These Days of Ours

by Juliet Ashton

  Her cousin was a different animal; ‘I can’t face going in,’ whined Becca, two days out of every five. The reception desk she manned at a Soho media company was damp with tears and she was prone to putting callers through to the wrong pony-tailed executive, so keen was she on relating her tale of woe to her colleagues.

  Charlie’s number danced teasingly in her head, but Kate went resolutely cold turkey. She loved him too much to call him; that’s how she sold her stubbornness to herself. Their relationship was honest, straightforward, like a clean page in one of Charlie’s journals. They used to watch, baffled, as Becca and Julian tore chunks out of each other like warring T-rexes, and felt grateful for their own uncomplicated rapport.

  No, Kate would keep her page clean. She’d honour their way of loving each other. If Charlie wanted her, he’d call; she was, after all, the aggrieved party. If he didn’t want her, if he took this breach as an opportunity to end their relationship, then there was nothing she could do to change his mind. She couldn’t bear imposing herself where she’d once been desired.

  Kate wanted Charlie, but that was pointless unless he wanted her back.

  A month in to the cold new landscape, Kate had an epiphany.

  We’ve broken up.

  Kate Minelli was now just another human to Charlie Garland. An ex. She couldn’t rely on him in that special way any more. She must carry on alone.

  Mistrustful of melodrama, she examined that feeling. Of course I’m not alone, Kate rebuked herself.

  It felt like loneliness, though.

  ‘How do I get through this?’ she asked her father, red eyed late one evening at the kitchen table when she couldn’t sleep and he supplied hot chocolate and a shoulder to cry on.

  Dad sighed. ‘It’s not what it was,’ he said. ‘It’s not what it could be. It is what it is, darling.’

  ‘Mum’s philosophy is more basic,’ said Kate. She impersonated her mother’s dismissal of her daughter’s distress. You can do better than that Garland boy!

  Quietly – Mum might be listening in – Dad contributed his own impression of one of his wife’s favourite sayings. ‘There’s plenty more fish in the sea!’

  ‘But my fishing rod’s broken.’ Kate sipped her chocolate, tasting the care Dad had put into making it.

  ‘Mum’s doing her best,’ said Dad, recognising the soft look in Kate’s eyes as hurt. ‘We named you after her, but there the resemblance ends, love. She’s in one of her strops because of this trip to China I’m planning.’

  All roads led not to Rome but to Charlie; mention of Dad’s much discussed (and argued over) desire to visit China reminded her of how well her two favourite men had got along.

  Unanimous for once, Kate’s parents had despaired of Charlie’s chaotic upbringing, but whereas Mum muttered darkly about the revolving door on Mrs Garland’s bedroom, Dad never disparaged Charlie’s mother. Instead, he forged a friendship with the boy, one that enriched them both.

  Unaccustomed to paternal input, Charlie was flattered when Kate’s dad sought him out. They would sit and talk while Kate got ready to go out, usually about Dad’s pet topic, Yulan House.

  Kate and her mother tended to tune out when Dad brought up the Chinese orphanage he sponsored in a modest way, sending them a few pounds each month. He’d heard about it from an intrepid colleague who’d volunteered at Yulan House a few years earlier. Inspired to send a little money with a brief note, Dad was charmed to receive a handwritten reply in quaintly perfect English. It was the start of a correspondence between himself and the lyrically named Jia Tang, an indomitable woman who dedicated her life to Beijing’s abandoned babies.

  Dad and Charlie would pore over the latest newsletter from the orphanage, both of them expert in the building, the facilities, the newly planted vegetable plot.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Kate, ‘you and Charlie won’t run the London Marathon in aid of the orphanage now.’

  ‘No, probably not.’ Dad blew out his cheeks. ‘Charlie understood,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I know.’ Kate screwed up her face, damming the tears, sick of crying. It had been easy to love a boy who passionately believed that one day her dad would achieve his dream of visiting Yulan House, no matter how much her mother grumbled that the money would be better spent on a new microwave, an extension, a hot tub. The trinkets, in other words, that her sister Marjorie boasted about. ‘Dad, don’t let Mum stop you booking your tickets to Beijing.’

  ‘Trouble is,’ said Dad, ‘your mum’s right. We can’t really afford it.’

  ‘What does that matter?’ Kate was vehement. One member of this family should be getting what they wanted out of life. ‘You go, Dad. I’ll handle Mum.’

  ‘Ah, the optimism of youth. If your mother could be handled, don’t you think I’d have the knack by now?’

  ‘You do . . . love Mum, don’t you?’ Kate felt impertinent, as if she’d pushed at a door better left locked.

  ‘What makes you ask that?’

  ‘Just that . . .’ Kate had taken off without knowing where she would land. Sadness was mangling her thought processes. ‘Sometimes it seems as if you don’t have much in common.’

  ‘We have you.’

  ‘Am I enough?’

  ‘You’re more than enough, love.’ Dad exhaled, frowning, shaking his head, trying to explain. ‘Me and your mum, we rub along. We get by. She’s a complicated woman and I’m a . . .’ He groped for the right word. ‘I’m a bit of a dead loss, I suppose.’

  ‘What?’ Kate almost forgot her dejection. ‘You’re the best dad ever.’

  ‘But husband?’ Dad looked down at the table, an introverted expression on his face as if looking into his own heart. ‘I’m not sure how many marks out of ten your mother would give me.’

  The phone rang, shrieking in the quiet house, and Kate ran to it, heart bouncing.

  ‘Is that St Hilda’s church?’ asked a frail voice.

  Next day, as Kate and Becca browsed shoes in a high street shop, Kate told Becca about the late night wrong number. She turned it into a wry anecdote, editing out the part where she kept Dad up until midnight, sobbing. Her cousin didn’t smile. ‘Hello! Earth to planet Becca!’

  ‘Listen. Don’t shout at me, but . . .’

  ‘What?’ Kate narrowed her eyes, looking up from the shoes she was trying on, a variant of the chunky black pair she’d worn into the shop. You always buy the same shoe! Charlie used to say. After four weeks of silence, he’d drifted into the past tense. Who, thought Kate with exquisite self-pity, will tease me about my Groundhog Day shoe purchasing habits now?

  ‘I spoke to Charlie.’ Becca flinched as if awaiting a blow. ‘Well, say something.’

  ‘About me?’

  ‘What else would we talk about?’

  Suspended between hope and dread in an icy limbo, Kate managed to say, ‘And?’

  ‘We met up, actually. For a coffee.’ Becca picked up an ankle boot, studying the plain grey footwear with a fascination it didn’t deserve. ‘Are you annoyed?’

  The question rang the tiniest of alarm bells. ‘Of course not.’ Why would I be? The only reason Charlie would contact Becca would be to reach out to Kate; he was ambivalent, to say the least, towards her cousin. And yet, Kate had a complex reaction to this development. Foolish, but it stung to think of them ordering cappuccinos and settling down at a table without her. She hadn’t even known he was back from Keele. It was still term time. She wondered, her heart stuttering, if he’d come home to fix their tattered togetherness.

  ‘Good.’ Becca put down the oh-so-fascinating boot. ‘Good.’ She seemed to be at a loss for words, which was out of character.

  ‘How did he seem?’ Kate wasn’t sure what she wanted to hear. She loved Charlie – still – but a wretched part of her longed for news of hollow eyes, stubble, a new drinking habit.

  ‘He’s had his hair cut.’

  ‘No!’ It was absurd to feel so betrayed. ‘What else?’

  There was a pregnant aspect to the
silence as Kate waited, one shoe on, one shoe off. Eventually Becca said, ‘He asked me to give you this.’

  Kate recognised the envelope, small and cream, as the sort that used to arrive every other day, stuffed with quirky drawings, jokes, declarations.

  ‘Take it,’ said Becca when Kate hesitated.

  Kate wanted to swear and knock all the shoes off the glass shelves but was too well brought up to do either. She turned her head and shut her eyes, blocking out the innocuous envelope.

  ‘Take it.’ Becca was soft, pleading. ‘Please.’

  Kate accepted the envelope. It was light as a feather. Whatever Charlie had to say, he’d used very few words.

  ‘You have to read it,’ urged Becca. ‘It’s better to know.’

  ‘Later.’ Kate stuffed the envelope into her bag, pushing it deep down among the strata of receipts and gum and stray lipsticks. ‘So?’ She held out her foot, made a slow circle with her ankle. ‘Shall I buy them?’

  ‘Go home,’ said Becca, her tone heavy. ‘And read the letter.’

  Obediently, Kate put back the shoes and did as she was told. At home she circled the note, putting it off until finally it could be put off no longer. Curled on her bed like a foetus, she ripped open the envelope. One reading and the contents were fixed on her consciousness forever.

  Kate

  This split is for the best. Not everything that looks like love is love. You’re free and so am I. I hope you’ ll be happy.

  C

  I’m dismissed, thought Kate. Not needed. Unfit for purpose. Surplus to requirements. The note’s coldness took her off guard, as did the doorbell. Becca! she thought, grateful, leaping off the bed.

  She almost didn’t recognise him, partly because he was the last person she expected to see on her doorstep and partly because the expression on his face utterly altered him. Julian looked, for once, apprehensive. ‘Am I . . .’ he said. ‘Is this OK?’

  ‘It’s, um . . .’ It was awful, but Kate’s manners overruled her distress. ‘Come in.’ Julian was so big and so male and he made her regret her bare feet and the wrinkled grey pyjama trousers her mother despaired of.

  ‘How’s Becca?’ said Julian as Kate filled the kettle. ‘The crazy calls have stopped so I’m a bit worried about her. In case she’s, you know, done something . . .’

  ‘Becca’s not the sort to kill herself.’

  ‘True.’ Julian in casual wear of jeans and cricket jumper was more groomed than Charlie had been for his university interview in his sole suit. The kneejerk comparison startled her: Charlie was no longer Kate’s business.

  The kettle danced to a boil against a backdrop of reverent silence, as if the cramped kitchen was a church. She and Julian had never been alone before. Through her dazed heartbreak Kate found herself wondering what on earth he was doing in her house.

  As if he’d heard her question, Julian said, ‘I’m not really here to talk about Becca.’ He swallowed audibly. ‘I heard. About you and Charlie.’

  Kate nodded. They were a news item.

  ‘I thought you two were for ever.’

  ‘So did I.’ Kate began to cry. ‘Sorry.’ She tore off some kitchen roll. ‘Ignore me. I’m being daft.’

  ‘No. You’re not.’ Julian made the tea, which felt vaguely embarrassing. Mum’s Pyrex mugs in his big hands. ‘Milk? Sugar?’ He was clumsy, but Kate was touched. She found herself talking. About Charlie, about how she felt, about how just moments ago she’d come slap bang up against the brick wall of his indifference.

  ‘I’m boring you,’ she said.

  ‘You couldn’t,’ he said.

  Kate looked at him questioningly and he didn’t look away. She felt the need to mention her cousin. ‘Becca’s been so distraught about you . . .’ Even as she said it, Kate realised something. For the past few days Becca had been different. Upbeat, even.

  ‘I know,’ said Julian gently, considering his words, head bowed. ‘But she’ll recover. She’ll be OK. I was a project, wasn’t I? I didn’t break Becca’s heart. I took a hammer to her pride, sure, but her heart is intact.’

  ‘No,’ said Kate, instinctively loyal. ‘She adored you.’ She amended the tense. ‘Adores you.’ This day was whirling by, pushing everything into the past.

  ‘Things have their time. Then they’re over.’

  ‘So why,’ said Kate, ‘did you ask her to marry you?’

  ‘It seemed like the right thing to do. She’s quite a girl.’

  ‘Woman,’ said Kate, warningly.

  ‘Woman.’ Julian altered his language with a courtly dip of his head. ‘It was exciting. But it was a mistake. I hurt her, even though I promised never to do that. I don’t intend to hurt anybody else if I can help it.’

  Sensing hidden meanings smuggled in his language, Kate did her best to ignore them. Sitting at the table, she invited Julian to do the same. Over Mum’s home-made shortbread, she asked him about his work, noticing how he became animated.

  ‘What about your job?’ he said. ‘How’s that working out?’

  ‘OK, I think.’ Kate reconsidered. ‘Actually, I love it. It’s just that it’s hard to love anything at the moment.’ She wondered how long it would take her to surface.

  ‘Do you think you’ll end up buying a shop?’

  ‘What?’ Kate laughed with shock. ‘I’m just a shop assistant, Julian.’

  ‘You’re not just anything.’

  Kate looked at him and he looked back. Something happened. Something flexed its muscles and came to life between them. It was Kate who broke the spell, standing up, fussing with the biscuits. She was seeing Julian as a person for the first time. Not as Becca’s trophy boyfriend. The fact that she was flattered shamed her, but shame couldn’t quench the quiet fire he’d lit.

  As Julian left, he made a speech. That’s how it felt, as Kate stood on the swirly hall carpet and Julian spoke at her. He seemed nervous: another first.

  ‘What you need is peace and quiet and time to heal. Maybe a relaxed meal out somewhere nice, with somebody you know, would be good. Somebody who won’t expect you to be chirpy, who won’t expect anything more than a peck on the cheek at the end of the night.’ He paused.

  ‘This somebody,’ said Kate. ‘Would it be you?’

  ‘It would.’

  She smiled and her face seemed to creak. ‘Julian . . .’ She sighed. ‘You know I can’t say yes.’

  ‘Becca . . .’

  ‘Exactly.’ Kate admitted at last that she found Julian attractive. It’s because he’s forbidden fruit, she thought. Nothing to do with his bearing, his tigerish eyes, the fact that he’d laid himself bare by coming to her like this.

  Julian became more bold, more his usual self. ‘I’ll book a table at eight o’clock, one week from tonight, at Zilli’s. Come in your dressing gown if you’re still miserable. If you don’t turn up I won’t harass you. I won’t even call.’ Julian stepped outside, into a sharp, bright, heartless afternoon. ‘But I’ll be terribly disappointed.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kate mechanically as she shut the door.

  Humbly, respectfully, he’d handed her all the power, running the risk of looking foolish, for the chance of dinner with her.

  Try as she might, Kate couldn’t picture it.

  A carefully laid table. Soft lighting. Julian holding a menu. And herself, washed, tamed, face brightened with make-up and body inserted into some form of outfit. She recoiled. The notion confounded her.

  What perplexed her more was when Becca asked, a day or two later, ‘Now that you and Charlie are well and truly finished, would it be OK if I had a drink with him now and then, kept in touch?’

  ‘It would be very very far from bloody O bloody K!’ screamed Kate. ‘Are you kidding? Why would you . . .’ She ran out of steam, her chest rising and falling. ‘Are you interested in Charlie?’ Kate couldn’t find a facial expression that did justice to her sudden conjecture.

  ‘God, no.’ Becca was distressed. ‘I just don’t want to lose him. As a mate.’r />
  ‘But you’ve never been mates,’ said Kate.

  Later, Kate picked up the phone and dialled Becca’s number. ‘Sorry,’ she said, twisting to check out the back view of the red seductively clingy dress she’d just bought. ‘I overreacted. After all, like you said, Charlie and me are over.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Becca sounded doubtful even though she’d been the one to open this awkward dialogue. ‘I mean, I have to see him at least once, to hand back his note.’ Kate had given Becca the single page, folded back into its original creases, to return to Charlie. She’d added nothing to it; he’d said it all. ‘But if it makes you unhappy I won’t see him again after that.’

  ‘Becca, I don’t have the right to be possessive about Charlie.’ Kate took a deep breath. ‘And while we’re on the subject of exes there’s something I have to tell you.’ Kate sensed how Becca struggled to conceal her surprise at her news.

  ‘Good!’ said Becca, over-loud. ‘Why not, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ said Kate.

  Their ‘Goodnights’ were stilted, like actresses in a bad play.

  The dress was too racy. Kate dashed up to her bedroom, where she tore it off and reached for her old faithful oversized white shirt. I’ll probably spill pasta all down it, she thought.

  ‘I like the shirt,’ said Julian, later. ‘Even with bolognese sauce all down it.’

  Over the next few months, Becca insisted on double dates. ‘The sooner we all get used to our new arrangement,’ she said, ‘the better.’ And she was right. The tension eased. The awkwardness dissipated. Before long Becca and Julian were casually indifferent to each other.

  For Kate and Charlie it took a little longer to reboot.

  The first time Julian had proprietorially thrown his arm around her in a pub she’d jumped. Charlie hadn’t turned a hair. Just moments later Charlie had kissed Becca with enthusiasm, with – goddammit – gusto.

  That was the night Kate first held Julian to her, returning his desire with her own, cementing their string of dates into something more profound. He’d been committed from the start, careful never to bully or nudge, until Kate had to agree, against all the odds, they were a good fit. In retrospect, her two years with Charlie looked like a naive first stab at love.