Rubbish Boyfriends

by Jessie Jones

‘God, Simon, that’s terrible.’

  ‘Yeah, it is.’ But his smile told me he was loving every minute of it.

  ‘Aren’t you worried you’ll be killed or something?’

  I was truly scared for him. I imagined the phone ringing in the middle of the night. You know, one of those ‘Come quick, your ex has been stabbed and is using his dying breath to ask for you’ type of calls. I pictured myself kneeling beside him on the pavement …

  Blood pools around his body, the ambulance nowhere in sight because the gangsters have turned the area into a no-go zone.

  ‘Doesn’t anyone have any medical training?’ a desperate bystander screams out.

  Well, I do know that wax should always be pulled against the direction of the hair growth, but as I look at the blood spilling from his chest wound, I panic because I know this information can’t save him. Then it all comes back to me! Left ventricle in, right ventricle out! I plunge my hand into the gaping hole and with the fingers of my French-manicured hand, I clamp the severed aorta as it pumps freshly oxygenated blood AWAY from the heart …

  ‘Nah, I’m not worried,’ he said, interrupting my fantasy. ‘Got my Tae Kwon Do, Wing Chun and Brazilian Jujitsu to keep me going. And I’ve got my black belt in murderous looks. Here, check this out.’

  He set his face to don’t-fuck-with-me and I burst out laughing. Not because he didn’t look scary – you couldn’t be that big and not look scary with that face on. But I was remembering how easily he’d caved in on my sofa after I’d given him a few girly punches on his arm.

  ‘Not scary enough for you?’ he said. ‘Right, try this.’

  He grabbed me in an arm-lock and virtually had me on the floor in one fluid motion. But he stopped, which was a good thing because a few hoity looks were coming our way – it was one of those trendy gastro-pubs that seemed to be springing up all over the place back then. Not one of our usual haunts at all.

  ‘See this?’ he said, waggling the index finger of his free hand in front of my nose and trying a menacing Bruce Lee type voice. ‘This finger could kill a man.’

  I laughed again, but this time it was nervous laughter. My body was very close to his and for a split-second there was A Moment. One of those moments when your eyes lock and you’re feeling pleasantly vulnerable and –

  Thankfully I snapped myself out of it before any thing stupid happened. Ridiculous romantic nonsense.

  ‘So what’s new?’ Simon asked, coming back to our table with more drinks.

  I told him about my dad’s win and the money he’d given me. ‘I’m saving it for a deposit – you know, for a flat when I start working,’ I explained.

  ‘Very sensible.’

  Was he calling me boring?

  ‘But I might use some of it to buy a car,’ I added hurriedly.

  Buying a car hadn’t crossed my mind until then, but now that it had, it seemed like a great idea.

  ‘I’ll give you a hand if you like. Go round the dealers with you, make sure you don’t get ripped off.’

  ‘What makes you think I’ll get ripped off?’ I said indignantly. ‘Oh, yes, I forgot. Women can’t buy cars, can they? They’re too busy checking whether the colour matches their shoes to look at the engine.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I used to be a mechanic, didn’t I?’

  ‘It’s OK, thanks, Simon. I’ll manage.’

  I was a single woman now. No Simon and no Emily to hold my hand. I’d have to learn to cope on my own.

  ‘So … You seeing anyone?’ he asked casually.

  ‘Yes, I am actually,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, who is he then?’

  Yes, Dayna, who is he?

  ‘… He’s called, er, Chris.’

  The truth was there sort of was a Chris. We’d met at the library near my flat. Yes, the library. A scary place I’d heard about but had never dared visit. I’d imagined it would be filled with studious bearded men hunched over huge reference books as they struggled to find the meaning of life. But one of our tutors had given us a revision paper to complete and my upstairs neighbour’s new Oasis album was driving me to the brink of insanity – he played his music as if his flat was Wembley Stadium. That’s how I ended up at the library.

  Chris looked vaguely studious, but he didn’t have a beard and he wasn’t sweating over a big fat book with Latin on the front. In fact he was flicking through a newspaper. There was an empty chair next to him and as he didn’t look too intimidating, I took it. After a while he asked me the time and we ended up chatting. Then, as he was leaving, he asked me for my number. That had been a week ago and he hadn’t yet phoned. Not that I was bothered. He’d seemed nice enough, but believe me, I wasn’t desperate for another boyfriend. Mind you, he was proving pretty handy that evening.

  ‘Is it serious?’ Simon asked.

  ‘So far, so good. What about you?’ I asked, changing the subject quickly. ‘You seeing anyone?’

  ‘Do you know Melanie Robinson?’

  I nodded. Everyone knew Melanie Robinson – she was, approximately, the second biggest slag in North London.

  ‘Not her,’ he went on. ‘Her sister.’

  And her sister was the biggest.

  ‘Joanne Robinson … ?’ I gasped. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘What’s lovely supposed to mean?’

  ‘Just … lovely. You know, going out with a girl who’ll cheat on you almost as much as you’ll cheat on her. A match made in heaven.’

  ‘What’s your problem?’ he asked, genuinely puzzled. ‘We’re not a couple any more. We’ve both moved on. I’m sorry about everything that, er, happened, but can’t we just forget it? You know, be friends.’

  I knew exactly what the problem was. He’d hit the nail on the head: we weren’t a couple any more. It had only taken three and a half drinks to bring back all the feelings of anger and pain I’d felt the day we finished. Emily was right – it was madness meeting up with him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Simon,’ I said, ‘but I think being friends is going to be tough. We didn’t exactly finish on a high note, did we?’

  ‘I guess not,’ he said, looking at the floor. He looked devastated. And I felt it.

  We sat in silence for a while, sipping at our drinks. Then I looked at my watch. ‘I’d better be making a move,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll give you a lift home.’

  ‘It’s OK. I could do with the fresh air.’

  At that moment I’d rather have got on a night bus with a bunch of drunken psychos than get in a car with that hunk – I mean bastard.

  ‘Sasuga ibuningu motte Simon?’ Emily asked when I got back to the flat.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I said sasuga ibuningu motte Simon?’

  I didn’t bother to say ‘What?’ again. I just looked at her.

  ‘It’s Japanese. It means “Did you have a pleasant evening with Simon” … I think. My phrasebook is pretty confusing.’

  ‘The evening was fine, thanks,’ I said, trying to sound blasé. ‘What have you been up to?’ I asked, though the answer was obvious.

  Her things were everywhere. She wasn’t leaving for another ten days, but the day after she’d told me she was going, she’d quit college and had spent the time since shopping, packing and redirecting everything to Tokyo. The hallway was full of boxes and the flat was starting to feel empty already. Having arrived with next to nothing, she seemed to have accumulated a ton of stuff in the time we’d been there.

  ‘Ketsubou kouhii?’ she said, taping up another box that was heading back to her mum and dad’s.

  ‘English, please, Yoko.’

  ‘It means, “Fancy a coffee?”’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  I followed her to the kitchen and watched her put the kettle on. Then I decided to have one more stab at emotional blackmail. ‘I still can’t believe you’re going,’ I said. ‘You won’t know anyone over there. Won’t you be lonely?’

  ‘Hardly. I’ll have you on the end of a phone, won’t I?
Besides, everyone goes to Japan these days. Brad and Jen, Michael and Catherine … It’s the new America. Everyone wants to crack it.’

  ‘I’m happy with the old America, thanks. At least they speak English. Sort of.’

  ‘Listen to me. Japan is not the third world. Tokyo is one of the most dynamic cities in the world.’

  ‘I know all that, Emily, of course you’d be mad not to go. It’s just that … I’m really going to miss you.’

  ‘God, do you think I’m not going to miss you too?’

  She flung herself on me and we hugged each other close.

  ‘What am I going to do without you … ? In this flat … which you made me move into, by the way,’ I said after a moment.

  ‘Yeah, I know, but it’s a lovely flat. And what’s the alternative? Going back home and bickering with your dad?’

  I shuddered.

  ‘He called tonight, by the way,’ she added. ‘I told him I’m off to Japan and that he should keep an eye on you when I’m gone. He just huffed and said, “She knows my number.” You’d better give him a call. I think he’s feeling neglected.’

  I shuddered again, this time out of guilt. I had been so wrapped up these past few weeks. I’d better go and see him, I thought, lay on a bit of charm, tell him I love him. Though I hated to admit it, with no Simon and no Emily in my life, I’d be needing him more than ever.

  4 cm

  ‘You’re doing great, Dayna,’ teen midwife tells me, her voice muffled by my thighs. I can’t believe I’m thinking this but I wish I’d had my bikini line done. I’m a professional beauty therapist for God’s sake. What kind of example am I setting?

  ‘How’s the gas and air helping?’ she asks.

  ‘It’s helping some,’ I tell her, stopping short of adding, ‘about as much as a plaster on a gaping axe wound’. Well, she’s only doing her job.

  Teen midwife’s head suddenly pops up – I can see her now over my bump – because the door has swung open with a crash. Emily rushes in, breathless. ‘Hey, I’ve been looking for you,’ she cries joyfully to teen midwife. ‘How’s she doing?’

  ‘Emily, the door!’ I scream, struggling to pull down my nightie to cover my, er, modesty. It’s a struggle because any movement is difficult when your stomach is the size of the Millennium Dome.

  ‘I thought women in labour didn’t care about stuff like that,’ Emily says, shoving the door closed behind her. She has a smile on her face. She seems somehow more … relaxed. As she gets closer I figure out why. I can smell it. She’s been for a cigarette. She gave up when she started going out with Max – he doesn’t approve – but three hours in here with me was obviously enough to drive her back to nicotine. It explains why she virtually ran from the room when I suggested she go and get some fresh air.

  Teen midwife scribbles something on my chart and looks up at Emily. ‘Dayna’s doing very well. She seems to be managing the pain much better now.’

  Patronising so-and-so. To teach her a lesson, I contemplate letting out an extended wail – just for the fun of it. But I don’t. I have to conserve my energy, after all. This is turning out to be a very long night indeed.

  ‘You’re nearly four centimetres, by the way,’ teen midwife informs me with a smile. ‘That’s great progress.’

  That’s progress? Nearly a centimetre in an hour? Now I really want to cry.

  Teen midwife makes to leave. ‘I’ll be back to check on you in a while.’

  ‘Wait,’ I splutter. ‘Don’t you have any idea how much longer this is going to take?’ If I sound desperate, that’s because I am. The pain has been unbearable and the fact that I’m hardly any closer to the end than I was an hour ago is killing me.

  ‘Like I said before, we have no way of knowing,’ teen midwife tells me, somehow managing to sound both knowledgeable and clueless at the same time. Then she gives me a pitying look. ‘We might have to think about breaking your waters at some point. That may speed things up a little. But best to let nature take its course for now. Try to relax.’ Then she breezes out of the room.

  Stupid nature taking its own stupid course. Tell me, after hundreds of years of medical advances, why the hell are we relying on nature? You wouldn’t say, ‘Oh, that man’s having a heart attack, but best let nature take its course’, would you?

  ‘Did you call him?’ I ask Emily anxiously.

  ‘Yeah, still no signal. Or it’s switched off. It keeps diverting to voicemail.’

  ‘How many messages have you left now?’

  ‘Er, I think that was the ninet––’

  She stops mid-word because another contraction is rolling in. They’re every five minutes now. I get off the bed and start walking around. I’ve worked out that I’m slightly better off on my feet than lying down. I grip the end of the bed, trying to transfer the pain into the frame. But don’t bother trying this at home, folks. It doesn’t work.

  My body slumps as the agony fades. Five minutes to brace myself for the next one. I sit back down on the edge of the bed next to Emily. She shivers involuntarily and hugs herself tightly.

  ‘It just hit me,’ she says. ‘You’re having a baby!’

  ‘Well done, Emily,’ I tell her. ‘Now you can go on Mastermind. Specialist subject: the birds and the bees.’

  ‘No need to be sarcastic. You know what I mean. A baby, Dayna.’ She closes her eyes and hugs herself even tighter. Her sigh and her smile wash over me.

  And I know where she’s coming from.

  This is it.

  This is, probably, the moment I have been waiting for all my life.

  ‘I wish my mum … You know, I just wish …’

  I can’t finish the sentence, but I don’t have to. Emily puts her arms around me and hugs me hard. ‘Stop it,’ she says, her eyes welling up. ‘Don’t you go thinking she isn’t with you because she is. She always has been and she’s here right now. Even I can feel it. Can’t you?’

  Emily is full of crap because the only thing I can feel is the onset of another contraction. I slide off the bed, grip the cold metal frame and squeeze hard. Jesus, that wasn’t five minutes, was it?

  From the look on her face, Emily is – at last! – feeling my pain. ‘You poor thing,’ she says. ‘Can I do anything?’

  ‘Yes!’ I yell at her through clenched teeth. ‘Turn the bloody whale music off and open the window. That incense is making me sick.’

  Not quite No. 2

  A couple of days after my drink with Simon, I took Emily’s advice and found myself standing on the doorstep of my dad’s neat little house in Kentish Town. I hadn’t meant to neglect him. With exams looming, I was up to my neck in revision. Plus I was flat out at Fasta Pasta! which left me with little free time.

  OK, that’s a rubbish excuse. Dad had every right to be hurt that I’d missed his party. And I could have made up for it since by making a fuss of him. The fact that I hadn’t was Simon’s fault. Dad thought Simon was the greatest – they were two peas in a pod in a lot of ways. ‘He’s a terrific bloke, Dayna,’ Dad had told me after he’d met him. ‘Take my advice and keep hold of that one.’ Well, it turned out that Simon wasn’t such a diamond – not even QVC diamondesque – but I didn’t have the guts to tell Dad because I knew he’d be almost as upset as I’d been.

  But I was going to make things right with him now. As I heard the latch click, I switched myself into loving-daughter mode.

  ‘Hello,’ cooed the vision of blonde fluffiness who opened the door. ‘Can I help you?’

  Never in a million years, I thought, giving her the once-over. ‘Is my dad in?’

  She pulled her oversized white fluffy dressing gown round her tightly. What was she doing wearing one of those round my dad’s house at three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon? More to the point, what was she doing round my dad’s house at all?

  ‘You must be Dayna,’ she said excitedly. ‘Come in, darling. Your dad’s just getting out of the shower.’ She ushered me inside, beaming from ear to ear, and yelled up the stairs. ‘
Michael! Come down, quick. You’ll never guess who’s here!’

  What the hell was going on? I couldn’t speak, which wasn’t a problem because she wasn’t waiting for me to. She just launched into an unedited stream of whatever was going on in her head.

  ‘I should’ve known it was you the second I opened the door. Your dad’s got photos of you everywhere. He’s very proud of you, you know. Such a clever girl. I love going to the salon. Facials, massages, manicures … I’m a bit of a treatment junkie. When can you give me an Indian head? I love those. And your friend, off to Japan, eh? What an experience for her. I love travelling. Michael …’

  I followed her into the living room. While she jabbered away, I stared at the photo of us – Mum, Dad and me – that sat on the TV, taking refuge in the three of us sitting with ice creams on Southend beach. I needed a refuge because I was beginning to feel like a stranger in my own dad’s home – which had been my home too until not so long ago. Her stuff was everywhere: girly carrier bags, magazines, a lipstick-smeared wineglass.

  I felt sick.

  And confused, because why the hell did I feel sick?

  I was used to Dad having a love life. While he’d never flaunted his girlfriends, he hadn’t pretended they didn’t exist either. He’d chat about them, usually so we could laugh about how he’d had to relearn the dating rules and how they’d changed since he was my age. I didn’t ever bother to get to know any of them because he seemed to have a different girlfriend every month. He was a good-looking bloke and obviously didn’t have to try too hard. (See? Just like Simon.) He was just having a good time, and if he was happy, so was I.

  So why did this new one bother me? I didn’t know … But something was going on. Something different. I could smell it and it wasn’t just the aromatherapy candle on the coffee table.

  Fluffy blonde was still gassing when Dad appeared. He was wearing an identical robe and his hair was damp from the shower.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ he said, bending down to kiss me on the cheek.

  I forced a smile, trying not to think about why he needed a shower at three in the afternoon. ‘Hi, Dad … Nice robes,’ I said. ‘His ’n’ hers?’