by Mike Gayle
‘Now who’s being sarcastic?’ said Rob.
‘Look,’ said Jo, ‘just be ready for half seven, okay? I’ll pick you up and we’ll go to the Odeon in town.’
‘I don’t like it there. It’s always full of students being studenty.’
‘How about the Trafford Centre?’
‘No,’ said Rob. ‘I can’t do cinemas in shopping centres. They’re normally full of spotty teenagers sucking the faces off each other.’
‘Right,’ said Jo, patiently. ‘What about UGC Didsbury? It’s modern, it’s got big screens and I doubt there’ll be many kids.’
‘Sounds perfect.’
‘Are you always so picky when you go to the cinema?’
‘If you think that’s picky watch me tonight when I work out where we should sit.’
Rob and Jo and the month of September
It had been four weeks since Rob and Jo had entered the new phase of their friendship. During this time Rob had thought of Jo as a stray cat in need of looking after and as no one else appeared to be doing the job (her ex-boyfriend, her parents and least of all Jo herself) he willingly stepped in as her platonic man-about-the-house. During September he fixed her car for her (a small problem with the transmission), helped her paint her bathroom (apple blossom white on the walls and buttermilk for the woodwork) and even offered to loan her money (she was having difficulty paying her bills now that she was living alone). She had accepted help with her car and the bathroom but drew the line at money: she’d get by somehow.
Of key importance in this new stage of their friendship was the effort they put into being good friends and no more. They avoided all forms of physical contact, except a kiss on the cheek at the end of the night. They rarely spoke about the nature of their friendship, so that it didn’t turn into an ‘issue’. They always fake-gagged when they were out for a drink and accosted by “rose-for-the-lady” men, who constantly assumed they were a couple. As far as they were concerned, they weren’t on the verge of falling in love but of ‘falling head over heels in friendship’ a fact to which the following moments in their relationship attested.
Moment one
It was ten to ten and Rob was half watching a Channel Four documentary about sex-change operations while he flicked through a copy of the Evening News that Jo had left on her coffee-table. She had disappeared a few minutes earlier, saying she was ‘nipping out to the loo’.
Rob was wincing at some particularly gruesome footage of real-life gender reassignment surgery when Jo returned with a faded Adidas shoebox, which she handed to him.
‘What’s this?’ asked Rob, with one eye on the TV.
‘Take a look, you chump,’ replied Jo. More to herself than to Rob, she added, ‘This is like the worst thing in the world.’
Intrigued, Rob opened the box. ‘Is this your book?’ he asked.
‘I have no idea why I’m doing this,’ she said.
Rob, who had been lounging on the sofa, sat upright. ‘Are you saying I can read it?’
‘What do you think?’
‘How come?’ he asked. ‘I thought—’
‘Things change,’ said Jo. ‘You know pretty much everything about me that there is to know. Why should I keep this secret?’
‘I’m flattered,’ said Rob, taking the manuscript out of the box, ‘and impressed. I can’t believe you’ve written a whole novel. What made you do it?’
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Jo, sitting next to Rob, ‘but you have to promise me that you won’t read it in front of me. I couldn’t stand it.’
‘I’ll save it until I get home,’ he said, then turned over the blank cover page to reveal: The Backpackers by Jo Richards.
She screamed and he put back the page, then closed the box. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘it’s away from prying eyes now. Tell me how it came about.’
‘Okay. Do you remember me telling you I went travelling after I graduated? Well, when I got back to Manchester I decided to write a novel using some of the experiences I’d had while I was out there. I know it sounds like a cheesy idea but I was young and I loved reading and I wanted to do something different with my life. Anyway, one Saturday afternoon a few weeks after I started temping at the housing association I sat down at my old house-mate Gina’s computer and started the story that ended up in the box in your hand.’
‘The Backpackers,’ said Rob.
‘Yeah. The story that came out of my head was about Rosie Collins a twenty-three-year-old woman who splits up with her boyfriend – like me and Callum, my then bloke – as they’re about to go travelling. She umms and aahhs about whether to go without him, then heads out to Thailand. All sorts of things happen to her involving drug-runners and murders.’
‘And does she get back with her boyfriend?’
‘No,’ said Jo, looking scandalised. ‘That would’ve been even more cheesy.’
‘But she meets someone while she’s away.’
‘Naturally,’ said Jo, grinning. ‘His name is Jean-Paul and I based him on a French guy I adored on my course at uni. But, just like real life, it doesn’t work out.’
‘So at the end she’s on her own?’ asked Rob. ‘That’s a bit gloomy, isn’t it?’
‘If I thought you were serious, Brooksy, with your layman’s lit crit there’d be trouble,’ said Jo. ‘In fact it’s upbeat because Rosie learns loads of stuff about life and herself so she’s a different person from the one at the start of the book.’
‘You sound really excited about it even now,’ said Rob. ‘How come you never sent it to anyone even though your brother loved it?’
‘I was a bit scared about a bunch of strangers reading it,’ confessed Jo, ‘so I started going to a writers’ group at the local library. Most of the people who went regularly were right nut-jobs. One middle-aged woman carried round a notepad with just Biro scribble all over it, another in her sixties had written a novel about a talking willow tree and a heavy-metal type bloke produced something about a Utopian planet populated by fish-people. Fortunately a couple of others were normal and I got on well with them. Jean, in her late forties, told me how she’d written eleven historical romances without having one published and Edward, in his fifties, said that after five detective novels, all rejected, a collection of his poetry was about to be published by a small press based in north Yorkshire. But the guy who scared me was Alex. He was my age and had written a sort of comedy about two flat-mates in London. He’d sent it to agents and had no interest. Then he wrote a thriller – he took a year off work to polish the script. This time he found a literary agent but a year later he was still without a publisher. Out of curiosity I asked him whether I could read his manuscripts and, Rob, I was shocked. Both books were brilliant and he could write better than many published authors I’d read. It didn’t make sense. I stopped going to the writers’ group – the thought of being around all that creative futility was too depressing. I dumped my manuscript at the bottom of my wardrobe and almost forgot about it until one day Ryan asked if he could read it.’
‘And he loved it?’
‘He said I was mad not to send it to publishers. I was going to but I lost my confidence at the last minute, then Ryan lost his job, went travelling and you know the rest.’
Rob nodded. He stood up, put on his coat and picked up the shoebox.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Jo.
‘I’m off home,’ said Rob. ‘I’ve got some reading to do.’
Moment two
The phone was ringing. Jo opened her eyes, reached out an arm from under the duvet and turned the alarm clock on the bedside table so that she could see the time. It was five to six.
‘Who is it?’ she said groggily, into the phone.
‘Me,’ said Rob.
‘Do you know what time it is?’
‘Look, I know it’s early,’ he replied, ‘but with Ashley working last night I stayed up and finished your book.’
‘You stayed up all night?’
‘I couldn’t put it down! Whe
n I started it just after midnight I was fully expecting it to be rubbish and that I’d be fast asleep within five minutes. But I haven’t enjoyed a book as much as yours in ages.’
‘I don’t know what to say. I feel a bit embarrassed.’
‘Well, don’t. You should get a professional to read it.’
‘That’s sweet of you, Rob, but I can’t see that happening. I wrote it back in the days when I believed I could do anything I wanted to do and be anything I wanted to be, before life knocked the stuffing out of me. I’ve worked in a housing office, Rob, for nearly ten years and, much as I hate my job, there’s no point in me getting my hopes up.’
‘Come on,’ he pleaded, ‘we both know why you didn’t send it out last time – which is completely understandable – but why not give it a try now? What have you got to lose? I’ll do all the legwork if you don’t want to, and I won’t charge you ten per cent.’
‘Cheers,’ said Jo, ‘but if I’m going to do it I should do it myself.’
‘So you will?’
‘I’ll think about it. But I’m not making any promises – so don’t hassle me about it every time we meet up. I know you – you’ll end up badgering me into it.’
‘Fine,’ said Rob. ‘No badgering.’
Jo glanced at her alarm clock again. She had to get ready for work soon. ‘Look, I’d better go.’
‘Of course,’ said Rob. ‘See you later in the week?’
‘I’ll call you,’ she replied. She was about to say goodbye when she added, ‘Rob?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Thanks for . . . you know . . .’
‘No problem,’ said Rob. ‘Just make sure that when you find a publisher I get to design your book jackets.’
Moment three
‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay?’ asked Ashley, a few weeks later.
It was a quarter to eight in the morning and she was standing over Rob as he lay in bed beneath the duvet, curled into a foetal position.
‘Yeah,’ he said weakly. ‘I’ll be fine.’
He had thrown up two or three times an hour since three o’clock that morning and he was shattered. Ashley had diagnosed a twenty-four-hour sickness bug, of which a lot were going about. ‘It won’t kill you,’ she reassured him, ‘but there’s nothing you can do except keep yourself hydrated and wait it out.’
Rob didn’t care what the bug was called or from whom he had caught it. All he wanted was for it to go away. He had never felt quite as ill as he did right at that moment. He was weak from lack of sleep, his stomach muscles ached from dry retching and he was feverish. He also wanted his girlfriend to stay at home and look after him. He didn’t want to be a man about it. After all, what was the point when there wasn’t another man around to be impressed by his mastery of suffering?
‘I wish I could stay and look after you,’ she said, and glanced at her watch. She sat on the side of his bed and took his hand. ‘I would if I could.’
‘Stay,’ said Rob pathetically.
‘You know I can’t. I’m a doctor. We’re not even supposed to take time off when we’re ill, let alone our partners.’
‘Can’t you take half a day?’
‘Honestly, Rob,’ said Ashley, and stood up, ‘I can’t.’ She picked up her bag. ‘I’ve left you some water on the bedside table – make sure you drink it. Get as much rest as you can and I’ll phone you at lunchtime – that’s if I get a break – to make sure you’re all right.’
‘Okay,’ said Rob, feeling guilty for having made her feel guilty. ‘I’ll see you tonight. I’ll be fine.’
Ashley kissed him again, then made him promise to call her if things got worse or if he needed a chat.
For a few moments after she’d left the room Rob felt fine but as he heard the front door close another wave of nausea came over him and he was sick into the washing-up bowl that Ashley had thoughtfully left beside the bed.
He spent most of the morning dry retching, feeling sorry for himself and drifting in and out of sleep. Just before midday, after he had woken from a feverish sleep but before he was violently sick, the cordless phone rang. He reached across and answered it in the most miserable voice he could muster. ‘Hello?’
‘You sound awful.’ It was Jo. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’m ill,’ said Rob, succinctly. ‘I’ve been up with it since the middle of the night. I’m dying.’
Jo laughed. ‘I bet you are.’
‘No, really, I . . . I—’ He had to stop speaking as another wave of nausea compelled him to reach for the washing-up bowl again. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, after several minutes’ dry retching.
‘You’re not dying, are you?’ asked Jo, sounding troubled.
‘Oh, so you believe me now?’
‘Well, blokes always exaggerate about illness,’ said Jo. ‘How are we supposed to know when they’re not faking it? Anyway, I’m sure Ashley’s looking after you.’
‘She’s at work.’
‘You mean you’re on your own?’
‘It’s not her fault,’ said Rob. ‘She had to—’
‘I’m coming round now,’ said Jo, firmly.
‘You can’t,’ said Rob. ‘You’re at work.’
‘That’s easily remedied. It’s ages since I’ve had an afternoon off. I’ll tell them I’ve got a family emergency and head over to yours. I’ll come via the supermarket, if you like. Is there anything you fancy to eat? You must be starving.’
‘No,’ said Rob. ‘I wouldn’t keep anything down. Anyway, there’s no point in you coming round here. I might give you what I’ve got. Who’ll look after you when you’re throwing up at three in the morning?’
‘Dunno,’ said Jo, ‘but my mum always says I’ve got the constitution of an ox so maybe it’s time I put her theory to the test.’
Half an hour later Rob answered the door in his boxer shorts and an old T-shirt. Jo was standing on the doorstep armed with a bottle of Lucozade, a bunch of grapes and a DVD of Dirty Dancing.
Rob spent the rest of the afternoon huddled under his duvet on the sofa while Jo topped up his glass of Lucozade, entertained him with tales about her work and sat quietly next to him while he drifted in and out of sleep.
When Ashley arrived home Rob could see she felt guilty for having left him alone all day, which put him in a difficult position: if he told her that Jo had been round to look after him she would feel even worse. But if he said nothing she might construe it as deceptive. In the end he opted not to tell her. He was glad that he had put the Lucozade and the grapes in his office, and cleared away the other evidence that Jo had been in the house. And when Ashley asked him what he’d done all day, he told what he considered to be a lie for the greater good: ‘Nothing.’
Moment four
A few weeks later Rob made an impromptu trip to London to stay with Phil and Woodsy for the weekend. For the most part they had a good time, catching up with each other and bumping into a number of old friends they hadn’t seen in a while, but things weren’t like they had been in the old days. They were all busy Saturday. Ian One’s wife had booked him for two dinner parties, Darren was away on business, Kevin was visiting his girlfriend’s parents in Lincoln, and Ian Two claimed to be decorating his kitchen.
As a compromise they decided to meet up in the Queen’s Head for lunch on Sunday, but Ian One pointed out that it was the weekend so it couldn’t be boys only and he’d have to bring his wife. One by one the others confessed that unless their partners came it wouldn’t happen, so what had started out as a boys’ get-together was a much tamer affair. Ian One arrived with Danni, his wife of two years, quickly followed by Darren and Carmel, his girlfriend of three years. Then Ian Two appeared with Becky, his fiancée of three years, and finally, just after one, Kevin arrived with Rhona, his girlfriend of seven years.
It was odd for Rob to see his friends coupled up and cosy, older and supposedly wiser than the people he had met in London all those years ago. Suddenly he felt as if time was moving on so fast he had
n’t appreciated that they were no longer a bunch of young tearaways. At some time in the last decade they had changed from boys into men with partners, proper jobs, and mortgages. Their lives were so packed with distractions that they no longer had time for each other. Rob couldn’t recall the last time he had got them all out to the pub. The constraints of work, partners and life meant that time was now the most precious commodity of all.
When he returned from the bar with a round of drinks he took an empty seat next to Ian Two. He watched in awe as the conversations round the table spun off in all manner of directions. Rhona, Danni and Carmel were listening to Becky talk about preparations for her and Ian Two’s wedding. Darren and Ian One were listening to Ian Two discussing Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead films, which he’d watched back to back all the previous weekend. Woodsy and Kevin were deliberating on which animal would win in a fight between a shark and a tiger. With so many different conversations going on around him, Rob was free to talk to Phil about how odd their afternoon get-together had turned out.
‘You think it’s strange, too, don’t you, that all of us are sitting round the table like this?’ said Phil.
‘Well, it does seem a bit . . . grown-up. I can’t believe how much we’ve all changed.’
‘I know,’ agreed Phil, ‘I liked things the way they were – this lot on the prowl for available women. Woodsy sleeping on our sofa and you and me doing The Odd Couple thing.’
Rob laughed. ‘Were we like the TV series or the film?’
‘The TV series,’ replied Phil, ‘which would’ve made you Jack Klugman – a.k.a. TV’s Quincy MD – and me Tony Randall, who was far cooler.’
‘We could argue that point all afternoon,’ said Rob, ‘because you know that you’re way more like Oscar than I ever was . . . But that’s not the point, is it?’
‘Nope,’ replied Phil. ‘Things changed when you moved, Bobman. That was just the beginning.’
‘More changes to come, then?’ asked Rob.
‘A lot more,’ said Phil. ‘I know for a fact that Ian Two and Becky are trying for a kid. Kevin and Rhona have put their place on the market and are looking to move out to Norfolk near Rhona’s parents. Then there’s Darren. I was in here with him last week and he told me his work are offering him a hefty promotion.’