by Mike Gayle
‘No. Not at all.’
‘Are you sure you won’t be offended?’
I wondered if it was going to be an embarrassing question along the lines of ‘When was the last time you saw a man naked?’
‘Look,’ I said, ‘at the rate of excitement I’ve been indulging in this weekend, being offended would be positively welcome.’
‘What are you scared of?’
I paused, relieved that I no longer had to tell her about the occasion when I’d disturbed Simon and Tammy on their kitchen table, naked but for the melting contents of a tub of Cookie Dough Dynamo Häagen-Dazs.
‘You think I’m scared of life, don’t you? Well, I’m not. I’m not scared of failure either. After all I’m a failed teacher and I haven’t killed myself yet. What I’m scared of is this: that at twenty-six, I’m too old to make my dreams come true. It’s so hard not to feel envious of you. I know I’m going to sound like an OAP, but at least you’ve got the potential to do what you want to do.’
‘Whereas you . . .’
‘Whereas I haven’t. My course is set. Unless something drastic happens this is it for the rest of my life.’
‘What about becoming the next Scorcese?’
She wasn’t getting the message. ‘Orson Welles had written, produced and directed Citizen Kane, one of the world’s greatest films, by the time he was twenty-six.’
‘Forget Orson Welles,’ exclaimed Kate. ‘The TV genius that is Tony Warren was only twenty-three when he came up with the idea for Coronation Street!’ Kate stopped herself, immediately realising she wasn’t helping matters. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not being very helpful, am I? My mate’s brother who works on Coronation Street, he told me that amazing fact. It’s been waiting there for the chance to escape ever since.’
‘I’m not getting into a debate about whether Coronation Street is better than Citizen Kane! That’s not the point. The point is, I’m twenty-six! All I’ve done is smoke cigarettes, watch TV and moan about my ex-girlfriend. Even if I started now, I’d be lucky to direct a school production of Joseph and his Technicolor Dream Coat before I’m thirty. Sometimes you’ve got to face facts.’
Kate wasn’t convinced. ‘You can do anything you want. If you’ve got talent it’ll shine through in the end. You’ve got to believe in yourself.’
Her positivity was depressing. The similarity of her words to those I might have uttered at her age was surprisingly accurate. Little did she know that I was she, six years down the line.
‘Look, Kate,’ I said in my best let-me-give-you-a-few-words-of-advice voice. ‘It’s taken me this long to just get here. How long is it going to take to get anywhere else? Three years ago, maybe I had a chance. Maybe I could’ve done all the things I wanted.’ My voice became higher, louder, more aggressive. ‘It’s too late. Sometimes you’ve got to know when enough is enough!’ Out of frustration I kicked the ice-cream tub containing my Sugar Puffs breakfast and immediately regretted it. Creamy yellow froth and puffed wheat seeped onto my overcoat, which had been lying on the floor next to it. Now I really would have to get it dry-cleaned.
‘It’s never too late,’ said Kate quietly. ‘Not while you still believe.’
I was moved by the kindness of her words and for a few ecstatic seconds, deep in my heart I was convinced she was right. Then my brain kicked in. She was wrong. In spite of everything I’d done to prevent it, my course was set and there was nothing I could do about it. I’d spent the whole of my life wondering what I was going to ‘be’: at the age of five I’d wanted to be a lorry driver; at eight I’d desperately wanted to be Noel Edmonds; in my teens I’d flirted with every profession from a psychic to a chef, before deciding in my twenties that I sort of, possibly, wouldn’t mind making films. So what had I done to set myself on the right path? I’d sat on the dole and then done a teacher training course. And because of that one mistake I was going to ‘be’ a teacher even if it killed me.
‘Thanks, it was nice of you to say that,’ I said kindly. I wanted to apologise for getting so wound up but I couldn’t find a way to say it comfortably, so I changed the subject. ‘What’s your favourite film?’
This was a naff question, only surpassed in naffness by, ‘So, what music are you into?’ but I was desperate to know. Kate and I were sharing so many things that I felt were binding us together. It was hard to believe that as someone who adored films I hadn’t asked her already.
‘It’s Gregory’s Girl,’ she said despondently. ‘I know it’s not as cool as some of the films that are bound to be your favourites. It’s not Taxi Driver, Reservoir Dogs or Apocalypse Now, but I like it all the same. It’s sweet, it’s . . .’
I tried to contain my excitement. ‘You’re wrong, Kate. So wrong. Gregory’s Girl is my favourite film. It’s fantastic. Better than Taxi Driver, Apocalypse Now or even sodding Citizen Kane!’
Time ceased to have any meaning as we tried to recall the best bits of a film full of best bits. Her favourite parts were when Dorothy, the object of Gregory’s desire, was being interviewed for the school paper in the dressing rooms, followed by the bit where the lost penguins keep getting redirected around the school.
‘Let’s dance,’ I said.
She knew what I meant immediately.
Lying on my back, elbows resting on the carpet and wrists in the air, I began to move as if dancing as Gregory and Susan had done in the park scene near the end of the film. My ear kept moving away from the phone, but there was no mistaking the fact that Kate was participating because she was laughing so loudly that I could still hear her.
‘What if Paula comes back? She’ll think I’ve completely lost it!’
‘Don’t worry!’ I yelled at the receiver, still dancing and feeling the happiest I had in a long time. ‘Just go with the flow.’
7.39 P.M.
I was on a roll. My words couldn’t trip out fast enough. Kate made me feel like jabbering away until Monday morning. What was most impressive was the fact that she wasn’t bored, sitting there in her Brighton flat, listening to a complete stranger talk about his life. I wanted to confess everything: how I couldn’t swim but could bend my thumb back until it touched my wrist; and how, until my first day at Wood Green Comprehensive, I’d never bought a pre-packaged sandwich (I don’t know why, I just hadn’t). I wanted her to know everything.
‘Tell me some more,’ said Kate.
‘What?’
‘Tell me more about you.’
‘Er, well. No,’ I said uneasily. It was hard saying no to a girl who made me want to say yes to anything she suggested, but one of the cover lines on my ‘donated’ copy of Cosmopolitan kept flashing up in my head: ‘Why men love talking about themselves.’ Now, I decided, was my turn to listen.
‘Tell me about you,’ I said, smiling needlessly. ‘You’ve heard enough of me surely? Anyway, my mother always told me never to talk to strangers and until I know more about you, a stranger you will remain.’
‘It’s quite nice being a stranger,’ said Kate. ‘I could be anyone I want to be. Unfortunately I’m me. I work at Boots. I have to get there at 8.00 a.m. and I leave at 6.00 p.m. I work every other Saturday and get one day off during the week if I’ve worked a Saturday. That’s it really.’
‘I worked in a pub for a couple of months shifting crates of beer from the cellar. I hated every second of it. If it’s anything like that, I bet it’s soul-destroying.’
‘Not really,’ she said chirpily. ‘A mate of mine, Daniel, he works for a firm of accountants in Oxford, and his job is what I’d call soul-destroying. He’s constantly under pressure to produce results. Last week his doctor told him he’s got a stress-related ulcer. He’s only twenty-four. He earns quite a bit, mind. But no amount of money is worth all the rubbish he has to put up with. I’d never want a job like that. Boots wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have to get up so early. Anyway, I told Daniel this and I’ll say it to you. There’s no point in getting stressed about work. If a job gets on your nerves then leave it. No one�
��s got a gun to your head.’ There was a knocking noise down the phone line followed by a loud click. Kate’s voice disappeared. I panicked. I thought she’d gone forever. ‘Sorry about that, Paula’s just come in. She took me by surprise. I dropped the phone! Where was I? Ah, yes. I used to want to have a high-powered job. I can’t remember what kind exactly; I mean, I had phases where I’ve wanted to be everything from a news reader to a Crown Court judge, but I came to the conclusion that I couldn’t really see the point. Do you know that I once got it into my head that I wanted to be a professional tennis player?’
‘Were you really good at tennis?’
‘No, I hated it,’ said Kate dolefully. ‘I just liked the skirts.’
We both laughed. I wondered what she looked like in a tennis skirt.
Kate continued. ‘My driving ambition now is to fall in love, be a nurse, and have babies. That’s all I want my life to be about now. Once I’ve got those three things in that order I’ll have everything I want. It’s true.’
I wasn’t convinced. ‘How are love and babies going to make everything all right? Aren’t you forgetting some key points here, like babies costing money, love being hard to find, people falling out of love as easily as they fall in?’
‘I know all these things,’ she said, testily. ‘But that’s my ambition. I didn’t say it was practical or even possible. We’ve all got our dreams.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I said, by way of apology.
‘Do you think I’ll get what I want?’ asked Kate.
I couldn’t help looking at the photograph of Aggi’s bearded, bespectacled, scarred, toothless face on the wall. Even a defaced Aggi was better than no Aggi at all.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘The babies part is easy enough. The world’s crawling with sperm donors, as long as you’re not too choosy. And the job seems to be sorted. It’s the love part that I think might be problematic. In my opinion, you can only say that love truly is love once you’re both dead, because it’s only then, once you’ve managed to go your entire lives with each other and there’s nowhere for you to go off to or anyone to go off with, that it finally becomes real. Anything else is more or less just infatuation. I’m serious.’ The door to one of the neighbouring flats slammed shut, shaking my windows. I crawled into bed. ‘Everybody loves a lover but too many people lack Staying Power. Love should be fatal. You should never recover from it. If you can, then it wasn’t love.’
‘Really?’ said Kate, as though she had another question lined up. ‘So what about you and Aggi? Was what you had love?’
‘It was love. I loved her and I continue to love her, despite everything I do to make myself stop.’
‘You might love her, but what about the fact that she doesn’t love you? Is love really love if only one person stays true to the cause? That sounds more like infatuation to me. No offence intended.’
Kate was showing a side of her that I hadn’t noticed before. She was capable of seeing straight through my sweeping statements and had by now probably realised that my authoritative manner was as fake as everything else about me.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, lost for words. ‘I think you’ve actually made quite a good point there. This must mean that I’m as sad as every other loser out there.’
‘You made up the rules,’ she joked.
‘Yeah, I did.’ I was getting tired of this now. ‘He who lives by the sword dies by the sword. What goes around comes around. I’ve made my bed so I’d better lie in.’
‘It?’ prompted Kate.
‘No, just in.’
We both laughed.
‘I tell you what though,’ I said. ‘Aggi did love me.’
‘How do you know? Did she tell you?’
‘Yeah, she told me a million times but . . .’
I was going to tell Kate about something Aggi had done which proved beyond any reasonable doubt how much she felt about me, but I couldn’t get the words out. This was a private memory and neither time nor space had made it mean any less to me. What Aggi and I had done was ridiculous in a silly sort of way, but I had forgiven myself long ago on the grounds that we’re all allowed to be ‘silly’ once in a while, especially when in love. And I suppose it’s true that even the most ridiculous things can carry more poignancy than all of Shakespeare’s sonnets rolled together.
At the time of the event I was thinking of, I was twenty-one and Aggi was twenty, ideal ages to be hopelessly romantic. It was a Tuesday afternoon during the summer holidays, a year after we’d first met. Aggi had called around at my house. I was still in bed even though it was two in the afternoon. The sun was shining brightly through the chocolate fabric of my bedroom curtains, turning everything inside golden brown and warming up the air until it felt like a greenhouse. All the sounds coming in through my open bedroom window – birds chirping, next door neighbour’s kids playing Swingball; the far-off jingle of an ice-cream van – were surprisingly life-affirming. And yet, there I lay, sweating under the duvet flicking through a number of books looking for ideas for my dissertation.
Tom must have let Aggi in because I only realised she was there when she knocked on my door from inside the room. She must have been standing there for ages because she didn’t say anything for a minute or two and seemed a little embarrassed when I looked up from my book, completely avoiding all eye contact. She’d said, ‘Let’s go to the park.’ And after I’d put on some clothes and had a brief wash, that’s exactly what we did. On the way there she didn’t say much, as if going over something in her mind that she was trying not to forget. When we got to Crestfield Park by the large oak tree – the very same oak tree where I’d later scatter her imaginary ashes – she sat down on the freshly mown grass and tugged at my sleeve, signalling me to take a seat. And this is what she said:
‘I woke up this morning and knew that I loved you more than ever. Sometimes I get scared that this feeling will slip away into something less than the wonderfulness it is now. So I’ve got a plan. Let’s capture how we feel right now and keep it forever. I’ve got some scissors in my bag and I’m going to cut off a lock of my hair and then you’ll cut off a lock of your hair and we’ll twist them together. Then on a scrap of paper I’ll write down everything I feel about you and then you’ll do the same. Then we’ll put the lot in one of those plastic containers you put film in and we’ll bury it right here. What do you say?’
∗ ∗ ∗
What could I say? It didn’t seem a ‘silly’ thing to do at all. It seemed like the only thing that made sense. It’s easy to feel that everyday love isn’t like love in the movies because successions of mind-numbingly dismal, modern romantic comedies – stand up French Kiss, Sleepless in Seattle and While You Were Sleeping – have succeeded in turning everything that’s wonderful about love into cheese. People are too literal about love now and it’s all because, thanks to these films, there’s little space left for symbolism in real life. What Aggi and I did was slightly strange and the kind of thing that only lead characters in a Shakespearean tragedy could pull off convincingly, but I loved every second of it.
Aggi took her mum’s orange-handled scissors from her bag and chopped off a lock of hair, scribbled on a piece of paper and put it in the container. I cut off some of my hair from the back, wrote on my piece of paper and then twisted our hair together and dug into the dirt with my hands. The hole, as deep as my hand, was more than big enough for the container. Together we packed the leftover soil on top of it, then stood up and stared at the mound, not speaking. We kissed right there and then went back to Aggi’s.
I didn’t know what Aggi had written and she didn’t know what I had written, and that was what made the whole thing so mystical. Looking back, sometimes I like to joke with myself that the whole thing was some kind of voodoo trick, and that our messages and twisted hair were what was keeping me bound to Aggi all this time, but even I couldn’t take it that seriously.
Over the next few days I couldn’t get what we’d done off my mind. I had to know what Aggi
had written about me. Nearly a week after we’d gone to the park, I returned, determined to dig up the container. I felt awful. I was betraying her trust. But I needed to do it. Because I needed to know.
When I reached the spot I immediately knew something was wrong because the mound had been disturbed. I clawed at the soil, but the container wasn’t there. Had Aggi dug it up because she’d changed her mind? Had she been afraid that I might do what she’d actually done herself? Had someone else dug it up? I didn’t know and I never found out. It was another of those questions that I never got to ask Aggi. Something inside me makes me think that she had second thoughts and just didn’t like the idea of our declaration being out there – because then I would’ve had evidence that I was as important to her as she was to me.
9.47 P.M.
We’d been talking for a long time. My lips were as close to the phone as humanly possible. A small but not insignificant pool of moisture had formed in the mouthpiece. I swear if I could’ve slipped into that pool and slid down the telephone line right into Kate’s flat I would’ve done. Gladly. To be with her, to be touched by her presence would’ve made my day. It would’ve made my decade. A huge wave of loneliness sprang up from nowhere, threatening to overwhelm me. I think it’s time to go.
‘I think it’s time to go,’ I said.
Kate was hurt. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘No, it’s not you,’ I said, desperately wanting her to believe me. ‘It’s not you at all. It’s me. I’ve enjoyed every second talking to you. You’re really . . .’ I couldn’t finish the sentence without saying something totally clichéd. ‘You’re really . . .’
‘I’m really . . .’
‘You’re really . . .’ I flicked through my lexicon of top quality compliments. Thanks to a world brimming over with cheesy films, cheesy books, cheesy music and cheesy TV – reducing the greatest human emotion to the lowest common denominator – they all sounded too jaded, too un-Kate, too, well, cheesy.
‘You’re special,’ I told her. ‘I think you’re special.’