by Mike Gayle
‘I am not joking.’ My heart smiled as I paused. ‘I’ve never been more serious in my life. I decided this afternoon that I love you, it’s as simple as that. You’ve changed my life, Kate, you’ve changed my life more than anyone I’ve ever met. I need you. I know it sounds melodramatic but it’s true.’ I bit my lip. I had a lot more to say but I was scared of overwhelming her like I’d done thirteen years ago with Vicki Hollingsworth. ‘Look, you don’t have to answer me right now if you don’t want to . . .’
‘How long have I got to think about it?’ interrupted Kate, her voice barely audible.
‘Three minutes.’
We both laughed.
‘Okay,’ said Kate still giggling. ‘Synchronise watches . . . now!’
For the duration of the three minutes we were silent, lost in a world where only we existed. I listened intently each and every time she inhaled or exhaled. At one point I nearly broke out in laughter, when, for the second time this weekend, I thought about a Sting song, ‘Every Breath You Take.’ For once, a crucial moment in my life wasn’t overwhelmed by thoughts of what might be or might not be. Nothing came in or out from the moment she’d said, ‘Okay’. I was so without grounding, floating out of my body, out of this world’s experience, that it wasn’t until I was well into the second minute that I noticed I hadn’t been breathing – listening to her respire seemed sufficient in itself – and it made me happy.
I looked at my watch. The three minutes were up.
‘Okay,’ said Kate
‘Okay, what?’ I asked hesitantly.
‘Okay, I will marry you.’
‘Are you joking?’
‘No, I’m more serious than you’ll ever know,’ laughed Kate. ‘You’re the most important person in the world to me. I love you. Do you know how I want to die? I want to die saving your life.’
I was speechless.
‘Don’t worry, I was only joking,’ she reassured. ‘I do love you though. I spent the afternoon making you a birthday card. Can I read it to you? It’s got a picture of Jimi Hendrix on the front that I cut out of Q magazine. I’ve put a speech bubble in his mouth that says, “I say a little prayer for you”. Inside, it says “Dear Will, Happy Birthday. My prayer for you is that I hope you never have to spend another birthday without me. Ever yours, K.”’
I was touched, the thought of her cutting things out and gluing them down solely for my benefit brought tears to my eyes.
‘Thanks. It’s a really nice thought.’ I looked around my room despairingly. ‘I’m just sorry I haven’t got anything to give you.’
‘I’ve got you,’ said Kate. ‘What else does a girl need?’ She paused as if she’d run out of words. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘I don’t know, I hadn’t planned this far ahead.’ I stood up and paced around the edge of the room as far as the telephone cord would allow. ‘I suppose we should tell our parents.’
‘My mum will be overjoyed,’ said Kate. ‘I spent the whole of my teens telling her I’d never get married and look what you’ve made me do. My dad will be impressed too. He’s never liked any of my old boyfriends but I know he’ll like you. I just know he will.’
I gazed out of the window. A thin covering of grey dirt coated the pane. The garden was overrun with tall yellow flowered weeds and stinging nettles. Next door’s dog was nowhere to be seen. I could hear kids playing football but couldn’t see where they were. ‘Both my folks will be pretty stunned,’ I said quietly. ‘My mum will think that . . . well . . . you know . . .’ I paused, embarrassed at the thought of being accused of getting someone pregnant for the second time this weekend. ‘How’s that for irony? I’ve got you in the club and we’ve never even shaken hands.’
‘What do you think all this business on the phone has been about?’ said Kate earnestly. ‘I know more about you, and feel closer and more intimate with you, than any boyfriend I’ve ever had, even my ex. I’ve seen the real you, Will. You didn’t bother putting on an act because you thought you’d never meet me! What kind of bloke on the pull starts off by talking about his ex-girlfriend?’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ I said, wishing she hadn’t mentioned Aggi. Just thinking about her made me feel sick. I changed the subject. ‘We’ve still got to come up with a plan. Where are we going to live and all that?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll come to London . . .’
I stopped her there. I didn’t fancy staying here at all.
Samuel Johnson said: ‘When a man is tired of London he is tired of life . . .’, I thought to myself. He was only half right. I was tired of This Life, and with Kate I’d have the chance of resurrection and redemption.
‘No, I’ll come to Brighton first thing in the morning,’ I said. ‘I’ve always fancied living by the sea. I’ll hand in my notice. I’ll say I’ve had a bit of a mental breakdown or something. It won’t be too hard to convince them.’
‘Okay, whatever makes you happy. Paula’s going off on a course in Cheltenham for the week so we’ll have the flat to ourselves. What do you like to eat?’
Her question took me by surprise. I was about to say anything with pasta in it but I held back because I didn’t know if she liked Italian food. But deep down this was bigger than pasta dishes, this was about fate. I knew that if I said pasta and she didn’t like it I’d interpret it as some sort of sign from above that we were completely and utterly incompatible.
‘Anything,’ I lied. ‘I’m not fussed really.’
She paused, audibly mulling it over. ‘Okay, I think I’ll make you tagliatelli in a spicy tomato sauce. I love it.’
Before I had a chance to register my delight a flood of thoughts erupted from the ground, smashing through the mental dam I had erected. I needed to know she was as serious as I was. ‘Look, are you sure you want to do this?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Kate, so surely, so steadfastly, so assuredly, that I felt the kind of admiration for her normally reserved for pensioners reminiscing over Winston Churchill’s ‘Fight them on the beaches’ speech. ‘I’m even surer than you are,’ she continued. ‘Just because you’ve been with someone, say, ten years, doesn’t mean that your marriage is any more likely to succeed than if you met and married someone ten minutes ago. There’s no way that you can accurately predict the future, so why bother trying?’
‘But you can reduce the odds of everything going a bit pear-shaped, can’t you?’ I said, nervously. Next door’s dog barked wildly. The palms of my hands began to sweat at an alarming rate. I wiped them on my jeans but within seconds they were literally dripping with perspiration again.
‘Everything about love is random,’ said Kate calmly. ‘So why try and bring order to it? It’s not worth worrying about. I know we could just move in together and that would make everything much easier, but it works both ways. It’s easier to walk out, it’s easier to be unfaithful, it’s easier for everything to just disappear. If I’m going to invest my emotions in another human being again then I’m going to make sure if it doesn’t work out it’ll be the messiest, most savage divorce ever.’
‘Like The War of the Roses,’ I joked. ‘Kathleen Turner’s finest performance.’
She ignored my aside. ‘Splitting up shouldn’t be amicable. Not if what you had was love. It’s not the way love works; well, at least the kind of love I’m talking about.’
Kate really was Winston Churchill and I was the British Nation. I would fight the enemies of our love on beaches, street corners or supermarket car parks. In short, I was roused.
‘I love you,’ I said.
‘I love you, too,’ replied Kate. ‘I can’t bear to be away from you. I miss you. This is going to sound weird but even though we’ve only known each other a weekend, I feel like we’ve created a million memories together. I’ve gone over everything you’ve ever said to me again and again in my head. I love your voice. It makes me feel safe.’
‘When did you realise?’ I asked.
‘That I loved you? When you told me the
story about the worms dying and how you tried to save them. I thought to myself – that’s the man for me!’
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, really. I like the way you talk about your childhood. You seem incredibly fond of it. I like that. I can tell that you’re special. You notice things differently to other people. You torture yourself for not being this go-getter kind of person, but you are what you are, so why change? Even though you don’t think so, you are important and you have made a change. Look what you’ve done to my life in three days. Before I spoke to you the biggest thing on my horizon was trying to work out how I was going to afford to pay back my grant cheque. Now all I’ve got to worry about is you.’
Kate asked me when I’d realised that I was in love with her. I rolled the question around in my head, momentarily sitting down on the bed to aid my thinking processes. ‘I didn’t decide,’ I said shakily. ‘It just happened. When I picked up the phone I realised that out of the billions of people on the planet, you were the one I wanted to speak to the most. It was like the deepest part of me took control and said what it felt, unafraid of embarrassment or rejection or any of that other stuff that normally leaves me paralysed with fear. I didn’t think. I just was. Normally I find it necessary to have a three hour debate with myself just to decide what flavour crisps to buy, and here I am making the decision of my life purely on instinct. I kind of feel like Stone Age Man. Quick, I feel the need to hunt and gather.’
Kate laughed. ‘I know exactly what you mean. Y’know, I didn’t need three minutes to think about my answer. The minute you asked me I knew the answer was yes. A mate of mine, Becky, does psychology at Cardiff and she told me this fact: apparently when you’re asked a question, whether you want to or not most people answer straight away in their heads and then spend the time available to them trying to make sure they’re right. The instant you asked me I knew the answer was yes.’
‘So what do we do now?’ I asked.
‘You ask me properly,’ replied Kate.
‘What do you mean? Get down on my knees?’
‘Yes. And be quick about it.’
‘Okay. Kate . . .’
‘Are you down on your knees?’ enquired Kate doubtfully.
I was astonished at the depth of her insight into my personality. ‘How did you know I wasn’t down on my knees?’
‘Well, were you?’ countered Kate.
‘No, but that’s beside the point,’ I laughed. ‘You ought to trust me, you know. I’m your husband to be.’
‘And I’m your wife to be so you’d better watch out. Hurry up.’
I got down on one knee.
‘Look up as if you were gazing straight up at me,’ said Kate.
‘Okay, I’m looking up as if I was gazing up at you,’ I said. My knee began to wobble. I focused my attention on the right-hand corner of the curtains. ‘I’ve even got my hand outstretched as if I were holding your hand. “Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”’
‘Yes,’ said Kate matter-of-factly. ‘Now it’s my turn. I’m down on my knees and I’m holding out my hand as if I’m holding yours and gazing up at your beautiful face. I love you, Will. Will you marry me?’
‘I, Will, will.’
We both laughed.
There was a long moment of silence when I felt neither of us really knew what to say or do next. Kate wasn’t playing around, this was for real, which made me feel excited and exhilarated. I had so much adrenaline shooting through my veins that it wouldn’t have been enough to simply pace around the flat trying to expend it, I wanted to run, to Brighton preferably. Over the moon? I was high jumping the Milky Way and sprinkling star dust in my hair!
‘We’ve got a lot of things to sort out,’ I said, drawing a deep breath in an attempt to steady my breathing. ‘I’ve got to tell my parents about this and sort out how I’m going to tell the school that I’m leaving. I know this is going to be hard but I think we ought not to phone each other again today. Let’s just wait until I come over to Brighton tomorrow morning. Then we can talk until we’re blue in the face. I think we both need some time to get our heads around this; plus, I’m afraid the phone bill is going to end up so large we’ll have to take our honeymoon in Skegness.’
‘I like the sound of a week in Skegness with you,’ said Kate joyfully. I closed my eyes and tried to encrypt that enchanting sound in my head. ‘But I suppose you’re right, we do need to calm down a bit. Okay, let’s make a pact we won’t call or speak to each other until you come to Brighton . . . unless there’s an emergency.’
‘What sort of emergency?’ I asked.
‘You know, deaths, births, fires, pestilence, irate parents.’ There was a brief pause. ‘I love you,’ said Kate as a good-bye.
‘I love you, too.’
6.34 P.M.
I was so filled with joie de vivre that I wanted to tell the world that I – yes, me, William Kelly, cynic par excellence – had found love. In the end, however, I decided against informing the inhabitants of Archway of my newfound love. Instead, for some considerable period of time I lay very still on the bed, listening to the sound of my heart beating until hunger drove me into the kitchen. My evening meal consisted of two slices of dry toast as I didn’t have the energy or inclination to ‘cook’ and I’d used the last of the Flora in the construction of my Pot Noodle sandwich.
The piles of exercise books propped against the wall which all required marking pricked my conscience, compelling me to propose the suggestion that even if I wasn’t going to school tomorrow, I should at least fulfil this small requirement of my job description. I didn’t mark them, of course, as in truth my motivation had less to do with professional pride or guilt than it had to do with avoiding calling my parents, my mother in particular. My newfound positive attitude to life, however, wouldn’t let me kid myself – not any more. I was determined not to worry. I could tell my parents, my brother, my Gran, my friends – without fear of what they might say – because finally, I had something I could believe in.
My mother
‘Mum, listen,’ I said, employing the same tone of voice I’d used four years ago to tell her that Tom had broken his leg playing football.
‘What is it?’ she gasped, immediately recognising the gravity of the situation.
I cleared my throat to postpone the inevitable temporarily. ‘I’m getting married.’
My mother was silent. She wanted desperately to believe I was joking. ‘What for? Who to? Do I know her?’
Questions. Questions. Questions. This reaction was typical of my mother. When faced with a problem her natural instinct was to interrogate her subject until she was better informed than even they were. It was like Mastermind only in reverse: her chosen speciality was my love life, but it was she who got to ask the questions and I who had to answer them. This was very weird.
I told her the story from beginning to end. She listened attentively, but it was clear that the story made little sense to her. In her world, things like this just didn’t happen.
My mother’s first words were: ‘Oh, Will, what is it? You haven’t got her . . .’ I knew she wouldn’t finish the sentence. I contemplated finishing her sentence for her just for a laugh, but I feared the missing word’s shock factor had the potential to put her heart in arrest, if not kill her on the spot.
I comforted her. ‘No, you’re not going to be a gran. You’re going to be a mother-in-law.’ She let out a sigh of relief. ‘It’s nothing like that. It’s love. I love her more than I’ve ever loved anyone.’
‘But what about your job?’ she questioned. ‘You’ve only just got going. Won’t they have something to say about running off to Brighton?’ Again, this was classic ‘my mother’. Practical considerations were always top of her list; while all things spiritual were right at the bottom, just below embroidered toilet roll covers.
I explained to her what I was going to do about my job and even as I spoke it was plain to me how flimsy and ill co
nceived my ‘plans’ were, but it did nothing to shorten my stride towards making them happen. I told her more details about Kate: how her laugh sounded like summer; her breath like the breeze on a beautiful day; and most importantly of all, how I truly believed she thought the world of me. My mother remained unmoved.
‘Don’t go throwing your life away, Will,’ she said losing control of her voice. She was close to the Edge. I decided to be more careful with my words. She had never thought it necessary to need much of an excuse to cry, and with a situation tailor-made for the shedding of tears on her doorstep, unless I could convince her what I was doing was the right thing, she would break down. I’d never made my mother cry before. And I didn’t want to start now.
‘I’m not throwing my life away, Mum,’ I said warmly. I looked around my sad, messy little flat. This was my life. This was what I was giving up. Nothing. I became angry that she couldn’t see for herself how unhappy I was here. ‘I’m not throwing my life away,’ I said acerbically, ‘I’m getting married. There’s a difference, you know.’ Before I’d even come to the end of the sentence I regretted it. At first Mum didn’t say anything in reply; I thought I’d managed to escape retribution, but then she started to cry.
I felt awful. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s a big step, you know,’ she said sobbing. ‘You shouldn’t do things like this lightly. Look at what happened to me and your father.’ I wanted to say I’d rather not look at them because it would’ve been a clever thing to say, but I didn’t because I’d already hurt her more than I thought I could endure. Instead I kept quiet, dwelling upon my parents’ marriage. As much as I loved them both, they weren’t particularly good advertisements for holy matrimony, but neither were they particularly good advertisements for joining the human race. In the end, I decided, it made no odds.
‘Yeah, I know it is,’ I said. ‘And I’m not doing it lightly, Mum. I won’t be any more sure in ten years than I am right now, because I am 100 per cent sure.’
‘What’s her name?’ she asked.
‘Her name’s Kate.’ The words came out so quietly that I wasn’t sure she’d heard them.