Love on the Dancefloor

by Liam Livings

  Turning her head up towards me, Marilyn asked, “What do you want? Fizzy water or something equally puritanical, I suspect.”

  “Nothing for me.” I smiled at the maid, who then left.

  I told Marilyn about the two sessions at The Friary, explained it was too much for me alone and I wasn’t sure I could go back. Because your son has the emotional maturity of a seven-year-old, no thanks to you!

  I knew telling her that wouldn’t get what I wanted so instead narrowed my eyes at her, revelling in the silence and waiting for her to jump in with a response. Thanks, Barbara, for that technique!

  “Can’t we pay them for someone to take your place? They must have people who can do this for a fee, surely. Roger can pay whatever it costs.”

  “I’m afraid this is something you can’t just thrown money at. He needs friends and family who’ve been affected by his behaviour. And apart from lots of random people who may or may not still be in Ibiza, it’s us three. I’m doing my bit, but I can’t do it on my own.”

  “We. Are. Paying.” She regarded her painted nails then checked out her face in a hand mirror, putting it back on the table with a shudder.

  “It could more than double his recovery time if he doesn’t have any significant other coming in for his sessions.”

  She frowned. “It would what?”

  “All those extra weeks staying in The Friary, it’ll surely add up, won’t it.” I noticed her diamond earrings and realised I was on the wrong tack. “What have you told the neighbours about where he is? Still in Ibiza, I suppose.”

  “He’s doing very well out there.”

  “Long time for him to be out there in the off-season, isn’t it? These neighbours, do they have children, maybe our age? Wonder if one of them may want to visit Paul in Ibiza? Now it’s quiet, they’d get more chance to see him. Be a shame to disappoint them, wouldn’t it?”

  “How long would he be out if he gets this significant-other therapy?”

  “Up to six sessions. One a week. I’ve done two. I’ll do one more, but I wondered if you and Roger could do the other three. Take the strain off me a bit. You know.”

  She stared straight through me.

  I swear I felt the heat of her eyes boring into my chest.

  “How long’s he been in so far?”

  “Long enough that we could do without more than another six weeks.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I ask something please, Marilyn?”

  “Haven’t you asked enough? Disturbing my morning.” She sighed. “Oh, go on, then.”

  How someone as kind and loving as Paul could have arisen from the union of this woman and Roger was completely beyond me. “Didn’t you expect to visit him, even just normal visiting, never mind the significant-other sessions?”

  “He was in a terrible state when we collected him. Of course, you didn’t see that. You’d abandoned him.”

  “He’s still your son. He still needs support, affection—love even. It’s the least you could do.”

  “And there was me thinking the least we could do was pay for it all, but I must be terribly naïve. Are we done here? If you don’t mind, I’ve a party to prepare for. Maybe he’ll help with that again when he’s out. Back to his usual self.”

  “What makes you think he’ll ever get back to his old self?”

  She frowned. “Might he not?”

  “No guarantees. Every bit of support we offer will give him a better chance.” I’d had enough and wasn’t being walked over by anyone any longer. I wasn’t useless or nothing.

  Another long sigh as she studied her nails. “I’ll talk to Roger.”

  “Is that a yes? It’s such a relief.”

  “It’s a probably yes.”

  I kissed her on the cheek. “Always a pleasure.” Confidence bubbled up within my stomach, and I felt as if I were floating; a happy, positive, natural floating.

  She air-kissed me, pulled back and shouted for the beauty therapists to join her again.

  I left her as the hordes of people swarmed closer until they were each latched onto some part of her body they were attending, a bit like a mother cat with its kittens suckling on her teats. Only Marilyn was sucking up the energy and attention from the others.

  ***

  A few days later, I received a short call from Marilyn: “It’s done. Myself and Roger will attend some of Paul’s significant-other sessions and a few informal normal visiting sessions. We discussed the issue at length with Paul’s consultant, who thought it would help his recovery. Also it’s clear you’re finding it too much of a strain.”

  Although I wasn’t happy with her phrasing, I was happy with the outcome, so I said, “Thank you. Maybe I’ll bump into you both at The Friary.”

  She laughed.

  The phone line went dead.

  Charming.

  I felt guilty for my Machiavellian almost-blackmail, but I’d done it with Paul’s interests at heart, knowing there was no way I could have coped with another four visits like the previous two, and wanting him to recover as quickly as possible.

  ***

  Still feeling slightly guilty, I decided to combine my third and final group-therapy session with an informal visit so arrived an hour earlier than necessary and sat in the grounds, under a tree with Paul, a tray of fruit juice between us.

  “Sorry about the last session,” I said. “I got a bit carried away. Bit emotional.”

  He passed my juice to me. “Nothing. Don’t worry. It shows you give a shit. You turned up and had the row with me. Plenty of other friends and family just ignore the letter asking them to come. When it’s their turn, Barbara starts with an empty chair, asking the resident to tell the family member how sorry they are, and she goes ahead like that. It’s not as good as when they turn up, have a proper argument, really get the issues out.”

  “Has your mother been in touch?”

  “My consultant said the group therapy was being split between my friend—” he did the air-quotation marks “—and my parents. It’s just as hard for you, and you’re not in here having all the lessons and the other group therapy. You just turn up, get loads of shit thrown at you, and then go.”

  I said nothing, instead playing with the plastic cup of juice between my hands.

  “Like I said, giving a shit means a lot in this place. And you, and Mother and Father, all give a shit, in some way, and for that I’m grateful. Not sure how I’d have reacted if it was the other way round.” He sipped his orange squash.

  “What do you mean?” I sipped mine, wishing we were right back at the start in the bar where we went on our first date. Wishing I could turn back time and undo all the stuff we’d been through together.

  “If you’d lost the plot, lost yourself, on me, I don’t know if I’d have coped. In fact, I know I wouldn’t. When you left, I turned to shit. I realised all the stuff you used to do to keep our life ticking over without telling me, and suddenly it was all too much for me. You’d have coped.”

  “It’s just what I do. It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. I realise now it’s exactly what we needed, to be together. To be balanced.”

  I thought back to the months after I’d left him in Ibiza how fucking deeply, terribly, awfully miserable I’d been, how I’d managed to lose a job, a home, and a boyfriend all in one swoop, and how just the thought of trying to go out with someone else had terrified me so I hadn’t tried.

  He brushed my cheek with his hand. “Penny for ’em?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t think we’d ever split up. I thought when I met you that would be it, you know, until—” I turned away. “Stupid eh?”

  “Neither of us knew what would happen when we moved to Ibiza. That’s why it was so exciting. I don’t regret going, do you?”

  “Not the actual going. I think we had a pretty good life out there. At first, before it all got too much. Before it sort of overtook our lives.”

  “Before I lost myself and fucked everything up, you mean,
” Paul said.

  “I think we both lost ourselves a bit really, don’t you?” I shrugged, noticing the juice glasses were empty. For want of anything else to say, I offered to get some more.

  “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just sit here.” He reached past the plastic glasses and held my hand, squeezing it tightly. “You know that time before sunrise when you’ve been up partying all night, talking philosophy, sharing amazing thoughts with complete strangers, and the warm rush of ecstasy wraps around you like a warm sleeping bag?”

  I nodded. I knew it very well. It was such fun, every time we’d done it.

  “I wanted to live my life in that space, at that time, always chasing that moment when you feel at peace with the world and the daily worries of life are a thousand miles away. That’s why I was always wanting the party to carry on, to never admit defeat when it had keeled over and died.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  He stared at me. “I didn’t mean for any of the shitty stuff to happen—me disappearing, ending up in that derelict building, your wallet being stolen. None of it was intentional. It was just all me chasing that special, magical time. I suppose I didn’t just get addicted to drugs, I got addicted to that time. I was also running too. Away. From structure, organisation, needing to be there for other people other things. Make sense?”

  I nodded. “But you can’t live in that space, at that time. You’ve got to live. You’ve got to be there for people…”

  “Otherwise no one’s there for you?” Paul smiled weakly.

  I nodded. “The practicalities of life—bills, work, food shopping—have to happen or…” I struggled for the phrase, trying to be tactful.

  “…or you end up living like some of the party people’s squats?”

  I nodded at his fair summary.

  “Yeah. It’s like wanting to live your life like you’re on holiday. You can’t. Even out in Ibiza, there’s still the everyday stuff to do, to deal with. The stuff I’m not so good at, I worked out when you’d left.” He smiled weakly.

  “The reason that time’s so special,” I said. “So magical, like a holiday, is because you’re away from the everyday. Away from reality.”

  We sat in companionable silence for a few moments, then I said, “Maybe I did lose myself a bit. But I always came back.”

  Paul shook his head, still holding on to my hand tightly. “Whereas I moved farther and farther away until…” He swallowed hard. “I am so, so sorry. It was an illness. And me behaving like a child. But we didn’t know it at the time.” He blinked quickly to stop the tears rolling down his cheeks.

  “Come on, this is meant to be the easy bit, when we talk about the weather, what’s been on TV. We should be saving all this good emotional stuff for Barbara and her clipboard. She’d love this. Imagine her ticking stuff off, writing things down in her big, twirly handwriting, licking her lips and crossing her legs.”

  He looked up at me through teary eyes. “You’re amazing, you know that? Just being here, taking the time to do all this for me. Even though we’re not together. I accept that.” He looked away. “I loved you very much.”

  Past tense—loved. I swallowed hard, pursed my lips. “I knew it wasn’t all fake. I knew our love was real.”

  “We’d best get in. If you’re late, Barbara can be a bit of a cow when it comes to punishments.”

  Each carrying our empty glass, we walked across the sloping lawn back to The Friary.

  My stomach flipped its usual somersault as we walked into the group-therapy room and took our places in the chairs either side of Barbara and her kaftan and chunky jewellery.

  ***

  After our much more serious than intended chat under the tree with the orange squash, I was relieved the proper counselling session went smoothly. It was my final session with him; he had some more due with his parents, who it seemed were taking to them like ducks with parenting issues to psychotherapy water.

  I say it went well, and it really did. But it put me further into this dilemma I’d been having for some time about whether I wanted to get back together with Paul, whether, after all that had happened, all that had been said, all the desertions—on both sides, to be fair—the excesses and all those had entailed, I could ever get back to the normal, everyday Tom and Paul we’d had at the beginning.

  And this was made much worse when, in the final session, he went and did something I really wasn’t expecting.

  Reader, he said he still loved me.

  In front of the room of other residents, and Barbara in another kaftan—beige this time—jeans and matching chunky golden jewellery.

  We’d gone over trust and how we thought we were in a different place from where we’d been during the dark days in Ibiza at the height of his partying addiction.

  He stared at me. “I’m so grateful for you coming here to help me. It’s more than I could ever have expected, especially after what I did.”

  I tried to argue it wasn’t all one-sided, but Barbara told me to let him finish. Damn her and her techniques.

  He continued, still staring at me with those bright-blue twinkly eyes. “Being without you made me realise how much I missed you. How you weren’t the fun police, as I sometimes thought you were. How together, we balanced each other out. My fun-loving, let’s see how things turn out, and your reasoned planning.”

  Again, I stared to reply, but again with the hand and chunky necklace from Barbara.

  “I know I’m not meant to think about relationships, which I’m not—not until I’ve bought the plant and the goldfish and the hamster anyway.”

  A few people around the edges of the room laughed.

  “I love you, Tom and even if we’re never together again, I will always love you. And even if we’re just friends, that’s something better to take from this mess I made of us, better than losing you from my life completely. I want to be with you, to make plans with you, to create a future together. And I realise that’s all you ever wanted for us too. But I spent so much of our time together running away from schedules, plans, from having to be there for other people. Stupid. That’s all I wanted to say.” He stared at the floor, his hands fidgeting on his lap.

  Barbara asked if I had anything to add, anything to say.

  And, of course, that was when all my thoughts and questions had chosen to desert me, so instead, I shook my head and said, “That’s lovely.” I didn’t know what else to say. It was a crappy response, but his declaration had come out of nowhere, so I smiled at him and repeated it.

  After the session, he told me when he was due to leave The Friary and told me to take care. We did one of those awkward used to be lovers, but now we’re friends hug and kisses, and then I walked, head hung low, crunching gravel under my feet, back to Mum’s car as she sat smoking herself to death. When she asked how it had gone, all I could manage was, “He said he still loves me.”

  Mum started the car and, looking sideways at me, said, “Love, you are in so much trouble.”

  CHAPTER 21

  THE WEEKS PASSED. Paul’s treatment finished, I got a job at a supermarket at the end of Chiswick High Road. The video shop wasn’t hiring so, realising I needed to do something other than sit around moping about all I’d lost and feeling sorry for myself, I left my video shop and, on the off-chance, checked if the supermarket had any vacancies. I filled in an application on the spot. It was the wrong side of London for where I was living, but I needed something to occupy my time so when they offered it to me, I accepted. They had a video and CD section, and between stacking shelves, I would hover in that aisle, checking out the latest films and music, occasionally treating myself to one with my staff discount.

  One evening, I returned home and Mum handed me a letter with familiar, sloping, twirly handwriting on the envelope.

  Paul wanted to meet for a drink, just as friends, so we could catch up, just as friends, he wrote again, and he wondered, if I didn’t mind, could I help him think about what he was going to do with his life n
ow, just as friends.

  Just. As. Friends.

  I told Mum he’d written it three times in one small letter.

  Mum asked what I was going to do, “Just as friends?”

  I rolled my eyes. “What am I meant to do? I want him in my life. He wants me in his. But don’t you think it’ll be harder, just as friends, than a clean break?”

  “Love, you and him are the only ones who can answer that. Ask how his houseplant’s getting on, is it still alive?”

  “Funny. What should I wear for this non-date?”

  “I’m serious. See how he’s getting on now he’s outside.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “You seen your dad? He was due back anytime now.”

  “You gonna ask him what I should wear on the non-date?”

  “Behave. No, I wanted him to fix those tiles in the bathroom. You might as well ask him to make a time machine from our new Ford Sierra. Flux capacitor or something, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t go too smart or he’ll think I made too much effort, but I don’t wanna turn up in some old sack, showing him no respect.”

  “Love, just turn up, be yourself and see how it goes. He’s gonna be a bit sore and battered from being inside for so long. Be gentle with him.”

  “He’s not been in prison.”

  “Didn’t look that different from where I was sitting.”

  ***

  I arrived early to the café in Chiswick he’d suggested. I’d automatically assumed it would be a pub, but he explained when we spoke on the phone to arrange it: “I’ve gotta watch out for other gateway substances, and alcohol is my gateway substance. Could lead to drugs cos I’ve got an addictive personality.”

  Sitting in the café, I ordered a pot of tea and made myself comfortable by the window, wondering if caffeine and cigarettes counted as gateway drugs too, or were they so low in the addiction pecking order they didn’t count? And what about food? I was sure he’d mentioned it could have been anything; if things had turned out differently, he may have been up to thirty boxes of teacakes a day like the overeating man he met when he arrived at The Friary.

  I had been so keen to give off a nonchalant, not taken any effort to get ready look, it had taken me all afternoon to achieve it. Obviously.