by Alexis Hall
“See, why couldn’t you just say that?”
At last they settled down to eat. And it really wasn’t the worst tagine in London. Alfie blushed a little at the praise, even if it was uttered in slightly shocked voices, and proudly explained that the dish contained cumin, coriander, ginger, cinnamon, saffron, and turmeric. Which was why the vegetables didn’t taste like crap. When they were done, they took a second bottle of Two Blokes Carrying Enormous Grapes over to the worst sofa in the world and relaxed as best they could.
Kitty took off her shoes, which were fearsomely spiky, and curled up against Charles. “You know, this is really nice. Thank you, Alfie. Why don’t we do this?”
“Because none of us can be arsed to cook.” Greg cast a slightly suspicious look at Alfie. “Though that might change now Stepford Bell moves amongst us.”
“Actually . . .” It was probably as good a moment as any. Alfie put his wine down, oddly nervous, even though he was sure he had no reason to be. But, then, he’d spent the last five days rattling around in his own head. Talking about stuff made it a whole lot realer. “Actually, there might be some other changes. See, I’m thinking of quitting my job.”
He waited for a reaction.
“Well, that seems quite sensible,” said Kitty, eventually. “Your job always sounded dreary.”
“It wasn’t that bad. Just kind of don’t feel like doing it anymore.”
“But—” Greg gazed at him, wide-eyed, a little sad “—what are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure yet. I don’t think I’ll stay in London.”
“You’ll not go too far?”
Alfie went for his wine again, letting the light play through the liquid until it shone as gold as Fen.
“You’re going back up north, aren’t you?” It was barely a question. “To . . . whatshisname.”
“Fen. And no. That’s not an option.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m bad for him.”
Greg exploded into a derisive laugh. “Impossible. In dating terms, you’re a superfood.”
“A stupid fad that everyone will have forgotten in about five minutes?”
“Excellent for your health and well-being.” Greg scowled, an expression that made him look like a grumpy monkey. “I can’t believe he said that to you. I knew my irrational dislike was justified.”
“Um. He didn’t exactly say that.”
“So what did he say?”
“He . . . he said he loved me. And he wanted me to stay in South Shields with him.”
Greg stared.
Alfie rushed to explain, “But it was only because he’s messed up about his mum dying and stuff.”
Greg was still staring.
“I did the right thing.”
“Absolutely you did. I know what I want to hear when I tell someone I love them is, ‘I’m leaving you now for your own good.’”
“Same.” Kitty nodded sagely. “It’s the dream.”
When you looked at it that way, it did sound bad. “You don’t understand. I don’t want to be what’s keeping him in Shields when he could be having an amazing life somewhere else. Doing all the stuff he left to do the first time round.”
“Yes,” said Greg, in his most patient voice, “and if you were proposing to kidnap him and lock him in a basement, then I’d be concerned. But given that he seems to be volunteering to spend his life with you, I’m really not. And, oh God, I can’t believe I’m defending him.”
“What have you got against him, anyway?”
They all seemed to get very interested in their wine suddenly. And Greg finished what was left of his in a swallow—total waste of a really good chardonnay. “Well, Alfredo, partly because it feels like he’s taking you from us. But mainly because he’s everything to you that I’m not.”
“Oh. Uh.” This was the last thing Alfie would have expected. And he felt at once both bad and confused about it. “You don’t want any of that stuff.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. But you didn’t even consider me.”
Alfie threw an arm around Greg and pulled him in for a snuggle-hug. “I’m sorry, hinny. I’m such an idiot.”
“’S’okay. It’s my problem, really. And you’d better stay in touch when you’re living in a hovel in the north.”
“Firstly, we have houses up there. Some of them even have running water and broadband. And, secondly, I’m not going.”
Greg bit Alfie’s biceps impatiently. “So let me get this straight. A man you really like—maybe even love if that gooey look you get when you talk about him is anything to go by—offered you everything one human being can give to another. And you didn’t believe him?”
Alfie had honestly tried not to think about it too much, but suddenly all he could see was Fen smiling at him in the moonlight. Those impossible words: “I’m head over heels in love with you.” And it was just this . . . this slice of joy, cutting right through him. Not so very different from pain right then. “It’s just kind of . . . massive, you know?”
“Yes—” Greg nodded “—love is, I hear. But commitment phobia is my gig, not yours.”
“Not that bit. The fact he’d have to give up so much to be with me. I mean, he thinks he’s okay with it right now, but let’s be real. Nobody should change their whole life for the sake of one person.”
Nobody spoke.
Alfie shifted on the sofa, making the leather squeak. “And definitely not for a silly bugger like me.”
People kept on not saying a damn thing.
Eventually Greg punched him ineffectively in the torso. “You’d better not be telling me that you turned down the man you’re irritatingly in love with because you got randomly insecure.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Alfie protested. “His dad told me I was wrecking his life.”
“Holy shit-balls, Alfie, you’re not sixteen. And neither is he. You don’t need parental approval.”
“No, but I want Fen to be happy. I want that more than anything in the world.”
“And you somehow think his dad is better placed to decide that than he is? Honestly, sometimes I think your values haven’t made it out of the sixteenth century.”
“Maybe,” interrupted Kitty. “This isn’t the time to debate our respective worldviews. But for what it’s worth, Alfie, I do agree with Greg. It’s darling the way you want to do what’s right for Fen, but that’s up to him, isn’t it?”
They had a point. Didn’t they?
Alfie wasn’t sure if the jittery feeling inside him was hope. Or simply terror, because if his friends were right . . . he’d fucked up. Probably beyond redemption.
And Greg still wasn’t done. “Let me put it another way. There’s no denying that you’re a great person, and you fuck like a stallion who spent his formative years in a monastery without any other horses to play with, but you’re not so superlatively amazing that you’d render someone incapable of managing his own happiness.”
“Fuck. Oh fuck.” Alfie moved, or did something, and his glass and the bottle of wine smashed on the floor. The shards twinkled, sharp and meaningless. “I didn’t want to. I thought it would hurt me more than it hurt him, and that would be okay. Except I don’t know anymore. I just know I’m miserable and I miss him and I want to be with him.”
He buried his face in his hands. And snuffled a bit. Which his friends were kind enough to ignore. Finally he looked up again.
Kitty’s eyes flicked towards Greg. “See, why on earth would you want a relationship? It’s nothing but a confederacy of dunces.”
“Maybe I’d like someone to be idiotic over me.”
Charles smiled, somewhat mysteriously. “He has a point. I’ve rarely found love to be a particularly dignified emotion.”
There was more. But Alfie wasn’t listening. He was on his feet.
“Alfie?” asked Greg. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going back.”
“Right now? You know it’ll be in the morning by the
time you get there, right?”
“I don’t care.” Alfie ran his hands distractedly through his hair. “I’ve got to fix this. Or try anyway. Can you see yourselves out? I mean, when you’re ready. No rush.”
“Absolutely not.” Kitty jumped up, skirting the broken bottle. “I’m coming with you.”
Charles shrugged. “I’m game. As long as you don’t mind a complete stranger accompanying you to . . . wherever it is you’re going, to . . . see whoever it is you’re seeing, to do . . . whatever it is you’re doing.” He gave Alfie an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, your personal situation seems quite complicated. But this is exciting.”
“It’s not always like this,” Kitty warned him.
“That’s all right. Romantic, cross-country dashes probably lose their charm if you do them all the time.”
Greg scrambled off the sofa. “Hang on. If you’re all going, you can’t leave me behind.”
“Look, everybody calm down,” said Alfie, not particularly calmly. “My car’s a two-seater, and I’m in a rush.”
“We’ll take mine.” Kitty jangled her keys. “Also I’m not halfway to plastered.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes, I haven’t touched a drop.”
“No, I mean about coming with me?”
They all nodded.
Alfie had no idea how to deal with this. Couldn’t even tell if this was nice or completely insane. But probably it didn’t matter. Because it was happening regardless. He turned to Greg. “Don’t you dissolve or something if you go past Barnet?”
“I suppose”—Greg was tying his scarf into an elegant knot—“we’re about to find out.”
They took the lift down to the basement car park, piled into Kitty’s silver Porsche Cayenne—a vehicle Alfie had previously found utterly ridiculous—and then they were off, zooming, as much as a four-by-four keeping strictly to the speed limit could zoom, through the thin late-evening traffic. Once they were out of London, it was straight north up the A1.
Greg did not dissolve.
Though he did make them play a wide range of travel games.
It would have been quicker if Alfie had been on his own, but then he would probably have wrapped himself drunkenly around a lamppost, and God, if that happened how would Fen know? Who would think to tell him? Would he care?
That was when he remembered he owned a phone. And that probably the civilised thing to do was to give a person some kind of warning when you were driving across the country to try to undo the pig’s ear you’d made of the relationship. His hands were trembly as he found Fen in his address book. But it went straight to voice mail.
Probably that didn’t mean anything except that it was late. Or that Fen had blocked him. Or was being sad all on his own, because Alfie had left him.
Wow. He felt terrible. And he deserved to.
They stopped at a service station. It was only for half an hour, but it was all Alfie could do not to run up the walls. He was pronounced too jittery to drive, and Kitty didn’t trust Greg, so Charles took over.
He tried to sleep, but couldn’t. The night got darker and time seemed to get slower. And he found himself sincerely wishing for those Lord of the Rings cassettes.
Eventually, though, he was shaken out of his stupor by Greg shrieking, “Stop the car! Oh my God! Stop the car!” and Kitty threatening to leave him in a ditch if he was travel-sick inside the vehicle, and the squeal of tires as they came to a halt at the side of the nearly empty road.
Staring out of the window, Alfie realised the spreading lightness was the sea.
Greg was standing under a map of the coastline bearing the legend Welcome to South Tyneside. By accident or design it had an extra-notice pinned beneath it that read, In despair? Call the Samaritans. 24 Hours. Followed by the number. Of course, Greg was gleefully taking a selfie with it.
He jumped back into the car. “I have to Instagram this.”
Alfie just groaned.
But it meant they were nearly there. And he was coming home to Fen.
They swapped drivers as soon as they arrived on the outskirts of South Shields. Alfie had long since sobered up and it was probably easier than trying to direct a stranger through an unfamiliar place in the middle of the night. They got to Pansies about five minutes later. The safety grille, still clean somehow, was down, the flat was dark, and there was a For Rent sign outside.
“Well,” said Greg into the silence, “this is a bit of an anticlimax.”
Alfie stared, not quite comprehending.
Then he shoved open the car door and half fell into the street. Distantly, he heard someone shouting.
Oh. It was him. Rattling on the safety grille. Pointlessly, because it was all too late. He’d fucked it all up. And he was never going to see Fen again.
He felt a touch on his shoulder. Kitty. She was saying some things.
And maybe he was weeping? Hopelessly. Right there in the street.
He pulled away from her, ashamed but too wrecked to do anything about it, and clung to the grille instead, his bowed head partially sheltered by his forearms. He could just about cope with Fen seeing him cry, but that was it. Nobody else.
Suddenly, rapid footsteps, a ferocious yell. “I told you to get the fuck away from there!”
And Kitty shouting his name.
He jerked back and got an arm up just in time to deflect a flying frying pan.
It clonked onto the ground.
And there was Fen, bespectacled, fluffy-haired, dressed in that damn kimono, staring at him, openmouthed. “Alfie . . . oh my God, Alfie. I thought it was those kids again.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. He tried to wipe his eyes. And his nose. “I thought you’d gone.”
“No. Not yet.”
Fen pushed his glasses back with a thoughtless finger, the gesture so habitual and disregarded and profoundly, beautifully familiar, it made Alfie want to cry again. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I came to say sorry.” It sounded ridiculously inadequate. “And I love you.” And so did that.
A long silence.
“How do you punch someone again?” asked Fen.
“What?”
“You told me how to punch someone. But I’ve forgotten. My thumb needs to go on the outside, doesn’t it?”
“Um. Yeah.” Alfie braced himself. And Fen swept towards him in a billow of satin, pale and furious and gorgeous and perfect. “Knuckles, not flats, remember.”
He closed his eyes.
Then Fen’s mouth covered his. Shockingly soft. Made him stagger as if he really had been hit. He reached for him, instinctively, kind of desperately.
But Fen stepped back again. “I’m unbelievably angry with you, Alfie Bell. I’m just also unbelievably glad to see you.”
“It’s not exactly Love Actually, is it?” said Greg, with obvious disappointment.
Kitty elbowed him. “Maybe we should go find a B&B.”
“Try on Ocean Road.” Alfie jerked his thumb vaguely in the right direction. Not wanting to look anywhere except at Fen.
He was kind of aware of Kitty wishing them good night, Charles wishing them good luck, and Greg whinging that it was freezing. Then came a car engine. Then silence.
“You know you kind of—” Fen tapped himself on the chest a little self-consciously “—really hurt me. I thought maybe . . . after Mum . . . I’d be immune. Or at least a bit resistant.”
“I know it sounds beyond daft, but I was trying to do the right thing.”
“For who?”
“You. But I fucked it up, Fen. I fucked it up so bad.”
Fen was chilly and glittery in the glow of the streetlamps. “You’re really good at fucking things up, Alfie.”
“Yeah. But I want to make it right.”
“You’re really good at that too. Except I’m not sure it’s enough right now.”
“Fuck. Fen—”
“No, listen to me.” The words were quiet, but they were blades.
H
e fell silent at once. Waited.
“Okay.” Fen drew in a deep, not entirely steady breath. “Look. I appreciate that you came back . . . I mean, I thought I’d lost you for good. But I still have no idea why you left in the first place. Or what was going through your head.”
Alfie twisted his fingers together like a schoolkid who’d forgotten his homework. “I’m not sure I can explain.”
“Well, you’d better fucking try.” Fen’s calm faltered. Left him frayed and hurt. “You made me think you cared about me and wanted to be with me. But the moment it was possible, you . . . you ran away.”
“I didn’t want to ruin your life.”
“Because you were only with me out of guilt? Because you don’t love me?”
“I do love you,” Alfie wailed. “I love you so much. But your dad said I was selfish for making you want to stay in South Shields.”
Fen’s eyes went cartoon wide for a moment. “What does Dadaí have to do with anything? Oh my God, if he wasn’t my last living parent, I’d kick his arse.”
“He only wants what’s best for you. Y’know, like me.”
“Well, he’s a fucking hypocrite, and I’ll get onto what you are in a minute.” Fen whirled away from him and paced furiously, his bare feet slapping the pavement, and his kimono trailing behind him.
“Um, aren’t you freezing?”
“No, I’m so cross I’m actually too hot.”
“I’m really sorry,” Alfie tried again.
“Shut up. Now, listen, my fucking father’s grandmother was one of the lucht siúil. Restlessness is in his blood, he claims. When he first met Mum, he was a travelling salesman or something, but before that he did anything that would take him somewhere he hadn’t been.”
“Okay . . .”
Fen flew at him, landed against Alfie like he wasn’t sure whether he was trying to attack him or hug him. “Don’t you see? He’s lived here for nearly thirty years. Because he fell in love and wanted to stay.”
Alfie wasn’t sure what to say—especially because Fen had a point here—so he settled for “okay” again. And some nodding. As he tried very hard not to clutch desperately at Fen. Breathe in the scent of flowers from his hair.