by Mike Gayle
My mind remained blank. The spirit of Barbara White took control once more. ‘You must be pretty cut-up about it.’
‘I can’t believe he’s gone,’ said Alice oblivious to my inanity. ‘He’s gone. What am I going to do now? I haven’t done a thing since he left but cry. The cat’s crapped over the bathroom floor, I’m supposed to be preparing for a meeting with my senior manager tomorrow and I was going to paint the kitchen this afternoon too.’ She laughed sardonically. ‘I hate that sodding cat anyway. She always liked Bruce more than me.’
‘Perhaps she’ll like you more now he’s gone,’ I said sagely.
Alice began to cry again.
I abandoned Barbara White mode, as it wasn’t doing me or Alice any good. Instead I did what I should have done from the start: relied on my natural ability to tell It the way It is. ‘Y’see, Alice,’ I said crawling back into bed, ‘it’s like this: life is a load of old arse. Always has been and always will be.’ I felt cold. I pulled the duvet up to my neck. ‘I know how you feel. I do, I really do. There you are living life safe in the knowledge that the only thing that keeps you sane, the only thing that makes it all worthwhile is the person you love and then vrooooooom!, he clears off faster than the Tasmanian Devil with a rocket up his bum. And all that’s left to remind you he was ever part of your life is a pile of photos, a few letters and too many memories.’
Alice didn’t say anything. I didn’t know whose benefit my little speech was for, so I changed the subject.
‘Did you manage to sleep at all last night?’
‘No. I lay awake all night thinking and crying. I would’ve phoned you earlier but it was really late when I felt able to call.’
‘Look,’ I said gently, ‘you can phone me whenever you like. Morning, noon or night. It’s like Diana Ross once said, “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough”.’ I cleared my throat and presented her with my best impression of that former Supreme’s soul stirring hit.
‘Cheers,’ said Alice laughing. ‘You’re a mate.’ She paused as if catching her breath and then started crying again. ‘Why has he done this, Will? I met her, you know. We all went out for dinner when she gave him the promotion to her department. She was exceptionally nice to me too. All night she kept saying that we must go out together some time. She must be about forty-two but she’s really beautiful. She’s got her own personal trainer. I don’t know . . . what’s wrong with me? Why doesn’t Bruce love me any more? He must really worship her to do this to me after all the time we’ve been together. This kind of thing doesn’t happen overnight. How long has he felt things were wrong and not told me? How long has he been sleeping with her and then coming home to sleep with me?’ She broke down, violently sobbing into the phone. This was my closest friend, the only person in the world I could actually rely on, and there was nothing I could do or say to heal the pain. So we sat not speaking, wrapped in our own thoughts for close to an hour. Our connection via the telephone representing the closest two people can be when separated by 120 miles’ worth of fibre optic cable.
Next door’s dog began barking violently, waking me up from my trance-like state. I shook my head, trying to remember what I’d been thinking about in the time that had elapsed. I couldn’t remember. I thought perhaps I’d fallen asleep.
‘Hello?’ I called down the phone line. ‘Hello? Alice?’
‘Oh, Will!’ said Alice sleepily. ‘I just dreamt that Bruce was here with me. We were lying in bed, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist, and he kept kissing me gently on my neck and telling me that he loved me.’ She began crying again.
‘What time is he coming back?’ I asked, once her tears had subsided to a gentle whimper.
‘Some time this evening,’ she said. ‘He’s at her house now . . . wherever that is.’ I could tell it took all her strength to hold back another flood of tears, but she did it. ‘What can I do? I can’t take this any more. He’s just walking all over me and I feel like I can’t do anything to stop him. I feel so helpless.’
‘What do you want to do?’ I asked. ‘Do you want me to beat him up?’
‘Yes,’ she said bitterly.
‘Oh,’ I said, swallowing hard as I pictured all six foot, four inches of Bruce. ‘While it would give me the greatest pleasure to kick all kinds of crap out of Bruce on your behalf, I think you ought to take on board the fact that given my weak stature the letting of blood would be all mine.’ Alice laughed. ‘You’re my best friend though, so I’m quite prepared to bleed over his Armani suit for you. Anything to make you feel better.’
Alice became serious again. ‘I want him to hurt, Will. I want him to hurt as much as I do. He wouldn’t care if I started seeing someone else. It’d probably make things easier for him. I just want him to hurt like I hurt. I want him to feel my pain.’
It was up to me to make things all right. I felt like Hannibal from The A-Team. ‘So hit him where it hurts.’
‘I’d never get near enough to get a kick in,’ said Alice, only half joking.
Taking out my imaginary cigar, I shook my head and wondered if George Peppard had ever tried it on with Audrey Hepburn.
‘No, I don’t mean that,’ I said. ‘I mean destroy all that he holds dear. Exactly what time is he coming back?’
‘I don’t know. Around five maybe. I said I wouldn’t be in and I won’t. He’ll probably have that bitch waiting for him outside.’
‘Right,’ I said. I searched around on the floor for a pair of socks for my cold feet. ‘There you go, you’ve got plenty of time to have the locks changed and make him regret ever wanting to see his boss naked.’ The duvet slid off the bed as I made myself comfortable. The flat was freezing. The plug-in electric radiator by the front door was at least three feet too far away for me to consider it worth the effort of getting out of bed. I pulled the duvet back onto the bed, covering myself right up to my neck, relaxed and checked the details of my plan. ‘You’ve got a cordless phone, haven’t you?’
‘It’s what I’m talking to you on.’
‘Excellent,’ I said – which would’ve been sufficient in itself – but I couldn’t resist adding, ‘Let’s party.’ I smiled involuntarily, my body’s way of telling me that on my internal scale of attitude, I was much closer to corny than ironic. ‘Which room are you in right now?’
‘I’m in the sitting room.’
‘What can you see?’
‘The sitting room.’
‘No, I mean what can you really see?’
I listened to the rustle of Alice’s hair brushing against the receiver as she looked around the room. ‘A sofa, a TV, a pack of B&H, a coffee table, some magazines: GQ, Marie Claire, The Economist, a fish tank, a hi-fi . . .’
‘Stop right there,’ I interrupted. ‘Is it Bruce’s hi-fi?’
‘His pride and joy. One of those high tech jobs. Ludicrously expensive.’ She sounded distant. ‘It’s Bruce’s pride and joy.’ More tears were right around the corner.
‘Right. Pick it up!’ I shouted, hoping I could generate enough mystery to stop her thinking about Bruce.
‘Why?’
‘Just pick it up!’ I yelled. ‘Have you got it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Take it to the bathroom.’
Alice made her journey to the bathroom in silence. All I could hear was a very faint buzz of static from the phone line.
‘Don’t walk!’ I commanded. ‘Run!’
‘I’m in the bathroom,’ said Alice breathlessly, after some moments. ‘This thing’s a bit bloody heavy. What shall I do now?’
Another involuntary smile spread across my face. ‘Put the hi-fi in the bath, put the plug in and turn on the tap.’
Alice laughed nervously.
‘You are joking?’
Yet another involuntary smile emerged because I desperately wanted to say, ‘No, I’m deadly serious.’
Fits of shrieking and laughter filled my ear drums.
‘Excellent,’ said Alice giggling. ‘Shall I add some Radox?’
> The sound of running water and laughter seemed to be everywhere. As we waited for the bath to fill up, Alice reminded me that I’d promised to visit her this month. I said I’d love to but couldn’t afford it. She offered to pay for my train ticket. I was genuinely moved.
‘It’s full,’ shouted Alice excitedly.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Let’s take a look at his clothes, shall we?’
‘I’m heading into the bedroom now!’ screamed Alice in full Challenge Anneka mode. ‘I’m opening his wardrobe. I can see his favourite jumper that he bought from Duffer of St George, a couple of hand-painted silk ties, two Agnes B shirts and three Armani suits.’
‘Anything else take your fancy?’
‘Oh, there’s a pair of black Katherine Hamnet trousers that he used to jokingly call his “pulling strides” and a limited edition Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt he adores that he got on a work trip to the States. Come to think of it, Angela was on that trip too. Bitch. What are we going to do to them?’
‘Head for the kitchen.’
‘I’m running through the hallway,’ said Alice, unaware that this was the longest she’d gone without crying since our call began. ‘Hang on, I’ve dropped the T-shirt. I’m going through the living room. I’ve just spotted his vinyl copy of the Enter The Dragon soundtrack. It cost him a fortune.’
‘Good, bring that along too.’ Enter The Dragon was Lalo Schifrin at his very best. A loser like Bruce didn’t deserve it. ‘Right, are you in the kitchen yet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Find the biggest pots and pans you can. Throw in some water and bring Bruce’s stuff to the boil. Anything left over, toss it in the washing machine with some bleach.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Alice, genuinely elated.
‘Feel any better?’
‘I feel ecstatic!’
Next door’s dog began barking again. A man’s voice shouted, ‘Will you be quiet, Sultan?’ I laughed, because for a few seconds I thought he’d said Satan.
‘What are you laughing at?’ asked Alice.
It wasn’t worth explaining, so I didn’t. ‘Take the rest of his belongings and chuck them in a black bin bag and leave them by the front door.’
‘Front door? What about the rubbish chute?’
‘Nice one. Oh, and if you’ve got any paint throw that in too.’ Over the next hour we painted Bruce’s black Patrick Cox shoes in the white emulsion meant for the kitchen walls (Alice’s idea); cut the toes out of all his socks (Alice’s idea again); cut his face out of every photo in the flat and burnt them while I played the soundtrack to South Pacific down the phone (my idea); rubbed his toothbrush in the cat crap in the kitchen (my idea, obviously); and threw his leather briefcase, including all of the work-related documents within, off the bedroom balcony (a joint effort).
Alice let out an exultant yell once she had frisbeed Bruce’s briefcase out of the window. I listened to her fall to the floor and let out a heavy sigh of exhaustion and though I’d barely exerted myself I distinctly felt in need of rest and recuperation too.
‘Do you ever wish you’d done this to Aggi?’ said Alice, her voice muffled, as if she were lying face down on a sofa.
‘No.’ I immediately paused and reconsidered the question. ‘Well, yes. I suppose sometimes I do but then I still kind of hope that one day we’ll get back together. Thing is, Aggi always took her clothes very seriously. If I’d ever messed with them I guarantee she would’ve had a lobotomy rather than take me back.’
‘Do you really think you’ll still get back together?’
‘I dunno,’ I lied.
‘That’s it for me and Bruce. I never want to see him again.’
‘Do you mean that?’ I glanced over at Aggi’s photo on the wall next to me, resisting the temptation to see if the marker pen would wipe off. ‘Do you really mean that?’
‘Yeah, I do.’
‘Well, you’re a braver man than me.’
There was an awkward silence in which neither of us knew what to say next. It was Alice who spoke first.
‘Work. I’m fed up of it. I’ve been working so hard for so long and it’s not worth it. I’ve made a decision. I’m booking a flight – one of those three month round the world things – as soon as possible. Bruce and I used to talk about it all the time . . .’
She started to cry again.
I imagined not being able to talk to her for a quarter of a year. I imagined trying to cope with life without her. I imagined telling my television how much I hated my job. It was really too depressing for words. I stopped imagining.
‘You can’t go,’ I said only half joking. ‘It’s my birthday.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Alice perking up. ‘Happy birthday!’
I thanked her for the card and the presents and told her about the episode with the postman. She laughed and said that she didn’t trust the Royal Mail either.
‘I’m glad you liked the presents,’ she said warmly. ‘My favourite thing was the donkey. It reminds me of you.’
I laughed. ‘Cheers.’
‘I think it’s important that you’ve got this donkey,’ said Alice thoughtfully. ‘You’ve got a lot of love inside you, Will, and it’s got nowhere to go. Maybe you can love and care for this donkey. You’ve both been neglected.’
I eyed Sandy’s picture suspiciously. I was fond of my mange-ridden donkey but I wasn’t about to fall in love with it, at least not quite yet, though I appreciated the thought. I told Alice that she’d given me the best birthday I’d had in a long time and that without her I would be lost. She accepted my thanks silently and then said: ‘What are you going to do today? Anything special?’
‘Well,’ I said, wondering whether to tell the truth, construct a plausible lie or make a joke out of it. ‘I thought I’d throw myself a surprise party, the surprise being the fact that I won’t bother going.’ Alice laughed. ‘No, I think I’ll just be staying at home enjoying the day with my favourite people: Mel and Choly. Ho ho.’
‘Will, let me come to London,’ said Alice seriously. ‘Please. I can get the next train. We could go and celebrate your birthday in style, have a laugh and forget what a “load of old arse” life is.’
Of course I wanted to say yes, but we both knew it was a recipe for disaster: take two consenting adults, add a dash of vulnerability, a bottle of wine or two and a few ‘just hold me’s’ and before we knew it Plato would take the night off and leave us to deal with the disastrous consequences of two friends settling for second best.
‘Thanks for the offer but I’d rather not today,’ I said, strongly believing that I’d probably live to regret this decision. ‘Next weekend maybe, at least then we’d have more time together. If you came now and went Monday morning I’d be more depressed than if you hadn’t shown up at all.’
‘Okay,’ she said, obviously disappointed, but probably nowhere near as disappointed as I was. ‘Have a great day, won’t you, Will?’ Almost under her breath she added, ‘I love you.’
‘I love you, too,’ I replied.
There was a world of difference between Alice’s ‘I love you’ and Martina’s. Alice had only wanted to say ‘I love you’ because when you had someone to say ‘I love you’ to, you miss saying it when they’re gone. I knew that and Alice knew it too. It didn’t mean that anything special was going on here. It was just the sound of two desperate people being desperate.
Alice made ready to say good-bye. ‘Look, thanks for . . .’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘No problem. What else are friends for?’
11.57 A.M.
As I sat flicking backwards and forwards between a gardening programme, a repeat of Grange Hill and The Waltons, a speckled grey and white pigeon momentarily sat on my window sill, spread its wings and cooed before disappearing into the late morning sky. It had stopped raining, and the sun was shining brightly off the hundreds of raindrops on the window pane, making them sparkle like stars. I opened the window and got back into bed.
This was quite possibly the worst
and best birthday I’d ever had. On the one hand, if I actually cared about birthdays this could have been the depressing episode which broke this particular dromedary’s back. After all, I was now twenty-six, still recovering from the fallout of a pregnancy scare, the focus of a mad woman’s unrequited love, in an awful excuse for a flat, in a less than salubrious area of London and all alone on the anniversary of the date I was born and the day I was dumped. But it was this fact – the fact that I was on my own – which I considered the silver lining in my otherwise dismal dark cloud. I’d spent my twenty-fifth birthday with Simon and Tammy in the Royal Oak. It had been awful. There I was immersed in my own private tragedy, deeply lamenting the passing of youth and my failure in life, while my companions’ sole topic of conversation was how Ray and Sophie, the couple they shared a house with, hadn’t bought a communal toilet roll for over a fortnight.
The phone rang.
My brain was alert to the call a split second after it had rung, but my body wasn’t interested in speedy responses. The distance between myself and the phone, which had been abandoned under a pile of clothes near the wardrobe, seemed so utterly overwhelming that I never thought I’d make it. In fact, my movement was so sloth-like that the answering machine had turned on before I even got there.
‘Hi, you’re through to me,’ said my machine, in its flat East Midlands accent. ‘Leave whatever you want after the beep.’
It beeped accordingly.
‘Hi, Will,’ said Kate’s voice. ‘I was just phoning for a chat really. I’ll probably try you later.’
I ceased all effort to get to the phone, and lay on my stomach on the carpet, my legs resting uncomfortably against the side of the bed. Should I pick up the phone? I wondered. If I answer I’ll have to talk to her and as much as I like her, I’m not sure I want to communicate with the world today. Today – my birthday. Today – the third anniversary of my being dumped. Today – today. I still like Kate, I just need a breather. I can always phone her later. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll call later.
I picked up the phone and apologised. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘I thought you weren’t in for a minute,’ said Kate. ‘That would have really spoilt my Sunday.’