Who is Tom Ditto?

by Danny Wallace

  ‘There’s a technical term?’

  ‘For those who follow, yes, and look, she said it herself – carry on as normal.’

  ‘How? Everything’s changed. I can’t carry on as normal because nothing is normal, and I can’t move on, because I don’t have closure.’

  She smiled. Dug me in the ribs.

  ‘Which is why you need this,’ she said. ‘You need some not-normal for a while. You can’t live in limbo. You have to puncture the clouds.’

  I looked at this small, pretty girl next to me.

  What clouds did she live under?

  At home, I ordered our food while she found the bathroom and started the shower. She managed to knock over every bottle in there.

  God, she was noisy.

  I could hear a car slowing to a halt outside. The rough grumble of an idling black cab. Edith from upstairs, maybe. Two doors slammed shut.

  Woah. Maybe Edith had company.

  ‘Have you got any towels?’ Pia called out. ‘Can I ruin one with the extremely potent hair dye which I bought for a quid from a Happy Shopper?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll …’

  Thump-thump-thump at the door.

  I looked at my watch, heard the cab’s engine lift as it drove away.

  8.15. Who comes round at 8.15? Sainsbury’s again?

  Thump-thump-thump again.

  Christ. Hayley?

  I walked to the window, slowly.

  Parted a blind, peered out.

  It was a man.

  I recognised him.

  [6]

  ‘I am loath to tell you, but this feels unnatural,’ I say, on our fifth afternoon together, as we follow a man walking east on 72nd toward Central Park.

  The gentleman’s collar is up, and we have followed suit.

  He carries with him a balloon, and so we, two other men, carry one balloon apiece.

  ‘This does not come easily to me,’ I say.

  My balloon is blue.

  ‘And yet it is as natural to us both as breathing,’ says Cockroft.

  His balloon is pink.

  ‘I’d argue not,’ I say, stopping as I notice the man ahead stops to tie his shoelace.

  For a moment we are simply two men, generations apart, standing on a street corner holding balloons. We stand and watch as they catch a slim wind, and I cross my arms to secure my string.

  ‘Your arms are crossed,’ he says. ‘You crossed them mere moments after I crossed mine. I crossed mine to see if you would cross yours.’

  I straighten my arms, quickly, flushing as I do so, embarrassed.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, placing a hand on my arm. ‘Think of the way a parent imitates the facial expressions of their newborn. The way they smile, or poke their tongues from their mouths in mimicry. It is connection. It is the Chameleon Effect, and it is automatic imitation as social glue. On the most base level, we somehow adapt our behavior to every single person we meet. Including strangers.’

  ‘I do not mimic everyone I meet,’ I say. ‘I know that I don’t.’

  ‘Yeah, you do. We all do. Mirror neuron system. We do it without thought. We alter the way we speak, the way we stand, the lilts and turns of our accents, our gestures, our speech patterns, all of it to fit in because all we are is animals and all we want is to be part of the herd.’

  We turn to see the man is back on his feet. He stares up at the sky, his hands on his hips, his face darkened, staring as his balloon gets smaller and smaller and smaller, ready to puncture the clouds.

  We look at each other, then release our balloons too.

  ‘Isn’t this whole endeavor merely wasting your life?’

  ‘How so?’ he says, surprised, taking his eyes off our balloons – blue and pink, now dancing with the green one the man had lost.

  ‘If you’re always walking in other people’s footsteps, you will never make any tracks of your own.’

  ‘You been practicing that?’ he says, smiling, and I avoid his eye, because once again, this old man caught me. ‘There have been people in my life who have said that to me. People who felt they had to … detach from me as a consequence. But they miss the point.’

  The man with no balloon is staring at us. He wants to talk about why all our balloons are now in the sky.

  ‘How so?’ I ask, beginning to move away.

  ‘This is the opposite of wasting your life. A life wasted is a life spent doing the same-old same-old. You follow, you learn. You can live a thousand lives, a minute at a time, and learn a thousand new things. Or you can do the same shit the same way you always do.’

  I smile.

  The man is closer now.

  We turn and break into a jog.

  ‘Of course,’ says Cockroft, ‘the really tricky thing is what happens when you get caught …’

  eighteen

  I did not know what to do.

  Literally no idea.

  I hovered by the curtain, one foot almost going to the door, the other remaining firmly where it was.

  ‘Are you going to get that?’ shouted Pia.

  I stole another look out of the window, panicking, wondering whether I should open up, or whether it’d be better just to run and hide.

  ‘What is it?’ said Pia, a face like thunder now over my shoulder as I began to hunch. ‘Who’s that?’

  The man looked over, spotted me, gave me a wave. He pointed at the sky. It was starting to rain. His look said, ‘Just in time!’

  And then he moved, slightly, to reveal a woman – his wife? – and then I felt complete confusion. I knew them. But what were they doing here?

  A memory. Wednesday 10th. 8pm.

  Was that still on?!

  ‘You okay?’ asked Pia, and I tried to find the time to explain.

  ‘Dinner party,’ I said, eyes wide, ‘There’s a dinner party …’

  ‘What? Out there?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘In here …’

  ‘No there isn’t,’ she said, scrunching up her nose.

  I opened the door.

  ‘Tom!’ said the man, extending his hand, gripping mine warmly. ‘Did we catch you in the middle of something?’

  He laughed a gregarious laugh. I tried to join in.

  Had it been down to me to cancel? Why hadn’t Hayley cancelled her own plans?

  ‘Hi Tom,’ said his wife, going for the kiss on one cheek, then the other, barging her way in. ‘Sorry if we’re a few minutes early!’

  ‘We texted Hayley to warn her but didn’t hear back,’ said the man. ‘Hope she’s not too busy in the kitchen!’

  Ha.

  Ha ha.

  ‘This is for you,’ he said, handing me a bottle of red then sniffing the air theatrically. ‘What’s cooking?’

  I don’t know what he was sniffing because there was literally nothing cooking.

  I tried to think of something to say.

  ‘Come in!’

  I wish I’d thought of something else.

  And also – what the hell were their names? These were Hayley’s friends, I knew that. Or he was. From where, though? I’d forgotten. Was it university? No! He runs a cheese shop somewhere! A posh one, in a villagey part of London! Chiswick? Dulwich? And he’s always been so nice to me – but who’s she? Artist? Accountant? Something with A?

  ‘Hello!’ said Pia, suddenly by my side, her elbow brushing my waist, just a little bit too close in the narrow hallway. In a dressing gown.

  In. A. Dressing. Gown.

  But wait – this would be okay if we ignore that. Because she was going to introduce herself. She’d sensed my discomfort and would now say her name, allowing them to say their names in return, and no one would think about the fact that she was in a dressing gown.

  But she didn’t.

  ‘Hi!’ said the man, nodding at Pia, waiting to be introduced, eyebrows raised …

  ‘ThisisPia,’ I gabbled, hoping that would suffice for introductions, and moving things swiftly on. ‘Did you come far?’

  ‘Still in Cro
uch End,’ said the woman, smiling, and I had a vague memory of her saying something snippy about me to Hayley once, but there ended her sentence. She looked at Pia. Dressing gown. Oh, great. Panda cap too.

  ‘Crouch End!’ I said loudly, then, with a French accent: ‘Crou-chen.’

  They both laughed like they’d never heard it before, followed by a silence that was longer than the Nile.

  Right. Just explain. Just say ‘your friend Hayley ditched me and didn’t even think highly enough of you to properly cancel a dinner’.

  Yes. That’s the grown-up thing to do.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘There’s some news …’

  The man’s face a picture of concern now, the woman’s not so much.

  Pia put her hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Yes, and it’s bad,’ she said. ‘It’s really bad news.’

  ‘Oh God, what?’ said the man.

  What was his name?

  ‘I feel terrible that you’ve wasted your time coming here,’ I said, and then a gentle hand on my arm from Pia.

  ‘Because the oven’s broken and we’ve had to improvise,’ she said.

  What?

  ‘Can I take your jackets?’ she said, assuming the role of half-dressed panda-capped co-host.

  ‘What did you say your name was again?’ asked the man.

  ‘Pia.’

  ‘Pia!’ he said. ‘I’m Fraser.’

  ‘God!’ I said, grabbing the opportunity. ‘God, I’m so rude, forgive me, I thought you’d met. Yes, this is Pia, sorry, and this is Fraser, and …’

  I looked at the woman.

  ‘… his wife—’

  ‘Iona,’ said Iona, and now I remembered their names perfectly.

  ‘IONA,’ I said. ‘And Fraser.’

  ‘You seem interesting,’ said Pia, pointing at Iona.

  ‘Oh … thank you,’ said Iona, and I shot Pia a stop it.

  She could be kooky if she wanted. But this was not a time to be weird.

  ‘There’s other news as well,’ I said. ‘And—’

  ‘Where do you work, Iona?’ asked Pia, taking her jacket.

  ‘At UCL, in Bloomsbury?’

  ‘Oh, cool,’ said Pia. ‘And what sort of time do you have to leave your house to get there in the mornings?’

  ‘Anyway, come in, come in!’ I said, very loudly indeed, and it was then that I saw the flat through their eyes.

  Broken vase. Magazines all over the floor. Meal-for-one packets on the dusty IKEA table. Half-bottle of rum by the telly.

  We all stood and looked, disappointment running thick in the room.

  ‘I, um …’

  ‘We were burgled this evening,’ said Pia. ‘That was the other news.’

  Well, why not.

  ‘Oh God, how terrible,’ said Iona. ‘Burgled?’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Fraser, and he looked at the room for all the confirmation he needed. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s pretty bad,’ said Pia.

  ‘Well, not burgled, exactly,’ I said.

  ‘Cats,’ said Pia. ‘We think a load of cats got in.’

  ‘Cat burglars!’ said Fraser, and we all laughed a little too hard.

  ‘Well, no, it wasn’t cats,’ I said, because that was fucking ludicrous. ‘We think someone got in and … maybe a cat came in as well afterwards.’

  Why were we saying this? And what was I going to say about Hayley?

  ‘What did the police say?’ said Iona.

  ‘They said it was probably burglars and thieves,’ said Pia, nodding. ‘Where did you get your necklace, I love it?’

  ‘This?’ said Iona, confused. ‘I, er …’

  ‘Listen,’ said Fraser. ‘We can come back another time, when everything’s …’

  ‘No!’ said Pia. ‘Stay!’

  ‘Really,’ said Iona. ‘You’ve got so much to sort out, and—’

  ‘Iona, I will not have it,’ said Pia, taking her by the hand and leading her to the sofa. ‘But I’m afraid we haven’t been able to cook anything.’

  I wished she’d stop saying ‘we’.

  ‘And … where’s Hayley?’ said Fraser, finally.

  ‘Hayley, yes,’ I said.

  Quietly, his hand found my arm.

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s, well … she’s—’

  ‘She’s in bed,’ said Pia. ‘She’s pretty down about it all.’

  Jesus Christ, Pia. Enough. I had to tell them.

  But: ‘The burglars took her tiaras,’ said Pia, very grim-faced. ‘And all her cufflinks that she got on eBay. And one of the cats pissed on her bonnets.’

  The words hung in the air.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘This all sounds very weird, and—’

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Fraser, shaking his head, brow furrowed.

  ‘So that’s why Tom asked me to come round,’ said Pia. ‘To cheer things up a bit.’

  ‘Sorry, are you Hayley’s …?’ asked Iona, hoping Pia might fill in the blanks.

  ‘Comet?’ asked Pia.

  Stop!

  ‘Wine!’ I said, remembering the bottle in my hand. ‘Let’s open this wine!’

  Thump-thump-thump.

  Pia looked at the door.

  ‘Dinner’s here.’

  We sat around the table, all paper napkins and mismatched cutlery. No mood lighting. No candles. No wine glasses for the wine, because they’d been in the dishwasher for over a fortnight now. No fancy food to hum and haw over.

  ‘We only ordered one pizza,’ I said. ‘But we did get some chicken wings. I hope that’s okay.’

  ‘Burglars took his cards,’ explained Pia, who’d done me the great favour of putting her clothes back on and taking her panda cap off. ‘We also got a two-litre bottle of Fanta. And the pizza is a Meat Mayhem, so hopefully there’s something for everyone.’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ said Fraser, picking up a bright red drumstick. ‘What a treat. We never eat like this at home.’

  Iona smiled weakly. I caught her eye.

  ‘Are you …’

  ‘I’m a vegetarian, yes.’

  ‘We’ve got some white bread!’ yelled Pia, bolting for the fridge, and by now they were onto us. Something was up. They knew it. They couldn’t call us on it, but they knew it. It was horribly obvious. The whole thing was horrible. But I was past caring, resigned to the evening and wherever it took us. Maybe it was my own little rebellion.

  God, how different the night would have been if Hayley had been here. We’d have started getting ready mid-afternoon. I’d have tidied up, she’d have started cooking a dessert from a Jamie book she could later unveil with great triumph and then claim had taken no time whatsoever. About fourish, I’d have popped to the wine shop and picked up two bottles of mid-range white, two bottles of decent red, and some Kettle Chips we’d have placed in a bowl to look like amazing people who only eat hand-cut crisps from bowls. Someone would’ve Hoovered. And right now we’d be talking about property prices, or whether we could be bothered going to Glastonbury these days, or how The X Factor’s had its day, or whatever else we could raise a quick opinion on to get us through ’til midnight. And we’d have done a vegetarian option.

  Instead, what did we have? A man with a bruised face, a no-show from his girlfriend, a stranger making roll-ups at the dinner table, one medium Meat Mayhem, some chicken wings the colour of nothing else in the known world and a story about cat burglars pissing on bonnets.

  My eyes flickered to the clock.

  We were only forty-five minutes in.

  I suppose it definitely looked like I’d killed Hayley.

  ‘There’s no more wine,’ said Pia, coming back in from the kitchen. ‘They must’ve taken that last night. Bloody wine thieves.’

  She put her hands on her hips and shook her head.

  I noticed Fraser and Iona swap a glance and something of a smile. Iona put her jam sandwich down. I frowned slightly at Pia to get her to take it easy.

  ‘So we’ve got a
half-bottle of a half-bottle of rum, a can of Beck’s Vier or that Fanta.’

  ‘Oh, um … I’ll have some Fanta, please,’ said Iona, who’d definitely dressed up for tonight.

  Anthropologist. At UCL. A for Anthropologist! Of course.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, as Pia went to fetch the Fanta. ‘Tom, are you sure everything’s okay?’

  Isn’t anthropology the study of human behaviour? I wondered whether in her head she was already planning a paper.

  ‘Yeah, all good!’ I said, and she glanced at Fraser, who nodded her on.

  ‘Hayley’s not here, is she, Tom?’ she said. ‘She’s not really in bed.’

  ‘Can I be honest with you?’ I said. ‘Hayley’s not here, no.’

  A momentary silence. They knew it.

  ‘She’s in hospital,’ said Pia, putting her hand on mine as she sat.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Pia,’ I said, then, more quietly: ‘She’s not in hospital.’

  ‘No, she’s not in hospital,’ said Pia. ‘But she’s not here.’

  The table fell silent as Pia poured the Fanta and unscrewed the remaining rum, placing it in front of me with a little straw. We all listened to the fizz settle down.

  ‘Okay …’ said Iona. ‘So where is Hayley?’

  ‘She’s in France,’ I said. ‘She left me.’

  Pia squeezed my hand, tightly.

  They looked at me, at the flat, at the girl next to me.

  At the half-bottle of rum with the little straw.

  It all made perfect sense.

  Fraser and Iona left the minute we ran out of Fanta.

  I wrapped a spare chicken wing in cling film and pressed it into Fraser’s hand at the door as he left by way of apology.

  ‘Cats pissing on her bonnets?’ I said, while Pia folded up the pizza box and crushed it into the bin.

  ‘They were Hayley’s friends, not yours. Why should you feel awkward? Hayley should feel awkward. They should feel awkward. Not you. Look, think about tonight. Think about how down it would have made you feel. To go over the truth of it all again. To get their sympathy. They’d still be here now. Sitting on that sofa, making you cups of sugary tea, saying things like “you poor thing” and “maybe it’s for the best”.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the kind of thing I want to hear.’

  ‘You know it’s not. You need to be active. And let’s say you did just buckle like that. Then they’d have left you – all of you knowing you’d never see each other again – and then they’d have sat there laughing in their cab at you and about how boring you must have been to push Hayley away like that.’