine, examines the glass, clearly decides it’s not worth leaving the rest, and downs that, too. She places the glass back on the table, squeezes her eyes tightly shut and grimaces.
“Oooh… bad idea. I’m not really used to drinking.”
“You okay?”
She nods, and I lead the way through the gathering towards the steps, quickly checking my phone on the way. Still nothing. I drop Michael another quick message.
Text me U R OK
“Michael was going to come tonight, but he’s not well,” I say over my shoulder. “He would have liked to have seen you.”
“Oh, that’s a shame, I would have liked to see him, too,” she says, sounding genuinely disappointed. “I was looking at all the photos of him and his band on the pub wall. God, he looks so different! And I hear he’s really good.”
“He’s amazing.”
“Oh, what do you think so far?” asks Libby, just as we reach the top of the steps.
I turn to her blankly, and she gestures the length of the terrace wall. With all the bodies blocking my view, I hadn’t even noticed the bricks have been painted white. Well, half have been painted white.
“Er… well… not much to go on so far…” I say, trying to be polite.
“No, I thought I’d at least have the base done today,” she says with a thoughtful frown, “but it’s taking somewhat longer than I thought it would.”
“Yeah. Well, it’s a long wall,” I say, following it with my eyes around the perimeter of the terrace.
“It is indeed,” she nods with a grimace. “I’m not sure if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. So, you know, if you enjoy painting and have a spare hour or so, feel free…”
I’m pretty sure she’s joking, but I have a frustrating need to jump to people’s assistance – my sister, Josh, Michael, my dad, my clients – I end up running myself ragged half the time trying to help them all out.
“Yeah, sure,” I shrug, “I can come down tomorrow. I’ll get Josh along as well, it’ll keep him out of trouble.”
What?! What am I saying? Now we’re going to be painting a wall together? This is just too weird. Isn’t it?
“Oh,” says Libby, clearly taken aback. “I was just kidding, you don’t have to do that.”
She looks a little embarrassed and now I feel awkward. Of course she was only kidding.
“Oh, okay, sorry, I wasn’t sure if you were being serious or—”
“Although, actually, I mean, if you guys are free…”
“Yeah. So long as it’s just a case of slapping a bit of white paint on.”
“Well, great, if you’re sure?”
No. No I’m not sure. I have absolutely no idea what’s happening here. One minute we’re taking a walk, now we’re going to be painting a wall together. What the hell have I started?
“Shall we…?” I say, gesturing to the steps.
“After you.”
I hesitate, letting a group of women come up from the canal path. They’re made up for a night out; skintight jeans, strappy tops, hair knotted up… Ah, crap. Rachel.
“Hello, stranger,” she smiles, greeting me at the top of the steps with a hand on the shoulder and a kiss on the cheek. In heels, she’s almost as tall as me. “I assume you lost my number, or…?”
I’m embarrassed that I forgot to text her back. “Rachel, I’m so sorry, things have been manic and—”
“Don’t worry,” she smiles, playfully punching me on the arm, clearly having regained her chilled-out Aussie demeanour. I wonder now if Stu was winding me up, telling me she was angry at me. She’s always seemed so laid-back. “
Although I have been hoping to bump into you.”
She cocks her head to one side, her shiny lips curling at one corner in a sexy smile, her smoky eyes running over my face. God, Stu was right, she really is incredibly hot.
“I had a good time the other night,” she says, “I was hoping we might be able to do it again sometime.”
I shift awkwardly, wondering how that must sound to Libby who’s hovering behind me.
“Umm… yeah,” I say, scratching at my neck, “why not?”
“Great. So, do you want to buy me a drink?”
“I… actually I was just going to get a bit of space for a minute,” I tell her, glancing down at the towpath.
She comes in close and places her fingers gently on my forearm. “Do you want some company?” she asks, smiling coyly.
“Actually,” I say glancing back at Libby, who is waiting patiently, “we were just—”
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” Rachel says, more to Libby than to me. She quickly removes her hand from my arm as if she’s been touching something that doesn’t belong to her.
“No, it’s fine, we’re just… This is Libby. She’s an old… er… an old friend of mine.”
Libby smiles and gives a little wave.
“Oh, right,” smiles Rachel, looking relieved. “Well, listen. I’m going to be here a while, so maybe we can catch up later, okay?”
As she passes by, she places the flat of her palm against my stomach, letting it linger there a moment. I swallow hard and try not to let my eyes follow after her.
“Sorry ’bout that,” I mumble over my shoulder to Libby.
“No problem,” she says, and I catch a little smirk on her face before we descend the steps.
We wander slowly along the towpath in silence. I rack my brain for something to say, but where do I start? Should I bring up the past, the only shared territory we have in common? Stick to the present? Enquire about her fiancé, wedding plans, living situation…? But is any of that really my business? We’ve spent hours on this towpath. Two little kids cycling their bikes, exploring the woodlands, finding bugs, sharing their sweets… And years later, holding hands, talking, laughing, kissing, sometimes arguing. And now here we are again, third time round. Silent.