by Mike Gayle
‘Give me a bloody example of one of my so-called railways,’ I say laughing.
‘Okay, how about the way that you were always giving me books to read, CDs to listen to and films to watch as though you felt obliged to educate me. For instance, you bought me the The Wild Bunch on video one Christmas. I hate violent films and Westerns.’
‘I thought you’d like it.’
‘I think you thought I ought to like it. Just as I think you thought I ought to like Elmore Leonard novels, The Simpsons, The Fast Show, Stereolab, Northern Soul and whatever other bands, books, TV programmes, musical genres you thought I needed educating in.’ She laughs. ‘Still, if I’m being honest I have to admit I did try to change you too. For instance, do you remember those horrible cut-off jeans you wore on our first holiday together? Do you remember why you didn’t wear them on our holiday to New York?’
‘I could never find them. They got lost in the move to yours.’
‘Nope.’
‘You threw them away?’ I say, outraged.
She nods. ‘I threw a lot of your stuff away when we moved in together, and you never noticed. Your collection of 1970s TV annuals that you never looked at? Oxfam. All the shoes you hadn’t worn for years but wouldn’t throw away? Cancer Research. The acoustic guitar that had no strings on it? Jane’s thirteen-year-old niece. If I hadn’t got rid of half the rubbish you brought with you from Birmingham we’d have needed a mansion to house it all.’
‘I can’t believe how devious you were.’
‘Yes, I was devious but at least I was subtle. And it was always for your own good.’
3.32 p.m.
‘So where do you think it all went wrong?’ I ask.
‘When we got married,’ Jim replies, without hesitation.
‘You seem very sure of that.’
‘It’s not that I think it was the only reason things didn’t work out,’ he tells me. ‘It’s just that we did it too early. I think I knew then that we were making a mistake.’
‘So why didn’t you say anything?’ I frown.
‘I could ask you the same question.’
‘I thought it might keep us together. The truth was that we’d got together too early. There were still too many things you wanted to do with your life and, in retrospect, there were probably things I needed to work out in my head before I was ready for something as serious as marriage. I think we were very good at papering over the cracks – I can see that now.’
4 p.m.
‘Do you want another drink?’ I ask Alison.
‘No, I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Do you want me to get you another?’
‘No, I’m fine with this one.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘What about peanuts?’ I ask. ‘Your packet’s empty.’
‘No, I’m fine. I don’t like to eat too many of those things.’
‘I know, but I like the way that whenever you get to the end of a packet you lick your finger and put it in the dust at the bottom. There’s something childlike about it. I always imagined that if we’d had a kid it would do that too.’ Alison laughs and looks at her watch. ‘I’d better be going.’
‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘Me too, I suppose.’
She smiles at me. ‘It was nice, though, eh?’
‘What?’
‘This afternoon?’
‘Yeah, it was.’
She stands up and puts on her coat while I drain the contents of my glass. And then we head for the exit. Once there, we realise it is raining.
‘One last question,’ I ask as we shelter in the doorway getting bearings. ‘Do you ever hear from Damon these days?’
Alison laughs. ‘Before I answer that question I have a confession. For a couple of years after he and I split up he used to send me Valentine cards swearing undying love.’
‘And you never told me?’
‘It was stupid, really. I didn’t want to upset you.’
‘But you kept them anyway.’
‘How do you know I kept them?’
‘You had them in an old shoebox marked “Household Bills”. I came across them in the flat one day while I was looking for – would you believe it? – household bills.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘What’s to say?’
‘Weren’t you jealous?’
‘Not in the slightest. I got the girl, didn’t I? I lost her, mind you. But I did have her for a while.’
Alison smiles awkwardly. ‘He used to swear undying love in those cards. But I think his love must have popped its clogs somewhere along the way because they petered out about 1998. I didn’t hear anything from him until last April when an invitation arrived at my parents’ house inviting me and a guest to celebrate the wedding of Damon Guest and Camilla Forsythe. I wondered why he’d invited me, especially as I hadn’t seen him since we split up, but curiosity got the better of me and Marcus and I went.’
‘How was it? Had he changed?’
‘It was the weirdest wedding I’ve ever been to. He was exactly the same. Absolutely lovely and adorable. He never made it in the music business, like he wanted to. He works for a French bank. But you’ll never believe this Camilla – the woman he was marrying looked just like me.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Okay, we might not have passed for twins but we definitely could’ve been sisters. We had the same hair, colouring. We were even about the same height. If I’d been wearing a white dress that day Damon would’ve been hard pressed to tell us apart. I didn’t know where to put myself. I really didn’t. The worst thing was that we’d been invited to the sit-down dinner thing and as we were all queuing to going in I suddenly realised we were also queuing up to greet the bride, groom and all the in-laws. As I shook their hands their jaws dropped in amazement. They all asked me the same question, “So how do you know Damon and Camilla?” to which I replied with a tactful, “I went to university with Damon.”’
‘So do you think he never got over you?’
‘He didn’t have to get over me, did he? He just found himself a better version of me.’
‘Why better?’
‘Because this version didn’t fall in love with someone else.’
4.10 p.m.
‘I think I’ll probably take a cab home,’ I tell her. ‘I can get it to drop you off, if you want.’
She smiles. ‘I’ll walk. I am waterproof, after all.’
There’s an awkward few moments and then Alison says, ‘I’ll say goodbye then,’ and gives me a hug. ‘Thanks for this afternoon.’
‘Maybe if we’d done more talking when we were together it might have worked out,’ I say.
‘Maybe,’ she replies. ‘The thing is, what was nice about this afternoon was remembering the old days, all of those small moments that made them. We never treasured them when we had them because there were so many of them. But they were special. And you only know they’re not going to go on for ever when it’s all over. The thing is, no matter how much either of us explains to someone, they’ll never quite understand why our stupid in-jokes were so funny to us, they’ll never understand why, because of you, I never went on a Monday-night date with Marcus, they’ll never understand why losing Disco today felt like the worst thing in the world. They can’t understand these or a million and one things that happened to us because they weren’t there. Those moments are unique to us. And sometimes all it takes to feel like things are okay in the world is to know that someone else was there with you at the time.’
‘Like now,’ I say, and, without thinking, I kiss her and she kisses me back. Once the kiss stops, however, we look at each other. I want to say something but I don’t know what. But before I can speak she puts her index finger to my lips, shakes her head sadly and walks away.
PART EIGHT
Sixteen hours before Alison’s wedding
2003
Thursday, 13 February 2003
4.00 p.m. (US time)
1
0.00 p.m. (UK time)
‘We’re going to miss the flight.’
I look at the stationary traffic surrounding our yellow cab, then at the cab driver, who almost seems to have given up on life altogether, and then at my watch before sighing heavily. Helen’s right. We are going to miss the flight. Getting on another will be the biggest pain in the arse. Airport people – especially American airport people – hate it when you miss flights. They look at you as if you’re an idiot and ask a million and one questions about why you were late as though you’re a six-year-old. ‘I think you’re right,’ I tell Helen.
‘What are we going to do?’
‘What can we do?’
Helen looks at me, exasperated. ‘What’s wrong with you today?’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘I mean, what’s up with you?’
I wonder for a moment about whether to tell Helen the truth. After all, she may understand. But, then, again, for her to understand I’d have to tell her everything. Absolutely everything with no editing. And would she want to hear everything with no editing? Probably not. If the tables were turned, would I want to know everything about Helen without editing? Not really. I’ve always thought that there’s a lot to be said for the expression ‘Ignorance is bliss’. There have been many situations when people have told me things I wished they’d kept to themselves. The truth is I need to talk about what’s on my mind because the constant churning of my mental processes isn’t producing any results. Neither had my other strategy of surprise-your-girlfriend-with-a-trip-to-Chicago, spend-a-lot-of-money-that-you-can’t-afford-on-things-you-don’t-want-in-the-hope-that-you-will-forget-about-it.
Much as I hate to admit it, talking is the only way to get it out of my system. But talk to who? Not Helen, that’s for sure.
‘You’re not having regrets, are you?’ asks Helen.
‘About what?’
‘About us moving in together?’
I laugh. ‘Do you think it’s part of some sort of evil plan that I ask my girlfriend to move in with me just so I can hate every second of it?’
Helen nods thoughtfully. ‘You’ve been so quiet, I thought it must be a problem with me.’
I give Helen a reassuring kiss. ‘I love you, you know.’
A big grin spreads across her face. ‘Six.’
‘What?’
‘That’s only the sixth time you’ve told me that you love me.’
‘It is? Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. The first time was three months after we’d got together. We were standing on the Northern Line platform at Tottenham Court Road station after a night out with Nick and his girlfriend. You put your arms around me and said it then. The second time was a few weeks later when we were watching TV at my flat. The third time was during the summer, when we went for a walk on Clapham Common. The fourth time was when we stayed at your mum’s and I’d fallen asleep on the sofa. The fifth time was on Monday in our hotel room after we . . . And the sixth time is now.’
‘How many times have you said it?’
‘Millions. But I’m like that.’
‘I’d say it more, only I don’t like to wear it out.’
‘It’s not a criticism. It’s just an observation.’
‘Do you want me to say it more often, then?’
‘Like a performing seal?’ Helen shakes her head. ‘No. I quite like you being sparing with it. It makes the times when you do say it that bit more special. It’s just funny that this is the first time I’ve had it twice in the space of a week. I just wondered if it has some sort of special meaning.’
‘Other than I love you?’
Helen smiles. ‘I’m over-analysing again aren’t I?’
‘Just a smidgen.’
Helen laughs.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘The way you said “smidgen”. I love it. Promise me that from now on you’ll say the word “smidgen” to me every single day.’
‘I’ll try my best.’
We sit in silence for some moments and then Helen asks the driver a question. ‘How long until we get to O’Hare?’
‘Not long,’ he replies. ‘A few minutes, maybe.’
Helen turns to me and asks, ‘How long have we got before they close the check-in?’
‘Plenty of time,’ I say, closing my eyes. ‘Just give me a nudge when we get there.’
4.10 p.m. (US time)
10.10 p.m. (UK time)
Helen and I arrive at the airport with about five minutes to spare and race to the check-in desk. There are four sets of people ahead of us carrying what I estimate to be about a million pieces of luggage and only three check-in personnel. I’m coming to terms with the idea that we might not get on the flight when all of the people in front of me suddenly realise they’re in the wrong queue. With a minute and a half to go we’re waved towards the desk. The attendant gives us the ‘Did you pack your own bags? And has anyone given you anything to carry in your luggage’ speech. Everything seems to be going smoothly until she hands back the tickets and passports and wishes us a nice flight. ‘Er . . . excuse me,’ I say, examining the two boarding passes. ‘You seem to have made a mistake. According to these,’ I hold up the passes, ‘my girlfriend and I aren’t sitting next to each other.’
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘But we prebooked seats before we left England. We specified that we should be sitting next to each other, preferably in the bulkhead area or by the emergency doors, and that one of us should have an aisle seat.’
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘So why weren’t we allocated the seats?’
‘You were, sir – two hours ago. I’m afraid it’s company policy that we reallocate prebooked seats if passengers haven’t arrived half an hour before the check-in for the flight closes.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘You’ve given my prebooked seats to someone else?’
‘That’s correct, sir.’
Helen can tell that I’m about to get very annoyed indeed because she’s tugging my sleeve. ‘Look, Jim, let’s go. It’s not worth it.’
‘But we prebooked!’
‘Let’s just leave it.’
‘Fine,’ I say, scowling at the check-in attendant.
She smiles back and, without the faintest hint of malice, says again, ‘Have a nice flight.’
‘I’m really sorry about this,’ I tell Helen, as we walk towards the departure lounge.
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ I say examining the boarding passes again. ‘One of us is in 3B and the other in 36B. What do the seats go up to? We couldn’t be any further apart, could we?’
‘Jim, this isn’t like you at all,’ says Helen. ‘You’re getting worked up over nothing.’
‘Maybe we can get the people we’re sitting next to to swap?’ I say, ignoring her question.
We’ve got the seats in the middle, sweetheart,’ says Helen, laughing. ‘No one wants a seat in the middle.’ She pauses and sighs. ‘I don’t think I’d be much of a buffer anyway. It’ll be eleven o’clock in the evening on Thursday in the UK right now and around seven fifteen in the morning when we arrive home. We’ll have missed a whole night’s sleep unless we do some serious napping on the flight. So I suggest we just get on the plane and try to sleep.’
‘I suppose,’ I say reluctantly. ‘But I bet I get the nutter.’
11.00 p.m. (UK time)
5.00 p.m. (US time)
I’m lying in bed in my room at the Great Eagle Hotel in Warwickshire staring at my wedding dress with the phone in my hand. In less than twenty-four hours I’m going to be married for the second time. Of all the people in the world right now, I think, my fiancé, Marcus, is the one I most want to talk to. Which would be fine in any other circumstances.
In spite of this I dial his number and wait. ‘Marcus,’ I whisper into the phone, when he picks up, ‘it’s me.’
‘Is that you, Claire? I’m really glad
you called.’
‘Who’s Cla—’ I stop as it dawns on me that I’m being had. Marcus lets out a burst of deep, resonant laughter. ‘You’d better be joking about this Claire woman.’
‘We’re getting married in the morning,’ he says. ‘Of course I only have eyes for you, Alison. Anyway, never mind all that. What’s wrong? I thought you were going to get an early night? Can’t sleep?’
‘No.’
‘Too excited about the big day?’
I think for a moment, and even though I know it isn’t the answer I still find myself saying, ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Have you tried counting sheep?’
‘I’ve tried sheep, elephants, zebras, pigs, gerbils and – I don’t know where this came from – koala bears. Before that I tried drinking. First the bottled water in the hotel room mini-bar. Then some low alcohol lager that tasted awful. After that I made myself a double gin and tonic to take away the taste of the lager and followed it with a double vodka and orange juice, then a small Bailey’s washed down with a diet Coke, and another double gin and tonic.’
‘That’ll be your problem then.’
‘Drinking?’
‘Alcohol’s a stimulant – you’ll be awake all night on that lot.’
‘But I always fall asleep when I drink. It’s like my party piece – Alison has a few drinks and falls asleep in the pub. Can you think of a single time that I’ve had lots to drink and not fallen asleep?’
‘Now you put it that way, no.’
‘So why aren’t I asleep?’ I felt myself becoming a bit tearful. ‘Will you come over?’
Marcus laughs. ‘Is that the drink talking?’