by Josie Silver
“He seems…nice,” I say, deliberately choosing a bland, mundane word for the most exhilarating man I’ve ever met.
“Nice?” Sarah scoffs. “Laurie, nice is a word you’d use for furry slippers or, I don’t know, chocolate eclairs or something.”
I laugh lightly. “I happen to really like furry slippers.”
“And I happen to really like chocolate eclairs, but Jack isn’t a chocolate eclair. He’s…” She trails off, thinking.
Snowflakes on your tongue, I want to suggest, or the bubbles in vintage champagne. “Very nice?” I smile. “Is that better?”
“Not even close. He’s a…he’s a cream horn.”
She laughs, dirtily, but she’s gone all dreamy-eyed on me and I don’t think I’m ready to listen to her try to convince me of Jack’s merits, so I shrug and wade in before she can speak again. “Okay, okay. He’s…well, he seems like fun and he’s easy to talk to and he’s obviously wrapped around your little finger.”
A snort-laugh escapes Sarah’s throat. “He is, isn’t he?” She crooks her little finger and we nod over our coffee mugs. She looks about fourteen; her face is scrubbed clean of makeup and her hair hangs in two long plaits over her “My Little Pony” T-shirt.
“Is he what you’d imagined?”
Oh God, Sarah, please don’t push. I don’t think I can forever hold my peace if you do.
“I’m not sure what I expected, really,” I say, because that much is true.
“Oh, come on, you must have had some image in your head.”
I’ve had Jack O’Mara’s image in my head for twelve clear months. “Um, yeah. I suppose he’s sort of what I’d imagine your perfect man to be.”
Her shoulders sag, as if just thinking about his fabulousness has sapped the small amount of energy from her tank, and she’s lapsed into that glassy-eyed state again. I’m relieved we’re both still hungover, it’s a ready excuse not to be overenthusiastic.
“But he’s hot, though, right?”
I glance down quickly into my coffee cup while I try to pull the panicked, guilty truth back out of my eyes, and she’s looking straight at me when I lift my gaze. Her uncertain expression tells me that she’s seeking my approval, and I both understand why and resent her for it in the same breath. Sarah’s generally the most striking woman in any given room, a girl accustomed to being the center of attention. It could have made her precocious or precious or pretentious; it hasn’t made her any of those things, but there’s no escaping the fact that she’s lived her life as the girl who can bag any guy she wants. More often than not that’s meant her boyfriends have been outlandishly good-looking, because, well, why wouldn’t you?
For the most part it amuses me, and up to now it’s meant that our romantic paths haven’t crossed. But now…
What am I supposed to say? There is no safe answer. If I say yes, he’s hot, I don’t think I’ll be able to make myself sound un-pervy, and if I say no, he’s not hot, then she’ll be insulted.
“He’s different from your usual type,” I venture.
She nods slowly and bites her bottom lip. “I know. You can be honest, I won’t be offended. He’s not the obvious kind of handsome you expected him to be, is that what you’re trying to say?”
I shrug. “I guess. I’m not saying he isn’t good-looking or anything, just different from your normal.” I pause and give her a knowing look. “Your last boyfriend looked more like Matt Damon than Matt Damon does, for God’s sake.”
She laughs, because it’s true. I even called him Matt to his face once by mistake, which was okay because he only lasted four dates before Sarah decided that, however handsome he was, it didn’t make up for the fact that he still called his mother three times a day.
“Jack just seems more grown up, somehow.” She sighs as she cups her hands around her mug. “As if all the others were boys, and he’s a man. Does that sound ridiculous?”
I shake my head and smile, beyond forlorn. “No. Not ridiculous to me.”
“I guess he had to grow up early,” Sarah says. “He lost his dad a few years ago—cancer, I think.” She breaks off, reflective. “His mum and his younger brother depended on him pretty heavily for a while afterward.”
My heart breaks a little for him; I don’t need telling how devastating that must’ve been.
“He seems a pretty cool guy.”
Sarah looks relieved by my assessment. “Yeah. That’s what he is. He’s his own kind of cool. He doesn’t follow the crowd.”
“Best way.”
She lapses into contemplative silence for a few seconds before she speaks again. “He likes you.”
“Did he say so?” I intend to sound nonchalant, but I fear I might have hit something closer to desperation. If I did, Sarah doesn’t flicker.
“I can just tell. You two are going to be best friends.” She grins as she scrapes her chair back and stands up. “Just wait and see. You’ll love him when you get to know him.”
She ambles from the kitchen, giving my topknot an affectionate waggle as she passes. I fight the urge to jump up and pull her into a fierce hug, both by way of apology and as a plea for understanding. Instead I drag the sugar bowl toward me and stir extra sweetness into my coffee. Thank God I’m heading back home to spend Christmas with my folks soon; I seriously need some time to myself while I work out how the hell to play this.
2010
NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS
Last year, I made two resolutions:
1) Find my first proper job in magazines. Well, I can safely say I’ve failed spectacularly on that front. Two near misses and a couple of freelance never-got-published articles ranks as neither glittering nor fabulous really, does it? It’s both depressing and scary that I’m still working at the hotel; I can see how easy it is for people to get stuck in a rut and let go of their dreams. But I’m not giving up, not yet.
2) Find the boy from the bus stop. Technically, I guess I can tick this one off. I’ve learned to my peril that you need to be super-specific when you make New Year’s Resolutions—but how was I supposed to know I needed to specify that my best friend in the world must not find my soulmate first and fall in love with him too? Thanks for nothing, Universe. You suck big donkey balls.
So my only resolution this year?
To work out how to fall out of love.
JANUARY 18
Laurie
It’s been a month now since I discovered that Sarah and I have inconveniently fallen for the same guy and, despite my resolution, I don’t feel a shred less wretched about it.
It was so much easier when I didn’t know who he was; it allowed me the luxury of imagining him, of fantasizing about stumbling into him again in a crowded bar or spotting him drinking coffee in a cafe, of his eyes finding mine and us both remembering and being glad that the stars had finally aligned again.
But now I know exactly who he is. He’s Jack O’Mara, and he’s Sarah’s.
I spent all of Christmas telling myself that it would be easier once I got to know him, that there were bound to be things I didn’t like about him in reality, that seeing him with Sarah would somehow reset him in my head as a platonic friend, rather than the man who has broken the beats of my heart. I stuffed myself with food and hung out with Daryl and pretended to everyone that I was okay.
But since we got back to London it’s been worse. Because not only am I lying to myself, I’m lying to Sarah too. God knows how people have affairs; even this paper-thin layer of deception has me constantly on edge. I’ve kept my own counsel. I’ve heard my own case, I’ve listened to my own plaintive cries of innocence and misunderstanding, and still I’ve delivered a damning verdict: liar. I’ve made a liar out of myself by omission, and now every day I look at Sarah through my liar’s eyes and speak to her with my forked, serpent tongue. I don’t even
want to admit it to myself, but every now and then I burn with miserable jealousy. It’s an ugly emotion; if I were of a religious bent I’d be spending more than my fair share of time in the confession box. I have moments of a different perspective, times when I know I haven’t done anything wrong and try my best to still be a good friend even though I’ve been backed into a corner, but those moments don’t last long. Incidentally, I’ve also discovered that I’m quite the actress; I’m one hundred percent sure that Sarah has no idea there’s anything amiss, although that’s probably because I’ve found reasons to be somewhere else on the couple of occasions when Jack’s been at the flat.
Tonight, though, my luck has officially run out. Sarah’s asked him over for pizza and a movie, but the subtext is that she really wants me to get to know him better. In fact, she said it, as plain as that, when she handed me a coffee on the way out the door this morning.
“Please be around, Lu, I really want you to get to know him so we can all hang out together more.”
I couldn’t think of a decent excuse off the cuff and, moreover, I realize that avoiding him isn’t a long-term solution. What bothers me most of all, though, is that while ninety-five percent of me is dreading tonight, the other five is sparking with anticipation at the idea of being close to him.
I’m sorry, Sarah, I really and truly am.
* * *
“Let me take your coat.”
Let me take your coat? What the hell am I, the maid? I’m just glad I didn’t call him sir for good measure. Jack walked into our flat thirty seconds ago and already I’m acting like a moron. His smile is nervous as he unwinds his scarf and shrugs out of his winter coat, handing them to me almost apologetically even though I asked him for them. I have to work hard not to bury my face in the dark navy wool as I hang it on the already-packed coat hooks beside our front door, almost laying it over my own jacket before pointedly hanging it as far away from it as possible. I’m trying, I really am. But he’s half an hour early, and has managed to arrive just as Sarah ran down the fire escape off the kitchen, as if they are theater actors in a farce.
“Sarah’s just nipped to the shop for wine,” I flounder. “It’s around the corner. She’ll be back soon. Five minutes, I should think, unless there’s a queue. Or anything. It’s only around the corner.”
He nods, his smile still hovering despite the fact I’ve repeated myself at least three times.
“Go through, go through,” I say, bright and overanxious, flapping my hands in the direction of our tiny living room. “How was your Christmas?”
He perches on the end of the sofa, and I momentarily falter over where to sit before choosing the chair. What else was I going to do? Join him on the sofa? Accidentally press myself against him?
“Yeah, you know.” He smiles, almost bashful. “Christmassy.” He pauses. “Turkey. Too much beer.”
I smile too. “Sounds a lot like mine. Except I’m more of a wine drinker.”
What am I doing—trying to make myself sound sophisticated? He’s going to think I’m some kind of pretentious knobber.
Come on, Sarah, I think. Come back and rescue me from myself, I’m not ready to be on my own with him yet. I’m horrified as I find myself wanting to snatch this chance to ask him if he remembers me from the bus. I can feel the question climbing up my windpipe like it’s being pushed from behind by a determined colony of worker ants. I swallow hard. My palms are starting to sweat. I don’t know what I hope to gain from asking him if he remembers, because I’m ninety-nine percent certain that the answer would be no. Jack lives in the real world and has a super-hot girlfriend; he’d probably forgotten about me before my bus turned the corner of Camden High Street.
“So, Laurie,” he says, clearly casting around for something to say. I feel the way I sometimes do when I get my hair cut; as if the stylist finds me hard work and I’m shortly going to need to lie about where I’m going on holiday. “What did you study?”
“Media and Journalism.”
He doesn’t look surprised; he must know that Sarah and I were on the same course at Middlesex.
“I’m a words person,” I elaborate. “Magazines, hopefully, when I can get my foot in the door somewhere. I don’t plan on a career in front of the camera.” I stop myself from adding “unlike Sarah,” because I’m sure he already knows that Sarah’s life plan involves presenting the local news before moving up the ranks toward the national broadcasters. There’s a trite quote I see bandied around on Facebook every now and then, “Some girls are born with glitter in their veins,” or something similar. Sarah is that, but there’s grit mixed in with her glitter; she doesn’t stop until she gets what she wants. “How about you?”
He lifts one shoulder. “Journalism at university. Radio’s my thing.”
I know this already, because Sarah has tuned the kitchen radio into the station he works at, even though he’s only ever on it if the late-night presenter isn’t there, which has been next to never. Everyone starts somewhere, though, and now I’ve heard his voice I know that it’s only a matter of time before he moves up the ranks. I have a sudden, hideous vision of Sarah and Jack as TV’s golden couple, the next Phil and Holly, shining out of my TV at me every day with their in-jokes, finishing each other’s sentences and winning every People’s Choice award going. It’s so realistic that I’m winded, and I’m relieved to hear Sarah’s keys clatter in the lock.
“Honey, I’m home,” she calls out, slamming the door so hard she rattles the old wooden sash window frames in the living room.
“Here she is,” I say unnecessarily, springing up. “I’ll just go and help her.”
I meet her in the doorway and take the unchilled wine from her hands. “Jack’s just arrived. You go and say hi, I’ll stick this in the freezer to cool down for a bit.”
I withdraw to the kitchen, wishing I could climb into the freezer drawer too as I shoehorn the bottle in beneath the bag of frozen berries we use for smoothies when we feel like we might die from lack of nutrients.
I open the bottle of wine we’ve already chilled in the fridge and pour out a couple of decent glasses. One for me, one for Sarah. I don’t pour one for Jack, because as I already know, he’s more of a beer kind of guy. I’m warmed by the fact that I know what he’d prefer without needing to ask, as if this one tiny snippet is a new stitch in the quilt of our intimacy. It’s an odd thought, but I run with it, imagining that quilt as I pull out a bottle of beer for Jack and flick the lid off, then close the fridge and lean my back against it with my wineglass in my hand. Our quilt is handmade, carefully constructed from gossamer-thin layers of hushed conversations and snatched looks, stitched together with threads of wishes and dreams, until it’s this magnificent, wondrous, weightless thing that keeps us warm and protects us from harm as if it were made of steel. Us? Who am I kidding?
I take a second mouthful of wine as I catch hold of my train of thought and try to reroute it along safer tracks. I force myself to see that quilt on Sarah and Jack’s king-size bed, in Sarah and Jack’s gorgeous house, in Sarah and Jack’s perfect life. It’s a technique I’ve been testing out; whenever I think something inappropriate about him, I make myself counter it with a sickly, positive thought about them as a couple. I can’t say it’s working all that well yet, but I’m trying.
“Come on, Lu, I’m gagging in here!” Sarah’s voice runs clear with carefree laughter as she adds, “Don’t bother with a wineglass for Jack, though. He’s too unsophisticated for our five-quid plonk.”
I know, I want to say, but I don’t. I just shove Jack’s beer under my arm and refill my glass before I go back through to join them in the living room.
* * *
“Pineapple on pizza is like having, I dunno, ham with custard. They just don’t go together.” Sarah shoves two fingers down her throat and rolls her eyes.
Jack picks up the
offending piece of pineapple that Sarah has flicked disdainfully into the corner of the box. “I had banana on pizza, too, once. Trust me, it worked.” He squeezes the extra pineapple down onto his slice and grins at me. “You can have the casting vote, Laurie. Pineapple yay or pineapple nay?”
I feel disloyal, but I can’t lie because Sarah already knows the answer.
“Yay. Definitely yay.”
Sarah snorts, making me wish I’d lied. “I’m starting to think that getting you two together was a bad idea. You’re going to gang up on me.”
“Team J-Lu.” Jack winks at me as he laughs, earning himself a good punch on the arm from Sarah that makes him groan and rub it as if she’s broken it.
“Easy. That’s my drinking arm.”
“That’s for trying to split up team Sa-Lu.” She’s the one winking at me now, and I nod, keen to show that I’m on her side even if I do like pineapple on my pizza.
“Sorry, Jack,” I say. “We’re wine sisters. It’s a stronger bond than pineapple on pizza.” And I have to say, the wine is definitely helping me get through this situation.
Sarah shoots him a “suck on that” look and high-fives me across the gulf between the mismatched sofa and armchair. She’s curled into the end with her feet shoved under Jack’s ass, her long red hair plaited around her head like she might sneak out the back and milk her herd of goats at any moment.
I’ve deliberately gone effort-light with my appearance; I’ve aimed for a “making a bit of an effort to be sociable” look without obviously looking any different from normal. I’m dressed in leaving-the-house clothes, which definitely isn’t a given for a night in front of the TV. Jeans, soft, dove-gray sloppy sweater, slick of lip gloss, and a flick of eyeliner. I’m not proud of the fact that I put more than a few minutes’ thought into my outfit, but I’m trying to be reasonable with myself about this too. I don’t actually own sackcloth and ashes, and I don’t want to let Sarah down. Besides, she added her own silver daisy hair clip to my bangs earlier because they kept flopping in my eyes and she knows I covet it, so I reckon she’s pleased that I look presentable.