No Big Deal

by Bethany Rutter

  ‘Say it all again now Emily’s here,’ urges Ella.

  ‘OK, so . . .’ Georgie begins, as I settle into the only vacant itchy brown common-room armchair in the circle, which happens to be directly opposite Camila, who’s still ignoring me.

  I’m determined to concentrate on what Georgie’s saying, even though my focus has slipped lately, and the low-level buzz of Joe in my brain means I’m permanently distracted. His absence is distracting. The little nuggets of hope are distracting. He’s not my friend. He’s still just some guy I hardly know. I’ve been checking my phone so often for a message from him that it’s like I’m trying to will one into appearing through sheer persistence, but I’ve heard nothing since I replied, Yes, hanging out sounds fun.

  Ugh! I’m meant to be focusing on Georgie!

  ‘. . . I’m dating two people.’

  Now she has my attention.

  ‘Tell me more,’ I say, leaning in so I don’t miss anything.

  ‘Uh, so one is a girl called Sinead, who goes to Our Lady of Lourdes, and the other is Charlie Waters.’

  I nod. ‘I remember Charlie from reading group one time. What’s the problem, then?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . the existence of both of them? Simultaneously? They don’t know about each other, which I know is bad.’ Georgie grimaces. ‘I just don’t want to have to choose between them.’

  I think for a second. ‘You know, you might not even have to, right?’

  ‘Do you really think that?’

  ‘I mean, obviously I don’t really know how Charlie or Sinead would feel about it, but I think in theory, you don’t have to choose. I do think you should bring it up with both of them, though. It might be an uncomfortable conversation about how you don’t want to be exclusive, but it’s worth having.’

  ‘But you don’t think it’s, like . . . wrong?’ Georgie furrows her brow. I guess she wants to make sure we’re on the same page.

  ‘No. Life is long and kind of boring sometimes. One of the best ways to make your time on earth suck less is to surround yourself with cool people. People who make you happy. People who you have fun with. People who make you feel important. And you’re super smart and interesting, and you want cool things for yourself, and that kind of narrows down the pool of people who you’ll accept into your life, and you’ve found not one but two lovers that you reckon are good enough for you. That’s huge!’

  Georgie’s smiling. ‘I guess you’re right.’

  ‘Damn right I’m right. It sounds like you’re kind of at peace with the situation, but you should still run it by both of them, just to be sure they feel OK about it too.’

  ‘See!’ Ella springs back into life after listening patiently to our back and forth. ‘I told you she was going to be helpful!’

  ‘Yeah . . . you were right,’ Georgie says. ‘How do you know all this though, Emily?’

  Good question, especially given I’ve never dated anyone, let alone two people at once.

  ‘I don’t really know anything . . .’ I trail off, not sure what to say.

  ‘I think you’re just good at thinking clearly about stuff,’ Abi says.

  ‘Well, you should do whatever you want, Georgie,’ Camila pipes up, looking wise and serious, sitting cross-legged on the seat. ‘But I could never have an open relationship.’

  ‘You’ve only been in one relationship for about ten minutes – I don’t think anyone’s asking you to get yourself another boyfriend as well,’ I shoot back. Oops. That’s the first thing I’ve said to her all day. Joe’s silence is putting me on edge, and this is what happens.

  Everyone’s looking down at the floor now.

  ‘Actually,’ she thunders back at me, suddenly aflame with righteousness, ‘it’s been a couple of months, and it’s going really well. Thank you for your support.’ And with that, she picks up her bag and storms out of the common room.

  I regret the comment instantly, mostly because it means I can’t maintain my belief that I haven’t done anything wrong. Bad Emily.

  Camila remains absent for the rest of our free period, pushing at my guilt. I copy Abi’s physics homework, Ella tests me on my French vocab, and I confirm with the Kendal family that I’m still fine to babysit that evening. Still no Camila.

  ‘Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you and Camila, but is it really worth all this?’ Abi says as we walk to physics.

  ‘No, it’s not! It’s not at all worth it!’ I explode. ‘It’s like she’s got herself a boyfriend and has suddenly become a completely different person.’

  ‘Are you . . .’ Abi stops herself and bites her lip.

  ‘Am I what?’

  ‘Are you jealous?’

  ‘Of Ryan?’

  ‘No, not Ryan.’ She sighs.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Don’t be difficult about this, Emily – I’m just asking.’

  ‘Yes, but what are you asking?’

  ‘Like, I guess, if you feel somehow betrayed by her because it always used to be you two together, you always had each other, and now she’s, like, divided,’ Abi says.

  ‘No. She can live her life. I’m happy for her! It’s Camila who’s getting wound up about this entirely stupid thing that happened before she and Ryan even got together . . .’

  Abi gawps at me. ‘What the . . . you don’t mean the awkward party non-kiss thing with you and him?’

  Yes! Thank God! A moment of sanity!

  ‘Yes! That’s literally what this is about. That’s the whole story! The whole origin of this beef!’ I wail, gesticulating wildly with my hands.

  ‘Oh Jesus, maybe you’re right. Maybe she has gone mad,’ Abi mumbles as we settle down in the lab for an hour of physics fun.

  ‘But it’s his fault! He told her about it, and he didn’t need to at all. Like, at all. Not one bit,’ I hear myself whine.

  ‘Boys are weird, right? Always making trouble where there isn’t any . . .’

  I turn up to my babysitting job that evening in a terrible mood, which is only lifted when I discover that all Jonah wants to do is read a story and go to bed early (you and me both, buddy), which leaves me a whole evening of paid TV-watching and crisp-eating. I’m halfway through a Kardashian spinoff when my phone lights up on the coffee table in front of me.

  Finally. Finally, he’s replied.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Take Me to the River’ – Talking Heads

  Dad looks up as I walk into the kitchen. ‘Where are you going looking so nice?’

  Just my luck: I knew my run of not-having-to-mention-Joe-to-my-parents would have to end sometime, but I do not want to talk about it today, of all days, the most stressful day. Dad is cleaning the oven while Mum works at the table, glasses on, running her fingers through her short hair. She’s nibbling some anaemic-looking crispbread things with Wellness System branding all over them.

  ‘I don’t look that nice, do I?’ I ask, concerned that it’s too apparent I’ve made an effort (I’m wearing a Breton T-shirt dress with a leather jacket and black ankle boots. I figured it was classic: not too dressy or too nice – just right).

  Today’s the day. Joe has spent the past week recovering from his flu and I suppose has decided that meeting up with me is the best way to return to his social life. I want to dance around with joy. But I don’t. Because I’m nervous as hell.

  ‘I don’t know how to answer that,’ my dad says, looking flustered. ‘I’m not sure what I’m meant to say.’

  ‘Yes, where are you off to, treasure?’ Mum swoops in, meaning I absolutely cannot avoid the question I’d just dodged successfully.

  ‘I’m going to meet a friend,’ I say, but of course by keeping it vague, I’ve piqued their interest, and they’re now keen to know the specifics.

  ‘Which friend?’ says Mum, a slight smile threatening to dance across her mouth as she casts a sideways look at my dad, trying to catch his eye.

  Are my nerves written all over my face? Can they really sense a shift in my . .
. aura, or something?

  ‘Joe,’ I mumble.

  ‘Is that with an ‘e’?’ Dad asks, as casually as possible, not looking up from the sponge he’s dragging across the oven.

  ‘I don’t know what you hope to learn from whether it’s a boy or girl, but if you must know, he’s a he,’ I reply. This is exactly the kind of conversation that turns me into the archetypal sulky teenager. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘By all means!’ says my dad cheerfully, standing up and removing his rubber gloves to hug me goodbye. ‘Enjoy yourself!’

  ***

  I keep taking my phone out of my bag, checking to see if Joe has cancelled, but he hasn’t yet. He even messaged me last night to confirm our hangout today. I compulsively check for messages as I’m walking to the station. There’s one from Abi. I feel guilty that I wish it was from Camila. Still radio silence on that front.

  I reply the only way I know how.

  And I mean it. It’s really not a date. Even I can accept that. Just because it’s not . . . officially a date, doesn’t mean I’m not looking forward to seeing Joe for a maybe date. I shove my phone back in my bag. It’s threatening to rain, but I won’t let it get me down. Nothing can rain on my parade today.

  I try to read my book on the train, but I can’t focus. I keep reading the same sentences over and over again. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him that I wonder if I’ve gone off him. That might be nice. It might be healthy to take a break from being obsessed with him. We’ve arranged to meet at London Bridge so we can walk along the river to the BFI to see a film later. It’s something he likes to do, and I just said yes without looking into it too much.

  I gaze out of the window the rest of the way, accepting that I’m not going to get much out of Margaret Atwood on this train ride. Before I know it, the train is pulling into the station, and I have to transport myself to our meeting point. Oh God, I liked it better when it was up to the train to take me where I needed to go. I click across the station in my boots and try to breathe deeply, but my nerves are threatening to get the better of me. Out of the station, on to the concourse, and down the outdoor escalator by the Shard.

  And there he is at the bottom of the escalator. He’s looking up at me as I’m gliding slowly down towards him, and I’m desperately trying not to smile. He’s just as cute as I remember. Blue is most definitely his colour, and he’s looking adorable in a navy-blue plaid shirt and black jeans. Maybe it would be better if I never got to the bottom of the escalator. If I just stayed here forever, always moving towards him but never actually getting there. If I never had to find out what he’s really like, never had to get to know him, but could keep him at arm’s length and admire him from afar. But I can’t, and as I reach the bottom, I’m struck by fear. I realize I don’t know what to say to him. What if we have nothing to talk about?

  ‘Hey, Emily,’ he says, smiling.

  ‘Hello, Joe,’ I reply, not sure if I should go in for a hug. He doesn’t, so that’s that.

  ‘How have you been?’ he asks, as we head towards the river.

  ‘Better than you, I’d guess. Are you all recovered from your lurgy?’

  ‘Yes, I feel loads better. I think I was just in denial that I was so ill, you know? Sorry again that I didn’t make it the other night.’

  ‘Look, it’s fine. It was a party – it’s not like there was no one else there.’

  There’s an awkward silence for a minute. Oh good, I’ve run out of things to say already, all my fears have come true, and we haven’t even spotted the Thames yet.

  ‘So, is that record player working out for you?’

  We press into the mass of people in Borough Market. I want to take his hand so I don’t lose him. I wish I was allowed.

  ‘Yes, it’s a nice thing to have, but I’m not totally convinced it’s much better than listening to music any other way.’ I am aware that this is probably an uncool position to take, but it is my position.

  ‘Never tell my dad this, but I agree with you. But . . . it does feel nice to have and to hold, you know?’ He’s walking slightly ahead of me as we are forced into single file through the throng of people in the market, but he turns back to look at me, and I warm under the glow of his gaze.

  ‘I’ll keep your secret.’ I smile, buoyed at the chance to bond with him.

  We break away on to a side street leading away from the main market and are soon down by the river. The clouds have lifted, and it’s turned into a pretty nice day for late October. The pedestrian path by the Thames is lively with tourists, buskers, joggers, dog-walkers. We peer over the railing that divides river from land and look at the water. It’s a dirty steel colour and lapping gently at the walls. Leaning against the railing together as we look out on to the City on the other side of the river feels romantic, even though it shouldn’t. I remind myself silently: this is not a date.

  ‘You’re right about Arthur Russell, by the way,’ Joe says as we continue our stroll up the South Bank.

  ‘What was I right about?’ I ask, trying to remember what acute observation I had made.

  ‘That Jens Lekman sometimes sounds like him,’ he replies.

  ‘Oh, that. It’s nice that you remembered I said that; I forgot . . .’ I say. Ugh! Just be cool! Let the chat flow, Emily.

  ‘Well . . . whatever.’ He flushes. ‘Hey, are you looking forward to the film?’

  ‘Sure I am!’ I can’t remember what I’ve said I’ll go to see with him; it didn’t really seem to matter at the time. I was just chuffed that he wanted to hang out.

  ‘Have you seen Gentlemen Prefer Blondes before?’ he asks, looking at me expectantly.

  ‘Oh!’ I say, before realizing I shouldn’t have sounded so surprised. ‘Yes, I’ve actually seen it quite a few times. It’s one of my favourites. I watch it with my mum kind of often.’ Maybe I shouldn’t have admitted that.

  ‘Ah, nice,’ he says, but he sounds kind of disappointed, like he wanted to be able to introduce it to me.

  We chat easily the rest of the way down the river. We don’t run out of things to say to each other, proving yet again that I had nothing to worry about.

  It’s weird and nice, seeing a film that you’ve seen a million times before but in a completely new setting, in a new place, with a new person, with new and different feelings. I realize I’m trying to suppress my laughter at bits I think are hilarious but that don’t make him laugh, and laughing more than I usually would at the bits he likes. I can even feel myself holding my breath a little whenever something romantic happens, as if willing some kind of transmission to occur between the screen and his brain and my brain.

  When the film finishes, he turns to me. ‘Do you want to get a drink? It’s still kind of early,’ he says, looking at his watch.

  I don’t want him to be thinking about the time. I don’t want him to have a point in the future that becomes ‘late’ that in turn becomes a time at which he has to say goodbye to me.

  ‘Yes, as long as you know somewhere they don’t ID,’ I say, laughing.

  ‘Oh yeah, I forget about that,’ he says. ‘You don’t seem that young.’

  ‘How old are you, then?’ I ask, not sure how to take that comment.

  ‘Nineteen, but only just. It was my birthday last month. OK – let’s go and get coffee instead.’

  ‘Many happy belated returns!’ I say as he begins to lead us in the direction of the cafe he has in mind. ‘Hey, are you still working at Beats Per Minute most of the time?’

  ‘Yeah, although I wish I wasn’t. It’s kind of a drag. As you know, we don’t have that many customers, but my dad seems to think that while I don’t have anything “better” to do, it’s my duty to put in the hours in the family business,’ he says, sounding a little bitter.

  ‘But it seems kind of like a natural home for you, right?’ I say. ‘You’re good at your job.’

  It’s getting dark now, and I want us to get to where we’re going before he decides it’s too late, so I walk a tiny bit fas
ter.

  ‘Thanks, but it’s not really the job I want to be doing,’ he says.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ I ask gently.

  ‘I guess I would quite like to be a musician,’ he replies quietly.

  ‘That’s great! What do you play?’ I ask, overwhelmed with a genuine enthusiasm for him pursuing his passion.

  ‘Guitar, bass, and I sing OK,’ he says modestly.

  ‘Anyone who says they sing OK clearly sings really well. And hardly anyone can sing really well. So, good for you,’ I say, giving him a warm smile.

  ‘I appreciate your belief in me.’ He smiles back at me.

  Finally, we reach a little cafe the other side of a patch of grass by Waterloo Road. It’s small and kind of shabby, and I don’t necessarily trust the upholstery. But it’s cute, and – more importantly – we’re here.

  ‘What can I get you?’ Joe asks as we take off our coats and occupy a small table in the far corner.

  ‘Whatever you’re having,’ I reply smoothly. Smart move: it means I don’t have to out myself as someone who almost never drinks coffee.

  I can’t take my eyes off him while he’s ordering. I want to take in every little detail in case this never happens again: his straight back; his hands running through his hair. I want to feel those hands on me, but I can’t stop fixating on the memory of Ryan recoiling from me, no matter what he said about Camila being the reason nothing happened.

  Joe returns to our table, and I snap out of my daydream.

  ‘Cheers,’ he says, and our little glasses of latte clink against each other.

  We sip for a moment in silence.

  ‘So . . .’ I say, like that isn’t the most awkward thing to say when there’s an awkward silence.

  ‘So,’ he says, looking back at me expectantly.

  ‘What’s your music like?’ I ask.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The music you make, I mean. What does it sound like?’

  ‘I guess my biggest influence is, like, early Leonard Cohen? But with the . . . expansiveness of Rufus Wainwright. So, kind of acoustic guitars but joyful, you know?’ There’s a hopeful glint in his eye.