by Mike Gayle
She didn’t laugh. In fact I was sure that if the door had been open any wider, I would’ve received a swift Garfield in the crotch.
‘It’s not enough that you never take your turn with the fire alarm, now you want me to be your personal manservant! Next time, pal, answer the bloody doorbell when it’s for you!’
I attempted to look suitably chastised but in reality I think I probably just looked puzzled. ‘I take my turn with the fire alarm! If it’s fire alarms you’re moaning about, ask the bloke over there,’ I pointed across the landing, ‘that bugger’s never done it.’ The expression on her face was one of purest anger. I attempted to calm her down. ‘Look, I don’t know what you’re on about, okay? There was some mad person ringing my bell too, but as I don’t know any mad people I reasoned that it couldn’t have been for me.’
‘I think I can explain,’ said a voice just to the side of Garfield woman. ‘I thought I’d got the wrong number. I rang this woman’s doorbell by accident after you didn’t answer yours.’
I opened the door a little wider to take a look at the mystery woman. It was Aggi.
I looked her up and down, not believing my eyes. She was wearing black leggings and a purple kind of smock thing. Her hair was messy. While she wore an expression as uncompromising as Garfield woman’s she was still as beautiful as ever.
‘I think you’d better come in,’ I said warily. I threw a stern look in Garfield woman’s direction in case she thought the invitation included her.
Aggi came in, closing the door behind her, but remained standing. I sat down on the bed and felt ludicrously self-conscious. Not only was I wearing nothing but boxer shorts and odd socks, but they happened to be a green pair with Subutteo sized golfers all over them, a farewell gift from my mother. What’s more, there was nowhere for the flab around my midriff to hide, so instead it just hung there dejectedly, waiting for me to get The Message. This was the way that the love of my life saw me for the first time in three years – looking like a bucket of lard in novelty underwear. While I pulled on a T-shirt, Aggi averted her eyes, content to gaze despondently around the room, admiring the decor and saying nothing.
I finished dressing, looked up and smiled. ‘Hello.’
Aggi’s face suddenly contorted with anger as if she’d just turned on a switch marked ‘Screaming Mad Banshee Woman from Hell’. I was scared. The kind of woman that could get angry at a slightly overweight but cuddly bloke in silly boxer shorts, was the kind of woman that would get a six month discharge after pleading temporary insanity.
‘I am sooooo angry,’ she screamed.
I winced, assuming that she was still smarting from the comments made in regard to her popularity with sportsmen. I considered reminding her that I was wearing glasses but thought better of it.
‘Toby wanted to kill you, you know. He wants to smash your face in, and he would, you know. He knows how weird you are. He’s waiting in the car outside so don’t get any ideas into that warped head of yours.’
‘Is he a solicitor?’ I asked timidly.
‘Yes,’ she spat.
‘Does he play rugby?’
‘Every weekend.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
I felt about this small, which is to say just a bit smaller than a gnat’s knackers. It was like being scolded by my mum, only worse because I didn’t have any trousers on and well, my mum would never threaten to get her boyfriend to beat me up, even if she had one. The only good thing was that as far as I could gather, Aggi’s boyfriend hadn’t told her exactly what I’d said, although I was sure she’d heard enough to get the general impression. It was totally embarrassing. Aggi was unrelenting in her attack – she paced the room saying all kind of nasty and venomous things about me all of which, unfortunately, were true. Every sentence she said began with ‘How dare you . . .’ I didn’t have a leg to stand on. I’d phoned her out of the blue three years after I had any right to and assassinated her character in front of her boyfriend, who could clearly beat me to a pulp with both arms tied behind his back. It was ridiculous. I sat there, head bowed, and took it, if not like a man, then the nearest approximation I could conjure up – a creature half adolescent and half sheep.
When I thought she’d finished I looked up. But I was disappointed to discover that she was far from finished. ‘If you ever try and contact me by phone, letter or even try and send me bad vibes, I will go to the police, you bastard. Don’t think I won’t!’
She turned and opened the door without even looking at me. This is it, this is her hello and good-bye. Surely I deserve more than this? It was better to have her shouting at me in my flat than living in the knowledge that the second she walked out all memory of me would be wiped clean – she’d ditch the lot. The good and the bad. It was too terrible to contemplate because if I didn’t exist in her head then I didn’t exist at all.
‘What about you and Simon?’ I said, in a manner ranking lower than mumbling.
She turned around, her hand still on the door handle, the expression on her face puzzled. ‘What?’
I coughed and studied the soles of my feet. I had a verruca the size of a five pence piece on my heel that I’d never seen before. Without looking up I repeated the question. ‘I said, what about you and Simon?’
Slowly she came back in and closed the door carefully with both hands, crossed the room and sat down next to me on the bed.
‘He told you, then?’
I nodded.
‘When did he tell you?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Why did he tell you?’
‘Because he’s in love.’
Aggi’s eyes filled slowly with reluctant tears. I watched them roll down her perfect nose, along the edge of her perfect upper lip and onto her perfect chin. I didn’t want her to cry. Everyone was crying this weekend.
‘I never meant to hurt you, Will.’
‘But you did.’
‘It just happened. I was angry that you weren’t there.’
I swallowed hard. ‘So you got off with my best mate.’
‘It was just sex. I didn’t love him. It didn’t happen again.’
‘Does that make a difference?’
She was staring into her lap now, but she met my eyes briefly and said: ‘No. I suppose not. At least not to you.’
I edged away from her and began to shake, as if just being in her proximity would cause irrevocable damage. Here she was sitting in my room reminding me of a betrayal that, though it had happened years ago, was as fresh in my mind as if it had happened yesterday – which in a way it had. ‘I worshipped you from the moment we met. I adored you. You were all that I wanted. What did I do wrong?’
She started crying. I put my arms around her shoulders. Holding her felt exactly the same. Nothing had changed. It was like travelling to the past in the present – none of it seemed real. I tried to brush away her tears but she just cried even more into my neck, making the collar of my T-shirt damp. She lifted up her head and stared right into my eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Will. I’m so sorry.’
I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t trying to be the martyr, I just didn’t have anything to say. She looked so pitiful, her eyes were red and puffy. All I wanted to do was make everything all right.
‘You know me. I’ve never regretted anything,’ she said, ‘and don’t think for a minute that I regret ending our relationship. I don’t. We were dead. Going nowhere. But if I could have my time again I would never have done that to you. You don’t need to tell me that you loved me. I always knew it. You were my best friend for those three years, Will. I can never repay you for all the wonderful things you did for me. I don’t know. . .’
Her words trailed off as she buried her face into my shoulder. I looked down at the top of her head, studying her crown sadly. In a perverse sort of way it was almost worth letting Simon sleep with her just to know that after all this time she really did care – albeit in an abstract fashion. She hadn’t forgotten – there was some small part
of her that cared enough about me to believe in the concept of regret. I was locked in her head – the one thing she could never get over. This was beautiful. This was more than I could ever have hoped for.
Aggi gradually lifted her head up until her eyes were directly in line with mine, her lips parted, her nose barely an inch away from mine and her head tilted in that magical manner that only ever means one thing. I cast a glance at the door, I couldn’t help myself, my thoughts had already raced downstairs in fear that fifteen stone of rugby playing brute was about to burst in and beat me to a pulp. Aggi, seeing my distress, pressed her index finger up to my lips. ‘I lied,’ she said. ‘I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.’
And then she kissed me.
All at once the universe seemed to make sense. The weight of the world was no longer on my shoulders. This was the feeling that I’d been pining for all this time, and yes it was worth the wait. I couldn’t kiss her fast enough. I kissed her face, her hands, her neck – everywhere that was available – but within seconds I was overwhelmed by feelings twice as powerful, twice as destructive and twice as painful as those I’d just experienced.
I pulled away from her in shock. ‘I can’t do this.’
‘I told you Toby isn’t here.’
I shook my head. ‘It’s got nothing to do with him. It’s to do with me. I can’t do this. I can’t cheat on Kate.’
Aggi’s face changed immediately. All the sadness seeped away leaving an expression of quiet defiance. ‘Is Kate your girlfriend?’ she asked with a touch of sarcasm clearly evident in her voice.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘She’s my fiancée.’
I explained the whole story to her even though it hardly made sense to me any more. She nodded at the appropriate moments and laughed at a few inappropriate ones. When I finished I could see that she still didn’t believe me. Seven days ago I wouldn’t have either. I weighed up the situation:
Aggi Kate
Aggi was here in my room. Kate was in Brighton.
I’d known Aggi six years. I’d known Kate two days.
I knew every detail of Aggi’s body.
I knew every detail of Kate’s photo.
I loved Aggi. But I loved Kate even more.
There was no explanation or rationalisation except to say that it wasn’t guilt talking, it was me. It wasn’t that I was over Aggi – three years of intense high-level obsession does not disappear overnight – but it was like this: I’d thought Aggi was the ceiling of my love but Kate had shown me there was something even higher. Overwrought? Yes. Melodramatic? Possibly. The brain-addled words of a troubled soul in love with love itself? No.
‘So that’s the way it is,’ I said after some moments of very uncomfortable silence.
Aggi laughed. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this, Will. I really can’t. But don’t insult my intelligence with your pathetic stories. I knew you were bitter but I didn’t know it ran this deep.’ She stood up, straightening her top and wiping the stray mascara from her cheeks. ‘I suppose it’s what I deserve. Well, the score’s even now. I’ll never have to feel guilty about sleeping with Simon again and you get your imaginary girlfriend.’
I looked up at her dejectedly from the bed. ‘Yeah, whatever.’
Monday
5.45 A.M.
For a few seconds the end of the world was no longer nigh – it had arrived. I, as fully expected, had gone to hell and besides not being quite as warm as I expected, the most notable thing about Hades was that it was very noisy and looked like my flat. I glanced at my watch, it was 5.45. Monday morning. Thanks to Mr F. Jamal’s dodgy smoke alarm, The Rest of My Life had begun an hour earlier than anticipated. In less than five hours I’d be in Brighton with Kate, and the smoke alarm, flat, Archway, Wood Green Comprehensive, Italian newsagent’s, Simon, Aggi and everything else that sought to rain on my parade would be nothing more than a bad dream.
The fire alarm stopped ringing.
The front door belonging to one of my downstairs neighbours slammed loudly, the vibrations causing my windows to rattle. Peace was restored. I bathed in the silence.
Today is going to be the adventure of my life.
This was the kind of thrill I’d been looking for all my life, a book with an ending you couldn’t guess – a Rolf Harris sketch that you couldn’t work out until he’d scribbled in the last details with his squeaky marker pen.
Last week I could have predicted my every movement down to the very last detail weeks in advance. 10.00 a.m. Tuesday – English with my year eights. 8.15 a.m. Wednesday – running up to the school gates attempting to finish early morning cigarette. 11.00 p.m. Friday – in bed asleep dreaming about ex-girlfriend. Now thanks to Kate I don’t have a clue what’s about to happen to me, but at least I know who it will happen with. Security and adventure – the best of both worlds.
The duvet, which had slipped off the bed during the night, was lying perilously close to the ice-cream stain in the carpet that had refused to die. I pulled it back on the bed, tucking the edges underneath my bum to form a misshapen cocoon, with my head poking out from the top. The draught coming through the windows, seemingly unhindered by the curtains, indicated that the day of my emancipation was a cold one. Straining intensely, I listened out for any other meteorological news. There was no mistaking the gentle yet unrelenting tapping of drizzle against window pane.
My thoughts automatically turned to breakfast but excitement caused by the day’s forthcoming events constricted my stomach to a tight ball of muscle – no Sugar Puffs or Honey Nut Flakes, frozen bread or toast without margarine would make it in there today.
In the bathroom, Audrey Hepburn, hand aloft, cigarette-holder drooping daintily from her fingers, greeted me with her usual wistful smile. As I closed the door behind me I turned on the light, positively encouraging the extractor fan to lurch back into life. While in the shower I occupied my mind trying to imagine the Kate in the photo on my wall in three dimensions. Post-shower, I dried myself off using the Towel, wandered into the kitchen and dropped it into the bin. For some, redemption was out of the question.
Cold and naked I stood on the bed to prevent dust, dirt and carpet fibres clinging to my damp feet and meditated on what to wear. First impressions, I reasoned, counted for an awful lot, in spite of what Kate had said. I wanted her to be attracted to me the moment she saw me so that there could be no doubt in her mind that she had made the right decision. Following several changes of clothes I went with a pair of navy blue trousers that I’d bought from Jigsaw’s summer sale – a minor blip in my strictly second-hand policy – and an ancient chalk blue Marks and Spencer shirt with huge collars purchased from Aggi’s Oxfam. I examined my ensemble in the largest shard of broken Elvis mirror I could find: I looked good enough to eat.
Checking my watch, I began hurriedly packing my rucksack, throwing in the remainder of clean underwear – roughly three pairs of pants. I say roughly, because I had included a black pair that my mum had purchased when I was younger than some of the kids I teach now. It had been my intention to go to the launderette over the weekend – it had been one of the things To Do – which, sadly, I never even got around to thinking about let alone doing. I threw in an assortment of T-shirts and jumpers, and cursed my lack of clean socks, throwing in a couple of dirty ones instead, swiftly followed by my duty free cigarettes and picture of Sandy the donkey. My eyes scanned the room in search of things I might have forgotten, while in my head I ticked off a mental list of things I usually forgot: toothbrushes, soap, shampoo – stuff that Kate would be bound to have in her flat. Thinking about Kate reminded me of her cheque. I slipped it into the side pocket of the rucksack.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the ceiling, I attempted to prepare myself mentally for the day ahead. A radio alarm clock in the next door flat went off and Thin Lizzy’s ‘Waiting For An Alibi’ broke my concentration. A random thought entered my head: I wondered whether I ought to take a present for Kate. Within five minutes this th
ought had taken precedence over all others and turned itself into a national emergency. I scrambled around the flat searching for something that might constitute a present. My eyes fell on my Star Wars video. If she liked Gregory’s Girl, I said to myself – my reasoning faculties had all but disappeared by now – then she’d probably like Star Wars. Genuinely at a loss for a better present, I dropped it into the rucksack and made a mental note to look out for a florist’s at Victoria Station.
Ready to brave the elements and with my essentials on my shoulders I took a final look at what I was leaving behind. This flat which had been my worst enemy for over a week now felt like a close friend. We’d shared good times, bad times and mad times. But somehow I was grateful to it.
I was halfway down the stairs before I got the feeling I’d forgotten something important. I tried to fight it – after all, Lot’s wife had been turned into a pillar of salt – but the feeling would not subside. I returned to the flat. I checked that the lights were off. They were. I checked the cooker was off. It was. I checked the toaster was unplugged. It wasn’t. As I unplugged it I laughed to myself. I had finally become my mother. Every family holiday as far back as I could remember always commenced with the ritual of my mum running around the house maniacally unplugging household electrical items. ‘If the house gets struck by lightning,’ she used to say, ‘anything plugged in will go up in flames and burn the house down.’
Before closing the door I glanced down at the phone. The answering machine wasn’t switched on. After rectifying the situation I closed the door, walked out of the flat and stepped into a brand new day.
1.48 P.M.
‘Right,’ I said, addressing my year eights as they shuffled into the classroom, knocking over chairs, tables and anything else that stood in their paths, ‘get out your copies of Wuthering Heights, please, and turn to where we left off on Friday.’ This simple request resulted in a flurry of fruitless activity: Kitty Wyatt, a tiny mousy-haired girl whose diminutive stature and continually flushed cheeks gave her a remarkable similarity to a garden gnome, ran out of the room crying, swiftly followed by her friend Roxanne Bright-Thomas, who informed me that Kitty was having ‘women’s problems’. Colin Christie, a thug whose reputation preceded him all the way to the staff room, and the child most likely to have spat on my back, hadn’t got his book and was locked in a struggle with Liam Fennel who, quite rightly, wasn’t pleased that his own copy was being forcefully commandeered. I ignored them all.