Can't Let Go

by Jane Hill

  'How long are you staying up there?' Danny was still puzzled, verging on annoyed now.

  'Just a few days. Probably. I came on a whim.'

  'Are you with that Zoey friend of yours?' Danny's voice changed, subtly, to something a little harder and colder.

  'Well, yes, but not like that.'

  'Not like what?'

  'Not like your tone of voice suggests you think it might be like.' The statue was still staring at me. I wanted to tell it to go away, to leave me alone.

  'You can read the tone of my voice?'

  'Like a book.'

  'Then tell me what tone of voice this is. Have you forgotten about my mourning jacket?'

  Annoyed, definitely. Perhaps a little hurt. 'What about your jacket?'

  'My Morning Jacket. The band. We're supposed to go and see them tomorrow, remember? You said you were really looking forward to it.'

  I'd completely forgotten about them. Danny had been playing me their album for the past few months. He had been putting their songs on the mix CDs he made for me. Big, swirly rock music with a bit of a dance beat. Unintelligible lyrics sung in a dramatic high voice. Kind of passionate-sounding but not really my thing. But because I was so adept at pretence Danny had thought that I really loved the band and couldn't wait to see them live. After I'd dumped him, after we'd split up, he'd been quick to say: 'You'll still come to see My Morning Jacket with me, won't you?' And I had said that I would.

  'Danny, I'm so sorry. Really. I forgot all about them. Can you find someone else who wants the ticket?'

  'I could sell it for about four times its face value outside the venue, no problem. But that's not the point. I wanted to be there with you. I like going to gigs with you. It makes them special.'

  'Danny, I'm sorry. But we're not going out any more, okay? I know I'd said I'd come with you. But I can't. Sorry. But, you know, I'm not your girlfriend any more. Please, find someone else to go with you.'

  'But we're still friends?'

  He sounded so disappointed and betrayed that I felt as if I was about to cry. I needed to end the call there, before he sussed how upset I was and tried to push further. Breaking and ending my relationship with Danny was one of the hardest things I had ever had to do, and I needed all my strength to follow it through. I made my voice as icy as possible. 'Sorry, Danny. What can I say to make it better? Look, I'll see you when I get back, okay? We'll talk more then.'

  That bloody statue was still staring at me. I stuck my tongue out at it, a stupid, childish gesture. I hated this. I hated what I was doing to Danny. But how could I tell him why I'd run away? How could I tell him why I had broken off our relationship? I stomped back to the cafe table. Zoey flashed me a concerned look as I sat down. I took a big mouthful of falafel and blamed the water pooling in my eyes on the heat of the spices.

  Thirty-two

  Zoey thought it was funny how much I enjoyed flyering. Apparently most comedians thought it was a chore, and worse. Zoey certainly did. It involved walking the streets with piles of flyers – leaflets advertising comedy shows – and handing them to passersby. Zoey's flyer was a glossy sheet of A5 paper featuring a photo of her that had been taken as she hung upside down from something, so that her hair stuck straight up in a shock of curls. T o flyer properly you needed to strike up conversations with people and try to persuade them to come to the gig or gigs that you were promoting. Comics hated it, it seemed. But it seemed to me that many of them were intrinsically shy and awkward in their dealings with people. Given my quiet persona and my general air of unobtrusiveness it surprised Zoey – and sort of surprised me – how good I was at it.

  The pair of us were working the Royal Mile, mostly, with occasional forays into the maze of back streets in student land, where – if you timed it right – you could catch the punters going in or coming out of other shows. At the Pleasance Courtyard, for example, or a building nearby that I thought was probably the university students' union and for the duration of the Fringe was hosting a whole bunch of comedy shows. We approached appropriate groups of people – bunches of women in their twenties and thirties, for example – or thirty- and forty-something couples. We were mostly promoting Zoey's show, but if the punters proved interested we would also add in flyers for Laura and Suze. They were doing the same thing in return for Zoey's show.

  Zoey and I would stage informal competitions to see which of us could hand out the most flyers. I was proud of some of the marketing lines I'd come up with. 'Desperate Housewives meets The Vagina Monologues' seemed to be working well (I had never seen either of them). With slightly older women and couples, I went for 'It's like Sex and the City rewritten by an American Victoria Wood.' With the cool kids, I described Suze and Laura as 'a bit like French and Saunders. Only funny.'

  Zoey's friend – ex-friend – Steve was around, handing out leaflets for his own show, when he heard me say that. 'You're good,' he said. 'Want to flyer my show?'

  I'd been to see Zoey's show a few times, and it seemed to be going well. Zoey's material hadn't really changed much since the first time I had heard her, but her delivery seemed sharper and somehow more savage and biting. She paced around as if she owned the stage: she used every inch of that tiny wooden platform, and seemed to fill the whole room with her personality. I liked to sit at the back, and watch the audience leaning forward, their shoulders hunched in expectation, and to predict when the laughs would come. I was so proud of Zoey. Although I'd only played a very small part in helping her out, I felt that I almost owned part of the show. I felt more fulfilled than I had in ages. It was a good feeling, one that I'd almost forgotten.

  I went to lots of other shows, too. I saw Steve's one man show, and I was impressed. It was very different from the material he'd done at that nightmare gig in Southampton. It was just as dark and foul-mouthed but it was full of bitingly intelligent humour. He was raging about his Catholic childhood, and the state of the nation, and other worthwhile targets, and I thought it was excellent. We had a drink afterwards, and he asked about Zoey. In my new, happy, fulfilled state of mind, I told him to call her. I encouraged him to get back in touch with her. I knew it would make her happy.

  The Edinburgh Fringe wasn't cheap but I was putting it on my credit card so it didn't really count. And then, late at night it was Chinese or pizza or curry or kebabs back at the flat with a whole bunch of people: Laura and Suze sometimes, and some other people Zoey knew, some of whom I recognised from the telly. And then Steve started coming round as well, and occasionally he stayed the night. It all seemed to be back on with him and Zoey. It was a great, relaxed atmosphere, and it was the most fun I'd had in ages.

  I felt free. I had run away, I'd escaped, and I'd made it to safety. There hadn't been a single menacing note. I hadn't seen . . . him. Whoever he was. I'd had no sense of being followed. No chills up my spine, no sense of being watched, apart from by that silver-painted living statue. I felt awful about Danny, and I missed him. But I knew that I'd done the right thing and that he was better off without me, even if he didn't know it yet. Occasionally I thought about my flat back in London and all the stuff I had left there. I wondered if I'd ever be able to go back. I thought about the girls I taught, and on the day that the results came out I wondered how they'd done in their exams. I wondered if I would ever be able to go back to that school, if I dared return to my job. And I worried about money, and about my future, and about what was going to happen to me – where I would go, what I would do – once this glorious interlude came to an end. I found myself praying, something I rarely did. The prayer went something like this: For now, please God, if you exist, just let me be. Let me enjoy this holiday.

  It was two in the morning. Zoey, Steve and I were finishing off the dregs of a bottle of wine. ' T o the best flyerererer ever,' slurred Zoey.

  I blushed.

  'Damn right,' said Steve. 'You're good at this. Who'd have guessed Zoey's mousy friend was a wannabe?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I've seen you o
ut there. You're a performer. You love it, don't you? You're a frustrated comedian.'

  I shook my head. 'No, not at all.'

  'Oh, go on,' said Steve. 'You can't tell me you've never thought of doing this.'

  'She tried,' said Zoey. 'She got stage fright.'

  I thought back to that night in that claustrophobic cellar in London; to the sense that someone was watching me. I couldn't stop myself shivering.

  'I bet you have done something on stage, though, haven't you?' Steve's eyes were boring into me.

  I fidgeted uneasily. 'I used to act a bit. A long time ago. When I was at school.'

  'Why did you stop?' said Zoey in a curious voice, as if she genuinely wanted to know the answer to the puzzle.

  It was too close to home. I said nothing. I left it a few minutes and then I stood up, unsteadily, went over to the kitchen area and put the kettle on. Time to end the evening. Time to end the conversation. This was not the time to talk about Lizzie Stephens. But the truth was that I was starting to feel a bit like Lizzie again. As if I had come back to life, as if I had burst out of my cocoon and sprouted butterfly wings – whatever hackneyed simile fitted the bill.

  The next afternoon I was back on the Royal Mile. I was standing in the heart of historic Edinburgh, at the centre of the Fringe. Zoey was taking a break from flyering that day, but I was holding the fort. It was a sunny day and I was wearing one of Zoey's brightly coloured T-shirts, because I had run out of clean ones. I hadn't felt this relaxed and open and human since – well, since San Francisco. There was a stage – a mini-stage – set up in the centre of the Royal Mile. Three men were on the stage dressed in swimming trunks and goggles, pretending to be synchronised swimmers. Cardboard waves were playing the part of the swimming pool. Next to the stage a row of beautiful young oriental girls in embroidered silk robes – Thai? Japanese? Korean? – were waiting for their turn to perform.

  I handed a flyer to a middle-aged American couple. They told me that they were from Indianapolis and that they loved The Vicar of Dibley. 'Oh, you'll love this,' I lied. 'She's American, but she's lived in Britain for years so she's got that great British sense of humour, combined with a big dollop of American sass.' Oh, what nonsense I was talking. And oh, how relaxed I was. They'd said 'Indianapolis' and I hadn't even thought of Rivers Carillo and the list I'd made of universities in Indiana.

  A tall man, fortyish, slim, with fairish floppy public schoolboy hair was hovering nearby, looking as if he wanted a leaflet. He waited until I had finished with the Americans. 'I'll take one of those,' he said.

  'Not often that people ask for them,' I said, and I think I sounded slightly flirty. He was good-looking, in a diffident and faintly posh English way.

  'It looks interesting.'

  'It is.'

  We stood there for a while looking at each other, and I wondered if he was trying to chat me up. But he seemed to think better of it, or was overcome by shyness, and he mumbled 'Thanks' and turned away. I glanced idly at the crowds. There was a man juggling with fire – with batons that were on fire – surrounded by a crowd of onlookers. There was a unicyclist making animals out of balloons, and children were jostling around him, trying to get their hands on one of the balloon animals. And then I saw him. Him – someone – a dark curly head of hair – Rivers Carillo. Someone like Rivers Carillo but younger: the man in Russell Square; the kid at King's Cross Station. His head was bobbing up and down amidst the crowds, past the Thai girl dancers, past the unicyclist and the fire juggler, moving relentlessly towards me. And I panicked. Suddenly I remembered how afraid I was.

  I ran. I ran up the Royal Mile, up Lawnmarket, up Castle Hill, towards the castle. I ran over the cobbles and the uneven pavement, pushing through the heaving mass of people. And as I ran I could hear that he had started to run too, with determined footsteps that echoed mine. I threaded my way through the clumps of people who had gathered to watch the street entertainers. I cannoned into someone. I looked up, caught sight of a white-painted clown's face. I waved an apology but didn't stop. I kept running up that crowded street, past people trying to hand me flyers and leaflets about fringe shows and sightseeing bus tours and cheap restaurants. I pushed through a party of tourists on a guided tour. I could still hear footsteps behind me. Not just any footsteps, but definitely someone running, someone following me, someone keeping pace behind me. I was getting a stitch in my side, and my breath was catching painfully in my throat and in my chest, high up at the top of my ribcage. A centurion in full Roman armour reached out towards me, grabbed my arm as I ran past, offering to help or trying to stop an accident of some sort. I shook him off. I didn't dare look behind me. I dreaded to think what – who – I might see. I didn't want it to be true but I knew it was. All I could hear was the sound of those inexorable running footsteps, following me up the hill.

  An alleyway beckoned on my right, a tiny sliver of space between two shops. I darted into it and leaned against the wall, panting. It was quiet and dark. I stood there for a while, listening out for footsteps, watching the people walking past. I didn't see him, the dark-haired man who was chasing me. After a few seconds, when I was almost sure that I hadn't been followed, I tiptoed through the alleyway, away from the Royal Mile, down some uneven stone steps, towards the light at the other end. I reached out a hand to the cold, clammy stone to steady myself. And that was when I heard footsteps again, slower this time but still distinctive. They were behind me; right behind me, echoing on the flagstones underfoot. He had found me. He was coming towards me. I felt his breath on the back of my neck.

  There was nothing I could do except stand there like a statue. At the end of the tunnel was a dizzying vista – a clear, cloudless blue sky, a steep hill down to the Princes Street Gardens, brightly dressed people sitting on the bright green grass. People enjoying themselves. People and people and people, so many of them, without a care in the world. So close, so far away. And there I stood with my mystery stalker breathing down my neck. Suddenly his hand was on my shoulder. My shoulders slumped under his touch. I turned to face the inevitable. Rivers Carillo, his son, his friend. Or one of those faceless young guys from San Francisco: Elliot, Jason, Jonas. Whoever my stalker was.

  His face wasn't where I expected it to be. He was taller than I expected. I turned and I was facing a chest, a neck. My eyes climbed slowly. Pointed chin. Sharp nose. Blue eyes. Floppy fair hair. 'I'm terribly sorry,' said the polite, shy, posh Englishman. 'Did I scare you? You dropped these when you ran off so suddenly.'

  He handed me my pile of flyers. I stammered some words of thanks. I was blushing furiously, feeling shaken. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I said to myself.

  'It really does look good,' he said. 'I might come and see it tonight. Will you be there?'

  I nodded, unable to form coherent words. He gave me a strange, concerned look, and then he turned and walked back to the Royal Mile, clutching a copy of the flyer. I flicked through the pile of leaflets in my hands, tidied them and straightened their edges. I fiddled with them for a while until I felt a little calmer. Then I set my shoulders and headed back out towards the crowds and craziness. I scanned the street before I emerged from the alleyway, taking the kind of precaution I'd somehow forgotten since I'd been in Edinburgh. There was no sign of the dark haired man. Of course there wasn't: he had never been chasing me. The dark-haired man was no one, nothing; just a spectre in the crowd.

  There was a good audience at Zoey's show that night.

  I sat on my perch against the wall at the back of the dungeon and watched them as they arrived. I recognised some of the people I'd given flyers to. I nodded at the American couple from Indianapolis, who waved excitedly at me. I was hoping they'd enjoy the show that I'd talked them into seeing. I was sure it was long past their bedtime. Just as Zoey was about to come on stage a familiar figure ducked into the venue. It was the tall polite floppy-haired man from earlier today. I lowered my head, embarrassed. I didn't want him to catch my eye. But he didn't look in my direction anyway. He
found a seat with a good view of the stage on the end of one of the rows in the middle of the cave and sat down.

  It seemed as if Zoey was angry about something. Instead of fizzing onto the stage like she normally did, that night it was more of a stomp. She was taking no prisoners. Every punch line was delivered to perfection but there was a weird tone to her voice. It was as if she really meant the material. There was almost a note of hate in her voice. The audience was laughing as much as usual, but some of the laughter seemed a little uneasy, particularly amongst the men. It was the laughter of men with crossed legs.

  Thirty-three

  Sometimes the worst things happen on the best days. The plane crashes on the way to a dream holiday, a child is lost at sea on the perfect summer's day. A black cloud suddenly hides the sun, and you wonder how you had managed to let yourself believe that the sun would shine for ever. Perhaps happiness always carries with it the underlying threat of dread, because sometimes you are flying so high that you know the only way to go is down.

  Or perhaps normal people – I mean people other than me, people who don't live with fear hanging around their necks – do know what it's like to be perfectly happy, without any expectation or dread of the sudden chill that can come at any moment. Perhaps I'm the only person in the world who knows that happiness can be frightening; that happiness can be dreadful in its own way. All I know is this: that day, the day it happened, the day the whole world fell apart, had been – up until then, up until the axe fell – the happiest day I had ever known.

  I had the whole day to myself. Zoey and I had agreed that I would take a day off from flyering. I decided that I would simply enjoy myself around Edinburgh, doing whatever I wanted to do. I woke with a slight hangover. It wasn't the sort of hangover that bothered me too much, or made me think of migraines; it was merely the sort of hangover that I knew would be over soon. It was just a fond memory of the good time we'd had the night before. I showered, got dressed and made coffee. I could hear headachy groaning coming from Zoey's room, and it could have been either her or Steve. I didn't want to be a third wheel so I got out of the flat quickly.