Can't Live Without

by Joanne Phillips

  ‘What?’

  She looks uncomfortable. ‘The thing is, Marcus has asked me… he and I are getting married.’

  Just then the toast pops up and we both look at it, shocked. I break the silence first. ‘That’s fantastic, Bonnie! I’m really, really happy for you. You make a lovely couple.’

  And I mean it, I really do. It is hard, hearing that your best friend’s getting hitched when you’re – what was it Bonnie called me last night – “a bit sad”. But I am genuinely happy for her.

  Everything’s changing, it seems. Everyone’s moving on.

  I eat my toast while she tells me about their plans – spring wedding, new house, babies soon after hopefully. Bonnie looks, well – bonny.

  Giving her a hug I tell her I’ve got to go.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ she asks.

  ‘I told you, I’m going jogging.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘But…’ She looks me up and down. ‘Where did you get the gear from?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘You went home to get changed and then came back here again?’ Bonnie looks puzzled. ‘Not that it isn’t lovely seeing your ugly mug over breakfast but – why?’

  I shove the last of the toast into my mouth and swallow. ‘Because,’ I tell her, resuming my jogging on the spot, ‘I have no food in the house. And what I’m about to do requires a full stomach. Wish me luck!’ With that I give her a quick hug and jog right out of the door.

  You may have guessed that there is an ulterior motive to my new-found exercise plan. In fact, it is more of a one-off than a plan. As I drifted into a fitful sleep last night I remembered that the object of my love and affection is very much a creature of habit, and that his habits are wholesome and healthy. They involve games of squash, healthy eating – and running around Willen Lake every morning without fail.

  Chapter 29

  Perversely, despite being the middle of August and the height of the British summer, this morning it is surprisingly cold. I’ve already been around the blasted lake twice and still haven’t warmed up. Admittedly I’ve been walking rather slowly instead of jogging, but I don’t want to meet Paul looking like Sweaty Betty for this, my last chance at happiness.

  Eventually I see him. He emerges from the trees looking like an advert for Adidas, running at the pace of an athlete. My heart misses a couple of beats – despite the lack of exertion. Gamely, I begin jogging, and before long can hear his footsteps behind me. As he passes I step into his path, timing it perfectly – although I hadn’t really meant for him to fall headlong into the bushes.

  Oops.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I reach for his hand, surreptitiously smoothing my hair out of my face at the same time.

  Paul stands and brushes himself down, then stares at me as though I’m from another planet.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he says.

  Not a friendly planet, obviously.

  ‘Jogging,’ I say brightly, trying to make out I am as surprised as him. ‘Fancy seeing you here!’ But he is clearly having none of it.

  ‘Are you stalking me?’ he asks suspiciously.

  The very idea! ‘No, I am not.’ I make my face indignant. ‘I’ll have you know I’m merely keeping fit. Lots of people run around the lake, as you see.’ I wave my arm in a wide arc but unfortunately we seem to be the only two people in Milton Keynes at that moment. I’ve never seen Willen Lake less crowded.

  ‘OK. Well, I’ll let you get back to it then.’ Paul starts to jog away.

  No! This isn’t the way it is supposed to happen.

  ‘Paul, wait!’ I call.

  He carries on running. I have no choice. I must subjugate myself and run after him.

  Huffing and puffing, I chase along the gravel path, too out of breath to call out again, while all the time he runs faster and faster. He obviously knows I’m behind him. He has no intention of making it easy for me. So he’s still playing the game of stubborn, is he? At this rate I will be dead by the time I catch him up, never mind sweaty.

  Suddenly he stops, and this time it is me who runs headlong into him. He thrusts out his hand and grabs me roughly, waiting until I’ve found my feet before he drops my arm. He regards me thoughtfully. I try to speak, can’t, so I hold up my palm while I catch my breath. All the while those piercing blue eyes are on me like a judgement.

  ‘Paul,’ I say finally, trying to ignore the sweat that is dripping off the end of my chin.

  Come on, Stella. Don’t blow it now.

  ‘The thing is,’ I begin again, ‘I was kind of hoping to bump into you today.’ His expression says, No shit? I press on. ‘I wanted to talk you. I wanted to say that I’m sorry for ignoring your calls. I was …’ Trailing off, I wonder how to explain the complicated feeling of anger and indignation mixed with desire and fear that had stopped me every time I went to pick up the phone.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he says calmly. ‘I understand.’

  ‘You do?’ I struggle to get past his closed expression, desperate to know what is going on in his head right now. ‘Well, anyway, we could talk now if you like. If there’s something you’ve been wanting to tell me, some reason for the phone calls …’

  I’ve given him an in. All he has to do now is step up and take it. I can’t take my eyes off the gravel path. My heart is beating furiously and it has nothing to do with the running.

  After a long silence, Paul says, ‘It doesn’t matter now.’

  I look up at him in shock. ‘What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? Of course it matters. You must have phoned me about fifty times.’

  ‘And you must have ignored me about fifty times,’ he snaps back quickly.

  We seem to have reached another impasse. The sweat is starting to dry on my skin, making me cold and shivery. Don’t leave it like this, the sensible voice in my head is saying. Try one more time.

  I cross my arms over my chest, then uncross them again immediately. No defensive body language. Instead I step forward slightly so I’m close enough to see the shadow of his eyelashes on his cheeks. This is going to be really, really hard. But not doing it would be harder.

  ‘I’ve never told you this before, Paul, although I’m thinking that there is a part of you that must already know. I had a terrible crush on you at school. I was in love with you, really had it bad, as bad as it gets. But the truth is, even though I thought it had gone away when I grew up and we became friends, it never did. I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I think – I think you might feel the same way about me.’

  God, that was hard. But it’s out there now, no going back. I risk a glance upwards at his face again. If anything I’ve said has registered it doesn’t show. His expression is as impassive as before. No wonder he’s a good poker player.

  Maybe he didn’t hear me. Maybe he couldn’t take it in after everything that’s happened.

  ‘What I’m saying, Paul, is that I’m in love with you, although I didn’t know it for a long time, because obviously if I had I would have done something about it sooner. You were there all the time, right under my nose, but I didn’t see it. I mean, you take it for granted, don’t you, what’s there in front of you? You don’t realise what’s really important until it’s gone. Like all the stuff I lost in the fire. I thought all that was important for a while. I thought I’d never be happy again until I replaced every last thing ...

  ‘But now I know I was wrong – all that stuff doesn’t mean anything, it’s totally worthless. You joked about how I’d probably save my fridge-freezer before my family photos, Paul, and maybe you were right – then. But I’ve learned a lot in these last few months. I’ve learned what really matters. And what matters is… what matters is…’

  I take a deep breath. This is all getting away from me somehow. I need to get it back on track.

  ‘Once I realised how I felt about you I tried to let you know. And it didn’t go down too well, did it? I was embarrassed, it was hard to be rejected. But the
n I started to see that maybe you did feel something for me, and we started to get closer and it was great. Really great. But all the time it was like all you could see were the other people in my life, people like John Dean and Joshua – people who weren’t important. You weren’t seeing me. And you were punishing me for things I hadn’t even done. It was – unfair.’

  I wish he’d say something back instead of letting me prattle on. But Paul seems to be made of stone. I honestly don’t think he has moved a single muscle since I started talking. I am shivering now and I just know that my nipples are sticking out ridiculously. Not that Paul is the kind of man to comment on a thing like that. Which is one of the reasons I love him so much.

  ‘Paul.’ I try hard to keep the note of pleading out of my voice. ‘I’m sorry it all got messed up, I really am. Yes, I was a bit confused about John Dean at first. And yes, I am friends with Joshua, but that’s all it will ever be. I know my priorities were all over the place for a while. And we’ve both been too stubborn to sort it out. But I know now that the one thing in my life that I can’t live without is you.’

  In my whole life I have never said anything so clichéd. But I have an idea that when something is true it ceases to be a cliché. I watch his beautiful face and I wait, feeling as though time has stopped.

  Here, by the side of the lake, with the goose poo giving off nose-curling fumes at our feet, I wait. But Paul just stands there looking over my head across the water, like a marble statue with a face carved out of granite. The early morning sun highlights his cheekbones and makes his blue eyes shaded and unreadable. Time stretches out.

  A woman with a dog walks past, moving onto the grass to give us a wide berth.

  This is useless.

  I turn and start back towards the car park, trying to run but mainly just stumbling. My legs are made of wood. And I never noticed before how tears sting your eyes – are they made out of acid or something? Just to punish you that little bit more.

  When I reach my car I search inside my holdall for a tissue, cursing the fact that I still haven’t learned to be more organised.

  A small sheet of paper falls out onto my lap. I pick it up and unfold it carefully, peering out of teary eyes. It’s that blasted list again, coming back to haunt me. All the things I thought I couldn’t live without. An American double-door ice-maker fridge-freezer. A Kenwood mixer that I never even used. What a joke! None of it means anything anymore. I crumple the list into a sad little ball, throw it out of the window and drive away.

  Chapter 30

  Ten weeks and one day. That’s how long it has been since I woke to find my house going up in smoke. And now, as I sit on my brand new sofa waiting for my brand new TV to arrive, just about everything is back to normal. Except, of course, nothing in my life is normal anymore.

  But at least I have a working kitchen and a sparkling bathroom, and walls that smell of fresh paint instead of smoke. Everything in my life is brand new – just what I’d always wanted. A sparkling, untarnished version of what I had before.

  On the surface at least.

  This house is now a vastly improved version of its former self. Putting together everything I’ve learned from those wonderful TV programmes I have decorated in neutral shades, kept the clutter to a minimum, and gone for the best kitchen I could afford.

  The sale of this house will fund my new career but I’m not in a huge rush to put it on the market. I’ve only just got it back – I want to enjoy it myself a little first.

  I am wiping down my new granite-effect worktops for the tenth time this morning when there is a knock on the door. It’s the telly men, panting under the weight of the plasma screen I’ve waited so long for. Despite the fact that it’s only a measly thirty-seven inches (size isn’t everything, you know), the delivery men make a right meal of bringing it in and getting the thing set up. By the time they’ve gone, I’m itching to see those tubes in action. Remote in hand, I sink back into the sofa. With a low hum and a hiss of static it springs to life and fills my lounge with colour.

  The people on the screen are screeching at each other in mock-cockney accents. Everybody looks miserable. It’s raining. Hmm. Sunday afternoon soap omnibuses clearly haven’t changed much since I’ve been away from the box. I press my shiny new remote control and another picture appears on the screen in glorious Technicolor. Lots of green, so bright I want to shield my eyes. And little figures of men running around then diving on the floor in agony.

  Did I really spend all this time saving all this money just so I could watch EastEnders or football?

  Finally I settle for an episode of Columbo, which is so old and grainy it doesn’t do my new TV any justice at all. I might as well be watching it on a fifteen-inch portable with a set-top aerial. Crisps and chocolate offer some comfort, and soon I’m curled up with a contentedly fat belly, surveying my suave new lounge with a property developer’s eye. Not bad, I think. Not bad for ten weeks’ work on a budget, with two jobs and a pregnant daughter.

  I’m considering driving to the nearest off-licence to buy myself some champagne when there is another knock on the door. Figuring it’s probably one of the neighbours come to check out the finished product, I race to open it. I’m in the mood for company.

  I open my shiny new front door and come face to face with Paul Smart.

  Last seen turned into stone by the side of Willen Lake.

  ‘Paul!’ I say, doing a great job of stating the obvious.

  I can’t quite believe it. Part of me really believed that yesterday would be the last time I’d ever see him – unless I plucked up the courage to go into Smart Homes one day, which seemed unlikely. I nearly add, ‘You’re alive!’

  ‘Stella.’

  This is all he says in reply, and it sounds a little short so maybe the statue thing hasn’t worn off completely.

  Inviting him in, I witter on about the new décor and the carpet shade I’d finally chosen.

  Why am I so bloody nervous?

  I wish I wasn’t wearing my old leggings with the saggy arse and a T-shirt of Lipsy’s that reads “Come Get Me Big Boy”. Mind you, considering that the last time he saw me I was dripping with sweat this is possibly an improvement.

  That’s when I notice he is smiling. The granite has been chiselled away to reveal an actual smile. A stunning, light-up-the-room kind of smile. And he is rummaging in his pocket for something. I resist the urge to offer to do that for him. Something tells me this is not the time for smut.

  ‘What are you looking so happy about?’ To be honest, I’m a bit annoyed. What right does he have to be smiling when I’m feeling so low. Yesterday I told the man I loved him. The last time I told a man that I was still a size ten.

  Could he be any more insensitive?

  ‘You know, Stella,’ he says, still bloody smiling, ‘you really shouldn’t be such a litter bug.’

  So the man has come round to my house, when we aren’t even speaking as far as I know, to tell me not to drop litter?

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I snap.

  ‘I found something of yours and I thought you might like it back.’ Now his sexy smile is starting to get on my nerves. Paul is just too damn handsome when he smiles, and having to look at it now is like having my nose rubbed in the whole sorry mess all over again.

  ‘Whatever it is,’ I tell him, strolling through to the kitchen and talking over my very cold shoulder, ‘I’m really not interested. But thanks for stopping by.’ I can’t cope with another rejection. I don’t have the strength. Better if I get the rejection in first this time: at least that way I’ll maybe have a shred of self-respect left.

  ‘Here, have this.’

  I look at his hands. They hold a crumpled piece of paper. Has he come round to give me a note? My P45, perhaps? I look again more closely. The colour of the paper looks familiar. It has balloons all over it and is a muddy shade of pink.

  Paul is holding in his hand the list that I dropped in the park. I glare at it and then at him. Will
I never be rid of the thing?

  ‘No thank you,’ I say, spitting each word out. ‘I don’t think I’ll be needing it anymore.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ He smiles at me again and his eyes are laughing. ‘It’s just that there’s something on this list that you don’t have yet. Something I’d really like you to have. And you did put “Can’t Live Without” at the top of the list, so I really think you should take a look.’ He holds it out at me, waving it tantalisingly in front of my face.

  I snatch it from him, wishing he would just stop smirking. Obviously my list has been a source of great amusement to him, which doesn’t surprise me at all. But I am not going to give him the satisfaction of hearing me explain it.

  ‘Happy now?’ I say. ‘Well, if that’s all I am a bit busy.’ I wave at the kitchen with its sparkling surfaces and immaculately empty worktops. Clearly I have nothing at all to do.

  Paul leans comfortably against the cooker and gestures at the plain white fridge-freezer. ‘You decided not to replace the monster, then?’

  I could quite happily throttle him. He looks so damn sexy in a suit. Come to think of it, why is he wearing a suit? On a Sunday? And why, after all I’ve said, is he still smiling at me?

  ‘What about the last item on your list?’ he asks again. ‘Are you sure you’ve changed your mind about that one?’

  ‘Will you just …’ I am about to say something unrepeatable when I notice the look in his eyes. There is something indefinable there, a combination of excitement and affection. I haven’t seen him look like that since he organised a surprise party for my twenty-fifth birthday – which was a disaster, but that’s a different story.

  He points to the scrap of paper in my hand again.

  Oh, for goodness sake! Do I really need my nose rubbing in this? I am about to throw it in the bin when I notice that something has been added to the very bottom of the list in what looks like a bad forgery of my handwriting.

  Two words.

  Paul Smart.