The Art of Keeping Faith

by Anna Bloom

Meredith.

  I dashed home, stopping briefly at the off-license to grab some wine and fags, before screeching to a halt outside our flat and running through the door straight into Meredith who was sitting on the hallway floor on the telephone.

  “Thanks, Ben,” she is saying into the phone. “Lilah is home now do you want to talk to her?”

  She got up from the floor and handed me the phone but I grabbed her hand and held onto her so she could not leave.

  “Ben, I can’t talk now.”

  “I know.”

  “I love you.”

  “Love you, Lilah.”

  Then I hung up the phone and grabbed my best friend into the tightest hug I have ever given anyone.

  “I am sorry I didn’t remember this morning.”

  “Lilah, it’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not. I am shit. I am the worst friend ever, always wrapped up in my own drama and problems. I forget that you have been through much more than I can even imagine.”

  “Nah, I think you have got some credit of your own.”

  We both start to giggle and I grab the plastic bag full of clinking bottles off the floor.

  “Wine?” she asks.

  “Oh yes,” I confirm with a smirk. Of course it’s bloody wine—this is me in an emotional situation. “Wine and a take-away?” I suggest.

  “Wine and dancing,” counters Meredith.

  Oh, God.

  “Wine and dancing it is.”

  At ten o’clock we were all done up and standing in the queue for Fez freezing our tits off.

  Meredith who was rather tipsy by the time we started to get dressed decided to put herself in charge of my wardrobe. So basically I was semi-clothed whilst standing in a long queue on a cold January night.

  Thankfully Richard and two of his football buddy friends walked along and rescued us. Well actually I hid, but Meredith did not have this problem. She launched herself into their path to find out where they were going and why they were not waiting in the queue like the rest of us plebs.

  Turns out they are on the door list and just walk in. I have no idea why. Why, oh, why would kicking a ball about for the local Uni football team put you on the door list at a club? I wouldn’t mind, but half of them are overweight and the other half can’t play longer than thirty minutes without collapsing on the floor with cramp—it seems this does not matter.

  Anyway we went in with them. Rich even insisted on paying for us—which was quite sweet and meant that Mer and I had even more money for shots. Hurrah!

  I am low on funds for the first time in a while, the wine on the way home cleared me out so Meredith and I had to empty out Tristan’s small change jar. Thing being, Tristan does not have small change in his small change jar; he has fiver’s in there, two pound coins and all sorts.

  We came out with fifty quid! Haha! Which we then spent on vodka.

  So needless to say we drank a lot. Danced a lot. Cried a lot and then got escorted home by Richard who decided to do the big brother/little brother thing because neither of us could stand up. Well we could but it involved giggling and leaning on each other.

  Now I am in the library suffering with the worst hangover I am proud to say I have had since the beginning of the year—see I am making progress.

  Later

  “Lilah, coffee.”

  “Uh what?”

  “Lilah, here have a coffee.”

  Richard is thrusting a dangerously hot coffee under my nose.

  Aw damn it I must have fallen asleep in the library again.

  “How’s the hangover?” he asks, perching on the desk next to me.

  “Bad,” I confirm giving a discreet wipe of the desk to remove any dribble.

  “I’d say. Do you remember the cab journey home?”

  “Yeah, of course I do. I was not that bad!”

  I was. I was completely blotted and only vaguely remember falling into a cab which had surprisingly luxurious leather seats.

  “So you remember that the cab was not a cab at all but some poor business man who you flagged down and then clambered into his car, smearing your kebab everywhere.”

  I look at Rich to see if he is teasing. I don’t think he is.

  Shit.

  “I did not do that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “No way. Never. That would be dangerous and silly.”

  “Yep, and then you gave him a fiver for driving us all the way home even though by that point you’d realised he was not a cabbie.”

  “Oh, my God. That is so embarrassing.”

  “So my question is, do you plan to drink that much very often?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am not sure I can allow you to go out by yourself. But at the same time, I don’t think my liver can take it.”

  “I am twenty-seven years old! Are you implying I’m not mature enough to go out unattended?”

  “That is exactly what I am saying.”

  “Bite me.”

  “That’s exactly what you said to that guy last night when he asked you very politely to get out of his car because he was not a taxi.”

  I think about this.

  “Okay, please don’t ever let me go out again by myself.”

  He makes a snorting noise, which makes me giggle, which in turn makes my head hurt all the more.

  “I won’t.”

  “Good.”

  He moves from his perch next to me and slams his bag down on the other study desk the other side of mine and I go back to staring at the pages in front of me.

  I must have sobered up a little; I have no recollection of getting these books down from the shelves at all.

  Later

  Just been given a bollocking by Tristan. Apparently I am a bad influence on Meredith as she only ever gets herself into bad situations when she is with me.

  I think that is grossly unfair.

  It was Meredith after all who wanted to go to the Fez in the first place. It was Meredith who managed to hitch her way in with the football team, dragging me along as a very unwilling partner. And it was Meredith who insisted on stumbling across the traffic light to Kebab King because she wanted a Number Eight Special.

  The Number Eight special appears to be road kill but at the time it looked appealing so I ordered one too, with extra garlic sauce.

  The extra sauce was a mistake, I woke up this morning still in my skimpy outfit with white stains streaked down the front of it.

  Okay. It might have been my fault that we got into a car that was not a cab. And yes, once we realised our error I still insisted that the guy drive us home for a fiver. But if she had not got me that drunk in the first place I would never have done a thing like that.

  Everyone knows that I can’t drink shots anyway. Ten shots of black Sambuca is going to be bad whichever way you look at it. Especially when it is on top of three bottles of wine and a packet of crisps.

  16th January

  Midnight

  Ben: Nice dancing!

  This is sent with a YouTube link.

  Crap.

  I don’t want to look.

  Let’s not forget that I was in the Fez with the football team and Richard, who is starting to take on a personal bodyguard role in my life for one reason or another.

  I look anyway.

  It’s a cringe-fest of note, but thankfully it is just Meredith and I attempting to do the moonwalk to Billy Jean.

  That’s okay. I can live with that.

  Although I am sorely tempted to stick Barbie’s mobile phone up her arse so she can’t film me with it anymore.

  What is her problem?

  Me: Glad you think so. Want me to perform in one of your videos?”

  Ben: Definitely, although with less clothing please.

  Me: Dirty pervert.

  17th January

  9.00 p.m.

  I have been crying for four hours straight. Four hours, that is a vast quantity of tears. I don’t even know how my body is producin
g the watery rivets anymore but it is nonetheless. Every time I think I have it under control and I can maybe venture from the safety of my room and you know, like talk to people, I get hit by another tidal wave of drowning tears.

  Gladiator Day

  After our boring morning lecture we had a video room reserved in the library so some of us from History on Screen could watch the first film on the syllabus together.

  What a mistake.

  The film was Gladiator.

  The one film in the entire history of film making that I have always for some strange reason refused to watch, no matter who has asked or begged me to sit through the ordeal of watching it with them.

  I have no idea why, but Russell Crowe in a leather skirt does nothing for me and neither does the idea of men pitting themselves against each other in a fight to the death.

  It’s a mystery?

  Well. Now I know that I was right not to watch it. I didn’t want to yesterday; I tried to get out of it. To the point that I even pretended my period pain was far worse than it really was, just so I could leave. But no, my friends saw through that one, gave me some paracetamol and made me sit down.

  “Come on, Lilah. You know Pilchard is just going to make you watch it anyway. Better with us than with him,” Richard assured me and pulled me down on to one of the low seats next to him.

  “It’s just a movie, Lilah. I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” smirked Barbie. Yes that’s right, I also had to be locked up in a very small space with Barbie stinking the room out with her Popstar perfume for two hours—that is my idea of hell.

  Well, at least I thought it was. But now I know my own personal hell is being trapped in a small room with Barbie for two hours, and being made to watch a movie so bloody emotionally draining that I literally had to be escorted from the library afterwards with me just muttering the words, “I can’t believe he died. I can’t believe he died.” Closely followed by, “She was waiting for him. She was waiting for him.”

  I came home, crawled under my duvet and I haven’t stopped crying since.

  So that’s embarrassing. Dancing and falling over drunk on campus is one thing. Hysterical crying in the library is another thing entirely.

  18th January

  At work. Still sniffling. Can’t think about anything to do with that movie.

  Two Hours later

  “Have you finished?” asks Baz.

  “Yes. Can I have another Bud?”

  “You’ve drunk them all.”

  “Shit.”

  “So anyway, removing ourselves from the Lilah McCannon rollercoaster of emotional trauma for one moment, have you heard the new Sound Box single?”

  “What? No! Heard it where?”

  “Uh, on the radio. It’s getting some serious airplay. It was on Radio One yesterday.”

  “Really? Radio One only plays trendy music that hip, happening people listen to. Are you sure you didn’t get it confused with Radio Two or Four maybe?”

  “Definitely One.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “Oh, my God, indeed.”

  I am bouncing, all tears forgotten about. My boyfriend has music on Radio One.

  This beats buying his CD in Asda.

  “Put it on, put it on, let’s listen for Ben.” Screeching, I dive for the radio.

  “You’re not going to make me listen to that shit all day just on the off chance they play it are you?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  “Okay, but we’re going to need more beer.”

  8.00 p.m.

  Three times, that is how many times I have heard Ben’s song on the radio today! Once on Radio On; Once on Absolute; And once on Heart. I got a bit fed up at this point because the female DJ with the sexy breathy voice went on and on about how hot Ben is. I know this, but I don’t need it being broadcast on national radio.

  My boyfriend is famous. Like songs on the radio famous.

  I need to celebrate. I need to call him to congratulate him, I need to do all the above and in no particular order.

  Although I may have celebrated enough with Baz and the Buds.

  NAH! You can never celebrate your boyfriend being famous enough!

  19th January

  The impromptu Sound Box party may have been a celebration too far. I have just walked into the lounge and found Jayne face down on the wood-flooring. I have no idea where Beth is, but I am sure she was here as well.

  The kitchen looks like a bomb has exploded at an off-license. There are beer cans and various empty wine bottles everywhere. There are also five empty cigarette cartons on the patio, so either there was another smoker here or I have more of a problem than I knew.

  Beth is asleep in the bathtub.

  “What on earth are you doing?” I ask, giving her a stiff poke to make sure she is still breathing.

  I would leave her but I am desperate for a pee.

  “Why did you not sleep on the couch?” I add, whilst hopping about. I really need that pee.

  “Jayne,” she starts, but I know where she is heading. They must have had another row, which I am beginning to believe might be verging on lover’s tiff’s.

  “You could have crashed with me.”

  She opens one eye and then winces.

  “Ah thanks, Lil. This is really uncomfortable.” And with that she is up out of the bath and trooping to my bedroom.

  Three Hours Later

  The phone is ringing. It must be my mum; it is way too early to be Ben. Choosing to ignore it, I have a good old stretch instead as the phone continues to ring.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  Turning I grab the phone.

  “What?!” I shout down the receiver.

  “Lilah? Are you okay?”

  Oh, God. It’s Ben. I haven’t even spoken to him to congratulate him on being super famous yet. I just got drunk instead.

  “Hey, Ben,” I wince. Bloody hell my head hurts.

  “Is this a bad time?” Ben’s voice is a notch tighter.

  “Sorry, I was asleep. We had a bit of a big one last night.”

  Ben chuckles and I hear him relaxing. “I know. I take it you don’t remember leaving me a voicemail recording of you and Meredith singing the new single.”

  Shit.

  “Sorry. I guess you didn’t need me assaulting your ear drums like that.”

  “It was the best greeting I’ve had coming off stage in ages.” Ben chuckles as I snuggle down under the duvet some more.

  “I am so proud of you,” I tell Ben. This may be the understatement of the year.

  “I know you are. You told me in about fifty text messages yesterday.”

  Ooh, that’s going to sting.

  “Well, just so long as you know.”

  “I know. So how was Gladiator?”

  “No, no Ben. Don’t!!”

  He chuckles some more.

  “Was it the grass at the end?”

  And just like that I start to cry all over again.

  Goddamn it.

  “I-t w-a-s s-o-o s-a-a-a-d,” I grizzle into the phone.

  “I know, my love, it is sad,” he murmurs low in my ear, but then he ruins it by bursting out laughing.

  “Arse,” I tell him.

  “Will you two shut the fuck up?” says a voice next to me.

  I give a start. “Fucking hell, Beth, you just scared the shit out of me,” I exclaim. Ben starts to laugh even more.

  “I could be jealous,” he teases down the phone.

  I give my friend a once over and report back my findings. “I wouldn’t, she has make up all over her face and looks like she has been dragged through a hedge.”

  “And you are as pretty as a picture yourself,” she retorts pulling the duvet up over her head.

  21st January

  “So what is the first thing you do when getting in a car?”