by Mike Gayle
‘How should I know? I’ve never had a suspected broken nose.’
‘I think the rain’s easing off.’ She wiped the damp off her face with her sleeve.
‘I’ve missed this,’ said Rob, as they walked.
‘What?’
‘You know . . . This . . .’
‘That’s as soppy as you get, isn’t it?’ said Jo, pulling his arm closer to her. ‘But I know what you mean. Nothing’s been the same without you around – not even Dirty Dancing.’
‘You’re kidding,’ said Rob.
‘I tried to watch it a few weeks ago and I got as far as taking it out of the case before I was in floods of tears. I just kept thinking. This is mine and Rob’s film. And do you know what’s wrong about that?’
Rob shrugged.
‘Dirty Dancing isn’t “our” film. It’s my film. You’d never even seen it until I showed it to you.’ She laughed, then sniffed again. ‘You’ve done the impossible – you’ve ruined it for me.’
‘I’m not sure ruined is the right word,’ he replied, grinning. ‘Surely it would have to have been half decent in the first place to be ruined.’ Jo opened her mouth to remonstrate but before she could speak Rob was attempting to redeem himself. ‘But if I did spoil your viewing pleasure I apologise.’
‘Apology accepted. Joking apart, though, I’ve really missed you. Not seeing or talking to you has been the hardest thing I’ve done in my life. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve nearly called you, then lost my nerve at the last minute.’
‘So, why didn’t you?’ asked Rob. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, I meant—’
‘It’s okay. At least it shows you care.’
Rob smiled. ‘It might not be too late for you to patch things up with Bruiser Boy.’
‘After what he did to you?’ said Jo. ‘No, it’s over. Really it is.’
‘But I did sort of ask for it,’ said Rob.
‘Too right you did. But I don’t think there’s any point in me trying to build anything meaningful on such a shaky foundation.’
‘But you said you loved him.’
‘I do,’ she replied, and then she corrected herself: ‘Well, I did. I think the main problem with me is that, deep down, I just didn’t want to be alone. You wouldn’t have needed a crystal ball to guess what would have happened if I’d given up the life I’d made here just to be— The second I’d let down my guard he’d have been back to his old ways.’ They stopped outside the off-licence. ‘You’d better wait out here while I get my Rizlas,’ she said, examining the dried blood on his face and clothes. ‘You might scare the girl on the till looking like that.’
As Jo went into the shop Rob walked to the kerb and, although the ground was wet, sat down with his feet in the road. He rested his head in his hands and listened to the traffic. As the damp seeped into his jeans he concentrated on his throbbing nose and worried about how he was going to explain his war wound to Ashley.
‘Feeling sorry for yourself?’
Rob opened his eyes to see Jo standing beside him with a packet of cigarette papers in one hand and a can of Pepsi-Max in the other.
‘This is for you,’ she said, holding out the can. ‘I got it out of the fridge. It’s ice cold. I thought you could rest it on your nose. It might help with the swelling.’
Rob took it from her and did as she had suggested. ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Not only am I in pain, I now feel ridiculous.’
She laughed, sat down beside him and rested her head against his shoulder. Then she pulled out her tobacco and, with the newly purchased Rizlas, began to roll a cigarette. A minute later she said, ‘All done,’ and passed it to Rob. ‘There you go.’
Rob was puzzled. ‘What’s this for? You know I haven’t smoked in years.’
‘I know,’ said Jo as she began to make a cigarette for herself. ‘Consider it a peace-offering. I never want to fight with you again.’
A silence fell between the two friends that neither felt inclined to fill. Instead they sat watching the traffic go by on Barlow Moor Road. Jo licked the gummed edge of the paper and rolled up the tobacco. She looked at Rob expectantly.
‘What?’ said Rob.
‘I think you were right,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t in love with you.’
‘So what were you?’
‘That’s just it,’ said Jo. ‘I don’t know.’ She pulled out a yellow lighter and, shielding the flame from the wind, lit her cigarette, took a long drag and held her breath. As she exhaled, a stream of smoke billowed into the air.
‘Do you want to hear an interesting fact?’ said Jo. ‘Eskimos apparently have over fifty different words for snow. Snow’s really important to those guys – I suppose it’s because sometimes the difference between one type and another can mean the difference between life or death.’ She paused and laughed self-consciously. ‘You know they’ve got words for dry snow and wet snow, fluffy snow and compact snow. They’ve got words for snow that comes down fast and for snow that comes down slow – they’ve thought of everything.’
‘That’s a lot of snow,’ commented Rob as his eyes flicked to a scruffy-looking mongrel crossing the road in front of them, oblivious to the night bus hurtling towards it. It only narrowly missed being hit, but continued coolly on its journey to the bin outside the off-licence, which it sniffed studiously, then casually cocked a leg against.
‘So what’s your point?’ asked Rob.
‘Well it’s like this,’ replied Jo. ‘If Eskimos can come up with fifty words for snow because it’s a matter of life or death, why is it that we’ve only got one word for “love”?’
She was gazing at Rob as if he might have an answer, but he was confused.
‘The problem with you and me is that we haven’t got a word for this . . .’ She gesticulated with her hands in the space between them. ‘We haven’t got a word for what we are to each other. And that’s a problem. If you haven’t got a word for it, it’s impossible to define, isn’t it? We’re not just friends, are we? And we’re not lovers either. We’re sort of platonic lovers. And although I thought I was in love with you I was wrong. Maybe I thought it was love because that was the only way I could imagine even half-way expressing how I felt about you.’
Rob watched the stray dog return to the edge of the road and wait for a break in the traffic. ‘I get what you’re saying,’ he said, ‘but at the same time I don’t.’
‘Do you remember that time ages ago when we were talking about all the great telly shows that went rubbish and you told me about that website – JumptheShark.com? Well, I was looking at it recently and it occurred to me that nine out of ten people on the forum thought that getting the male and female leads together was the kiss of death for a show. And they’re right. I mean, look at the evidence. Sam and Diane in Cheers were never the same once they got together, and neither were Maddy and Dave in Moonlighting – oh, and don’t get me started on Niles and Daphne in Frasier. It’s as if TV writers can’t put men and women in the same programme without having them get together or have a clear-cut reason why it’ll never happen, like in Will and Grace. They’re never just two mates who don’t snog, are they?’
‘No,’ replied Rob. ‘I suppose not. I take it you’ve got a theory on why this is?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Jo. ‘It’s about sex. Thanks to Freud, everyone in the world thinks that the motivation behind everything is sex – wanting it, not getting enough, getting too much. You name it, it’s somewhere in the mix.’
‘And?’
‘Well, maybe it isn’t.’
Rob laughed. ‘I love this. This is so you – former politics and English student Jo Richards versus Sigmund Freud, the father of modern psychoanalysis.’
‘All I’m trying to say is that maybe it’s just a lazy way of looking at things. It’s like going out with someone you don’t fancy because you can’t think of a good reason to say no. Sometimes I think people mistake love for a friend with love for a person they fancy because it’s easier than
trying to give a name to something that hasn’t got one.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘I do . . . sort of . . .’ he said, ‘ . . . but the thing is I’ve got a bit of a problem with your little theory.’
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘It’s this,’ said Rob and he kissed her.
It had been a long time since Rob had kissed someone who wasn’t Ashley. A very long time indeed. And while Rob kissed Jo and Jo kissed him back it was mainly Ashley who was on his mind. Part of him thought he might explode, or spontaneously combust. Or something else equally pyrotechnical because he was kissing someone who wasn’t his girlfriend. But he didn’t.
‘That wasn’t what I was expecting,’ said Rob, eventually.
‘What were you expecting?’ asked Jo.
‘I don’t know,’ said Rob. ‘I suppose I always felt sure that if we ever did kiss I wouldn’t feel anything. That it would be a let down and I’d realise I wasn’t attracted to you after all. But that’s not really the case is it?’
‘No,’ said Jo. ‘It isn’t. The truth is, you and I were never going to work being just good friends. Not that it’s impossible for men and women to be good friends and nothing more, but it’s impossible for us. I’m sure I knew it when we first met but I didn’t want to face up to it. I don’t know what you and I are, Rob, but we’re definitely not just good friends, are we?’
‘No,’ replied Rob.
‘We’re lovers with terrible timing,’ Jo smiled. ‘I can’t help but think that if we’d met years ago – before you found Ashley – we’d have been perfect together. I know I could’ve made you just as happy as she makes you now.’
‘But we didn’t meet first,’ replied Rob, unable to look at her. ‘We met second. And even though I know I shouldn’t feel what I feel for you the fact remains that I love Ashley. I’ve never stopped loving her. Through all that’s happened it’s never occurred to me that she isn’t right for me – because she is.’
Jo reached up and touched his face. ‘I know,’ she said, as tears formed once more in her eyes, ‘and that’s why it would never work between us. She owns your heart. What we have is special – I’ll always cherish it – but the difference between our love and the love you have for Ashley is like the difference between knowing something in your head and knowing it in your heart. In your head you think you love me because we see the world the same way, we feel the same things – in a way we’re almost like twins – but what you and Ashley have is much more special because it’s not about what you have in common, it’s about the way she makes you feel in your heart. And the heart wins every time. It’s how we’re built. And I’d never want it any other way.’ Jo stood up and Rob did too, holding her hands.
‘So this is where we say goodbye for good,’ she said.
‘Are you sure there’s no way round this?’ asked Rob.
‘No,’ Jo said. ‘This really is goodbye. It’s for the best.’ And then she placed a hand on either side of Rob’s face and kissed him again. Rob wrapped his arms round her and held her tightly, unsure that he could ever let her go.
‘See you in another lifetime,’ she whispered. Then she turned and walked away.
PART NINE
(Principally about a letter)
Dear Jo,
I feel a bit stupid doing this. But I remember you told me once that you write letters to your brother even though he isn’t around any more. I always thought it was a nice idea, but I never imagined that I’d ever do it myself. And yet here I am sitting at my desk in my office at home writing a letter that I know I will never send. I suppose I just want the opportunity to catch up with you for a little while, even if it’s just in my head.
It has been over a month now since I last saw you. And though I do miss you I know in my heart that we did the right thing. After I left you that night I went home and told Ashley everything. Not just about the fight and the kiss, but about the two occasions when I stayed at yours, too. I know it would’ve been easier for me to keep quiet but I just couldn’t. I felt as if I’d never be able to look her in the eye again unless I told her the truth – and I have to say it was one of the hardest things I’ve done in my life. To her credit she didn’t freak out like I expected. Instead she was really calm and just listened to what I had to say. And when I was done talking she didn’t kick me out of the house, tell me it was all over or even cry – she just said, ‘Everything’s going to be okay.’ And for a few seconds I was really confused. I couldn’t get my head around why she was being so understanding and then I realised what was going on – Ashley was standing in my shoes. She was seeing the world from my point of view. Somehow she understood that despite all that had happened I genuinely had never meant to hurt her. And in that single moment I realised that I loved her more than I ever thought possible. Ashley really is the one that I want to spend the rest of my life with. And I know now that I could never have any regrets knowing that someone like her was so resolutely on my side, even when I’d given her no reason to be.
Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. I don’t think I’ll be doing this again – I’m too self-conscious for this type of thing. Before I go though, I just want to say one last thing. You asked me why we’ve only got one word for ‘love’ when Eskimos have got fifty for ‘snow’ and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. Maybe you’re looking at it the wrong way. Yes, it would be easier if we sub-divided and categorised it down to specifics – but would it really be as much fun? The way I see it is, we may only have the one word for love, but what a word it is.
Have a great life.
Love,
Rob
P.S. Don’t give up on the writing
EPILOGUE
(Principally concerning Jo, two years later)
Reading, writing but no arithmetic
‘On behalf of all of us at Waterstone’s, Deansgate,’ said the woman with the bright pink hair into the microphone, as the applause died away, ‘I’d like to thank Ms Richards for joining us tonight – I’m sure we’ve all been entertained by what we’ve heard. And before we conclude this evening’s event she has kindly agreed to answer questions, after which she’ll be available to sign copies of her book for those who would like one.’ She paused and smiled encouragingly at Jo. ‘I’d like to put the first one, if I may?’ she asked. ‘Could you tell us what you consider your favourite part of being an author?’
Jo moved back to the lectern and the other woman stepped aside.
‘What’s my favourite thing about being an author?’ she mused aloud, into the microphone. ‘My favourite thing about being an author is that, unlike most people, on a good day I can go to work in a T-shirt and my boyfriend’s boxer shorts and on a bad day I can sit in front of the computer stark naked.’
She got a reasonable laugh for that joke (much better than the response she’d had at the Library Literary Festival in the East Midlands, where it hadn’t even raised a smile), then went on to expand on her usual writing day – missing out the endless trips to the kitchen to make cups of sugary tea and investigate the fridge.
Then she asked if anyone else had a question for her. A young auburn-haired woman in an expensive-looking leather jacket raised her hand. ‘Hi, Jo,’ she said. ‘I read Fifty Words For Snow after I’d read a review of it when it came out in hardback and absolutely loved it. I’ve been recommending it to all my friends ever since. How did you get into writing?’
‘Thank you for your question and kind words,’ replied Jo. ‘Before Fifty Words For Snow I wrote a novel in my twenties and I didn’t think it was any good at all. A friend of mine read it some years later and encouraged me to send it out to a few agents. It was unanimously rejected and I was ready to give up but the same friend told me that instead of wallowing in self-pity I should get on and write another. For a long time I didn’t take his advice and then one day, a few months after I’d moved to London, I thought about him and just started writing. At the time I had a bar job so any ti
me I wasn’t working or sleeping I was writing. Nine months and several edits later I sent it to a literary agent, who took me on right away. And a month later I found myself with a two-book contract with Cooper and Lawton. The rest, as they say, is history.’
She nodded to a scruffy-looking man in his twenties wearing a baseball cap and an old army jacket.
‘I just wanted to ask this,’ he said, grinning at Jo. ‘I only read Fifty Words For Snow recently so it’s still fresh in my mind but there’s a bit in the book where the main characters – Ruth and Danny – talk about the world’s most overrated films and Ruth nominates Brian De Palma’s Scarface. Was that your personal choice or something you decided was right for the character?’
‘That was my choice,’ replied Jo, as the room erupted in laughter. ‘I mean, how can you take a gangster seriously when he looks like he’s just stepped out of Saturday Night Fever?’
He laughed, and Jo looked out into the sea of hands before her and pointed to a dark-haired woman in her thirties.
‘Hi, Jo,’ she began. ‘I work in Waterstone’s in St Anne’s Square and we’ve sold hundreds of copies of your book and it’s still selling well. My question to you is a bit cheeky: I read in an interview that you lived with the novelist Matt Rose and I wondered what it’s like being in a relationship with a fellow author.’
‘It’s great,’ said Jo. ‘The best ever. In fact, he’s here with me tonight . . .’ She waved at a smart-looking man with arty black spectacles and a grey suit, who waved back, looking a bit embarrassed. ‘Matt and I have been together for nearly a year and have lived together for about nine months. It’s really nice to be with someone who understands the ups and downs of writing – I’d recommend it.’
Question over, Jo gestured to a man in his thirties, wearing a black Led Zeppelin T-shirt.
‘Hi, Jo,’ he said. ‘My girlfriend bought me Fifty Words For Snow because she said that the main relationship reminded her of how she and I got together – because we, too, used to be just good friends. I wondered if you were writing from experience.’