Floored

by Sara Barnard

  I give myself a mental slap. I. Have. A. Girlfriend. I. Love. My. Girlfriend.

  ‘So . . . where are you at?’ He dips a biscuit in his tea, and I follow its journey to his mouth.

  When I look back at the script, I’ve forgotten how to read.

  When I first met him at the interview, I didn’t fancy him. I was terrified because he was Jasper Montagu-Khan, and his TV series was pretty much a shoe-in for best drama/best script/best newcomer at every awards show, and I was only there because his godfather had recommended me. I wanted badly to impress him. But I didn’t fancy him. He’s not obviously hot: shorter than me, kind of stocky, too-thick eyebrows, an unnerving habit of not blinking when he’s looking at you. And I was – am – with Kait. Was – am – in love with Kait.

  That’s what I tell myself at night, when I’m in my single bed in my single room in Brockley, ignoring Kait’s messages and replying to Jasper’s. At least I didn’t take the job and move here because I liked him. That was an accident.

  In two hours, I’m supposed to get the train back to Manchester, pick up Kait, and have our annual dinner with the others. I should be excited. But I’m not. Because the last couple of weeks, I’ve got the feeling that me liking Jasper isn’t a one-way thing. While it was just me having a crush, it was easy enough to ignore. But now it’s not a one-way crush. Like I said earlier – potential. It changes things. The impossible becomes possible. The forbidden becomes inevitable. And I become a total bastard.

  I sigh, and Jasper nudges me.

  ‘Seriously, Dawson, what is it?’

  ‘I dunno.’ I pull my reading glasses off and rub my nose. ‘Just . . . relationship stuff, I guess.’

  He doesn’t say anything, waiting for me to continue.

  ‘Long distance is tough,’ is the best I can do. And it is. That’s not a lie. Things have definitely been different between me and Kait since I moved down here. I said I wouldn’t resent going back to see her, but I do. I hate that it’s always me who has to go back up there, me who has to sit for three hours on the train on a Saturday morning and back again on Sunday night, so we can spend one poxy night together.

  She tried coming here once, but it was terrible: too noisy and busy; no one cared that she had a dog and a stick. She was in the way, and they made sure she knew it, tutting and huffing as they sped past us. We ended up back at my place ordering Chinese, eating it on my bed to a soundtrack of police sirens.

  My housemates kicking off about the dog was the final nail in the coffin of that experiment.

  ‘You’re going back tonight, right?’ he says. ‘For the anniversary.’

  I’d told him about the gang, and Steven, and how it had all started. It’s weird, because I’d never told anyone before. Not even Mum or Dad. I’d never said anything to them about how I first met Kait. But I’d told Jasper about a week after I started working with him. Like I’d told him about Josh. And the other guys I’d been with. And Kait’s eyes, and working at Chunder Burger that awful summer, and Hugo in Ibiza. Everything, basically. He knows everything.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you don’t want to?’

  ‘No.’ I look at him, and he holds my gaze, staring at me with dark, dark eyes.

  ‘Would you rather stay here?’ he asks.

  There’s something about the way he says it that makes my stomach drop. Here. He means literally here. Not just in London. But here, in his flat, with him.

  And for a second I let myself forget I’m with Kait, and I imagine it. The two of us walking down to the pub and getting food, arguing about whether some line one of us wrote worked or not. Picking up a bottle of wine on the way back, planning to open it and work some more, but never getting around to it because—

  I cut the fantasy there, imagining the old-school record scratch as the scene ends. Me and Kait haven’t slept together in almost three months. That’s all this is – I’m just missing the intimacy. It’s only natural I’d project that on to someone else. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s OK as long as nothing happens. Mentally cheating isn’t as bad as actually cheating, right?

  Jasper looks at me, his eyes narrowed as though I’ve said something confusing, and for a split second I think maybe I’ve spoken aloud.

  And then he leans in.

  I pull back, holding up my hands. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m sorry,’ he says, shoving his chair away. ‘That was out of line. Way out of line.’

  I can’t look at him. ‘I don’t want to hurt Kait.’ It sounds lame.

  It is lame. It’s not me saying, ‘I’m in love with my girlfriend, and I don’t want you.’ It’s me trying not to be the bad guy. It’s pathetic.

  As though he agrees, he nods and runs a hand through his hair. ‘I know. I shouldn’t have . . . It’s not your fault.’ He lets out a long breath. ‘Just . . . Let’s forget about it, yeah? I don’t want to mess things up for you.’

  ‘Jasper . . .’ I don’t know how to finish my sentence.

  I don’t know when I started to want him. I remember the exact moment I first realized I fancied Kait: there, in Bridlington, on the seafront. I remember realizing when I fancied Josh: in a shit pub, after too many shit drinks. But I don’t know when I started to think of Jasper as more than a boss, or a friend. If I did, maybe I could have stopped it.

  Yeah, right.

  ‘Look, Dawson,’ he says, and for the first time since I met him he seems unsure, not looking at me. ‘I like you. I’ve been trying really hard not to, because . . . Well, because I’m your boss. And you’re with someone. But . . . I like you. And I think you might like me. I guess I’m just making sure you know how I feel. I know us working together adds an extra dimension to this, but . . . there it is . . .’

  Again he trails off, and I nod miserably.

  But beneath the misery is a tiny spark of joy. Because he likes me enough to say so.

  And I like him more than I like Kaitlyn. I want to be with him more than I want to be with Kaitlyn.

  I really am a bastard.

  There aren’t any words left in me, so I drink my tea, and he drinks his. And then it’s time for me to leave, and he walks me to the door.

  We both pause, because it feels like a Big Moment. It doesn’t happen often, knowing at the time that it’s a Big Moment – but I know it then. How this ends, what we do now, will change what happens next.

  ‘See you Monday?’ he asks, and because it’s a Moment, it’s a bigger question than it seems. A loaded gun of a question.

  Like that old saying about scriptwriting, ‘Chekov’s Gun’. If you put a gun on stage, at some point it has to go off. He’s put the gun on the stage. I can see the gun. It’s by my hand.

  ‘I’ll be back Sunday afternoon. If you’re free.’

  I pick up the gun, and I fire it.

  I don’t remember getting the Tube, or getting on the train at Euston. I don’t remember anything until the conductor asks me for my ticket, and I can tell from the way the girls opposite are giggling that he’s been asking for a while. I show him, and shove it back in my wallet, turning to the window, watching the countryside roll by.

  If I break up with Kait – and that’s suddenly where we are – then I’ll be the guy who dumped his blind girlfriend. I’ll be the guy who left his blind girlfriend for someone else. Not only that, but I’ll have to come out again to a whole bunch of people who’ve only ever known me with a girlfriend.

  I’ll be breaking up the group. Not just me and Kait.

  They’ll have to pick sides; people always want to pick sides. And I’ll be the bad guy. I’ll lose my friends. Tonight’s the first time we’ll all be together, Hugo included, since his party way back when. It’s supposed to be a new beginning. Not an end.

  Though it sounded weak, I meant it when I said I don’t want to hurt Kait. But one way or the other, I’m going to. All my options are shit: I can stay with her and continue being a shit boyfriend, lusting after Jasper until I eventually cheat on her; or I can a
ct like such a bastard that she’s forced to dump me; or . . . I leave her.

  Can I really throw away almost a year and a half with my best friend?

  As the train pulls into Manchester Piccadilly, I realize I’m out of time.

  I stay on the train as it empties, pulling out my phone.

  ‘Mum, it’s me,’ I say when she answers.

  ‘Are you calling from prison? Is this your one phone call? What have I done to deserve such an honour?’ she says.

  It makes me want to cry.

  ‘Dawson?’ she asks when I don’t speak.

  ‘Sorry. Listen, is my bed made up?’ I ask.

  She pauses for a moment. ‘Your bed is always made up, son.’

  ‘Cool. I’ll, erm . . . I’ll be staying tonight, if that’s all right.’

  ‘This is your home; of course it’s all right.’ Her voice is fierce, and she doesn’t ask questions.

  ‘I’ll see you later then.’

  ‘I love you, Dawson.’

  I can’t say it back, because I will actually cry, and I don’t want to get beaten up. But she knows. I end the call, and go to find a cab.

  SASHA

  I can’t find my phone. I lose things all the time, but I never ever lose my phone. A drowning sailor doesn’t lose her lifebelt.

  Normally I charge it overnight, by my bed, but I’d been moving things round and knocked the switch off at the wall. All night plugged in, and still only nineteen per cent charge. Well done, Sash.

  I took it into the kitchen, messaging the group, winding Hugo up about dough balls. I remember because Dad sent me a message from across the room.

  Your breakfast is over here.

  When I looked up, he was sitting at the table, gesturing to a bowl of cereal I hadn’t asked for. I prefer toast.

  ‘You could have just said.’

  I plugged my phone into the charger above the worktop and went to sit down next to Dad.

  ‘I did. You never hear me when you’re on that thing.’ Dad twitched his eyebrows like it was a joke. But it’s only a joke if you don’t mean it.

  After that, I went up to get ready for work. Black leggings, black vest, hair tied back and ‘minimal make-up’, as per Klean Sweap policy. Fresh slipper socks in the bag along with my apron and company-mandated cleaning kit. Every house I go to, I have to lug a bottle of silver cleaner. Never used it.

  Dad was gone by the time I emerged. He’d invested some of the money Nan left in a new car – one that was suitable for passengers as well as packages. The plan was to expand the business, break into private hire – he got the license and everything. One month after buying himself a taxi, Dad worked out how little he liked having people in it.

  So now it’s back to deliveries. Packages don’t try to talk to you.

  I retrace my steps. I’m in the kitchen. The charger’s there, but the phone is not. I must have taken it back up with me when I went . . .

  Contrary to what Dad thinks, I can live without it, but I never saw which Pizza Express Joe booked.

  There’s a lot more than one Pizza Express in Manchester.

  I’m out of time. If I don’t get the bus, I’ll be late, and I can’t afford that. Instead I grab the grungy little address book I keep in my desk and bolt for the bus.

  My first job is seven floors up one of the fancy new-build apartment blocks. A pristine glass lift is waiting for me in the lobby.

  I still take the stairs.

  Mr Novey has left a note for me asking that I clean the balcony doors inside and out. One hour is all he pays for in total, but the doors will take me ages, and I’m not supposed to cover extra work without permission from my manager.

  If I had my phone, I could take a picture of the note and send it over, asking what to do. Fortunately there’s a Klean Sweap flyer edging out under a Domino’s mailer on the fridge. I grab the landline and dial.

  ‘Hey, Bernice – it’s me, Sasha.’

  ‘Why’s your number not come up?’

  ‘My phone got stolen.’ Play for sympathy. ‘I’m calling using Mr Novey’s home phone.’

  ‘Sasha . . .’ I can hear the warning in Bernice’s voice. But she likes me, and – like everyone – she does not like tight, slovenly Mr Novey. ‘Hang up now. Leave a note for Mr Novey explaining why you called us. I’ll deal with the fallout.’

  I hang up, then I try Joe’s number from Mr Novey’s phone. I feel so guilty about it that I’m almost relieved when there’s no answer.

  Two more jobs, and I’m finally home. Not mine, but the Jordans’. I love it here. Rose and Pete are the kind of people who feel so unutterably guilty about paying for a cleaner that they overcompensate by religiously tidying the house and leaving apologetic notes if they haven’t had a chance to put the laundry away.

  That’s not why I like it though.

  Rose is sitting in the kitchen when I get there, laptop out and papers all over the place.

  ‘Sasha!’

  She looks so pleased to see me. When I first started, both of us would do our best to pretend I wasn’t the one cleaning her toilet, but then she started offering me tea whenever she made one for herself, and after a few weeks, I started accepting.

  Before I’ve even got my kit sorted, the kettle’s on, and the mugs are out.

  ‘Do you mind if I use your phone?’ I ask, and she hands it over without question. Did I say how much I love coming here?

  I go for Velvet first, but there’s no ring before it goes to voicemail, and I hang up. It’s not like I can ask her to call me back here, is it? Then I tap in Joe’s number. No luck. Kaitlyn ditto. I don’t feel like it’s appropriate to try any more.

  ‘So,’ Rose says, taking the phone back before reaching up to re-tie her hair. It’s long and auburn and gorgeous. She’s gorgeous. One of the reasons it took me so long to accept a cup of tea was because I found it hard to look at Rose Jordan for too long. ‘Have you thought about our offer?’

  Of course I have. It’s all I can think about.

  ‘I haven’t got any qualifications,’ I say. Again. It’s the one thing that makes me nervous.

  ‘Neither have Pete or I.’ Rose turns to pour the tea. ‘And yet we make perfectly serviceable parents.’

  Rose and her husband both work. They also have kids. Supercute red-haired twins (Hazel and Lily) that I’ve met during the holidays. They’ve gone to stay with their grandparents this week, but there’s three weeks in the middle of the summer, before the family goes away, that they haven’t childcare for. They need my answer by next week.

  I want my answer to be yes.

  People pay more for someone to take care of their kids than to take care of their house. If I take this job, I’ll lose out at the agency, but the Jordans have also said that if I take the summer job, they’ll keep me on after. They need someone to pick the girls up from school three days a week, take them to their clubs, and feed them tea. It might mean missing a lecture or two, but the money’s good, and I’d save on meals by eating with Hazel and Lily.

  I’ve done the budgeting. With this job plus five hours of cleaning, I could do it. I could move out of the flat I share with dad and into one I could share with friends.

  All the way home, I think about it. This time last year, I never thought I’d be here. I was supposed to have left the cleaning agency and got myself a regular job. One that paid more and cost less. Cleaning takes it out of you. But then Nan died, which was awful, but she also left us some money, which wasn’t awful, but also was, because it made me feel guilty. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough to make our mortgage payments more manageable, enough for Dad to buy the car. We even had a holiday. A week in Lisbon is hardly the same as Dawson and Kaitlyn’s secret summer of love in Ibiza, or Hugo’s gap year in India, but it was the first time I’d been anywhere hot. Anywhere that needed a passport.

  It was the last night of the holiday that Dad said it. That he’d managed to find the one thing that we could buy with Nan’s money that wouldn’t make me f
eel guilty.

  ‘How about it then, Sash – you want to go to uni?’

  I never thought I’d be able to, so when he offered, even with all the caveats about going somewhere local and living at home to cut down accommodation costs, I’d jumped at the chance.

  French Studies at Manchester Met.

  A year on, and I’ve learned that dreams can come true and still be nightmares.

  It was such a mistake to live at home for my first year. I’ve missed out on so much. Everything that happens is in halls – nights out get organized last minute, and I’ve a twenty-five-minute train ride from wherever it’s happening. Plus every time I try and go anywhere, there’s Dad to answer to.

  You treat this place like a hotel.

  Out again?

  Don’t you have any work to do for this course that’s costing me so much money?

  Good job you don’t live in halls, or you’d have no money left for all these parties.

  Makes me want to scream. Hotels are places where someone else cleans your sheets, and all the work I have gets done in the library because I don’t want to haul all the books back here. If I lived in halls, then I wouldn’t always be going out – sometimes the party would come to me.

  But hell will freeze over before anyone from uni sets foot in our flat. I can’t stand the thought of how they’d look at me, knowing that this is how I live.

  University was supposed to be about freedom, but all it’s done is draw more attention to how trapped I really am. University friendships are forged in halls, not lectures. I might be getting the education, but I’m not getting the experience. It’s taken me three terms to make any proper friends, and even those I spend more time messaging than seeing.

  Which is why I need my phone. Which I have lost.

  Back home, I do the sensible thing and get ready first. After an hour of hunting for my phone, I give up when I find myself looking for it in the bathroom cabinet. Maybe I’m going loopy. For real. Looking in the bathroom cabinet for your phone sounds like exactly the sort of thing Joe’s mum would do.