by Mike Gayle
‘Cheers.’
‘You know what I mean.’
She laughed. ‘Yeah, I am tired but I wanted to wait up for you.’
I sat down next to her. Larry and Sanders leapt off her lap on to the floor and disappeared into the kitchen. I wondered briefly whether cats had a sixth sense for when trouble was brewing.
‘I missed you tonight,’ said Ginny, wrapping her arms round my waist and pulling me closer to her.
I looked at her and kissed her again, and for that brief moment I was convinced I was wrong. She was right for me. She was the one. Sitting here with her, with her body so close to mine, feeling so comfortable, how could this possibly be wrong?
‘How were Gershwin and Zoë?’ she asked.
Hearing their names brought me crashing down to earth. ‘Fine,’ I lied.
‘What did you get up to?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘Was Charlotte about?’
‘She was in bed.’
‘Have you eaten? I could make you something if you want.’
‘We ate.’
There was a long silence, then Ginny removed her arms from my waist and sat up properly on the sofa.
‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’ she said quietly.
I glanced at her but didn’t say a word. She looked beautiful. She really did. I couldn’t believe I wanted to split up with her at all. And yet here I was using the oldest trick in the book on her – the sullen bastard boyfriend – to bring everything to an end. I just couldn’t believe it.
‘There’s nothing wrong,’ I snapped.
‘Yeah, and it looks like it.’
I shrugged and remained silent.
‘I’m waiting, Matt.’
‘For what?’
‘For you to tell me what’s wrong with you. We had a really nice day today. We got on so well. You were all right when you left this evening. What’s changed?’
I closed my eyes and sighed, as I tried to summon the strength to do what I had to do.
I reminded myself why this wasn’t going to work.
I reminded myself why I didn’t have the right to interfere in her life like this.
I reminded myself that she deserved better and why I couldn’t give it.
And then I finally said what I had to say. ‘Listen,’ I began, purposefully avoiding her gaze. I couldn’t look at her while I was saying this. I didn’t have that kind of strength. ‘I don’t think this is going to work between us.’
‘Why?’ she asked, carefully. ‘What’s changed your mind?’
‘I don’t know . . . It’s because . . . because I’m not thinking straight . . . because I haven’t got the right to mess up your life like this . . . because this isn’t about you and me here and now, this is about nostalgia . . . security, if you like. You know this as well as I do, Ginny. You must do. How can we be thinking straight, making all sorts of decisions that affect our future after six days? I can’t ask you to split up with lan just because we’ve had some mad fling. You should split up with him because you want to. We’re not teenagers any more. We can’t do things like that.’
‘You’re right, of course,’ said Ginny eventually. Her voice was quiet, controlled and direct. ‘It never was going to work.’
‘No,’ I replied quietly. ‘I’m not what’s missing from your life.’
Silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I really am sorry.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ she said, standing up. ‘But even so I think you’d better go.’ She added, ‘For good this time.’
It was all over in a matter of minutes. As I disappeared upstairs to my room and hers to collect my stuff, the same depressing numbness that had descended over me when I’d split up with Elaine returned. I didn’t worry about it this time. I didn’t panic that I was losing my soul. Instead I accepted my new-found power not to fall apart. I’ll be okay, I told myself. Whatever happens. I’ll be okay.
ninety-three
Much to my parents’ surprise I moved back in with them and two weeks passed without event. Ginny didn’t try to contact me mainly I suspect because I hadn’t given her a reason to, and while I’d contemplated calling her or going to see her hundreds of times, I always resisted it. In the short time I’d been back in Birmingham I’d managed to renew our friendship, fall in love with her, make her fall in love with me, mess up what she had had with Ian (not that it wasn’t already as messed up as it was possible to be) and split up with her. Now, the best thing I could do, I reasoned, was stay out of her life. So I did and life went back to what it had been when I first arrived in Birmingham nearly three months ago. I moved back into my old bedroom, my parents drove me regularly to the point of clinical insanity, and I made the odd trip to the supermarket on my mother’s behalf at times of the day when I was sure that Ginny would be at work. Former schoolmates spotted: Adele Farley (then, the girl most likely to show you her pants for the price of a packet of crisps; now, assistant manager of a building society and mother of two) and Bridget Gibbons (then, the girl most likely to sell you a copy of Socialist Worker in the playground; now, a part-time Labour Party fundraiser). I also saw quite a lot of Gershwin and Zoë during that time too. At first it was difficult because I couldn’t get out of my head the image of them splitting up. But the more I saw of them, the more I became aware of not only how right they were for each other but also how, despite all that had happened, they were still in love. And this, more than anything else, made me feel okay.
When it came to the arrangements about my birthday, things became more complicated. Without Ginny, the idea of Bev, Katrina and Pete coming from far and wide to Birmingham seemed pointless. So, despite Gershwin’s protests, I asked him to call Bev and the others and cancel whatever surprise they had planned. Like Gershwin in preparation for his own birthday, I rejected all manner of celebratory suggestions: a weekend in London (Gershwin’s) and quad-biking in South Wales (Zoë’s) in favour of the Kings Arms. I didn’t want a fuss. I didn’t want loads of people celebrating with me either. I just wanted it over and done with.
With regard to the rest of my life I’d like to say that my thirty-people powered stoicism worked all the way through those two weeks away from Ginny. I’d like to be able to say that I kept control at all times and took on the chin the relative pain of possibly having lost the love of my life for ever and I did, up to a point. But there were times, usually late at night, when I’d allow myself the indulgence of thinking about her and I’d realise that while I was okay on the outside, on the inside I was undoubtedly falling apart.
I felt lost without her.
I really did.
The only thing that saved me was the arrival of Elaine.
ninety-four
‘Matt!’ screamed Elaine, at the top of her voice the moment she saw me. ‘Over here!’
All the other passengers coming through into the arrivals lounge looked at her as if she was delightfully mad. As soon as she was past the barrier she abandoned her luggage trolley and launched herself at me, showering me with kisses.
‘Now that’s what I call a hello,’ I said, as her onslaught finally ended.
Suddenly she looked self-conscious. ‘I guess that was inappropriate behaviour for an ex-girlfriend to engage in with her recently fixed-up ex-boyfriend.’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Not at all.’
‘So what is it?’ she continued, awkwardly. ‘I promise you, I’m not going to be the needy ex-girlfriend for the whole of this trip.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll just be the needy ex-girlfriend for the first five minutes of meeting you.’ She looked at her watch then hugged me again. ‘Well,’ she said, looking up at me, ‘I’ve got at least another two minutes left.’
‘Look,’ I began, ‘it’s great to see you. I promise it is. It’s just that, well, I haven’t told you everything.’
Elaine screwed up her face in anticipation. ‘Ginny’s not here, is she? I haven’t, like, just got off on the worst foot in the history of getting of
f feet, have I?’
I hadn’t told Elaine about what had happened with Ginny for what I considered several good reasons. First, I didn’t want her to think that her coming to England was part of the reason we’d finished; second, I just wasn’t interested in talking about it – even to her; and third, I suspected that if I did go into any detail about the split she’d work out for herself what a fool I’d been.
‘No. Look,’ I said,’ she’s not here because . . . well . . . we’re not together any more.’
‘But it’s only been, like, three weeks or something, hasn’t it?’
‘It happened a while ago. Six days after it began, to be exact. I’m sorry I just didn’t get round to telling you.’ I wondered which of my excuses to offer her. ‘I was kind of ignoring it.’
‘Six days, Matt,’ said Elaine. ‘I thought this woman was the love of your life. Your perfect woman and all that.’
‘I think that was the problem,’ I admitted. ‘Any time you give things a label as big as that you’re bound to screw up.’
Elaine looked at me searchingly. ‘What did you break up over?’
‘Nothing, really. I just had a moment of thirty-people inspired clarity and realised I was chasing a dream that would never work in reality. I told her I didn’t think it would work, she agreed, then told me I should move out.’
‘And let me guess what happened next,’ said Elaine. ‘You went all quiet like you do in these situations and eventually said, “Okay”, casually, as if someone had just asked if you fancied a root beer. Then you packed your bags and left.’ She grinned, pleased with herself. ‘How right was I?’ I smiled weakly and didn’t answer. ‘You don’t think you can salvage this?’
‘No. It’s definitely over.’
‘But I thought you were prepared to forget your new job for her?’
‘It was all talk,’ I replied. ‘That’s what Ginny and I did really well.’ I paused. ‘Anyway, let’s not discuss this any more – it’s depressing me.’ I took Elaine’s hand. ‘I have my ex-girlfriend Elaine with me who is now nothing more than a platonic friend . . .’
‘ . . . which is true.’
‘I have a thirtieth birthday happening in less than a week.’
‘That’s true too.’
‘You’ve never been to England before, let alone Birmingham.’
‘But I have seen EastEnders.’
‘So I suggest that we enjoy what little time we have before you have to leave.’
ninety-five
Over the next five days Elaine and I had a brilliant time. She was installed in my sister’s old room and made to feel at home. Very much so, in fact. As she was my mum and dad’s guest as well as mine, they insisted on taking us to all the places we had visited on my arrival back home, which meant that we went to Stratford-upon-Avon again (where Elaine kept insisting that she pose with my parents for pictures in front of any ‘ye olde worlde thing’ they had going so she could show people at work), we went to the botanical gardens (where my dad just couldn’t resist bringing up that mynah bird again) and we even got all the way to the Malverns without so much as a cross word.
It was all Elaine’s doing. My parents loved her. She even turned her refusal to have anything to do with the kitchen into a strength. My mum kept going on about how modern women didn’t have time to cook and it was probably my fault that we’d split up because, on the evidence of my messy room, I had never done any housework.
Gershwin and Zoë adored Elaine too. We went round there for dinner on the second night, and after just half an hour she was laughing and joking with Zoë like they were old mates. Even Charlotte, with whom I thought I’d built up something of a rapport, bonded instantly with Elaine.
Later in the week I showed Elaine all the buildings that had been key to my development: my old primary school, and the exact spot in the playground where I had broken my arm playing football; the Kings Arms and its flock wallpaper; even Safeway and its booze aisle. She didn’t get annoyed when after only five minutes in the supermarket I bumped into yet more former schoolmates: Jez Morris (then, the boy most likely to fail all his exams; now, a part-time actor and model) and Mel Langer (then, the girl most likely to be an actress; now, a TV researcher).
‘Do you know,’ began Elaine, as we walked out of Safeway loaded with shopping for my mum, ‘you have a nice set-up here?’
‘I wouldn’t call bumping into a few people I know in a supermarket the pinnacle of my career.’
‘I’m not just talking about that.’
‘I know.’
‘But think about this: when I go out in New York I never see anyone I know.’
‘You would if you went back to Brooklyn.’
‘But I wouldn’t go back to Brooklyn. That’s my point.’ She paused. ‘Actually, I have no idea why you left here in the first place. You seem to love it so much.’
‘Do you know what?’ I said, as we reached the chip shop on the high street. ‘I have no idea either. But it’s what you do when you get older, you pack up and move along.’
ninety-six
On the eve of my thirtieth birthday Elaine and I went out for a meal with my parents. This time my mum and dad allowed me to pay for it without a fight. My dad must have noticed the look of surprise on my face because he said, ‘You’re all but thirty now. You can start paying your own bloody way a bit.’ We got home just after ten o’clock. My parents went to bed, leaving me and Elaine to watch late-night TV although we soon fell asleep on the sofa. When I woke up, Elaine was lying on my chest fast asleep. It felt just like old times.
‘Elaine,’ I whispered, trying to rouse her gently. ‘Elaine.’
She opened her eyes and yawned. ‘We fell asleep.’
‘I know. Is this a sign of getting old? When I was a kid my dad was always falling asleep in front of the TV.’
‘No, I don’t think we‘re getting old. I don’t know what your excuse is but I’m claiming jet-lag,’ she muttered.
‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘What time is it?’
I looked at the display on my parents’ video. ‘Ten past one.’
She wrinkled her forehead in an exaggerated display of thinking. ‘I think it’s your birthday already.’
‘What? In the sense that it’s now technically Saturday?’
She stretched and sat up properly. ‘No, in the sense that you were born at twelve forty-five a.m. You’ve been thirty for the past twenty-five minutes.’
‘I wasn’t born at twelve forty-five a.m.,’ I said indignantly.
‘So when were you born?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So how do you know that you weren’t born at twelve forty-five a.m.?’
She’d got me on that one. ‘Well, how do you know?’
‘Because the woman who gave birth to you told me.’
I considered what she was saying for a moment. ‘So I’m thirty?’
Elaine laughed and kissed my cheek. ‘Happy birthday.’ She paused and looked right into my eyes. ‘Matt?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you mind if I sleep with you tonight?’
I flashed her my most disconcerted look. ‘Where’s all this come from?’
Elaine sighed heavily. ‘Not “sleep with you” sleep with you, but sleep as in two people being unconscious in the same bed at the same time.’
‘What for?’ I asked, carefully.
‘Because . . .’ She looked away from me as she spoke. I don’t think I’d ever seen Elaine embarrassed before. ‘ . . . because it’s the thing I miss most.’
I couldn’t say no and I didn’t want to. So we brushed our teeth in the bathroom together just like we used to, got undressed (she insisted on wearing the pyjamas my mum had given me so I slept in my boxer shorts) and climbed into my single bed. Within ten minutes Elaine was out like a light leaving me to grapple with the fact that I was now thirty. Rather than thinking per se, I turned the whole thing into a question and answer session w
ith my soul that went a little like this:
Question: Do I have any regrets?
Answer: I suppose the question also translates as, did I spend my twenties wisely or did I throw them away doing nothing very much? For the most part, like Edith Piaf, I have no regrets about the way I spent my twenties. If I had them again would I do it all differently? I strongly doubt it. I suppose another regret is the whole ‘letting my body go a bit’ thing. I think if I could have gone back to my early twenties I’d say something along the lines of eat more, drink more while your metabolism’s running high because in ten years’ time people of your age now will be laughing at you when you try to buy new clothes. Also – this is becoming a long list for someone who a moment ago had no regrets – I wish, perhaps, that I’d been nicer to my parents. For all my moaning about them, I suspect that they were a lot smarter than I gave them credit for. But to get back to the point – something which has increased in difficulty with my age – do I have any other regrets? Yes, plenty: lending Stephen Cooper my mint condition copy of Meat is Murder, which I never saw again; my twenty-four-hour romance with Liz Ward-Smith that began when I told her I loved her and finished fourteen hours later; not learning to speak French (I don’t know why, I just feel I should have done it). The list is endless.
Question: What is my greatest regret?
Ginny.
Question: Do I feel as though I’m no longer young?
The short answer to this is no. But the truth is yes and no. At thirty I realise that people who are twenty will look at me and know immediately that I am not one of them. If I strike up a conversation with them they will not ask me which university I’m at, they will not ask me what type of music I’m into, because undoubtedly there will be little crossover between our two musical worlds, and they will not ask me where I go clubbing, because of the crossover thing. They probably won’t want to be my friend either – who wants a constant reminder that old age, death and hair loss are just around the corner hanging out with them? And why would I want to hang out with people who would inevitably try to force me to have the exact same long-winded, half-arsed philosophical conversations about life I had ten years ago? This, like all the other things, is stuff I am going to have to accept. And I know that I can live with it.