‘Morning.’
Why didn’t he sound friendlier? People were such crap hosts these days. ‘Morning.’ Chris found he had to think very hard to get his lips in motion.
‘Could you get up and get dressed, please?’
It was probably Mark’s pharmacy training that made him sound like the nurse at a particularly draconian GP practice. ‘Can I have another ten …?’
‘No. I’ve made some coffee. I’m in the lounge.’ And with that, the door closed and Mark was gone.
Chris rolled out of bed and onto the floor. His clothes, so lovingly pressed by his mother not twenty-four hours before, now lay in a foul-smelling heap on the floor. He could only find one shoe. Presumably the other would turn up eventually. He couldn’t face his gladrags so he unearthed some of his other, more workaday clothes from his backpack. They were beginning to look the worse for wear, having been washed and reworn so often since he had left … he found he could hardly think the next bit without tearing up. He shook himself. He must learn to man up if he was going to make it in this life. He pulled on a sweater, thin at the elbow, and went out to see what the hell was biting Mark. He couldn’t remember but chances were that his old mate was one of those who didn’t cope with hangovers too well. He was surprised at himself, actually – bearing in mind how much he remembered drinking the night before, he didn’t feel that bad.
A cafetiere of coffee stood on a place mat on the small dining table in the bay window. The High Street was quiet as yet, with a few strollers out in the early sun. At this time of year, it paid to make the most of every ray. If the forecasts were to be believed, the winter was not going to be easy. There was toast as well. Chris instinctively looked for the honey and the bowl of oranges, but Mark clearly didn’t have Chelsea Morning in his head – there was some strawberry jam and some Clover. Take it or leave it. He looked up as Chris went in. ‘Sit down, Chris,’ he said, tightly. ‘Let’s have some breakfast while we talk.’
‘Talk?’ Chris glanced at the clock, predictably enough on the mantelpiece. Ten o’clock. Not bad, not bad. And it was Sunday, after all. ‘What about?’ He took a slice of toast, spread it thickly with the Clover and took a bite. Healthy or no, he really couldn’t cotton to these spready things – butter was the only option, to his mind.
Mark snuffled. It could have been an ironic laugh. ‘What about?’ he said. ‘What about? Let’s start with the drinking …’
‘We went out for a drink,’ Chris pointed out, mildly. ‘I would have been happy here with a pizza.’
‘Fair enough,’ Mark said. ‘But when I suggested going out for a drink, I didn’t expect you to get roaring, falling down, vomiting drunk.’
Chris looked a little shamefaced. ‘I did have a bit too much, I suppose. Sorry.’
‘A bit too much. Okay, I had a bit too much. But I could walk. I could speak. But, most of all, I didn’t pick up a drunken slapper and have her up against a wall in an alley.’
Chris laughed, a short bark, cut off sharply. ‘Nor did I!’ he said. ‘I don’t do that kind of thing.’
‘Apparently, you do. You weren’t long, I’ll give you that. In fact, as I recall, she had a few things to say about that as we made our way back here. I’m not really prepared to repeat any of it, but it was very graphic.’
‘But …’ Dim memories, flashes like a strobe light, began to surface. ‘Was it … was it when we came out of that gastro-pub place?’
‘No. it was when we were thrown out of that gastro-pub place. She was lying in the road.’ Chris looked stricken. ‘I can see it’s coming back to you, now.’
The whole incident flooded over him like ice-water. She had been hard to handle, down in the dark of the alley. He had tried to prop her up, but she wasn’t having any. They had ended up on a pile of bin bags, full of God knew what … he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe! He could hear Mark somewhere in the far distance but he wasn’t making any sense. His blood was pounding in his ears and he knew he needed to breathe, but he couldn’t. His chest was in a vice. He was dying, no doubt about it. He got up, knocking the table as he did so and he felt the hot coffee flood over his hand. The sun coming through the curtains was hurting his eyes. The black dog bounded around the room, tail wagging, eyes bright, mouth open and panting, spittle flying, ready for some fun. Chris flailed around, taking gasping breaths in, but unable to breathe out.
Mark came round the table and grasped him firmly by the shoulders. He spoke clearly, looking straight into Chris’s eyes. ‘You’re having a panic attack. You’re almost through it. Listen to me. Breathe on the count of ten. Can you do that? Listen to my voice. Breathe with me as I count and when you can, join in. In your head and then out loud. All right? One … two …’
Chris relaxed into his friend’s grip and listened to him counting. ‘… three …’
‘That’s it. Count for me. Five … six …’
Slowly, Chris felt better. His breaths in were less trembling, more positive. Soon, he felt his knees begin to relax and he could sit down. He put his head down on his folded arms, still feeling sick and weak.
Mark lay a hand gently on his shoulder. Then, after a few moments’ pressure, he patted him twice and left the room. ‘Don’t worry,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’m just making some fresh coffee. Actually, not coffee for you. Some camomile tea. Just keep your head down for a minute. I’ll be right back.’
Chris was pleased to have the keep his head down instruction as he was far from sure he would be able to do anything else. Slowly, he got his breathing back under control and the trembling that seized him from his head to his heels every ten seconds or so finally stopped. When Mark came back in with a mug in one hand and a fresh cafetiere in the other, he was sitting up and feeling a little calmer. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’ Mark put a mug of pale liquid that smelled of lawn clippings down in front of him, then poured himself a cup of coffee. ‘For having a panic attack – well, don’t be so silly. No one has one of those on purpose. For getting falling down drunk and behaving like an animal, then I’m not sure that sorry will quite do the business.’
‘Look … Mark …’ Chris took a sip of his tea; actually, not that bad. Then, a thought occurred to him. ‘What’s in this?’ It came out much more truculently than he meant, but he couldn’t change that.
‘Camomile,’ Mark said. ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t slipped you anything mind altering. In fact, I didn’t slip you anything mind altering the last time, either. I just find that the placebo effect can do more when I tell someone they’ve taken something a bit dodgy.’
‘So … what did I take?’ Chris was confused.
Mark shrugged. ‘Just a few herbal bits, something to make it taste nasty. It’s more than my livelihood is worth to do anything else. Sorry. If you had been blaming me for your … unfortunate lapse, shall we call it … then you’ll have to step up to the plate. It was all you, mate. Sorry. And last night was definitely all you. She was almost unconscious. What were you thinking?’
Chris put his head in his hands and scrubbed at his scalp with his fingers. ‘I don’t know. I scarcely remember …’ He looked up, haggard. ‘Did anyone see me?’
Mark considered the situation. He had been pretty sure he had seen that friend of Megan’s out of the corner of his eye. But he didn’t expect Megan was with her; he had heard she was a bit reclusive these days and really, no wonder. But … what was her name? Jan? One syllable, anyway. But she would probably tell Megan; if she saw anything. Too many unknowns. ‘Only me and her mate. The pregnant bride.’
Chris’s stomach gave a jolt. Gavin’s intended. But perhaps not; she couldn’t be the only pregnant bride-to-be in town. ‘Let’s hope that’s the end of it, then,’ he said, hopefully.
‘Yes, let’s,’ Mark said, then his training and his natural laser-like honesty rose up. ‘But you might find it comes to bite you, mate. I mean, did you use any protection?’
‘Of course I bloo
dy didn’t. I could hardly stand, let alone … oh,’ as realisation dawned. ‘Oh … I see.’
‘Yes. Any or all of the following. An unwanted sprog for her, a nice STI for you.’
Chris took a gulp of his tea. He would have preferred something stronger, but for now, camomile tea it would have to be. ‘How long …?’
‘Pregnancy, who knows? If she’s a bit more sensible than she came across yesterday, she’ll be round the walk-in now for a morning after pill. If she isn’t – any time in the next six weeks should be when the shit hits the fan. The other – all depends, but if I were you, I would be round the walk-in this morning, too.’
‘Can't you give me something?’
Mark held his hands up. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I can help with headaches and the odd allergy but prophylactic antibiotics are a bit out of my league.’ He leaned forward across the table. ‘But, look, Chris … last night notwithstanding, you need help. Your life has unravelled and you’re behaving as if it’s just a blip. Let’s face it, you’ve always tended to suffer from depression …’
Chris’s usual reaction reared up and his chest went tight. Then he remembered Cassie and it subsided. He could hear her voice. He could feel the gentle touch of her hand. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said. ‘I just thought …’
‘Thought you were a miserable bugger?’ Mark smiled at him. ‘That’s what we all thought when we were twelve, Chris. But you’re old enough now to know it isn’t normal to feel the way you do, surely.’
‘We just never talked about it …’
‘Well, no.’ Mark cast his mind back to visits to the Rowans’ house when they were all at school. Mrs Rowan, flying round like a bumble bee on speed, food every second, merry whitterings round the clock. Claire, morose and argumentative. He hadn’t seen her for years, but he realised now she was clearly on some spectrum or another, just unacknowledged by the bumble bee and her husband, Mr Rowan. Quiet to the point of invisibility. Often in a shed in the garden, working on his projects, none of which ever seemed to emerge. Again, the bright light of hindsight and what Mark knew of his sad decline and unwillingness to accept his cancer made it clear that he was also a depression sufferer. What a family – but probably not much more dysfunctional than any other. Certainly no worse than his own, in the scheme of things. ‘Chris …’ Mark didn’t want the next bit of the conversation to arrive, but the longer he put it off, the worse it would be.
‘I know,’ Chris said, looking up with a smile so infinitely sad that Mark’s heart turned over. ‘I can't stay. You have had a telegram from your aunt from Brazil …’
‘… where the nuts come from …’ Mark filled in, in a voice full of tears.
‘… and, oh my goodness, she’s arriving today.’ He and Mark shared so much. He wondered whether anyone at all knew him so well.
‘Not today,’ Mark said. ‘Let’s leave it till tomorrow, shall we? But then … it won't do you any good to hide here, Chris. You need to move on properly. Get your own place. A job. Get back on your feet.’
‘It’s for my own good?’ This was a test question; he already knew the answer.
‘Yes. That’s it. It’s for your own good.’
Bingo! The right or the wrong answer, depending on the point of view. Chris got up from the table. Suddenly, he ached in every joint and his head was hammering. His tongue grew fur and he was going hot and cold. Oh, hello, hangover, he thought. I wondered when you’d be putting in your six pennyworth. He managed a smile. ‘No worries,’ he said. ‘I’ll go now. Down to the walk-in and then …’
‘Then?’ Mark was on his feet. ‘Then, where?’
‘Claire’s?’
‘Don’t be daft. Stay here till tomorrow. Tomorrow’s another day.’ Mark had always been a bit of a shining light in drama class, but even he couldn’t make much of a stab at Vivien Leigh that morning. But he was right, Chris thought. Tomorrow certainly was another day.
That Sunday morning, Megan had woken late; a luxury she hadn’t really been able to enjoy for the past three years and more. She lay with her eyes closed, still smiling from the dream she had been having just before waking; she and Chris and Kyle were having a picnic, in a daisy-studded field, with the sun shining and larks singing overhead. Neither of them was complaining about what was in the sandwiches; they hadn’t forgotten to bring the flask, everything was perfect. That was how she had known it was a dream. As she came slowly back to the here and now, she began to take in a few details and also to remember things from the night before. Some things were good; others, very bad indeed.
For instance, the warm body behind her in the bed. Commonsense told her it wasn’t Chris; this wasn’t a soap; she hadn’t just been dreaming the nightmares of the last months. It definitely wasn’t Sam; she knew from other clues that it very definitely wasn’t Sam! Deep in her brain, she knew it was Will, a man she had met in a pub the night before, but she didn’t want it to be. That wasn’t because she disliked him; far from it. He was good looking, clearly not short of a bob or two and – as the memories lined up to be called properly to mind – he certainly knew what buttons to press when it came to sex. No, she didn’t want to be the sort of person who took a stranger to bed on the first date; if being set up by your friend even counted as a date. And, more especially, she didn’t want to be the sort of person who took said stranger home to where her three year old son, already damaged enough, was living.
As Kyle passed through her thoughts, so her breath constricted in her throat. Nine o’clock and no Kyle! She shot upright in bed, eyes wild, then lay back down again, another memory at the front of the queue vying for her attention. That’s right – Lily had stayed over, on the little flop out bed in Kyle’s room. She could hear them nattering away downstairs, if she listened really hard, over the mad beating of her heart. The woman was a saint and Megan smiled to herself, wondering how she could kidnap her and keep her for ever.
‘Hello, smiler,’ a voice said in her ear. ‘How are you this morning?’
She turned to Will and smiled some more. He hadn’t asked the test question, the one that would get him booted out before the kettle had even boiled. She gave him another second or two, because her life hadn’t been this hassle free since before the dawn of time and she didn’t want to believe it too soon. But no; there was no crass remark, just a long, slow kiss and a strong arm around her waist, pulling her closer. It occurred to her as she let herself melt into him that this could still be a dream. And if it is, her hindbrain said to her more sensible self, don’t knock it; dreams like this, I could get to like.
Sam’s awakening was a little more abrupt and the body in her bed rather more familiar, but she was also wondering if the last hours had been a dream. Looking at Will and Megan, she had wondered for a while whether she had lit a blue touch-paper that had better been left alone. But Brian had said he was a top bloke, not given to chasing women, not a serial heart-breaker, not a secret drinker, gambler or abuser. He had more money than he knew what to do with and … well, there was no ‘and’ so she had decided to let nature take its course. And it had certainly done that; in the cab, she sometimes hadn’t known where to look. She had gone into the house with them, slipped Lily fifty quid and asked her to stay as long as necessary. Megan had a lot of ghosts to lay and if laying Will was part of the process, it was fifty quid well spent. She turned over and propped herself up on one elbow, looking at Brian with a dispassionate eye. His hair was going a little at the temples but by and large, he was quite a catch. Older, of course, but all the boxes Will could tick, Brian could tick as well. With knobs on. She poked him in the ribs.
He opened one eye. ‘Mmphf?’ he asked, cryptically.
‘Brian. Brian! Wake up.’
‘Don’ wanna.’
‘No, I don’t expect you do.’ She waited. ‘Brian!’
He sighed and turned over, but his eyes were still shut. He reached across to stroke her stomach, but she slapped his hand away.
‘Not till you’ve answered my question
.’
‘But … when I have …?’
She kissed his forehead. ‘Depends on the answer.’
‘Okay.’ He opened his eyes. She smiled. She always forgot how blue they were in the morning sun coming through the blinds. She almost didn’t bother with her question as they crinkled at the corners and his hand started creeping across the bed again.
‘What’s the catch?’
‘Catch?’
‘With Will.’
‘There is no catch with Will. He is …’ he couldn’t help a little laugh, although he knew it was rude to laugh at your own jokes, ‘… a catch.’
‘No wife?’
‘Not any more. Safely married off to someone else.’
‘Kids?’
‘Vile children, though he tends to flash the pics. He sees them as little as possible.’
‘No other worries?’
‘No drink problem, doesn’t chase women, nothing like that. Ooooh … hang on though …’ Brian made a grab for her but missed. ‘I believe he’s a bit of a farter when he’s had sprouts. Or so they say.’
‘They? I thought you said he didn’t chase women.’ She looked at him sternly. ‘This is my best friend we’re talking about here.’
Brian gathered her to him. ‘Well, there’s a bit of a rumour going around that he sometimes likes to bat for the other side …’
She struggled out of his arms and was standing by the bed almost in one movement. ‘What? What? He’s gay?’
‘No, no, not at all. If anything, he’s bi. But probably not even that. You know how people like to talk. And, honestly, Sam, why worry? He was all over Megan last night. He’s obviously smitten. Don’t rock the boat. Come back to bed.’
She climbed in, but slowly. ‘Brian … I should tell her …’
‘Why? And what would you say? Mr Right, Mr Gorgeous, Mr Moneybags who will take you and your frankly rather strange kid out of the shit your ex has landed you in, may or on the other hand may not be, a little bit bi, as in when he’s had a few drinks and is out with like-minded friends? It’s a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it? And why meet trouble halfway? They might never see each other after today, so no harm, no foul. Hmm?’
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