by Mike Gayle
‘Okay,’ says Helen, rolling her eyes. ‘I’ll be your buffer . . . Anyway, let’s get back to the important stuff, like when are we flying?’
‘It should all be there,’ I reply, taking the envelope from her hands and checking the tickets. ‘We leave Monday the tenth at ten twenty-five a.m. and we arrive back at Heathrow at seven fifteen a.m. UK time on the Friday—’
‘Friday the fourteenth?’ says Helen. ‘Valentine’s Day.’
‘Yeah . . . it is,’ I reply. ‘I hadn’t even realised.’
‘Well, you’re obviously a genius. I think that’s perfect timing. We’ll come back from our nice week away and I’ll move in here the same day. That way, when we celebrate the anniversary of us moving in together in years to come, you’ll have absolutely no excuse for not remembering.’
Friday, 17 January 2003
7.07 a.m.
It’s morning and I’m lying in bed alone listening to the radio. Marcus left for work ten minutes ago and I’m just trying to summon the will-power to get out of bed and start the day. I’ve just been promoted to senior publicity manager at work so I’ve got loads to do to keep on top of things . . . and of course I’ve got to phone the vet. As I look at the alarm clock on Marcus’s side of the bed I wonder how Disco is doing. I decide to make the call at eight o’clock because I have no idea what time the surgery opens. I close my eyes, intending to doze for just a while longer, when the phone on the bedside table rings. I pick it up hurriedly, expecting it to be Marcus because he quite often calls me on his way to work to usher me out of bed in case I’m late for work.
‘I’m up, okay?’ I say, laughing. ‘I’ve been up for the last half-hour.’
When I don’t hear Marcus’s laughter I realise I’ve made a huge mistake.
‘Can I speak to Alison Smith, please?’ asks a young woman.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I reply. ‘I thought you were someone else. Yes, this is Alison Smith speaking.’
‘Hi, I’m calling from the Hendon Read veterinary practice,’ she continues. ‘You left your cat, Disco, with us last night.’
‘Yes, that’s right. How is she? I bet she’s starving. She loves her food.’
‘I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news for you. She passed away last night. Mr Davies believes she might have been suffering from cancer and that it was quite advanced.’
There’s a long pause, which I assume the veterinary nurse has left for me to say something but I can’t speak. All I can think is, I didn’t even know cats could get cancer.
‘Hello?’
I remain silent.
‘Er . . . hello, Miss Smith?’
I remain silent trying to find the courage to speak but then I drop the phone clumsily and scrabble on the floor for it. It’s as if I’ve lost control of my body because I can’t pick it up for ages.
‘Hello?’ I say eventually. ‘Hello? Are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ says the nurse. ‘I’m really sorry about your loss, Miss Smith.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘What happens now? I’ve never . . .’ My voice trails off.
‘Would you like us to take care of things?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to come down to the surgery later today and we can talk you through the options.’
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘I’ll do that.’
Having said goodbye I put down the phone, walk to my dressing-table and drag the chair there to the wardrobe on the other side of the bedroom. I stand on the chair, take down a battered old brown suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and place it on the bed. I open it and rummage among the dozens of old letters, envelopes of photographs, tickets stubs and other memorabilia from my life until I find what I’m looking for and take it out. In my hand is a gold and white Marlboro Lights packet. I open it and take out the solitary cigarette and lighter contained within. I get back into bed and light the cigarette, but before I can even put it to my lips I’m overcome by a huge wave of emotion and start sobbing as if my heart has just broken in two.
7.15 a.m.
‘Surprise!’ says Helen, entering the bedroom.
I look up from the article in The Economist I’ve been reading for the last fifteen minutes to see her standing in the doorway wearing the white shirt I wore to work yesterday and nothing else. She’s carrying a tray laden with two boiled eggs, three slices of toast, a white carnation in a straight vodka shot glass and what, from this position, appears to be a copy of the Financial Times.
‘Is this all for me?’ I ask incredulously.
‘Of course,’ she replies. ‘Breakfast in bed for one.’
‘If I hadn’t already asked you to move in with me I’d do it again right now.’
Helen laughs. ‘When I move in here I’m afraid it won’t be breakfast in bed every day.’
‘Really?’ I say playfully. ‘Well I might have to reconsider my offer.’
‘You can’t,’ she says, setting the tray in front of me. ‘It’s too late. Mentally speaking, I’m already redecorating the living room, buying new sofas and basically doing my best to take the bachelor out of this pad. I’m even thinking about getting us some his ‘n’ hers bathrobes so that I don’t have to wander round like this . . .’ she gestures to my shirt, which, I have to say, has never looked as good on me as it does on her ‘. . . all the time. What do you think?’
‘His ‘n’ hers bathrobes? They’re not very me.’
She leans over and kisses me. ‘We’ll see about that.’
7.22 a.m.
‘I can’t believe she’s gone,’ I say tearfully, to Marcus, on the phone.
‘I know, sweetheart,’ he replies. ‘You must be really cut up about it.’
‘Part of me feels guilty for being so upset,’ I tell him. ‘Part of me feels I shouldn’t be crying over the death of a cat because there are so many other things in the world to feel sad about. But right now most of me doesn’t care about all that. She was my cat. I’ve had her since she was a kitten – nearly ten years.’
‘What are you going to do now? Are you going to go to the vet’s like you said and—’
‘Decide what to do with her body?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think so. There’s no point in my going to work today. I’d be useless. I’ll call in and make some excuse.’
‘I think you’re right not to go to work. I’d come with you to the vet’s but—’
‘I know you can’t. I’ll be okay.’
‘You can’t go on your own, though. Can’t you get a friend to go with you? What about Jane?’
‘She’s in Helsinki with her new boyfriend. Honestly, I’ll be fine on my own.’ There’s a long pause. ‘Do you think I should call Jim and tell him what’s happened? I’ve been thinking about it for a while but I can’t decide what to do for the best. I mean, Disco was his cat too. But I don’t want to upset you.’
‘What’s to be upset about?’ reassures Marcus. ‘All you’re doing is letting him know what’s happened.’
‘You’re right. But I haven’t spoken to him since . . . well, you know. I just think it’ll be weird. I’ve still got his mobile number somewhere – assuming that it hasn’t changed – but what if he’s living with someone else and they pick up his phone? Won’t they think it’s strange that I’m calling?’
‘I’m amazed at your capacity to see every possible permutation of things that might go wrong. Listen, I’ll leave it up to you. You do whatever makes you happy.’
7.38 a.m.
I’m just coming out of the shower when an electronic rendition of ‘Ride Of The Valkyries’ fills the air.
‘Helen?’ I call from the bathroom. ‘Can you get my phone for me, babe? It might be work.’
I listen out as the phone stops ringing and wait, dripping water all over the floor, by the bathroom for Helen to relay the message.
‘It’s a woman,’ she says, holding out the phone. ‘She wants to speak to you. She says it’s important.’
&
nbsp; I take the phone from her and she wanders off in the direction of the kitchen. I walk back into the bathroom to save the hallway carpet from further damage and stand in front of the mirror to do my daily hairline examination. ‘Hello?’ I say, peering at my scalp.
‘Jim, it’s me.’
I nearly drop the phone at the sound of this woman’s voice. There’s a long pause.
‘Hello . . . Can you hear me?’
‘Sorry,’ I reply, after a few moments. ‘I’m still here . . . it’s just that . . . Is this . . . Alison?’
‘Yes.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m okay, thanks. How are you?’
‘Me? I’m fine . . . but—’
‘Listen, I’m only ringing because, well, I thought you ought to know that Disco died last night. She had cancer, apparently.’
‘I didn’t even know cats could get cancer.’
‘That’s exactly what . . .’ Her voice trails off. ‘I just thought you ought to know, that’s all.’
‘It’s a real shock. I feel bad I haven’t seen her at all.’ I laugh, sadly. ‘This is going to sound stupid but I’ve got her photo Blu-tacked to the mirror on the wardrobe in my bedroom . . . She would’ve been ten this year, wouldn’t she? How much is that in cat years?’
‘I don’t know. Old, I suppose.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘At the vet’s in Crouch End. I’m going over there in a bit to . . . I don’t know . . .’ Alison starts to cry.
‘I’m supposed to be working from home today,’ I tell her, ‘but I’ll come with you if you like.’
‘You don’t have to. I’ll be fine.’
‘I want to. After all, Disco was my cat too.’
Alison gives me her address and we arrange to meet at her flat in Crouch End in the next hour or so and I put down the phone.
Helen comes into the bathroom singing along to a song coming from the radio in the kitchen. ‘Who was that on the phone?’
‘It was Alison,’ I say.
‘Alison? As in your ex-wife, Alison?’
I laugh. ‘I always feel weird when you call her that. I feel too young to have an ex-wife.’
‘That’s what you get for marrying young,’ says Helen. ‘Anyway, starter marriages are all the rage, according to the sort of thing you read in weekend papers. All the best people have one – Hollywood actors, pop stars, the lot. And apparently having one means that subsequent relationships will be healthier because you tend to learn from your mistakes.’ Helen kisses my nose. ‘Anyway, what was she calling for?’
‘She called to say that our cat died.’
‘Disco?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh, baby,’ says Helen, putting her arms around me. ‘That’s awful. And there’s me rambling on about starter marriages like an idiot. I’m really sorry. How did it happen?’
‘Cancer, apparently.’
‘Oh, that’s a real shame. How do you feel?’
‘A bit odd, really. She had a nice personality. Whenever I was watching TV she’d come and join me. She was the perfect companion to watch TV with.’ I pause and then add, ‘I know this is going to sound weird but I agreed to go to the vet’s with Alison.’
‘Oh,’ says Helen flatly.
‘Are you going to be okay with that?’
Helen sighs. ‘Do you have to?’
I think for a moment before speaking. ‘No, I don’t have to. But when we split up the only reason Alison got Disco was . . . Well, put it this way, we both wanted to keep her. I think it’s only fair that I . . . I don’t know . . . that I’m there.’
‘I’ve never really imagined you as a cat person.’
‘I’m not,’ I reply. ‘But Disco is . . . was different.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she was mine.’
Helen smiles. ‘If you want to go to the vet’s with her I’m fine with it. I haven’t got anything to worry about, have I?’
‘Of course not,’ I say. ‘I haven’t seen her for years. I don’t even know if we’ll have much to talk about. Everything that happened back then feels like it happened in a different lifetime. It’s like all that stuff you were saying about starter marriages. Alison and I made a mistake. It’s as simple as that. But we were young enough to get over it and move on.’
PART TWO
Then: 1989–93
1989
Wednesday, 27 September 1989
10.45 p.m.
It’s my first night at university in Birmingham and I’m at the freshers’ disco with hundreds of other brand new university students. From what I can gather Freshers’ Night is the most important event of your university career. This is where you make friendships that will last a lifetime and snog men who look like extras from Brideshead Revisited. And I’m taking no chances of missing out on the action. Having been something of a Laura-Ashley-proper-dresses girl at sixth-form college and having had to wear a quasi-nurse’s uniform during my year out working for Boots I decided to give myself something of a makeover. I’m wearing the most ‘studenty’ clothes I could find: a second-hand suede jacket I bought at a market in Cambridge, a T-shirt that says ‘Meat Is Murder’ (even though I love chicken), Levi 501’s that are rolled up above my ankles, no socks, and brand new Doc Marten’s shoes, which I bought two days ago and which are already rubbing my heels so badly that one is bleeding.
Jane, my new best friend of the last eight hours, and I have been keeping an eye on a boy standing at the other end of the bar with a group of cool-looking guys. Each and every one of them has a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth as though they’re auditioning for the lead role in East of Eden. The one I like, however, looks the coolest of the bunch and I immediately fancy him. I like his wavy dark brown hair, his worn leather jacket, his slightly grimy-looking jeans and his barely hanging together Converse All-stars – everything. We’ve been exchanging long glances across the room all evening. It’s as if we can’t take our eyes off each other. And the longer we look at each other without speaking, the more I want to run across the room, throw my arms around him and kiss him until he surrenders.
‘Is he looking now?’ I ask, as I stare purposefully in the opposite direction.
‘I don’t know,’ says Jane, dolefully. ‘Do you want me to look?’
‘Okay.’
Jane turns her head but I lose my nerve. ‘No!’ I scream. ‘Don’t look.’
‘Fine, I won’t.’
There’s a long pause.
‘Is he looking now?’ I ask.
Jane sighs. ‘You know, as much as I’d like to have built-in radar I can’t actually give you that information without, you know, using my eyes.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Okay, don’t look.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes . . . I think so.’
‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘No – not at all.’
Jane grabs me by the hand and leads me in the direction of the bar. ‘If we’re going to spend the whole evening pretending not to look at men, can I suggest that we get a drink in first?’
11 p.m.
‘So, do you think you’re going to try and get off with him?’ asks Jane, as we proudly sip our pints of cider at the bar.
‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘Do you think I should?’
‘You like him, don’t you?’
‘He’s gorgeous.’
‘Then just do it.’
‘I can’t just do it. I’m not a just-do-it kind of person. I need a plan of action.’
‘The plan of action I always find works involves cider and blackcurrant and a lot of babbling like an idiot.’
Between us, Jane and I come up with the following additions to her usual plan:
1) I should walk over to him.
2) I should ask him for a light.
3) And then I should ask him for a cigarette.
I’m convinced it’s perfect.
It’s a little bit cheeky.
It’s a little bit flirty.
It’s a guaranteed winner.
‘There’s only one problem with your plan,’ says Jane.
‘What’s that?’
‘You don’t smoke, do you?’
I shrug. ‘No, but now is as good a time as any to start.’ I knock back the last of my drink. ‘Wish me luck,’ I say, as I fix my eyes on my target.
‘You don’t need luck,’ says Jane. ‘He’s lucky to have you fancy him at all.’
Emboldened by my friend’s words, I take a deep breath and begin the walk to the other side of the bar. Half-way to my destination, however, I’m brought to an abrupt halt. A bloke I’ve never seen before is standing in my path. He’s wearing burgundy brogues, long Argyle-patterned socks, knee-length tailored shorts, a white shirt, a green tie and a grey waistcoat. I’ve never seen anything quite like him in my life.
‘Hi,’ says the bloke, holding out his hand, ‘I’m Jim.’
I’m too bewildered to be impolite, so I shake his hand. ‘Er . . . I’m Alison.’
‘It’s great here, isn’t it?’ he asks, in a broad northern accent.
‘It’s okay.’
There’s a long pause.
‘Where are you from?’ he asks.
‘Norwich,’ I reply curtly.
‘I’m from Oldham,’ he adds, without prompting. ‘It’s near Manchester, if that’s any help to you.’
‘Do they all dress like that in Oldham?’ I ask, taking in his ensemble again.
‘No,’ he says proudly. ‘I’m a one-off . . . What are you studying?’
‘English,’ I reply, and then I look over at the guy who I’m supposed to be talking to on the other side of the room. He’s still smoking a cigarette and he’s still looking as gorgeous as ever.