by Dunn, Matt
He’d stopped talking, and seemed to be staring off into the distance, so Lisa rested a supportive hand on his shoulder. ‘What?’
‘See them again.’
‘Oh.’ She hastily withdrew her hand. ‘Right.’
‘Not because we won’t . . . I mean, we might . . .’ He smiled flatly. ‘I don’t know what to say. It’s been a rather . . . crazy last twenty-four or so hours, that’s all.’
‘Hey. At the very worst, you’ll be on my Christmas card list. Not that I tend to send cards nowadays. Apart from e-cards. For charity. Sometimes.’ Lisa shuddered. ‘Anyway. I hate Christmas, so . . .’
‘You hate Christmas?’
‘Yeah. Is that bad of me?’
‘Depends why.’
Lisa thought about it for a moment. ‘It always makes me feel like a failure.’
‘You’re going to have to explain that one.’
Lisa glanced back over her shoulder: A car was driving slowly along the road behind them, and she half suspected it might be her parents, having circled the block to keep tabs on them at her mum’s behest – and she didn’t want to launch into an explanation if that were the case.
‘Okay. Here goes,’ she said, as the car – a Toyota, but not her parents’ model – reversed into a parking space. ‘Every year, I spend Christmas with my mum and dad.’
‘They weren’t that bad.’
Lisa punched him playfully on the shoulder. ‘That’s not what I meant. It’s just . . . every year. I generally have far too much to drink, so I end up staying over, then I wake up on Boxing Day morning in my single bed in my old room and realise . . .’ Her voice caught a little in her throat. ‘Well, that I’m no further on in my life. After another year. Nothing’s changed.’ She forced a smile. ‘Which is partly why I decided I had to.’
‘So it’s more what it represents, and not that you don’t like Christmas per se?’
‘I’m not sure what that means.’
‘Itself.’
‘What?’
‘Per se. It’s Latin. It means—’
‘No, I got that, Mister Linguist. I meant the other bit. About representing something.’
Simon laughed. ‘Sorry. That’s an overspill from my time in therapy. People tend to associate an event with something they don’t like, so they transfer the dislike to the event itself. I had a lot of that after Alice. Things I wouldn’t dare do, or allow myself to enjoy, simply because I used to do and enjoy them with her. And then, eventually, you realise the only person you’re being untrue to is yourself.’
‘So what’s the cure?’
‘I’m still working on that one.’ They’d stopped to wait for a car to pass before crossing the road, and Simon smiled wistfully. ‘Alice used to love Christmas.’
Lisa turned to face him. ‘I’m sorry, Simon. I really don’t know what to say whenever you mention her. I’ve never lost someone close to me, so I can’t think of an appropriate . . . I mean, what would be appropriate?’
Simon checked right, left, then right again, and indicated it was safe to cross the street. ‘I dunno. I’ve never really thought about it. How did it – does it – make you feel?’
Lisa felt her insides lurch. This was her opening, her opportunity to tell him exactly that. But what good would explaining actually do? It might make her feel better, but to tell him she didn’t want to – or rather, couldn’t – be the one who helped him get over such a tragedy felt . . . well, ‘mean’ was the best word she could think of to describe it. She took a couple of deep breaths to settle herself, and forced a smile.
‘Simon, I . . . it . . . I don’t . . .’
‘Hey,’ he said, soothingly, both hands held out and palms down as if to calm some distressed animal, and Lisa feared the gesture was a little too appropriate. ‘Jess should have said something. Warned you.’ He stuffed his hands into his pockets. ‘Or maybe I shouldn’t have told you.’
‘No, you should have. Of course you should. I’m sorry. It’s me. It’s just something I wasn’t . . .’
‘Expecting?’
‘Well, no. Wasn’t prepared for, either.’ Her mouth suddenly felt dry, and Lisa wondered whether it was too late to head back to the pub. ‘Right. Well. Here goes. It’s just . . . this morning. My text. After what you told me last night had sunk in, and what Jess had said . . . It’s pretty unforgiveable, I know. But I wanted to explain. To tell you that . . .’
‘You don’t have to—’
‘No, I do. Because I’m not proud of myself, and I need you to understand.’ Lisa took a deep breath, wondering how to explain exactly what she was scared of. If he and Alice had split up because of – if you excused the phrase – natural causes, then she wouldn’t have worried. They’d have finished because something was wrong, i.e. Alice – or Simon – might have done something, something tangible, something avoidable that Lisa would be aware of. But this way, Alice was always going to be perfect. Simon’s ‘what might have been’. And how could you – how could she – compete with an angel?
She’d seen Ghost – it was one of her favourite films. It had even inspired her to take up pottery in the hope it might lead to the odd sexy clay-covered encounter, though the reality had been a dry brown residue under her fingernails for a week, and a boxful of misshapen pots she kept in a cardboard box in her shed. But to want to go through something like that, to follow Alice – like the supporting act for a legendary band, but going on stage afterwards? Lisa wasn’t sure she had it in her.
‘My relationship history is . . . well, suffice it to say, and, as you quite rightly pointed out, I don’t exactly have twenty-twenty vision when it comes to picking men, so I’ve been lied to or cheated on more times than I care to remember, and this is going to sound terrible, but when you told me about what happened to Alice I thought it was almost . . . romantic.’ Lisa hesitated, feeling terrible about the look that had just flashed across Simon’s face. ‘And I know that sounds bad, but I’ve always felt like I was the damaged one, so last night it was almost a relief that I . . .’ She swallowed hard, not sure where she was going with this. ‘I started to realise that I’d so been seeing the wrong kind of men, and even though they were quite obviously the wrong kind of men, they still all ended up dumping me, and . . .’ She clenched her hands into fists, determined to finish what she wanted to say. ‘So when you think about that, it doesn’t give you a lot of confidence in yourself, or the choices you make, which is why I left this whole “choice” thing to fate . . .’
‘In the guise of the Gazette.’
‘Exactly.’ Lisa nodded. ‘Which sounds even more of a recipe for disaster, now I think about it. Anyway, to cut a long story short, which I’m conscious I haven’t, then you come along, with everything that’s happened to you, and I realise that you deserve someone pretty special after what’s happened, and “special” is the last thing I think I am, and that’s why I, you know . . .’
‘I think you’re pretty special.’
‘Please, Simon. Don’t. Because if you’re going to start dating again, you need someone . . . better than me. More sorted. Less of a car crash . . .’ Horrified, Lisa clamped her hand to her mouth, but Simon smiled forgivingly.
‘That’s not how you come across.’
‘But it’s how I obviously am!’ Lisa shook her head in disbelief – not at herself, but at how Simon didn’t seem to be agreeing with her. ‘I berate you for nearly running me over when it was probably my fault, then I accuse you of trying to spike my drink so you could sleep with me, which must have made me seem really . . .’
‘Full of yourself?’
‘I was going to go with “suspicious”, though that’s a good one too.’ Lisa forced a smile. ‘But, either way, it’s not good. And then, when you open your heart to me, when you’ve got no reason to do that, I take you to bed, then get cold feet and make a bolt of “Usain” proportions for the door.’ She stared off into the distance, then a thought occurred to her. ‘Why did you tell me, by the way?’
‘Tell you what?’
‘About Alice. Something so personal. So early on. After all, you hardly know me.’
Simon angled his head and stuck his lower lip out a little, as if it were the first time he’d ever been asked this question and he wanted to get his answer just right. ‘I told you about Alice because . . . well, because you deserved to know why I was behaving like I was. Why I was worried I wouldn’t be able to . . .’ He’d turned a shade of red, and Lisa nodded supportively. ‘Like I told your dad, I did meet the right girl, but it didn’t work out, perhaps not for the usual reason these things don’t work out, but even so. Even though it wasn’t my fault. Even though I didn’t do anything wrong.’
Lisa nodded. ‘It’s possible to do everything right and still lose. That’s not a weakness. It’s life. I learned that recently.’
‘Tell me about it!’ Simon made a face. ‘And I’m sorry for not telling you earlier.’
‘Earlier?’
‘Before the first time we . . . or rather, we didn’t, but to be honest, since, you know . . .’
‘The accident?’ suggested Lisa, and Simon flinched.
‘Since Alice was killed, I was going to say . . . well, I’ve tended to, what’s the phrase . . . ?’
‘Bury it?’ suggested Lisa, before quickly facepalming herself, but Simon forced a smile.
‘Yeah. That’s the only way I’ve been able to deal with what happened, even though I realise now that I haven’t been dealing with it.’ He shook his head. ‘Alice was a very positive person – you had to be, when you did what she did for a living – and she always used to say that this kind of incident in your life could either make or break you, and I’m sure – mainly because it’s what Will keeps telling me – that the last thing she’d have wanted was for me to let what happened to her, and therefore to me, ruin any chance of future happiness I had. And I realise now I’ve been letting her down. Though it occurs to me I owe you an apology too.’
‘An apology? For what?’
‘I’ve spent the last two years so worried about how to tell people what happened without me collapsing into a tearful mess that I never stopped to think how they might react. It’s not the kind of thing you should just put out there, I suppose. I’ve had two years to deal with it. I know what’s coming when I start the story. No one else does – and my therapist warned me I could expect all sorts of reactions.’
‘Including women taking you to bed?’ asked Lisa, shame-faced.
‘I wish they’d warned me about that one. I might have told more people!’ He smiled. ‘Hey. You tried to make me feel better, and believe me you did. Twice! And . . .’
Simon had stopped talking, so Lisa reached out a hand and rested it on his arm. ‘And what?’ she said, but Simon just grinned sheepishly.
‘And nothing. I just assumed that was a good place for an “and”, but then I realised I’d said all I wanted to say. So, I stopped. And now it’s my turn to listen,’ he said, half jumping off the kerb to avoid a puddle, then offering his hand to Lisa as she did the same.
‘Are you . . . over her?’
Simon stuck his lower lip out as he thought about it. ‘Possibly not. There’s a chance I never will be. But I also know there’s a chance that I might be mourning something that I think might have been, when in reality things might not have worked out between us anyway. So am I going to look at you . . .’ He blushed. ‘I mean, am I always going to be looking at any potential new partner and comparing them with Alice every time? Maybe, for a while. But that’ll change. I’m sure of that.’
Lisa realised she was still holding his hand, so she gave it a brief squeeze before letting it go. ‘You’ll probably end up with someone completely different to Alice, who you’ll love just the same, if not even more.’
‘Maybe,’ said Simon, jamming his hands into his pockets like a miserable teenager, and Lisa let out a short laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’ he said.
‘Listen to us!’ said Lisa. ‘We’re supposed to have had this perfect date, and yet we’re here trying to outdo each other with our tales of misery and hopelessness. Which is hardly going to look good in the write-up in next week’s Gazette.’
Simon pulled his hands out of his pockets, but only to bury his face in them. ‘I’d forgotten all about that.’
They walked on in silence for a while, then Lisa cleared her throat. ‘Do you think you’ll ever, you know . . .’ She readied her fingers for a set of air quotes, then thought better of it. ‘Love again?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Simon, quickly. ‘I guess everyone does, no matter who they’ve lost, or how they’ve lost them. Otherwise what would be the point of going on—’
‘Don’t talk like that!’
‘What?’
‘There’s always a point to life.’
‘I wasn’t talking about killing myself.’ Simon looked aghast. ‘I meant, what would be the point of going on dates?’
Lisa narrowed her eyes at him. For someone who hadn’t wanted to come on theirs, that was a strange thing to say.
‘Will said something to me yesterday,’ he continued. ‘About there being more than just one person out there for everybody.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘I suppose it’s the kind of thing you need to have proved to you.’
‘I suppose.’
Simon let out a short laugh, and Lisa frowned. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Something else Will told me. A while back, about falling in love being like losing your virginity.’
Lisa made a face. She’d lost hers in a brief, uncomfortable encounter on the back seat of a Ford Focus, an experience so awful she hadn’t wanted to repeat it for the best part of a year, although she was pretty sure he didn’t mean it like that.
‘In, um, what way?’
‘It’s easier the second time. But the first time is such a big deal that, afterwards, you think it’ll never happen again. Or at least, I did.’
‘You’re still talking about the virginity thing, right?’
‘And then you realise it will happen again, and it’s not such a big deal . . .’
Lisa made another face, and Simon stopped talking. ‘What?’
‘I’m beginning to think I haven’t. Ever.’
‘I’m guessing you’re talking about being in love, rather than the other thing, otherwise last night . . .’
She laughed. ‘Yeah. I mean, I thought I was in love with Chris, but now I think about it, about him, and how he treated me so badly, how he was – is – such a . . .’ She ran through a selection of words in her head, but couldn’t find one rude enough to sum her ex up. ‘Anyway. Suffice it to say, I can’t have been in love with him, because being “in” love suggests it’s a two-way thing, and I don’t think someone like Chris has it in him to love anyone except for himself.’
‘Well, that’s his loss.’
‘Isn’t it just?’ Lisa nudged him. ‘You are easy to talk to, you know.’
‘Hey.’ He nudged her back. ‘Are we becoming friends now?’
Lisa’s eyes widened. ‘When Harry Met Sally!’
‘What?’
‘That’s a line from the film.’
‘I’ll take your word on that.’
Lisa stopped dead in her tracks. ‘You’ve never seen When Harry Met Sally?’
‘Er . . . no? Have you?’
‘No – my superpower is being able to quote lines from films I’ve never seen!’ Lisa gave him a playful shove. ‘Only about a hundred times!’ she said, though she feared even that was an underestimate.
‘What’s it about? Apart from someone called Harry meeting someone called Sally, of course?’
‘You have seen it.’
Simon acknowledged her joke with a tilt of his head. ‘What’s so good about it?’
Lisa stared at him, open-mouthed, doing a good impression of Meg Ryan from the film. ‘Do you have Netflix?’
‘Of course! I’m not completely unsophisticated.’
>
‘Says the man who’s never seen When Harry Met Sally.’ She grabbed him by the arm and marched him along the pavement. ‘Well, prepare to be blown away! Which is your street?’
‘We, um, passed it a couple of minutes ago.’
‘Why didn’t you . . . ?’
‘I was enjoying the walk.’
Lisa mock-glared at him, then spun him round and they headed back in the opposite direction. And, to her surprise, she realised she’d been enjoying the walk too.
Chapter 41
Simon stared at his television screen as the closing credits to When Harry Met Sally rolled. He’d not sat through a rom-com for ages – most of his televisual entertainment nowadays was the kind you didn’t have to concentrate on too hard to follow, and quite often involved ridiculously muscled men dressed in ridiculous costumes and doing ridiculous things, thanks to a ridiculous amount of CGI. But even though this particular film was almost as old as he was, and starred only one person he recognised (courtesy of the Star Wars franchise), he already knew it was possibly one of the greatest movies about relationships he’d ever seen.
As much as he’d enjoyed the film, he’d enjoyed sitting next to Lisa too, just ‘chilling’, relishing her closeness, appreciating having someone else in the flat, remembering what it was like to have company on a lazy Sunday afternoon doing nothing in particular except vegging out in front of the TV. And, most importantly, Simon realised just how much he’d missed it.
‘What did you think?’
Lisa was watching him intently, and not for the first time. On several occasions, during what he recognised were the key moments in the film, he’d been aware of her eyes on him, trying to gauge his reaction, but he’d been careful not to give too much away. And if he’d managed to maintain a poker face during Meg Ryan’s fake-orgasm-in-the-diner scene, he was pretty sure he could do that now.
‘Not bad.’
‘Not bad? It’s a classic! Maybe even the classic.’
‘I suppose.’
‘You suppose?’
He could hear the italics in Lisa’s words, and Simon suspected he wasn’t going to get away with things quite that easily. And while he’d initially thought she just wanted to get him to see one of her favourite films, now he was a little suspicious as to her motives. After all, the movie raised a few questions, didn’t it? And given what had happened between them, one rather obvious one.