by Hayley Doyle
‘Take them stupid layers off, you fat bastard,’ I said. ‘And go on. Piss off!’
Snowy stepped away and, shooting a salute to the old fella, galloped to the doors.
Then he stopped, but didn’t turn around, his gaze glued to the frayed leftovers of carpet.
‘Jimbo? What if she says yes?’
A shiver encased me, so cold that I wanted to rip a jumper off Snowy’s back and wrap it around myself like a blanket.
‘Like I said, mate.’ I swallowed. ‘You’ve got me blessing.’
My ma’s on a ward with three other ladies. She’s propped up in bed eating wine gums, picking out the yellow ones and putting them to one side. They’re my favourite and this is something she’s done since I was a kid. Her face is pale, the shock of her fall still fresh in her mind as well as her body, and she’s refused to eat the toast brought to her earlier because she only likes it with that marmalade from the Asda.
An apology from me wasn’t allowed; she slapped my hand, told me to shut up. But I’m still fraught. If my ma had died alone, just like my dad, how could I ever forgive myself? Still, she’s much more interested in where I was last night, wanting to know all the details as if I’m about to reveal an upcoming plotline from Corrie.
‘I was just helping a mate,’ I say.
‘I know when you’re lying.’
‘I’m not lying.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Mam!’
‘Come on, son. It’ll make me feel better.’
‘That’s blackmail, and you always told me blackmail would send me to hell.’
‘I told you a lot of things.’
I pop a yellow wine gum into my mouth, then another. She gives me a little shake.
‘I promise you, I was helping a mate. Who happened to be female. She needed a lift.’
‘A lift? In that bloody big car you won?’ My ma tuts, as if that bloody big car is a prostitute who shows up to Sunday mass with her skirt tucked into her knickers.
‘Kind of,’ is all I can think to reply.
‘I told you that car would bring you nothing but bad luck. Remember the lottery winners?’
I nod. ‘I remember. I do listen to what you say. Hold on. Why are you saying that? Why are you presuming the car brought me bad luck?’
‘’Cause of the look in your eyes, the weight of the world on your shoulders.’
‘I think that’s got something to do with you being here in the ozzy.’
My ma releases a weak raspy laugh.
‘Jim. I know you got a fright, me falling. But I know you better than anyone. Something else has happened to you, son. You seem different.’
I just long for some colour to appear in her cheeks, a little more volume to escape from her lips, any hint of recovery going in a good, sharp direction. She’s almost seventy-five, which isn’t that old in this day and age, but she’s fragile. My hand’s in hers again, and I run my index finger over the veins and knuckles, her paper-thin skin delicate, precious. I’m scared. I’m downright lost. But my ma won’t put up with anything soppy. She never allows a sentimental moment to last longer than a flicker.
‘I think you should see her again,’ she says, pulling her hand away from mine.
‘Who?’
‘Don’t play games with me, soft lad. You know who.’
‘Get some rest, Mam.’
Disappointment washes over me when she doesn’t argue back. She closes her eyes and falls deeper into her pillows. I sit back in the plastic armchair, watching her chest move up and down.
Once my ma is sound asleep, I leave the hospital and call Griffo.
‘Where are you, mate?’ I ask.
‘Home, lad. Where are you?’
‘On me way back from the ozzy. Griffo, I need to drop your dad’s minibus off.’
‘Sound. Now?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Sound.’
‘And then I’ll need a lift back to mine. Is that okay, mate?’
‘Sound as a pound.’
Mrs Wong isn’t too pleased to see me when Griffo drops me off. She stands behind the deep fat fryer, two customers awaiting their food, and huffs enough to set the place alight. Her antisocial kids are sitting on the stairs playing Uno and don’t say hello or bother to move out of the way to let me past. When I find my front door ajar, I understand why Mrs Wong is so pissed off with me. Her kids must’ve tried to get into my flat to watch Netflix, but they were too late. The living room is already occupied. With Helen.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask her.
‘Nice to see you, too, Jimbo.’
Her maroon Doc Martens are off and her stockinged feet are resting on my tile-and-teak coffee table, a mug of instant coffee in her hands and a huge woolly jumper keeping her warm, some B-list romcom on the telly. Anyone would think she lives here.
And for a moment, I like it.
Coming home to nobody is tiresome. After a long day in the toll booth or a heavy night in the Pacific Arms, or even after a weekly shop in the Asda, getting home is always a great feeling. But once I shut the front door, take off my trainers, whack the kettle on, life can be unbearably lonely. My paperbacks are sacred, my love of films a God-send.
‘Hels, I’ve had a fucked-up few days—’
‘Jimbo, stop. You don’t need to explain.’ She places her coffee on the table, spilling a little over the rim, and stands up. ‘I just wanted to say sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘It’s not. I was drunk, I didn’t mean to be such a pain.’
‘Sit down, will you? You’re making the room look untidy.’
Helen allows herself to smile and sits back down, taking her coffee and curling her feet beneath her. I wonder if Snowy has popped the question yet. She’s not wearing a ring. She rests her head against the leather settee and closes her eyes, sighing.
‘You look like shite,’ I say.
‘Look in the mirror.’
I flop down next to her, take the coffee mug from her hands and swig.
‘Do you wanna tell me where you’ve been?’ Helen asks, her eyes still closed.
‘Haven’t got the energy, to be honest, girl.’
‘You alright, though?’
‘Me? Yeah. ’Course. It’s me ma I’m worried about.’
‘How’s she doing?’
I put the mug back onto the table and hang my head over my knees. Helen places her hand on the small of my back, reminding me I’m not alone, that I’ve got a friend.
‘Ah, Hels. I’m sorry, girl. I’m a right mess.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘She’s so frail, Helen. She’s so small and frail, and I wanna help her. But, I can’t. I can’t do fuck all. She’s me ma, and I can’t do anything to fucking help her. Me dad’d be ashamed of me.’
‘Oh, Jimbo, don’t torture yourself. Come here,’ she says, letting my head fall into her lap as she strokes my hair, holds onto me tight. ‘You’re amazing with your mum, the best son she could ever wish for. And your dad’s looking down on you so proud, Jimbo, I promise. Me own mother always says so, you know. She does. She says “Roy Glover’d be so proud of that lad. He’s watching from Heaven”.’
‘Bloody Catholics.’
I break away, stand, stretch out. I can’t sit around moping all afternoon. I’ve got to sort myself out, get back to the hospital, find out when my sisters are arriving in Liverpool. Christ, our Lisa and our Emma are coming home. What will I make of them? Bloody hell, what will they make of me? Exactly the same as when they left, only older and a hell of a lot more broke.
‘It’s not true,’ I say, pretending to read the small-print credits on a framed poster of True Romance. ‘Me dad. He’d never be proud of me. This life, this isn’t what he wanted for me. Or where I saw meself ending up, if I’m honest.’
‘But, you’re a good man, Jimbo.’
‘Am I?’
‘Of course!’
‘Am I?’ I turn around, lock eyes with H
elen. ‘Really?’
She looks away, uncurls her feet and starts to loosen the laces of her Doc Martens to make them easier to slip back on.
‘Look at me, Helen.’
‘Jim … The kids are with me mum ’cause Snowy’s at the match, and I only popped in to say sorry. For ringing last night. But, you know what? I think I should go now.’
‘How am I a good man when I kissed me best mate’s girl the other night?’
‘I’m getting out of here—’
‘No, Hels. It’s alright for you to corner me when you’re pissed, to ring me, to pour your bloody heart out when you need it, but where does that leave me? Good ol’ Jimbo. Always here for you. But, it’s not good, is it? It’s fucking toxic.’
‘Stop it, Jimbo.’
‘No, I won’t stop anything. ’Cause all I’ve done is sit in that fucking toll booth for years and feel sorry for meself, waiting for some lucky fucking strike, and you know what? It’s bullshit. There’s no such thing as a lucky strike. I won a BMW, out of the blue, and look where it’s got me. You make your own luck in this world, and I should’ve been clever enough to know that.’
‘Jim, calm down. You’re upset about your ma—’
‘What are you actually doing here, Helen?’
‘Seeing if you were alright!’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Bloody hell, Jim, you never go anywhere and then you disappear? No one can get hold of you? Griffo tells us your car’s been stolen, you needed a minibus to get somewhere? Come on, Jimbo. This isn’t normal behaviour from you.’
I’m about to lash out again, tell Helen to shut up. But, instead, I laugh. Not in a happy way, or a tickled way. No, it’s more of a bitter realisation. I sigh, a “ha” and an “oh”, the words “brilliant” and “of course” tumbling out, too.
‘What’s so funny? So “brilliant”?’ Helen asks.
I can’t contain myself.
‘Jim?!’
‘It’s not normal, is it?’ I manage. ‘For me. It’s not normal. Because I’m so predictable.’
‘Well, yeah. You are.’
I nod and let out a big sigh which not only controls my laughter, but kills it.
‘Derek bloody Higgins was spot on,’ I say. ‘When he said I was going nowhere.’
‘Your boss? When did he say that?’
‘The day I won the car.’
‘You should’ve told him to fuck off,’ she snorts. ‘You’re wasted in that job. We’ve all said it. If I were you, I’d tell your boss where to shove it.’
‘Yeah, the old me, maybe. But I can’t be that person anymore.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s impulsive.’
‘It’s passionate, Jim!’
‘It got me nowhere and …’ I trail off. I don’t have a clue where I’m going with this response, this feeling of fight. I so desperately want to be the man I envisioned myself being back when I was too young to understand the bite of reality. I could’ve been a journalist – even an editor by now – maybe living away somewhere, like London. Watching my sisters both rise from their working-class upbringing to achieve their dreams and ride off into the sunset set a benchmark, one that was filled with hope, the possibility of success. Only they did it before getting a toe stuck into the rut that I quickly became buried in.
Then again, look at Zara and the opportunities she’s had given to her on a gold plate. Those stamps in her passport. And yet where’s she? Still sat alone at Heathrow waiting to be told when she can get on a flight? God. How I suddenly want to hold her, tell her how I understand. Or at least tell her that I believe I might understand. I was pretty awful to her, wasn’t I? All she’d wanted was a friend. Someone to talk to. I could’ve easily provided that. Easily. For God’s sake, that’s who I am. Everybody’s bloody friend. And the girl who seemed to need me the most, even just for a day, well, I let her down. There isn’t much I can offer to people, but I could’ve offered Zara my friendship. It wouldn’t have cost a penny.
But I judged her. Scrutinised her every word, her every breath. Is it because I envy the privileged life she’s had? Or is it because she’s different to anybody I’ve ever met before?
‘Jim?’
Helen.
I almost forgot she’s here.
She’s got her car keys in her hand, jingling them in that way people do when they’re eager to leave, get a move on, get the fuck out of where they are.
‘Jimbo!’ she says, maybe for the third or fourth time, and claps her hands to snap me out of my daze. I sit down on my settee, pat the seat beside me for Helen to sit down, too.
‘Are you lost or found?’ I ask her.
Helen scrunches up her face.
‘What I mean – without sounding all hippy dippy and shit – is, do you honestly think you’re living the wrong sort of life, with everything you’ve got? Or do you believe that you’re exactly where you should be?’
‘Where else would I be?’ She shrugs, matter-of-fact.
I nod, her question a direct answer.
Putting her hand over her mouth, Helen starts to giggle, her whole face blushing. She makes some comment about not really knowing why she’s laughing, but I know why. She’s been caught off guard, sober. I place my hand on her knee to calm her and although it works, she leans in and I naturally follow. Then hesitate. No. Helen slips her hands and then her arms around me, squeezing me into the comfort of her woolly jumper.
She kisses me.
I pull back, but don’t resist enough. Helen launches herself forward and pushes me back into my settee, climbing on top of me, straddling me, kissing me. She reaches down and holds the crotch of my jeans. Physically, I can feel Helen. The shape of her curves, more substantial in recent years, her skin still as soft. Her weight comfortable around my hips, against my chest. Coarse strands of thick red hair tickling my forehead, my eyelids. Yet I feel nothing.
As quickly as it all began, Helen stops. She breaks away, stumbles a little, tripping over her Doc Martens, strewn on my living room floor. She pulls her woolly jumper down, stretching it towards her knees, then puts her hands to her cheeks, her forehead, finally resting them on the back of her neck.
‘No more,’ she says.
I sit still. Listening.
‘You’re not right for me, Jim,’ she says, that unmistakable lump appearing in her throat. ‘I thought you were, but you’re not. You were kissing me – fuck – touching me as if you were a stranger. Like you’ve forgotten me. You’re not my Jimbo anymore.’
‘I haven’t been for years, Hels.’
It’s Helen’s turn to laugh; just one short ha.
‘We both know that ain’t the truth,’ she says.
I stand up, ever so carefully, not wanting to upset Helen any more than I’d want to wake a sleeping baby. Fat, fast tears bring her silent sobs into the room.
‘I never meant to lead you on,’ I whisper.
‘You didn’t. I just kept hanging on.’
‘I think we both did.’
And I take her into my arms, as any good friend would, and hug her tight. She hugs me back, a final line now drawn in permanent marker.
‘So, come on,’ she says, wiping her tears on her sleeve. ‘Who is she?’
I’m not sure that one of my heart-to-hearts with Helen is what I should be doing right now, but we can’t change a lifetime’s habits in the space of a few minutes. So I give a slight nod, ready, perhaps, to admit who’s at the absolute forefront of my mind.
‘Zara.’
27
Zara
Right. I’m almost packed.
I feel fresh, rested. What would this morning have been like if I’d woken up beside Jim, naked? Oh my God. My stomach does a whirl like a ferris wheel in overdrive. What a relief, surely. A random fuck with the guy whose car I smashed up wouldn’t have solved anything. Would it? Even if it had been wonderful; the most memorable sex of my life; the sort that makes my heart race like it’s doing right now?
St
op.
Maybe sex was never on the cards. Just a kiss. And what if that kiss had been awkward, the kind where we each predicted the wrong rhythm? What if it was sloppy? He might be the kind to get his teeth involved; his perfect teeth. Then again, maybe it would have been soft, delicate, and completely in tune with my desires. The flutter of something special on the horizon …
Oh, stop!
Snap out of it, Zara. Now.
It’s not as if I can endure another long-distance relationship, one that will no doubt be as unsuccessful as the last. We can’t make promises that neither can keep. Even with the best intentions in the world, these things just never work out. I’ve learnt this the hard way, and Jim watched the entire lesson being taught. This is obviously why he’s left without saying goodbye. Our meeting was an accident. A bad one that ended quite well. But it has ended.
I give the room a final check. All clear.
Except on the dressing table beside the empty wine-stained coffee cups. A note.
Sorry got to dash. Forget the money, life’s too short. Have a good one, Jim x
Ha. He doesn’t want the damn money after all. That’s a relief. I guess.
No, of course it’s a relief, and actually, quite a nice – no, generous – gesture. But …
Have a good one.
HAVE A GOOD ONE?!
Jeez. Same to you too, Jim.
‘Nothing until tonight,’ I’m told at the airport. It’s noon.
I accept a seat on tonight’s flight and leave my suitcases and broken holdall in the airport’s storage facility, not before layering myself with an extra two t-shirts beneath my zebra print sweater. I remember a cream beret that I packed. What a shame I hadn’t thought of that yesterday. I pull it over my clean, blow-dried hair.
I buy some glossy magazine and a Kinder Bueno and head to the London Underground. I haven’t been to Covent Garden since my boarding school days; a trip to see the matinee of Miss Saigon. Killing time in the West End is going to be much more interesting than sitting around the terminal, waiting all day to check in. Settling on the tube train, I open the magazine and nibble the chocolate. But the latest weight-loss tips and reality-star scandals won’t distract me from yesterday, from last night. I zone out.