by Liam Livings
He threw his hands in the air. “This is the closing night. The end of the season. A one-off. Don’t have a go at me for wanting to let off steam tonight, of all nights.”
“I’m not. I’m just saying, it’s been going in one direction, and I want it to come back in the other direction. I want you—” I coughed “—us to come back to the old us we used to be before we moved here, before one of us goes so far they can’t come back.”
“You’ll never lose me. I’ll never go. I love you and I’ll never let you go.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.” I took a deep breath.
“What are you worried about?” He stared at me.
“You losing yourself.” I stared back at him, unblinkingly, willing him to really listen to what I’d said, despite my having said it many times before, willing this to be the time it would really sink in.
Before he could reply, in a flurry of new people—cars, motorcycles, a rubbish truck and a white van that could have been an ambulance, pointing, waving flyers about another afterparty we must go to, all led by a man in a zebra-print jacket and white jeans, who I think was called Paulo—we were swept far, far away, into the next part of the evening’s proceedings.
There, things shifted when somehow, in a way I can no longer remember, we moved onto the after-afterparty in the basement of a disused hotel four streets from the sea front and well into the bit of the town we’d never ventured into before. Although Paul was still with me, I felt like I was in a gritty public-safety broadcast about the dangers of taking drugs.
The room was filled with people I neither knew nor cared to get to know. The ‘mates’ from the first afterparty had long since disappeared, to be replaced with a collection of people we’d somehow become attached to, who were the human equivalent of a box of broken biscuits: half covered in ripped clothes and bits of swimwear, piercings through noses, lips, eyebrows and tongues, whole arms covered in blue and green and red tattoos so I wasn’t sure of the ethnicity of a man a few feet away until he revealed his skin-coloured back.
Paulo and his zebra-print jacket were long gone. I couldn’t remember seeing him after we’d arrived, not that I had any idea of how long ago that had been. Time had taken on that elastic quality it did at that time of the morning, at that stage of proceedings, when that many Persians had been consumed.
A pile of white powder was making its way around the room on a square mirror with a rolled-up two-thousand-peseta note.
The woman sitting next to me had fallen asleep, resting her head on my shoulder.
I felt my body go limp, and my eyes started to close as I settled into the soft, squashy comfort of the broken sofa where I’d been sitting since arriving. Just before I properly drifted off to sleep, I pressed my stomach with my hand and realised the trip to the toilet I’d been promising myself for the last half an hour of listening, chatting and smoking with these strangers couldn’t be put off any longer. I stood, searching for a room that may be a bathroom. I walked past Paul, deep in conversation, crouched at adjacent corners of an upturned wooden fruit box with a mirror and white powder on top, talking to a white man in this thirties with long dreadlocks interlaced with colourful ribbons.
I wobbled slightly; the effects of partying for six or seven hours had well and truly taken their toll. “Where’s the toilet?”
The dreadlocked man laughed and pointed to a door in the far corner of the room. “The alley, out the back. Where we came in.”
That option relied on me remembering how we’d come in and unfortunately wasn’t an option right then. I tried to catch Paul’s eyes as I clutched my stomach.
Paul looked up from the white-powder mountain, stood. “You all right?”
“How much longer you wanna stay? I could, you know, do with going home.” I rubbed my stomach. “Feeling a bit rough.”
“Have a piss, drink some water, you’ll be fine.” He pulled me down to his level, kissed me, pushing two pills into my mouth, then handed me some water.
I was a bit sleepy, and anything seemed preferable to how I felt at that moment, so I took a swig of the water and double-dropped with as much thought as I’d give to adding another sugar to my tea.
Paul said, “I love you so much. I don’t think I could love you more.”
Despite all his faults, and because I meant it, I said, “I couldn’t love you more either.” I walked to the door at the far corner of the room and pushed it open.
The smell of piss and shit hit me, along with an acrid, rotting stench from inside what once would have been a small toilet and hand basin, but since the water had been disconnected to the disused hotel for a while, the toilet was filled to above the brim with shit and toilet paper, the floor covered in a mixture of piss and water.
I slammed the door, dry-retching, trying to be sick but nothing coming up. Suddenly my bladder wasn’t so full. Suddenly the alley out the back of the hotel looked like a better option, and while I thought of it, being outside the hotel would be a few steps closer to being away from all this and on my way…our way back to our apartment.
I returned to Paul and the dreadlocked guy and explained what had happened. “Paul, do you want to come out the back with me for a minute?” If I got him that far, I’d stand a better chance of whisking him away with me. Instinctively, I felt for my wallet in my trousers pocket.
Nothing.
I tried the other pocket—the one I never used for my wallet, but given events so far that evening, anything was possible.
Nothing.
I ran back to the flies-infested, stinking, acrid toilet.
Nothing.
I searched the sofa where I’d installed myself when we’d arrived, rifling behind the cushions, moving the sleeping woman, pulling all the cushions at the back and base, throwing them on the floor.
Nothing.
Back at Paul’s fruit box, I said, “Some fucker’s nicked my fucking wallet. I’m done.”
“Chill out. It can’t be that bad.”
“Chill out? That’s what you’re telling me? To chill out?”
“What was in it? About ten-thousand pesetas and some cards you can cancel.” He shrugged.
“I don’t know any of these people. The woman sleeping next to me, I’ve no idea who she is, how she got here—how I got here, actually. What about this guy you’re sniffing coke with? What’s his name?”
Paul turned to the dreadlocked man who was cutting out another two lines on the mirror. “Begsy? Gigsy? Joaksey? What are names, anyway? Just things we call ourselves. It’s like age, it’s a social construct. It’s all bollocks. We need to make sure we are moving towards getting away from all that shit.”
“Have you heard yourself? You don’t even make sense. I don’t know who you are.”
That was The Straw that broke the camel’s back.
That was the moment I knew I had no choice but to do what I should have done a long time ago.
“I’m leaving.”
“All right. See you later. I shouldn’t be long. Not much left in this party, anyway.” He gestured to at least another six hours’ worth of cocaine piled on the mirror.
“No, Paul, I’m leaving you, Ibiza, everything.”
Paul stood, grabbed my arms. “Can’t you just stay here a bit longer, carry on with the party?”
I indicated around the room to the piles of resting bodies scattered among the broken furniture. “I’m done. This isn’t fun anymore. This party, this relationship.” Before Paul could say anything else, I walked out the disused hotel, and walked back to our apartment, not even stopping to have a piss round the back of the hotel.
I threw my clothes and a few things I didn’t want to leave into my suitcase, picked up some cash from the wooden box of magic tricks, pushing the small, transparent bags of white pills and white powder onto the floor as I collected my passport from the bottom of the box. Then I hailed a taxi outside the apartment and told the driver to take me to the airport.
This is the right dec
ision to make. This is the only decision I could have made. This is what I need to do, I told myself again and again during the taxi ride.
I was quite pleased with myself when I arrived, marched up to the customer-service desk and asked how I could book a ticket for London ASAP. I was directed to the bank of check-in desks for various airlines.
It wasn’t until I’d tried a few different airlines for very much last-minute seats, finally found one willing to sell me a ticket, waited in the queue to check in my luggage, aware of the familiar tingling along my arms and the tight, sick feeling growing in my stomach… It wasn’t until after all of that, I realised I didn’t feel quite so clever anymore. I was massively coming up on the pills I’d double-dropped just over an hour ago, and now I had to pretend to be straight, flyable and composed for the duration of the flight home or risk sleeping it off somewhere in the airport and Paul finding me and talking me down from the one perfect decision I’d made.
I took a deep breath, cocked my head to the side and slowly, one word at a time, one movement at a time, concentrated on acting normal until I was on the plane, on my way back to London and normality, far from the madness of the Ibiza party crowd, back to the bosom of my family home.
CHAPTER 18
Home—Far From The Mad-Out-Of-It Crowd
I ARRIVED AT the reception of The Friary, a squat Edwardian building with modern extensions added to each of its four corners. Nestled in the New Forest, it was surrounded by acres of lawns and trees and a yellow, crunchy gravel drive that swept you from the bypass to its front gate.
Fuck only knew why Paul had been checked into The Friary—what was wrong with similar places in London?—but I was sure Roger and Marilyn had their reasons.
I waited for the receptionist—a perky, birdlike woman in a white uniform similar to those worn in health farms—to finish her phone call.
“How can I help you, sir?” she asked, bright eyes twinkling, hand of long red nails hovering optimistically over the keyboard.
Can you type optimistically? Can someone sit optimistically? I was definitely reading too much into everything since I’d decided to make the journey to Hampshire and see Paul after all that time. Even the traffic on the M3 had signalled something; I wasn’t quite sure what, but it had definitely signalled something to me on my journey. And the sign welcoming me to Hampshire at the top of the M3 had resulted in me wiping a few tears from my face.
Madness.
Idiocy.
She repeated her question.
I apologised and said, “I’m here to visit Paul Stockton. Mr. Paul Stockton, please.” I held his letter, offering to show her he’d requested my presence. My boyfriend—ex-boyfriend really—requesting my presence, and me calling him Mr. Could this get any more bizarre?
She waved away the letter, explained it was on the system and directed me to a visiting room a few doors and corridors away behind her. “You must wait there, and Mr. Stockton will be summoned. No visitors are allowed in residents’ rooms.”
So it is going to get more bizarre. OK. I took a deep breath and soon found myself facing a sign on a door:
Visiting / Group Therapy Room
I pushed the door to find the room arranged with twelve tables, each with plastic seats at opposite sides, and a row of chairs along the far wall. These were in front of a row of windows that overlooked a green-filled courtyard with a fountain in the middle.
A few of the chairs were already taken by people twiddling their thumbs, resting elbows on the table or reading a book. No one spoke.
I sat at the nearest table and waited. I checked under the table for a rabbit hole or any signs on the wall reading Eat Me, or Drink Me, but nothing.
Time passed so slowly I think I noticed my nails growing.
A matronly woman in a dark-grey nurse’s uniform, red collar, white nurse’s hat and puffy white sleeve appendages appeared at the door with a clipboard. She announced each resident by their surname as they entered, noticed their relatives and joined them at the tables. She ticked off her list as each resident sat, then turned to the next in the queue behind her, looked them up and down, sometimes issuing little pep talks about remembering last time, or making sure no tempers were frayed, then tapping the clipboard and gesturing them to sit.
Paul waited patiently for the matronly woman—Sheila O Something, her name badge said—to pep talk and tick him off.
His hands hung limp by his sides, his head slouched forward. He appeared smaller than the Paul I’d known—the Paul I’d known and loved—but as I caught his twinkly blue eyes when he looked up to see where I was, I knew it was my Paul.
He arrived at my table where we did a half hug, half kiss on each cheek performance, then we shook each other’s hands. This was something we’d not done—ever, probably—but for some reason, in that room in The Friary, nothing felt like quite before.
We sat, our hands resting on the table where his crept towards mine, held them and he said, slowly, his eyes filling with tears, “Thank you. Thank you for coming.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Like, really sorry. For everything. So sorry.”
I said nothing. It was a small word to excuse a lot of crappy behaviour. He certainly looked contrite.
“Sorry isn’t enough. I know that now. That’s why you’re here.”
I leant forward, whispering, “Seen any celebs?”—something I’d wanted to ask since I knew where he’d been admitted but hadn’t wanted to put it in the letters we’d been exchanging.
He mirrored my movement, whispered, “Not as many as I’d thought. It’s been one of the most disappointing factors of coming here, to be honest. Mother was well put out when she arrived, expecting it to be a Who’s Who parade, having got more dressed up than usual. She was very much let down.”
We let that hang in the air for a moment. I was desperate for this to be comfortable, normal, for it to be like Tom and Paul chats had been before. But before was a long time ago. Before was another lifetime. A lot of stuff had happened between before, and now.
He smiled, those beautiful twinkly blue eyes crinkling at the edges as they always had done. Underneath the crumpled shirt and old jeans, and three days of stubble, he was still Paul, my Paul.
OK, so not my Paul, but still Paul.
Swallowing slowly, I asked, “How are your parents?”
“Fine. I think they’re regretting admitting me here rather than somewhere in London. I never did get out of them why they chose here. Mother complains about the M3 every time they visit.”
“But they are visiting regularly? I’m not the only person you’ve seen?”
“They are visiting. Father wants to see what he’s getting for his money, I suppose. And Mother seems to have been holding hopes for the sauna, steam room, Jacuzzi and pool facilities.”
“Isn’t she confusing a rehab facility with a health spa?”
“She said in the brochure it was very glamorous. Fluffy white towels, bathrobes, fresh fruit and vegetables, and a spa, it said in the brochure.”
“Like those hotels in Ibiza—they all look good in the brochure, but when you get there, the hotel’s not been built.”
We both laughed quietly at the shared memory.
After an awkward silence, I spoke first: “What do you do all day? And is there a spa? For patients, I mean, not guests, obviously.”
“Residents, we’re called. There’s a pool. They encourage exercise. It’s all about mind, spirit and body here. That’s their mantra or something. Says it in the brochure, apparently.”
“No celeb spotting and no treatments. Sorry to be annoying, but really, what do you do all day? Or is that why you’ve so much time to write me huge long letters? Not that I mind them. It’s wonderful to hear you’re all right, honest, it is. But all day sitting in your garret writing letters—it’s a bit, I dunno. Dickensian, isn’t it?”
“It’s peaceful. It’s to encourage us to just be. When was the last time you saw me just being.”
“Being what?�
�� I frowned at this new concept.
“Being myself, sitting alone, no distractions and just being.”
“What, not watching TV, listening to music, talking to someone, nothing?”
He closed his eyes. “Yes, just being.”
I pursed my lips and racked my brain. “Can’t say I remember that specifically. And now?”
“Yesterday, I sat in my room, being, reflecting, praying, for three hours.”
Three? Fucking? Hours? I can’t sit and just be for three minutes! “I’m pleased you’ve found God. Someone’s gotta find him, I suppose. It’s nice. It’s good you have a hobby. Everyone should have something, and now you’ve got God. I’m happy for you.”
He shook his head. “It’s not God. It’s spiritualism. It comes from in here.” He tapped his chest. “You shouldn’t expect the world to constantly keep you occupied and expect stimulation twenty-four hours a day. That’s where I was going wrong.”
Blimey! Who is this man sitting in front of me?
“That and the addiction, of course. I’ve got an addictive personality, haven’t I?”
“Have you?” I’d not really thought about it before.
“Always looking for the next party, the next high, the next bit of fun, never wanting it to end once it’s started. If one drink or pill or line is good, then ten is fucking fantastic? Sound familiar?”
I bit my lip, choosing my words carefully as I didn’t want to fall out with him, I couldn’t go without having him in my life at all again; that had been far too hard. This new relationship, like New Labour everyone else kept banging on about since I’d been back in the UK, seemed to be working out all right and I didn’t want to scare it away. I wanted to be the relationship whisperer.
It had taken me a long time to reply to Paul’s first long letter. Mum had told me I was best off getting rid, staying well away, but something had encouraged me to read the letter, and then pulled me to see what he was like in person now he was going through the rehab process. To see if there was any of the Paul I’d first fallen in love with left.