by Andy Jones
‘Kissed.’
Sadie nods. ‘What was her name?’
‘Holly.’
‘You didn’t . . . get together?’
‘She’s not my type. Never was.’
Sadie holds her glass up to the light and it glows like a gaudy lamp. She looks me in the eye. ‘But did you fuck her?’
I shake my head, not in the negative, but to demonstrate my disapproval at this line of questioning. ‘Why is that important?’
‘Was she eighty-six?’
‘Sadie. Please.’
Sadie’s eyes are wet and angry. ‘Do you know how that made me feel?’
‘I’m sorry, really, it was . . . you weren’t meant to see it.’
‘Yeah, well, I did, didn’t I?’
Yes, because you let yourself into the flat to steal my bloody snowboard for your new fucking boyfriend! Did he wait outside, in the car? Or did you bring him in and make him a cup of tea?
I sip my Zinfandel.
‘You told me twenty-five,’ Sadie says, shaking her head in an expression that’s part disappointment, part exasperation.
I glance at the snowboard behind Sadie.
We were on a skiing trip in Tignes. We’d only been dating a couple of months, and, pleasantly drunk on mulled wine, sitting in front of an open fire, we were having one of those conversations that you have round about that time in a new relationship. As far as I can remember, we started off in the harmless territory of first kisses, first girlfriends and boyfriends, then gathered momentum along the slippery slopes of first gropes and first shags, before veering off-piste into the treacherous How many people have you slept with? region. I didn’t know the precise answer then but I could have guessed, give or take fifteen notches, and still that number would have been too big to laugh off in front of a roaring log fire. So I picked my birthday – a palatable, easy-to-remember lie.
‘Well, I couldn’t have said . . . you know . . .’
‘What?’ says Sadie. ‘Eighty-five?’
Hearing the figure (obsolete as it is) out loud makes me wince. ‘It would have been a bit of a moment-ruiner, don’t you think?’
Sadie shrugs. ‘Some moment.’ She uses her cocktail stick to dig something from under one of her fingernails, then sets it aside. ‘I lied too.’
‘You lied? Which way? More or less?’
Sadie takes a tiny sip of wine, barely enough to wet her lips. ‘Does it matter?’
‘I told you.’
Sadie shakes her head. ‘Nuh-uh. I found out. Big difference.’
‘But . . .’
But what?
I put my hand on Sadie’s. ‘I’m sorry. About everything.’
‘Yeah, well . . . I’m sorry too. About the whole, you know—’
‘I know,’ I say, shuddering at the memory.
It’s raining outside, again, and the exiled smokers flatten themselves against the wall to keep their cigarettes dry. At this specific point in time I envy them their inconvenient habit.
I take a gulp of wine. ‘So, how’s it going with . . . Connor, is it?’
Sadie shakes her head. ‘Connor was a dickhead. Didn’t last past January.’
‘Right,’ I say, the satisfaction of discovering that Connor is a dickhead somewhat diluted by the realisation that Sadie has replaced me not once, but twice. At least. ‘So who is it going well with?’
Sadie sighs, shakes her head.
‘What?’
‘Let’s just say I seem to be drawn to dickheads.’
‘I messed it all up, didn’t I?’
Sadie strokes my hand. ‘Do you miss me?’
‘Of course. Sometimes. Some things.’
Sadie smiles and wipes the corners of her eyes with a paper napkin. And then she punches me on the shoulder, picks up her wine and drains the glass. She reaches for the bottle.
‘You know,’ I say, ‘you might want to take it easy. I mean, if you’re planning on driving.’
‘Car’s not going anywhere,’ she says.
‘I wouldn’t bet on it. It’s been parked without a permit since Thursday.’
‘Where?’
‘About five minutes from here. Maybe ten.’
Sadie tilts her empty glass and lets a pink drop run towards the rim. She rotates the stem between her fingers, watching the drop gradually diminish as it rolls across the inside circumference of the glass.
‘So,’ she says, ‘what’s the plan?’
‘I want you to take it.’
‘Tom, I can’t afford it.’
‘What can you afford?’
‘Fuck all.’
‘Can you afford four?’
‘I still owe my dad four grand from when we bought it the first time.’
‘Which you’ll never have to pay him,’ I say.
‘Which isn’t the point. And why four?’
‘Rent and depreciation.’
Sadie looks at me as if I’m speaking a foreign language. ‘What? Rent?’
‘Rent. Rent you paid while you were living with me.’
‘Tom, what are you talking about?’
‘Well, it was never meant to be rent, was it? The way I saw it, we were sharing the mortgage. It was never meant to be a business proposition.’
‘I lived there for six months, Tom.’
‘Exactly.’
Sadie rubs her temples as if her head hurts. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
‘So what else do we do? The car share isn’t working, you don’t have eight grand, I don’t want the sodding car.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘How long have you got?’ I say.
Sadie picks up a clean cocktail stick, harpoons olives – green, black, green – and eats them sequentially.
‘Surely you can afford four grand,’ I say.
‘Tom, I don’t know.’
‘Plus sixty quid. For the last fine.’
Sadie nods. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Pay it then.’
‘It feels wrong.’
‘Why?’
‘Because,’ says Sadie, ‘it’s worth more.’
‘Not to me it’s not. I haven’t even got a key.’
And I explain to Sadie about the knickers in the glovebox and the car keys down the drain. And yes, I do derive some pleasure from her discomfort.
‘I’m so, so sorry,’ she says. ‘That must have been . . . God! It can’t have been very nice.’
I shake my head and then nod towards the documents sitting between us. ‘And you pay any fines I’ve accumulated in the last four days. Could be a few quid.’
Sadie sighs. She tucks the documents into her handbag then produces a bunch of keys. ‘I suppose you should have these,’ she says.
They’re the keys to my flat. I consider telling Sadie that I’ve had the lock changed, but it might sound ungracious – or stupid – so I mutter a thank you and slip the keys into my bag.
‘Oh,’ says Sadie, ‘and I brought your snowboard.’
I act surprised, pointing over her shoulder at the two-metre board in a padded silver carry bag. ‘Is that what that is?’
‘Do you think we’ll stay friends?’ Sadie asks.
‘Why wouldn’t we?’ I say.
Sadie huffs a tiny laugh behind closed, half-smiling lips. ‘Find yourself someone nice,’ she says. ‘Everyone deserves someone nice. Even you.’ And she punches me again.
Chapter Nineteen
‘Well,’ says El, ‘are you gonna tell me, or do I have to throw a tantrum?’
After El’s performance the last time we met, I rearranged tonight’s meal for six thirty – an hour earlier than usual. Accordingly, El and I are the Lucky Dragon’s sole diners. It’s a little light on atmosphere, but my friend can curse and shout and twitch and drop things with impunity.
El slaps the table. ‘How many!’
‘Ninety-seven,’ I say, unable to suppress a guilty smile.
‘Fuck off.’
I nod.
‘Wha was
it lass time? Lass time we were here.’
‘Ninety-five,’ I tell him.
‘So thass . . .’ Dr Laurence Christopher’s brow furrows as he wrestles with the mathematics. ‘Two. Two in two weeks.’
‘Uh-huh. Two in three days actually, but who’s counting?’
‘Bullshit.’
I shake my head. ‘Worried you’re going to lose your bet?’
Jiang arrives with a trolley bearing enough food for four rugby players.
‘Careful, Jiang,’ says El. ‘Tom’s in season.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ says Jiang. He cleans scattered fragments of prawn cracker from El’s side of the table and arranges our various dishes. ‘Do you need anything else?’ he asks without irony.
‘Two more beers,’ says El.
‘One more,’ I say.
El scowls as Jiang retreats to the kitchen. ‘You’re worse’n Phil.’
‘How is he?’
El shrugs. ‘Who’re these women then?’
‘Someone I work with—’
‘“Brace yourself?” She doesn count.’
‘Someone else.’
‘You’d think they’d’ve learned by now. D’they have a club? Secret hanshake?’ El mimes a masturbating hand.
‘Yes, very clever.’
An image of Verity pops into my head, and I feel pretty bloody puerile. I’m tempted to mention her to El, but in this context, and with him in this mood, it feels neither appropriate nor well advised. It would have been nice to have a drink with Verity the other night, and I could have made time for one, but the opportunities for me to make a good impression were far outweighed by their opposite number. And I have only myself to blame. And maybe El – this bet was, after all, his idea.
Jiang returns with a bottle of Tsingtao. I pour a third of it into El’s plastic glass, and the rest into my own.
El downs half of his drink in one go. ‘Who else?’
‘Who what?’
‘Who else d’you fuck?’
‘My estate agent,’ I say, sighing.
‘I thought that only happened in wank mags.’ Something dawns on El. He drops his fork and levels a finger at me. ‘You’re movin’ouse?’
‘Thinking about it.’
‘Why?’
‘Just . . . you know, seemed like a good idea.’
‘Where to?’
‘Haven’t decided.’
El shakes his head. ‘So what you gonna do? Sleep in your car?’
‘I sold it.’
‘The Mini?’
I nod.
‘Nice car, that,’ says El.
‘I know.’
‘So why’d you sell it?’
I take a long pull on my beer. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘You’ve got issues,’ says El. ‘You do know that?’
‘Yup. I do.’
When I drop El at home he’s exhausted, so I stay just long enough to drink a cup of tea. Nevertheless, he is asleep in his armchair before I’ve finished it.
On the doorstep, Phil asks how El was this evening.
‘The usual,’ I tell him. ‘Loud and embarrassing.’
Phil hesitates, goes to bite a thumbnail then stops himself, puts his hands in his pockets.
‘What?’
‘He hit me, Tom.’
‘He bloody what!’
Phil nods.
‘Do you want me to have a word?’
Phil shakes his head. ‘It’s not him, it’s that awful disease.’
‘Where did he hit you?’
Phil sniffs. ‘God, it’s pathetic.’ He shakes his head and is overcome by laughter.
‘What? What did he do?’
‘Slapped me.’ Phil holds a hand to his cheek. ‘Maybe it was my own fault.’
‘What happened?’
‘God. You know how he is when he’s got an idea in his head. He’s been driving me to distraction, suggesting people I could date, bars I should go to, speed-dating, online dating. Honestly, he’s relentless.’
It’s easy to imagine and, tragic as it is, wrong as it is, I laugh.
‘Oh, Tom, you must think I sound pathetic.’
‘Not at all. I know exactly what you mean. It’s just . . . funny.’
Phil smiles. ‘I know it is. And I know it’s not his fault. It’s just wearing me down.’
I make a gesture indicating I wouldn’t be too quick to absolve El of all responsibility for his behaviour. ‘So,’ I say, ‘what happened?’
Phil takes a deep breath and sighs. ‘I flipped. Shouted at him, told him his disease wasn’t an excuse to behave like a brat.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Maybe I deserved it,’ says Phil.
I shake my head. ‘Personally, I think you’re a saint.’
‘Bloody hell, Tom. Very far from it. But thank you, it’s very sweet of you.’
‘Well, you’re looking after my best friend for me,’ I say.
Phil hugs me, and we stand that way for more than a short time.
‘The neighbours’ll talk,’ I say after a while.
‘Repressed middle-class heterosexuals,’ says Phil. ‘No offence.’
‘Er . . . thanks.’
‘Oh, you’re all right,’ he says, and laughs to himself. ‘Some of my best friends are heterosexuals. So, what do you think I should do?’
‘About El?’
‘No,’ he says, and glances downwards as if he’s admitting some terrible secret. ‘About me.’
I stare dumbly back.
‘Do you think I should, you know, meet other people?’
‘God, Phil, I don’t think it’s any of my . . . I mean, Christ.’
‘Oh God, Tom, I’m sorry. He’s your best friend, and here I am talking about . . . I don’t know.’
‘You’re my friend too, Phil.’
Phil chews at what’s left of a thumbnail.
‘I don’t think you shouldn’t,’ I say.
Chapter Twenty
I’ve been thinking.
After the mess and chaos of the last two weeks, of the last couple of months, of the whole sodding year when you get right down to it, I’ve had a lot to think about. And since walking out of the make-up tests six days ago, I’ve done little else.
I thought about Phil and El, the humour and compassion and empathy that will outlast the passion and romance. How Phil’s love for El will survive El himself, and whether he can, should or will find a new person to curl up with on cold nights while his partner of ten years slowly slips away.
I thought about Doug and Eileen and his dead wife Mary. When I cleaned Doug’s flat, I took a duster to the photographs of Mary and found the glass was already spotless. What is now going on with my neighbour and Eileen, I don’t know, but if Doug was going to talk about it, he’d have done so by now.
Perhaps he’s like my father, unable or unwilling to move on after being left behind.
I thought about the things Ben said about being a father and being, I suppose, a man.
I thought about Sadie saying everyone deserves someone nice. Even me.
I thought about Verity saying there is someone for everyone.
I thought about Verity kissing frogs.
I thought about Verity.
‘Doing anything tonight?’ asks Ben, trying to sound casual.
I shake my head.
‘What you smiling about?’ he asks.
‘Nothing.’
‘Well, stop it, it’s unnerving.’
When I woke up this morning I was smiling, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had come out of sleep this way. This whole bet, challenge, mission, folly, fucking around – well, fuck all of that. I don’t need it and I don’t want it. If there is someone for everyone, then I’m not going to find it like this. Maybe the one for me looks a lot like Verity. Maybe not, but I won’t know if I don’t find out.
I’ve met Verity three times now, but I know almost nothing about her. With the exception of thirty minutes under her umbrella, we have always
been in the company of other people. And I find myself resenting them for it; wishing I could click my fingers and send them all away. People gravitate to Verity; they stand next to her, sit beside her, turn their attention towards her, asking, talking, telling and generally getting in my way. She’s interested and interesting. She’s somehow naive and knowing. She’s different. Not just the shifting style, but the girl underneath. For the last five months I’ve been looking at women the way a starving cartoon character looks at the dog, cat or duck next to him – as if they’re meat. But as gorgeous as Verity is, she provokes something different in me. She’s confident but ever so slightly shy. If you were to ask her what number she wears on her back, I suspect Verity would guess at a number in the low to mid-teens – an immodest fourteen, perhaps. But from where I’m standing, she’s out by around half a dozen. She’s funny and smart and talented, and more than getting her into bed, my overriding thought is that I know almost nothing about her, but I want to know an awful lot more.
We have the final pre-production meeting for Little Horrors in half an hour, but I wanted to grab a quick coffee with Ben first. Ostensibly to make sure we’re on the same page about the shoot. To check if he has any doubts or concerns. I don’t intend asking Verity to accompany me to a roller disco, a restaurant or even a balcony until the shoot is over. My life is complicated enough as it is. And when I do decide to do something, I certainly don’t need Ben’s approval. But it would probably be better for our friendship if he understood where I’m coming from.
‘So,’ I say, ‘how was the Goose last week?’
‘Same as it always is, overpriced and overcrowded.’
‘I mean, did you . . . was it . . . ?’ Ben raises his eyebrows: What? ‘Did you have a nice time?’
‘You mean how was Verity?’ He’s smiling, though.
‘Not specifically, but . . .’
‘That plonker from the agency hit on her.’
‘He what?’
Ben takes a sip of coffee. He takes his time savouring it. ‘Have to admire the kid’s balls, though.’
‘His balls?’
‘We’re all having a drink. Me, Holly, Marlon, Verity and whatshisface. And whatshisface says to Verity how he’s got a spare ticket for a gig – some band I’ve never heard of – and would she like to go. Right in front of everyone.’