by Jon Rance
From the age of eight to sixteen Alex Holloway was my best friend. Alex’s family moved to Wales just before sixth form and we lost touch, but before that we were inseparable. For Alex’s fourteenth birthday his dad bought a video camera and spent the whole party videoing us. This was in the days before cameras on mobile phones and no one I knew had a video camera.
What I remember most about the party wasn’t the cake, the snooker competition or even that he’d invited Hannah Callaghan, the best-looking girl at our school, but watching the video footage back afterwards. It was the first time I’d ever seen myself on video and I couldn’t believe it. Was that what I really looked like? Was that how I smiled? Moved? Spoke? Was that how everyone else in the world saw me? In our heads we have a certain image of ourselves, but when we see how we actually are, it’s so different. It made me wonder who I really was.
Fifteen years later, I was thinking the same thing as I stood on Georgie’s front door step. Who was I and what the fuck was I doing?
‘You came,’ said Georgie as she appeared at the door.
She was wearing a simple floral dress that stopped just above her knees. She looked at me for a moment, her lovely face and incredible body just waiting for me to step over the threshold. ‘I did,’ I said, and then she grabbed my hand and pulled me inside.
The minute I stepped into her flat it was like everything accelerated. The pretence I was there for anything other than sex quickly washed away. The pretty floral dress fell to the floor, revealing Georgie’s wonderful body beneath. She was wearing a matching blue and white polka-dot bra and panties.
‘What do you think?’
‘Incredible’, was the only word I could think of.
‘Just give me a moment,’ she said, planting a delicate kiss on my lips before she bounced away and disappeared into what I assumed was her bedroom.
While she was gone I had a quick look around her flat. It was your typical just-graduated-from-university flat. The walls were adorned with posters of bands, films and the mandatory Gustav Klimt poster. The various eclectic knick-knacks and ornaments that didn’t quite fit together; the combination of two different people bringing with them their histories and childhood memories; photos of young girls with their ponies, on holiday with their parents, boyfriends, brothers, I didn’t know. The scattering of old books on shelves and on the coffee table. The wine bottles stacked up on a sideboard and the IKEA rugs plastered across most of the old wooden floor. It screamed of lives just beginning, of unanswered questions, of youth and promise. Then, over the fireplace, I saw a picture of Georgie, with what I assumed were her parents, on graduation day; she was beaming from ear-to-ear, a beautiful young lady and her proud mum and dad.
‘Ready?’ said Georgie, suddenly reappearing around the doorway.
To be honest, I wasn’t. The alcohol had done a fairly decent job up until that point, but, now we were about to disappear into her bedroom, the realisation of what I was going to do seemed to hit me like a bus. I walked towards her until we were face to face.
‘What now?’
‘Now, Ed Hornsby, you fuck my brains out.’
It was a strange experience if I’m honest. The sex was great. It was natural, raw and spontaneous, and I did things with her I hadn’t done with Kate in years. Whereas with Kate I didn’t go that extra-mile, try that different position, because we had our system and it worked, with Georgie it was different. Afterwards we lay in the dark looking up at the ceiling and the orbs of light that crept in from the streetlights outside.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I said through the darkness.
‘Sure.’
‘Why me? Why did you pick me when you could’ve had anyone at work?’
‘Because there was something about you. A vulnerability. A sadness. It was as if from the moment I met you, I could feel it. You were desperate for something and I thought maybe it could be me.’
She rubbed her leg along mine and then reached across with her hand and ran a finger down my stomach. I suddenly thought of Kate and a huge wave of guilt swept through my body, making me feel nauseous. The alcohol had worn off and I was looking up at the mountain face of reality and it went on forever. It suddenly dawned on me that I would have to tell her. She would come back ready to settle down, get engaged, start our life over and I’d have to tell her. I had cheated and suddenly I regretted it more than anything in the world.
‘I should go,’ I said, looking down at Georgie’s body outlined against the white sheet.
‘No, stay, Ed. I want to go again.’ Her hand quickly reached towards me, but I shifted myself in the bed.
‘I should . . .’
‘Feeling guilty? Don’t. You’ve already done it so another once or twice isn’t going to hurt.’ Her hand tried to find me again but I stood up and searched the floor for my clothes.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Ed, stop being ridiculous and get back in bed,’ said Georgie, kneeling up so I could see her body in full. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except leaving. I managed to find my jeans and then my shirt. I got dressed while Georgie slumped back into bed.
‘Seriously, you’re leaving?’
‘It’s not you, Georgie, it’s me. It’s Kate. I can’t do this. I love her.’
‘It was fine ten minutes ago when you had your head between my legs; why isn’t it fine now? What’s changed?’
‘Nothing. I just feel like I should leave.’
‘But I don’t want you to leave, Ed. Stay. Please. For me?’
Georgie got off the bed and wrapped herself around me, kissing my neck and making my escape that much harder. But something had triggered inside of me. I didn’t want this anymore. I didn’t want Georgie. I wanted to go home and wrap myself in the duvet that still faintly smelt of Kate.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said and walked out.
Jack
I reached across and felt nothing but a slightly creased sheet. The bed was empty. My head felt like someone had attacked it with a hard, blunt object from the inside. My eyes were stuck together with sleep and my stomach felt like a washing machine of salt and vinegar. It had been a good night with Ed, but now I was paying the price. I wondered what time it was. I stretched myself across the bed so I could see the alarm clock. Ten thirty. No wonder Emma was up.
I got out of bed, put on some clothes and headed into the lounge in search of Emma but she was nowhere to be seen. Instead, all I found was a note on the fridge. She’d gone out and wouldn’t be back until later. There was no mention of where she’d gone, with whom or what time I should expect her back. I had, it seemed, been abandoned. So, in my hour of need and desperate to stop the pain that was beginning to encircle my body, I headed off to the café around the corner for a full English breakfast and at least two mugs of very strong coffee.
Frank’s Café was the top dog when it came to upmarket greasy spoon breakfasts. I liked Frank’s because Frank was Italian and so even though it was traditional café grub, it was served as if you were in a café in Naples. He also made incredible Italian coffee. I ordered the Frank special breakfast and a cappuccino. I picked up a copy of the newspaper and scanned the headlines, but I couldn’t concentrate. Partly because my head was pounding, but also because I felt so guilty about Emma.
I’d been a monumental idiot. There was no doubt in my mind I’d made a complete and utter mess of everything. Emma shouldn’t have kissed Rhys, but it was nothing, just a silly, stupid moment of weakness. If I hadn’t been so against the film in the first place, then perhaps she wouldn’t have felt the need to seek comfort and solace in the arms of Rhys Connelly.
Frank brought over my food with a smile, the plate overflowing with bacon, eggs, sausage, black pudding, toast, beans and hash browns. I began eating almost as soon as the plate touched the table.
‘Feeling a bit worse for wear?’ said Frank, holding an over-sized pepper grinder.
‘Just a little. Bit of a big one last night.’
‘Still, good
to get out though, eh. Pepper?’
Frank always waved his big phallic wooden pepper grinder at me and I always said no. I didn’t like pepper, but Frank liked to wave it about as though he were offering me an expensive bottle of wine. It was a grand gesture for something so simple. If there had been a little pot of pepper on the table I could have ignored it, but when Frank came over so happy to see me and offered me the chance of extra pepper with a sort of theatrical, Shakespearean pomp, I felt terrible for saying no. But on that morning and with the guilt of Emma already weighing heavily on my shoulders, I couldn’t let Frank down too.
‘Please,’ I said and a huge smile spread across Frank’s face.
‘Just say when,’ said Frank, going to work; little pellets of black pepper cascaded onto my plate and covered my food.
Stepping out into the chilly but bright day, I felt a sense of happiness, and the darkness that had encircled my morning began to filter with light. I’d been a fool, but I could fix it. I had made Frank happy and I was going to make Emma happy too. I was going to let her do the film, fulfil her dream and I was going to be happy about it. It would make everything all right. I guess the whole point was that I trusted her, always had, and whatever happened, I had to keep on trusting her.
I was on the dreaded one-to-close shift, which meant I wouldn’t be home until gone midnight. This also meant I wouldn’t see Emma. I was feeling a bit better after breakfast and I even had a surge of optimism about my book. Sitting on the tube, I started imaging our life if I actually achieved the impossible and got published.
The tube was a great place to think, dream and imagine a better life. Maybe because it’s underground and easy to get lost in your own little world or because it’s like a return to the foetal state, as the gentle rhythmic swaying and rattling puts you into a sleepy trance. It worked. I was daydreaming about not having to work at To Bean or Not to Bean again. About the day I could go in, hand over my apron and walk out, head held high and with the knowledge I would never have to work there another day in my life. As I took the escalator to the surface and walked out into the sunshine, my dreams began to fade away and the reality I was going to spend the next ten hours behind the counter serving terribly named coffee to tourists slapped me around the face. I was suddenly wide awake.
The only good thing about working at To Bean or Not to Bean was the occasional team member who made it a bit less like hell. Therese O’Donnell was twenty and fresh off the plane from Ireland. She had dark Irish hair, fair skin, huge green eyes and high cheekbones. She also had a laugh I could hear every day for the rest of my life.
‘You look terrible, what happened, get hit by a bus?’ said Therese when I walked into the office behind the counter. Therese was having a cup of coffee and reading a Rough Guide to Thailand. Therese wanted to travel the world and I had no doubt she would. Probably not on the wages she earned at To Bean or Not to Bean, but she’d find a way.
‘Not exactly. Late night, too many drinks and old age.’
‘Jesus, Jack, you’re not old. You’re what twenty-seven, twenty-eight?’
‘Twenty-nine, actually.’
‘Shit, better call the old people’s home. There’s a man in his late twenties, could die any minute,’ Therese said and then laughed that laugh. ‘Where’d you go, anyway?’
‘Just out with a mate. A couple of pubs and then a club near Covent Garden. I didn’t get home until nearly two in the morning.’
‘Not a great example for your staff now is it?’
‘And you’ll be fired if you’re not back from Thailand and out there serving coffee in five minutes,’ I said. She smiled at me and her eyes sparkled and lit up the room.
‘Better not piss off the boss – hung-over to hell,’ she said, putting her book away before she walked past me with a smile.
The ten hours at work went by slowly, but at least with Therese working next to me it was fun. I was technically her manager, but because I didn’t care much for my job and would be leaving soon one way or another, it didn’t feel like that. By eleven o’clock I was dead on my feet and itching to get home and into bed. Therese had other ideas.
‘I’m going out for a few drinks with friends, fancy coming along?’ she said with a glint in her eye.
I looked at her for a moment and a thought floated around my subconscious. She was exactly my type of girl. If I was twenty-one again and she had asked me out for a drink, I’d have bitten her hand off. She was still just my type in many ways: a raw bundle of dreamy flotsam hoping the wind would blow her some place nice.
‘I probably shouldn’t. Don’t want to cramp your style.’
‘I don’t have style,’ she said, smiling, and then she looked right at me. I’ve never been one to think girls fancy me. In fact, I’ve always been the opposite. Therese, however, was giving me a look that definitely made me feel like she might. ‘I have something much better than style.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Come out and I’ll show you, old man.’
It was late and we were alone in the shop and suddenly I found myself feeling vulnerable because I thought how easy it would be to do something silly. How easy it would be to make a mistake. I felt vulnerable because for the first time since I started dating Emma, I had that pang of lust and desire for someone else.
‘Maybe next time.’
‘You’re on,’ she said with a smile. ‘Now you’d better get home before the clock strikes midnight.’
‘Night. Have a good time.’
‘Would be better with you there.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Next time, then,’ she said with the same flirtatious glint and I found myself reddening. Luckily, before she could see how embarrassed I was, she blew me a kiss, turned around and walked off into the night. For a brief moment I considered going for a quick drink, the lights of London were still burning brightly and in the distance I could hear the melodious bass of club music, but I could also imagine Emma lying in bed waiting for me. I closed up and walked towards the tube station alone.
On the ride home, I thought about Therese, just starting out, just beginning her journey, and although I was only eight years older than her I felt so much farther along. So much more complicated than just a drink and a shag on a Saturday night. I would have neither. I’d go home, where Emma would already be asleep. I’d probably have something to eat before I slipped into bed next to her and dozed off, the bright lights of the big city fading quickly to dreams.
Emma
Something wasn’t right.
It had been two days since I waved goodbye to Jack outside the flat. They’d sent the car as promised, a sleek, silver Mercedes that appeared at eight o’clock on a Monday morning, slipping through the mist while we peeked through the curtains. Jack was doing his best to be supportive, but he was tense and awkward. He’d told me I could go and that he was happy for me, but I knew deep down he didn’t want me to leave. The thing was, I didn’t just want him to tell me it was all right to go: I wanted him to want me to go.
We drove for just over an hour until we arrived at the huge mansion in Berkshire where the film would really begin. The house was gorgeous. It looked like something straight out of a Jane Austen novel. There was even a huge lake in front of the main house and acres of garden to explore. I was so excited and energised by the thought of it; the magic of the silver screen had finally touched me.
But that was two days ago, before I realised my period was late. I’d been as regular as clockwork since I was a thirteen-year-old girl. I was never late. My period hadn’t come and I knew what that meant.
At first I put it down to the stress of everything with Jack, the wedding planning with my mother and the film. Then I sort of forgot about it and pushed it to the back of my mind, hoping it would go away by itself, or rather come. But on the second morning I woke up in a mad panic. My room was beautiful, I was living the dream, but it could all be about to come crashing down around me. I burst into tears. How could it
have happened? I’d been on the pill since I met Jack. Why when my life was about to take off, when I was about to realise my dream, would I get pregnant? In what sick, twisted world was that fair?
There was a knock at my door. I quickly sniffed up my tears, grabbed a tissue and blew my nose.
‘Em.’ Rhys’s whispered voice came through the door. ‘You all right?’
I was only in my pyjamas and I looked awful, but I got out of bed and let him in. I needed someone.
‘Morning,’ I said and attempted a brave smile.
‘I heard tears – you all right?’
I attempted another smile, but I couldn’t do it and fell into tears again. Rhys pulled me into his shoulder and I wept thinking about the possibility of being pregnant until he walked me into my room and closed the door. We sat on the bed for a minute. I was trying to wipe my face and stop the waterfall of tears that were desperate to escape and rush down my face. Rhys sat with his arm around me.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
I didn’t know what to say. Did I want to talk about and, if so, did I want to talk about it with Rhys? It was strange, but if there was one person I could talk to, it was probably him. He understood what this would mean for my place in the film. As much as I loved Jack, I wasn’t sure he could be so pragmatic about it. Jack knew what acting meant to me. He understood the sacrifices it took to be creative, he’d gone through enough of his own, but this was his child and I wasn’t ready to talk it over with him yet. Rhys shared some of the same qualities as Jack, but it wasn’t his baby and so he could be completely impartial.
‘I think I’m pregnant,’ I said, and the tears came again, gushing out, uncontrollable and raging.