by Hayley Doyle
Neither of us ever said out loud that our relationship was over.
We didn’t need to.
And now, Helen and Snowy’s gorgeous little twins are conked out, with me and Helen tucking them into bed, together, as friends.
‘We need a bigger house,’ Helen whispers. ‘These two can’t share forever.’
‘You’ve only just moved in,’ I whisper back.
Helen slouches down into a bean bag. The twins’ room is spacious, maybe because the furniture is so small. A gentle lamp with a soft blue bulb calms the room, making me sleepy. It’s only about seven o’clock.
Tapping the bean bag, Helen invites me to sit beside her.
‘Remember when we used to think Fleetwood Mac followed us around?’ she mouths, a hint of sound escaping her red lips.
‘They did.’ I smile.
‘Everywhere we went, one of their songs was playing.’
‘That random pub in Southport.’
‘Exactly.’
Simultaneously, we both whisper the lyrics of ‘You Can Go Your Own Way’.
‘I wish we hadn’t,’ Helen says, bringing her knees up to her chest.
‘What?’
‘Gone our own way.’
I let out a small laugh, and Helen follows, cringing at herself.
‘Sssh,’ she says. ‘I’m being serious.’
‘You’re pissed, Hels.’
‘Patronising.’
Maisie begins to stir. I hold out my hand, gesturing Helen to stay sitting as I drag myself up, placing my hand on Maisie’s tummy. I’ve seen Helen do this numerous times. Snuggling further into her bunny, she settles. Raven haired, just like her dad, Maisie’s a real-life little Snow White, whereas Rocco’s got his mum’s fiery hair and freckles.
‘Don’t be sad, Hels,’ I whisper. ‘You’ve got a gorgeous family here.’
Helen replies with a sigh.
‘Come on, Helen. Get up. Let’s join the party.’
‘I chose the wrong man, Jimbo.’
‘No, you didn’t. Don’t be a drama queen. You didn’t choose anyone, it wasn’t like that.’
‘You’re saying I had no choice?’
‘I’m saying you didn’t have to choose. It wasn’t like me and Snowy were about to duel and you swanned over to decide who you wanted. Me and you were kids, Helen. You and Snowy happened years later. A lifetime later.’
‘He doesn’t understand me, doesn’t give me what I need.’
‘He makes you laugh.’
‘He makes everyone laugh.’
‘I’m going downstairs.’
I’m already by the door, tired from whispering, when I feel Helen’s breath on my neck.
‘I don’t love him, Jim.’
‘Well, I’m sorry for you. I am. But it’s not my problem.’
She twists my shoulders, forcing me to turn to her, face to face.
‘It is your problem.’
‘Since when?’
‘Do you remember the last time we slept together? Before I got pregnant with the twins?’
‘It was long before that, and you know it.’
‘So, you do remember our last time?’
‘Stop it.’
But, she stretches onto her tip toes and kisses me. It’s so soft, so entirely familiar, that, shit, I allow it to happen. My arms naturally wrap around her waist, one hand reaching to the small of her back. The fruity, acidic taste of her tongue is strong, making me all too aware of how sober I am.
Maisie wakes again, this time calling for her mummy.
Breaking away, Helen doesn’t hesitate in going to her girl. I get out, head straight to the bathroom, lock the door and splash my face with cold water. I rest on the edge of the bath, plastic crabs and seahorses in a rainbow of bright colours stuck to its sides. Pressing my palms into my eyes, I rock forward, my hair falling across my face, annoying me, itching me.
What a mess.
Today was supposed to be a good day; the best – the start of something new.
I know she offers it on a bloody plate sometimes and Christ, it’s getting tiresome, but how could I let myself kiss Helen? And while she’s drunk?
That’s what scum do.
I flush the toilet and open the door to be met on the landing by Snowy, toothy grinned, thrusting his hips to the beat of the music coming from downstairs.
‘Mate,’ Snowy cries, unaware of his kids trying to sleep. ‘I’m buzzin’.’
‘Keep your voice down, will you?’ Helen emerges from the twins’ bedroom.
Snowy keeps thrusting and shimmies his way towards his girlfriend, circling her whilst pulling that face kids do when they’re told off for being ‘silly’. I can’t help but find him funny, my bonkers best mate, and even Helen plays with her hair and cackles.
‘I’m buzzin’,’ Snowy repeats. ‘But, I’m also bursting. See ya later alligators!’ And he plants a loud kiss onto Helen’s cheek, not forgetting to slap her on the bum before disappearing into the bathroom.
‘Let’s just get the fuck downstairs,’ I say.
‘Agreed,’ Helen says.
At the bottom of the stairs, swigging a bottle of Perrier water and admiring a set of three framed Jack Vettriano prints, is Griffo’s dad. Griffo’s dad doesn’t drink alcohol, despite having a fully functioning bar in his house: draft, premium spirits, the lot. I’ve never asked him why he doesn’t drink. He’s not the sort of man you ask questions of.
‘Alright, our James.’ He nods.
There’s always a light on when it comes to Griffo’s dad, never a moment when he switches off, looks caught unaware. His name’s Richard. But I don’t call him by his name because I once overheard him say to someone, ‘You don’t get to call me Richard. You don’t get to call me anything. Got that?’ The way he spoke was sinister, his teeth gritted, his lips doing all the talking. So, although I’ve known him since I was a kid, he’s always just Griffo’s dad.
‘Hey,’ I manage.
‘Popular these, aren’t they?’ Griffo’s dad says, nodding at the frames.
I shrug. Well, I know Helen loves them.
Griffo’s dad places a strong arm around my shoulders, his pumped muscles encasing me like giant bubble wrap. Christ, I always feel like such a scruff-bag beside this man. My old t-shirt, printed with a fading camper van, is creased and noticeably poked with holes next to his Ralph Lauren polo shirt, his smart suit jacket tailored to perfection. Although I washed my hair yesterday, I’m aware of its stench in comparison to the shining shaved head beaming beside me, expensive aftershave thickening the air between us.
‘The lads tell me you’ve got yourself some wheels,’ Griffo’s dad says.
‘Some random stroke of luck …’
‘Well, you gonna show me or what?’
And it seems Mikey wasn’t bullshitting about the value of my car. According to Griffo’s dad, it’s actually worth fifty-four thousand quid. The sound of the numbers spoken out loud knocks the breath out of my body. I’m fucking shivering, although I feel hot, clammy.
‘Depends when and how you want to sell it, though, James. Your problem’s getting that sort of money for it when a buyer could just go and pick their own straight from a car showroom. Then again, you might get lucky, might find someone who’d rather deal with the seller direct. You got lucky once, why can’t you get lucky again? That’s my outlook anyway.’
Griffo’s dad gives my shoulder a small squeeze.
‘The more you drive it, the more it’ll lose its value. Just bear that in mind, James.’
‘I need to take me ma for a spin. At least.’
‘Of course you do. I’m just giving you advice, lad.’
Advice isn’t all he gives me either.
Griffo’s dad offers me fifty grand in cash if he can buy the car tomorrow.
‘Cash?!’
‘I only deal in cash.’
‘Deal.’
We shake hands, although fuck, I’m shaking all over. I feel my phone vibrate once and take
it out of my pocket. No, it’s not my ma. It’s just a text, thank God, from Helen.
Jim. I’m so so sorry about b4. Don’t know what I was thinking. H xx
Oh Christ, Griffo’s dad’s still talking to me, going through the terms of our deal, making sure neither party is unhappy with the offer on the table. I’m trying so hard to listen to what he’s suggesting, but all I can hear is fifty grand, fifty grand, fifty grand, fifty grand …
‘You don’t want any dickheads scratching the doors ’cause they’ve nothing better to do,’ Griffo’s dad says. ‘And you want that whole fifty, don’t you?’
I swallow, nod.
‘Now look, Jim. I’m not saying you live in a shit hole—’
‘I do live in a shit hole.’
‘Stay in a hotel tonight. A good one. Valet park the car. You can afford it.’
‘Bloody hell. I can, can’t I? Well, I can tomorrow.’
‘We made a deal. You can afford it tonight,’ Griffo’s dad winks. ‘And enjoy it.’
His Perrier bottle empty, Griffo’s dad rejoins the indoor barbecue and I feel my phone vibrate again.
Sorry I do know what I was thinking but didn’t explain right. Sorry. H xx
Then, again.
Let me explain … U went ur way I went mine (FLEETWOOD MAC!!!!!!!!!!!) I honestly honestly thought we were 2 different. I thought u were gonna move on and get some high flying job. I never thought ud stay here!!!!! U wer 2 clever 4 someone like me. Lifes so unpredictable
Christ, Helen. I can’t be doing with this drama, not tonight. I get inside my car, decide to go and surprise my ma. This party isn’t doing me any good right now and I need to be on the ball tomorrow to meet Griffo’s dad. I’ve not even started the engine when my phone goes nuts, buzzing.
Sorry!!!! Pressed send by accident. I know we’ve talked about all this b4 but I’m so miserable and so confused. I love the person Snowy is. But I’m not IN LOVE with him. U told me I went after him 4 an excitin life. U were right. I did. I thought I’d get 2 c the world and go on all those world tours with him. How stupid. I never got 2 go anywhere. I should’ve just stayed with u. H xx
Judging by the fact u haven’t replied I’ll just say SORRY 4 bein a soppy drunk. H xx
Forget all I said. Let’s pretend the kiss was 4 old times sake haha. H xx
7
Zara
At least I have my own room, even if it is in a hostel.
Once I left Clifton Crescent, I screamed as I drove, completely bawling my fucking eyes out. Well, wouldn’t you? It’s not like anybody can hear you when you’re driving down busy roads, trucks overtaking you, tyres crashing through rain puddles. I just kept driving, onwards, onwards. When I came to crossroads or junctions, I turned whatever way I felt, mostly right. Just because. I had nowhere to go, no place to find.
I mean, I’m at a hostel now. In downtown Liverpool. When I realised I’d driven myself in a huge circle, I pulled over outside a high school, all closed up for the day, not a student in sight. I checked my phone, praying for a message, a missed call, an explanation. Nothing. Nick wasn’t even online. He’s always online. I bashed the steering wheel over and over, and not because I’d seen that in movies. It was a solid, genuine kneejerk reaction to stopping and not having any reason to get out. If I’d been in a house, I probably would have thrown something against a wall, to feel it hit, to hear it break. I howled, my head resting on the wheel. Then I blew my nose, wiped my face with my fingertips. I had to create a plan. Nobody can drive around the suburbs in circles forever.
I looked for hotels on the satnav and followed the routes. Five hotels, I tried. Five. All of them were either fully booked or extortionate. It’s a busy time, apparently, so the various hotel staff kept telling me. There’s a big football game on this weekend and Kylie is playing some venue called the Echo Arena tonight. But I don’t know anybody in this city other than Nick and I needed a bed. I needed to stop, reset, breathe. And God, I needed to get out of that fucking Peugeot. So, the satnav finally led me to this hostel.
‘I never want to be on my own,’ I say quietly, opening my purse, digging out my card.
‘No problem,’ the young girl behind the desk says, monotone, scrolling through her phone with one hand. A sign on the wall behind her says Ask _____ for help, the name Ida scribbled into the blank space with a marker pen. Ida – presumably – is petite, but in a different way to me; a shirt buttoned all the way up to the top, an undercut in her hair, not a trace of make-up on her gaunt, freckled face. ‘You want a bed in a shared dorm?’
‘God, no!’ I cry, horrified.
Ida, who speaks with a Scandinavian lilt, seems to be taking a selfie, pulling a blank, serious expression from behind thick, square spectacles.
‘But, you never want to be on your own?’ she asks, gazing at her own image.
‘I was thinking out loud. I didn’t want to be on my own tonight.’
‘Okay …’
‘I mean, I wasn’t supposed to be on my own. And it sucks.’
‘Well, like I suggested, you can have a bed in a shared—’
‘No way, I’ll be thirty-one next month.’
‘Whoa …’ Ida puts down her phone. ‘That does suck.’
‘Thanks.’
We stare each other out. Ida, clearly at ease with this. Me, pretty freaked.
‘Do you have parking?’ I ask.
Ida clicks away at the mouse, yawning into the computer screen behind the desk. Then, she stretches her arms up high and yawns again, a loud, satisfying noise accompanying the whole motion.
‘Sorry, what did you say?’ she asks.
‘About parking. My car’s outside and I don’t think I’m supposed to be parked there.’
‘No.’
‘No, what?’
‘No, you can’t park there.’
‘So, where can I park?’
‘Don’t know. I don’t drive.’
Well, this is just great. Just. Great. All of my material belongings are packed into that car like badly stacked Tetris blocks – ALL of them – except for my ski wear which currently resides at my papa’s villa in Dubai. Every shoe, every earring, every trinket is right here. My coffee mug decorated with a pink and silver ‘Z’. A small collection of Trolls from my teen years. My yoga mat. Two bottles of Shiraz which I should be drinking right now, in celebration. A brand new A3 sketchbook, tucked between the layers of my clothes.
And, of course, the mop.
‘Are you okay?’ Ida asks. The concern in her voice, on a scale of one to ten, zero.
‘No, not really.’
‘Room fifty-two. Fifth floor.’ Ida slams a chunky key ring on the desk. ‘Oh, and I forgot to mention, the lift’s broke.’
Snatching my room key, I shuffle out of the hostel. I’ll just have to grab my overnight essentials once I find a legal place to park. The cold feels bitter between the fine rain and wind sneaking around the city’s cobbled side streets. Fighting tears against the miserable night air I smooth down my hair, for – what a surprise – it’s finally starting to frizz.
I climb behind the wheel of the Peugeot and drive in circles, circles and hey, more goddamn circles. A multi-storey parking lot close to what looks like the shopping district will have to do. About a fucking mile away. I park up.
‘Tonight wasn’t supposed to be like this,’ I say out loud as I open up my suitcase, aware that I look like a mad woman. But there’s nobody to see. My voice echoes around the empty lot. I know I shouldn’t, but I look at my phone. I’ve got two emails and one Whatsapp. I open the latter. It’s from Katie.
Are ya there yet? Followed by an emoji of a plane.
I can’t possibly reply to that right now.
The emails are junk, irrelevant.
Wrapping my army jacket close around my body, I head back to the hostel with my toothbrush, clean underwear and a stripy shirt for beneath my denim pinafore tomorrow, all stuffed into my canvas tote bag. In the distance, bangs echo through the sky. I’m
reminded of Dubai where hardly a week goes by without some sort of firework spectacle. The walk is slightly uphill, past a host of pubs, packed to the brim with what looks like a mixture of students and regulars, karaoke blaring from behind the steamed-up windows. Groups of students are huddled inside the various bars, all wearing their coats and drinking pints. Earlier today, I would have seen these people as potential friends, or classmates, my application to study here in Liverpool still in process. Now, they’re just loud and in my face, a blatant reminder of the path I’ll no longer go down.
If Nick didn’t live there, then who did?
It was him … It was … with another woman. And two kids.
Halfway up the bustling street, I see a church ahead, lit with colourful floodlights and lasers. As I approach, I notice that not only is the church missing a roof, but the inside is hollow, shrubs and greenery growing around its frame. How utterly spectacular! If only I had my sketchbook with me. I’d love to capture this moment, even with a few strokes of a pencil. Sure, it’s raining, but the raindrops could add character, give the sketch some extra life. But no. It’s locked up in that multi-storey parking lot with the rest of my things.
Anyway, I won’t even have any use for the stupid sketchbook. Not now. Not after what happened this afternoon at Clifton Crescent.
I think of those little girls.
They both looked like their mom; almost like three sisters. I’m all father, something which definitely disappointed my mom from the word go. Today, the younger girl was a bundle of chaos and cuteness, but the older girl, she seemed – I don’t know – sad? Okay, maybe not sad, but tense. I was about her age when my parents finally called it a day. We were living in Singapore then. I’d just settled into school. I sometimes think about the friends I made, wonder if I’d still be friends with them now if social media had been around back then. Would I know the names of their kids? See what they wore on their wedding day? Perhaps been invited to some of those weddings? Or would they just be names that ‘like’ a photo now and again, or wish me a Happy Birthday, hon!?
By the time I arrive back at the hostel, my whole body feels battered, bruised with exhaustion. I know it’s not actually possible for a human heart to break, a lightning crack down its centre, but it’s the only way I can describe the feeling in my chest, beside my lungs, trapped behind my ribcage. It hurts. It really fucking hurts.