Never Saw You Coming

by Hayley Doyle

  ‘Jim!’ I call, and follow him, my bags trailing behind.

  He stops, turns around.

  If any words were about to fall from his lips, they would be, ‘What now?’, except he just looks too jaded to speak.

  ‘I need your bank details,’ I tell him. ‘So I can transfer the money I owe you.’

  ‘Right,’ he says, as if he’d forgotten, which is hard to believe after the almighty song and dance he’d made out of it earlier. ‘You got a pen?’

  ‘I do, with my art things. I have a pencil case.’ I crouch down and start to unzip one of my suitcases. ‘Not this one. One moment, let me look in the other one …’

  ‘Zara …’

  Another gush of wind attacks, the shrill whistle of its roar loud and strong.

  ‘Oh, Jim. You can’t drive in that atrocious weather. You’re pooped. It’s dangerous.’

  He raises an eyebrow and if I could read his mind, I’d guess he was wondering why I’d changed the subject. But I’m not backing out of our deal. I have a better idea.

  ‘I need to get home,’ he says. ‘To bed.’

  ‘Reverse that. You need to get to bed. Then go home.’

  ‘I can’t—’

  ‘You can. Look, I’m not sleeping on an airport floor, so I’m going to have to get a hotel room, one of those Travelodge places across the way. You should do that, too. They’ll have pens and paper galore, and actually, they’ll have Wi-Fi. I can get my laptop out, transfer the money to you there and then.’

  ‘Zara, I can’t.’

  ‘Jim, you can. And you will.’

  ‘Who are you? Me ma?’

  ‘I hate the way you do that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Make out like I’m being a nag when I’m just protecting you.’

  Jim narrows his eyes, cocks his head to one side.

  ‘What if you fall asleep at the wheel?’ I say.

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Or what if another car skids into you because they can’t see the road clearly? You might not be as lucky as you were this morning.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  I look at my pile of luggage and back to Jim.

  ‘Well, for the very, very last time … can you give me a lift?’

  There’s only one room vacant.

  Sitting behind the reception desk of the Travelodge is a middle-aged woman, her uniform tight and stretched across her chest, her eyeliner drawn thick and wonky below each eye, her name badge simply stating Manager. A young guy, skinny and camp with huge hands flapping about, is working beside her and telling a most animated tale. His badge says Kyle.

  I greet them. Where I’m getting my chirpiness from, I don’t know.

  Kyle pauses mid grand gesture, unleashing a sigh of disgust at being interrupted.

  ‘Only one room?’ I repeat what he tells me.

  I might have missed my flight to Dubai, due to take off any second, but many other flights to various towns, cities, countries have also been cancelled due to the gale force winds. Sure, we could hop back into the minibus, drive around to the Premier Inn, to the Ibis, to the Radisson, but as Kyle informs us with a smugness that I find both unnecessary and unhelpful, other hotels are likely to be fully booked tonight, also.

  ‘No bother, I’m going home,’ Jim reiterates, stepping away from the suitcases, checking I’ve got all of my things safely with me. ‘I wanna wake up in me own bed in the morning.’

  I point towards the entrance, to the rain being swept sideways by the harsh winds.

  ‘You’re not driving all the way to Liverpool in that.’

  Kyle volunteers to agree. ‘She’s right, you can’t drive to Liverpool in that.’

  ‘It’s a twin room,’ the manager pipes up. ‘Plus, there’s a chair. And a pouffe.’

  Chuckles erupt from the pair behind the desk, Kyle’s eyes streaming with tears as he holds onto the manager’s hand, her face all screwed up as if she’s trying not to wet her knickers. Jim walks away, clearly too cool for this. Handing my passport over as identification, I pay for the room upfront as Jim flicks through leaflets advertising West End shows and London attractions. The manager starts typing away while Kyle spins around in slow circles on the chair beside her, studying his fingernails.

  Is Jim really going to drive all the way to Liverpool now? In that storm?

  Or is he going to share this room with me?

  I’ve shared tents at festivals with people I hardly know, hostels with backpackers I didn’t know at all. What’s the big deal about this? We’ve been in close confinement all day long. Still, there’s a stigma with hotels, an intimacy, or sleaziness, or both. Jim walks towards me, fanning himself with a leaflet for the London Dungeon, keeping himself awake, I suspect.

  ‘I’m gonna sleep in the minibus,’ Jim says, yawning.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘I’ll recline the back seats, it’ll be dead cosy. Like camping.’

  ‘I can’t let you do that.’

  The manager stands. ‘Actually, I can’t let you do that.’

  ‘Why?’ both Jim and I ask, in unison.

  ‘Because our parking is strictly for guests only.’

  ‘Come on, Jim,’ I say. ‘It’s a twin room. No point in wasting a good bed.’

  Jim takes hold of my suitcases for the umpteenth time that day. Anyone would think he was being marched to the room with a gun to his head, not being given a comfortable space to sleep for a grand total of free.

  Stop it, Zara, I tell myself. Shake it off. An opportunity for company has arisen rather than spending the night alone. Be grateful, Zara.

  As we both trudge my belongings down the corridor, I get distracted by the hum of a vending machine. I stop and toss some loose coins in, choosing a few bags of potato chips, a couple of Snickers. The thrill of the items slowly twisting from their shelf and tumbling into the tray never fades, no matter how old I am. What does get boring, however, is hotel key cards not working. After a few fumbles, I allow Jim to take over, so he enters the room first.

  He pauses, and I bump into him.

  ‘Oh,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, what?’

  I have to jump to peek over his shoulder.

  ‘Ah,’ I say.

  ‘Hmm.’

  The twin beds are not twin beds at all. They are one. An inviting kingsize.

  Jim puts the cases down and lets out a long, drawn sigh, then leaps forward and dives onto the bed, flopping out like a starfish. It looks like such a great idea that I copy his actions and flop down beside him.

  ‘You have no idea what boundaries are,’ Jim says.

  ‘Do you wanna take a shower first?’ I suggest.

  ‘Do I smell that bad?’

  ‘No comment.’

  The two unopened bottles of Shiraz in my suitcase are begging to be drunk. There are no wine glasses, so I pour wine into the two white coffee cups sitting on white saucers beside the little kettle. I flick the plasma television screen on. A music channel churning out hits from the Seventies and Eighties is playing ‘Sweet Dreams’ by the Eurythmics.

  The patter of the shower sounds, steam misting from the bathroom door which Jim has left slightly ajar. I blush, and sip my wine generously. When Jim emerges after a few minutes, just a towel around his lower half and dripping water all over the thick carpet, he looks so different with his long hair flat and wet, stuck to his rather chiseled face, that I feel very grubby. Grabbing my toiletries bag, I take my turn to shower and slip into my PJs, little grey shorts laced with a pink frill, and a matching t-shirt with ‘AMOUR’ printed across the chest. I brush my teeth – oh, heavenly! – but curse my scar, so red without make-up, then wrap my hair up into a towel.

  ‘Exotic, isn’t it?’ I joke, twirling around the Travelodge room.

  ‘It’s more upmarket than a chalet in Rhyl,’ Jim says, helping himself to more wine.

  ‘Where’s Rhyl?’

  ‘Wales.’

  ‘Where’s the most exotic place you’ve
ever been to?’

  ‘Rhyl.’

  ‘Ha ha, very funny.’

  Jim flashes me his half smile. ‘What about you?’

  My passport is hanging out of my canvas tote bag and I pick it up and toss it to him. He catches it sharp with one hand. He sits on the corner of the bed and flicks through it as if it’s an illustrated storybook. Nodding consistently, he studies the various stamps with an almost geeky interest. Then he finds my photo and laughs – standard procedure – holding it up to compare with my face now. ‘Zara May Khoury’, he reads out. I was twenty-six on that photo, four years ago, with bleached blonde hair and a glowing tan from long days doing very little in the South East Asian sun. I spent four months there after things ended with Zein. Jim closes the passport and hands it back to me, as if he’s read my mind.

  ‘Wanna know the real reason The Dentists never hit the big time?’ he pipes up with.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Well, me mate Griffo, his dad got us a gig in Puerto Banus for his mum’s fortieth birthday party, except I never had a passport. And I sort of only admitted that when it was too late.’

  ‘How late?’

  ‘As we were all leaving for the airport.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just Fast Track, get one of those premium appointments?’

  ‘I was fifteen. I didn’t know.’

  ‘But, what about the guys, the ones with the awful teeth?’ I tease.

  ‘Oh, they went. They called me a wanker, got themselves a free holiday. And me, well, I stayed behind in Liverpool.’

  ‘Did they play without you?’

  ‘They might’ve called me a wanker, but they’re not wankers. Besides, none of them could sing. Even Mikey, he’s a music teacher now, he’s got great rhythm, but he’s tone deaf. Like you.’

  ‘Video killed the—’

  ‘STOP. Anyway, when they came back, all sunburnt and full of lies about sleeping with loads of women, we decided to just stick it out as mates. To be honest, I think that’s why we’re still so tight. The Dentists going platinum probably would’ve torn us apart.’

  I drag the towel off my head and, shaking it out, I lay it out on the carpet. Taking the opened bottle, the unopened bottle and remaining snacks, I place them down upon it. I grab a couple of pillows and the cushions that decorate the bed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Jim asks.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ I say. ‘We’re having a picnic.’

  To my delight, Jim plays along.

  ‘I don’t even know your surname,’ I say, crossing my legs as Jim outstretches his, both of us using pillows and cushions to slouch against.

  ‘Glover,’ he says.

  ‘Great. I can find you on Facebook now.’

  ‘I’m not on Facebook.’

  Once again, my perception skills fail me. I’ve lost my touch entirely. Of course Jim isn’t on Facebook. I bet he’s never even considered it.

  We open the second bottle and Jim refills my cup.

  I notice a hole in the back of his t-shirt and am tempted to poke my finger in, just for fun, but I eat the Snickers instead. Jim hadn’t been wearing this t-shirt this morning when we crashed because I seem to remember a camper van print, which is now replaced with some beer brand I’ve never heard of. I bet he got changed when he picked up the minibus.

  Blondie is singing ‘Call Me’.

  ‘Jim Glover?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do you believe everyone has a soul mate?’

  ‘Oh, Jesus, girl. You’re asking me?’

  ‘I wanna know your thoughts.’

  ‘Okay … fuck. Erm. Well, to be honest, yeah, I used to believe that. But now, I dunno.’

  ‘Helpful.’

  ‘Look. We live in a mental world, everyone running around like every minute’s about to be their last. No one’s taking the time to get to know anyone anymore, it’s all rushed.’

  ‘You mean dating, all those apps, swiping and scrutinising everybody’s faults?’

  ‘Hmm. Maybe. I don’t know much about apps and shit. But I do think people used to tolerate each other more than they do today. They allowed their love to grow. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Finding love … and by “love”, I mean the kind classic movies portray, or the “love” our grandparents told us about when we were kids … well, today it’s different. The world’s moved on, it got batteries, it goes faster and faster. It’s all so instant. No one allows anything to grow. Love included. If a relationship shows a hint of needing a bit of watering, people are quick to get the fuck out. I’m guilty of it meself.’

  ‘Or maybe you just haven’t found The One.’

  ‘Cheesy, like. But, I reckon, when you know you know.’

  ‘Oh, I love that notion, Jim.’

  ‘God, you are a hopeless romantic, aren’t you, girl?’

  ‘Hopeless.’

  Cyndi Lauper appears on the screen. ‘Time After Time’ fills the room, the space between us. It’s nice to sit back and listen, enjoy the sensation of the wine, take a moment. The conversation has dried up, but that doesn’t matter anymore.

  ‘I might have to hit the sack, love.’

  I agree, struggling to keep my eyes open, too. The bed is beckoning.

  But neither of us move.

  I decide to break the silence at the exact moment that Jim does.

  ‘You can have the—’/ ‘I’ll sleep down here—’

  ‘Sorry what?’/ ‘What? Soz.’

  ‘I don’t mind—’/ ‘You can have it—’

  ‘We can share—’/ ‘We could share—’

  ‘Sorry,’/ ‘Sorry.’

  So, since I’m not sure of anything Jim is saying, I presume he feels the same way.

  ‘It’s big enough for a whole family,’ I manage, although a little too loud for my liking, my eardrums tingling at my own shrill.

  ‘You won’t even know I’m there,’ Jim says, a mock yawn prompting me into a genuine one.

  He’s still wearing his t-shirt, his ripped jeans, and I feel quite naked in my PJs. Like a married couple from one of those old sitcoms, we each climb into opposite sides of the bed, the only thing missing being rollers in my hair and a pair of striped pyjamas on Jim. I plump up my pillows and he lies flat as if his body is displayed in an open casket. Cyndi Lauper hits the high notes with ‘I will be waiting’ and I giggle to stop myself from cringing. I catch Jim smirking, too. The music is invasive, if not corny.

  ‘Shall I turn it off?’ Jim asks.

  I nod, snuggling downwards.

  He points the remote towards the TV, but it doesn’t turn off. Stretching his arm out further, screwing up his face to somehow help him press down harder, he tries again, calling the remote control a ‘lazy bastard’.

  ‘If you’re lost, you can look, and you will find me …’

  The duvet flicks back and he swings his long legs, still wearing his ripped jeans, out of the bed.

  ‘No, wait,’ I say, sitting up and pulling his shoulder back. ‘Let me.’

  I swing my bare legs out of bed now, standing, but Jim also stands and says, ‘Nah, you stay where you are.’ Both of us are moving, both speaking simultaneously yet again, neither hearing the other one’s words.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’/ ‘Get back into bed,’/ ‘I’m closer,’/ ‘I’ll turn it off.’

  And now, we’re both standing at the foot of the kingsize bed, so close, inches apart.

  ‘… If you fall, I will catch you …’

  I can feel Jim’s breath warming the top of my head.

  We freeze.

  Neither of us are making any effort to turn the TV off. My eyes are fixed on the blue speckled carpet. I make my move, turn towards the TV and switch it off from the main button on the side. A deeper darkness clouds the room, the only light passing from the bathroom door which remains ajar. The intensity has passed, we can get back into bed now, fall into a desperately desired slumber.

  I sit down on the bed but Jim takes my hand in his, pul
ling me back to standing upright, before him.

  I dare to shift my gaze upwards, a lightness in my toes, my knees, my heart, as I take in his hair, his jawline, his lips, anything but his eyes. A strand of my still-damp hair is caught in my eyelashes, and I fidget a touch, pushing it out of the way. Jim lifts his other hand to assist me and allows it to linger in my hair. I look into his pale, narrowing eyes and we are locked together within a bubble of stillness, ready to bounce, ready to burst. What will happen if I blink? It’s all I can do to stop myself.

  So, I move …

  … Take a little step in towards him …

  No.

  This isn’t supposed to happen.

  Just because I’m stuck in a hotel room with Jim, doesn’t mean I have to …

  … But I want to. I want him.

  And God, my fear of getting hurt is as powerful as the heat intensifying between us.

  This isn’t supposed to …

  It is happening. I falter, as if I’m standing at the beginning of a long tight rope. Can I do this? Can I fall into him? What if he doesn’t catch me? The feel of his fingers interlacing with mine sends a shockwave of electricity buzzing through me. He lowers his head further and I raise my chin, our lips inches apart.

  Getting closer.

  Closer.

  And closer.

  Unexpectedly, Jim steps back, abrupt, as if he’s been pulled out from the water.

  His phone’s ringing.

  ‘It’s an unknown number,’ he says. ‘I’ve got to take it … Excuse me, love.’

  Then, as Jim leaves the room, he mouths, ‘Sorry’, and goes out into the corridor.

  I sit on the edge of the bed, anticipating his return, unsure of what to do with myself. Good God. We almost kissed. We very nearly, absolutely, totally almost fucking kissed. Jim! I can’t kiss Jim, can I? Will I kiss him once he comes back into the room? Is that what’s supposed to happen? The urge between us had been real.

  I flick on the lamp and take a look around, the white bed sheets enticing me. I can hear Jim’s voice outside, a muffled distant echo of a half-audible disjointed conversation. Perhaps he says, ‘Helen’. And again. Whatever he’s saying, there’s no laughter and a certain urgency, the words, ‘Stop’, ‘Calm’, ‘Listen’, all repeating often. Then, even those words filter into distortion until they’re small noises too far away for me to hear at all.