Girls' Night In

by Jessica Adams

  ‘Open the bloody door!’ A voice ordered, and as Bib watched in astonishment, Ros moved like a sleepwalker and flung the door wide. A man stood there. A man that Bib recognized. But he wasn’t any of the would-be film stars, he was …

  ‘Michael!’

  Though it killed him to do it, Bib had to admit that Michael was looking good. With his messy curly hair, rumpled denim shirt and intense male presence he made all the wannabe Toms and Brads look prissy and preened.

  ‘Can I come in?’ Michael’s voice was clipped.

  ‘Yes.’ Ros’s looked like she was going to faint.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked as Michael marched into the room.

  ‘I wanted to kiss you,’ he announced and with that he pulled Ros to his broad hard chest and kissed her with such lingering intimacy that Bib felt ill.

  Finally he let Ros go and announced into her upturned face, ‘I’ve come to get this sorted, babes. You and me and this job lark.’

  ‘You flew here?’ Ros asked, dazedly.

  ‘Yeah. ‘Course.’

  Hmmm, Bib thought. Hasn’t got much of a sense of humour, has he? Most normal people would have said something like, ‘No, I hopped on one leg, all six thousand miles of it.’

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ Ros was a picture of wonder. ‘We’re skint but you’ve travelled halfway around the world to save our relationship. This is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me.’ And Bib had to admit that Michael did cut a very Heathcliffish figure as he strode about the room, looking moody and passionate.

  Bad-tempered, actually, Bib concluded.

  ‘You come home with me now,’ Michael urged. ‘You knock the job on the head, we get married and we live happy ever after! You and me are meant to be together. We were terriff until you got that promotion, it was only then that things went pear-shaped.’

  With his words, the joyous expression on Ros’s face inched away and was replaced by an agony of confusion.

  ‘Come on,’ Michael sounded impatient. ‘Get packing. I’ve got you a seat on my flight back.’

  But Ros looked paralysed with indecision. She leaned against a wall and made no move and the atmosphere built and built until the room was thick with it. Bib was bathed in sweat. And he didn’t even have perspiration glands.

  Don’t do it, he begged, desperately. You don’t have to. If he loved you he wouldn’t ask you to make this choice.

  To his horror he watched Ros fetch her pyjamas from under her pillow and slowly fold them.

  ‘Where’s your suitcase?’ Michael asked. ‘I’ll help you.’

  Ros pointed and then began scooping her toiletries off the dressing table and into a bag. Next, she opened the wardrobe and took out the couple of things that she’d hung up. It seemed to Bib that her movements were becoming faster and more sure, so in frantic panic, he summoned every ounce of energy and will that he possessed and zapped her with them.

  You don’t need this man, he told Ros. You don’t need any man who treats you like a possession with no mind or life of your own. You’re beautiful, you’re clever, you’re sweet. You’ll meet someone else, who accepts you for all that you are. In fact, if you’re prepared to be open-minded and don’t mind mixed-species relationships, I myself am happy to volunteer for the position… He stopped himself. Now was not the time to be side-tracked.

  ‘I’ll fetch your stuff from the bathroom,’ Michael announced, already briskly en route.

  Then Ros opened her mouth to speak and Bib prayed for her words to be the right ones.

  ‘No,’ she said and Bib reeled with relief.

  ‘No,’ Ros repeated. ‘Leave it. I can’t come tonight. I’ve got a meeting tomorrow.’

  ‘I know that, babes,’ Michael said tightly, as if he was struggling to keep his temper. ‘That’s what I mean, I want you come with me now.’

  ‘Don’t make me do this.’ Misery was stamped all over Ros’s face.

  ‘It’s make-your-mind-up time.’ Michael’s expression was hard. ‘Me or the job.’

  A long nerve-shredding pause followed, until Ros once again said, ‘No, Michael, I’m not leaving.’

  Michael’s face twisted with bitter disbelief. ‘I didn’t know you loved the job that much.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Ros insisted. ‘This isn’t about the job.’

  Michael looked scornful and Ros continued, ‘If you love someone, you allow them to change. If marriage is for life, I’m going to be a very different person in ten, twenty, thirty years’ time. How’re you going to cope with that, Mikey?’

  ‘But I love you,’ he insisted.

  ‘Not enough, you don’t,’ she said, sadly.

  For a moment he looked stunned, then flipped to anger. ‘You don’t love me.’

  ‘Yes, I do. You’ve no idea how much.’ Her voice was quiet and firm. ‘But I am who I am.’

  ‘Since when?’ Michael couldn’t hide his surprise.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She also sounded surprised. ‘Since I came here, perhaps.’

  ‘Is this something to do with Lenny? Are you having it off with him?’

  Ros’s incredulous laugh said it all.

  ‘So have I got this right?’ Michael was sulky and resentful. ‘You’re not coming home with me.’

  ‘I’ve a job to do,’ Ros said in a low voice. ‘I fly home tomorrow night.’

  ‘Don’t expect me to be waiting for you, then.’

  And with the same macho swagger that, despite everything, Bib admired, Michael swung from the room. The door slammed behind him, silence hummed, and then – who could blame her, Bib thought sympathetically – Ros burst into tears.

  No more Michael. The thought was almost unbearable. She lay on the bed and remembered how his hair felt, so rough, yet so surprisingly silky. She’d never feel it again. Imagine that, never, ever again. She could smell him now, as if he was actually in the room, the curious combination of sweetness and muskiness that was uniquely Michael’s. She’d miss it so much. As she’d miss the verbal shorthand they had with each other, where they didn’t have to finish sentences or even words because they knew each other so well. She’d have to find someone else to grow old with. It was all over, she was certain of it. There would be no more rows, no further attempts to change the other’s mind.

  They’d had so many angry, bitter fights, but what was in the air was the stillness of grief. The calmness when everything is lost. She’d moved beyond the turbulence of rage and fury into the still static waters of no return.

  What would she do with the rest of her life, she asked herself. How was she going to fill in all the time between now and the time she died?

  Roller-blade, planted itself in her head. Immediately she told herself not to be so ridiculous. How could she go roller-blading?

  But why not? What else was she going to do until bedtime, and despite all the events of the evening it was only still eight-thirty. She pulled on her leggings even though they had a tear on one knee and ran across the sand. She was surprised to find how uplifted she was by whizzing back and forth at high speed on her skates. It had something to do with pride in what a good roller-blader she was – she really was excellent, considering this was only her second time doing it. Her sense of balance was especially wonderful.

  The little boy Tod who had been there the previous night was there again, with his long-suffering mother Bethany. Bethany was red-faced and breathless from having to run and hold on to Tod while he cycled up and down the same six yards of boardwalk and Ros gave her a sympathetic smile.

  Then Ros went back to her room and against all expectations managed to sleep. When morning came she woke up and went to work, where, with a deftness that left the Los Angeles company reeling in shock, negotiated a thirty per cent discount when she’d only ever planned to ask for twenty. Blowing smoke from her imaginary gun, she gave them such firm handshakes that they all winced, then she swanned back to the hotel to pack. Successful mission or what?

  Bib was in agony. What
was he going to do? Was he going to back to England with Ros, or home to his own planet? Though he’d grown very fond – too fond – of Ros, he had a feeling that somehow he just wasn’t her type and that revealing himself, in all his glorious custard-yellowness, would be a very, very bad idea. It killed him not to be able to. In just over two days he’d fallen in love with her.

  But would she be OK? She thought she was OK, but what would happen when he left her and there was no one to shore up her confidence? Would she go back to Michael? Because that wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.

  He worried and fretted uncharacteristically. And the answer came to him on the evening of the last day. Ros had a couple of hours to kill before her night-flight, so instead of moping in her room, she ran to the boardwalk for one last roller-blading session. Bib didn’t have anything to do with it – she decided all on her own. He’d have preferred a few quiet moments with her, actually, instead of trundling alongside her trying to keep up as she whizzed up and down, laughing with pleasure.

  Bethany and Tod were there again. Time after time, Bethany ran behind the bike, holding tightly as Tod pedalled a few yards. Back and forth on the same strip of boardwalk they travelled, until, unexpectedly, Bethany let go and Tod careened away. When he realized that he was cycling alone, with no one to support him, he wobbled briefly, before righting himself. ‘I’m doing it on my own,’ he screamed with exhilaration. ‘Look, Mom, it’s just me.’

  ‘It’s all a question of confidence,’ Bethany smiled at Ros.

  ‘I suppose it is,’ Ros agreed, as she freewheeled gracefully. Then crashed into a jogger.

  As Bib helped her to her feet, he was undergoing a realization. Of course, he suddenly understood. He’d been Ros’s training wheels, and without her knowing anything about it, he’d given her confidence – confidence to do her job in a strange city, confidence to break free from a bullying man. And just as Tod no longer needed his mother to hold his bike, Ros no longer needed Bib. She was doing it for real now, he could feel it. From her performance in her final meeting to deciding to go roller-blading without any prompting from Bib, there was a strength and a confidence about her that was wholly convincing.

  He was happy for her. He really was. But, there was no getting away from the fact that the time had come for him to leave her. Bib wondered what the strange sensation in his chest was and it took a moment or two for him to realize that it was his heart breaking for the very first time.

  LA airport was aswarm with people, more than just the usual crowd of passengers.

  ‘Alien-spotters,’ the check-in girl informed Ros. ‘Apparently a little yellow man was spotted here a few days ago.’

  ‘Aliens!’ Ros thought, looking around scornfully at the over-excited and fervent crowd who were laden with geiger-counters and metal-detectors. ‘Honestly! What are these people like?’

  As Ros strapped herself in her airline seat, she had no idea that her plane was being watched intently by a yard-high, yellow life-form who was struggling to hold back tears. ‘Big boys don’t cry,’ Bib admonished himself, as he watched Ros’s plane taxi along the runway until it was almost out of sight. In the distance he watched it angle itself towards the sky, and suddenly become ludicrously light and airborne. He watched until it became a dot in the blueness, then traipsed back through the hordes of people keen to make his acquaintance to where he’d hidden his own craft. Time to go home.

  Ros’s plane landed on a breezy English summer’s day, ferrying her back to her Michael-free life. As the whining engines wound down, she tried to swallow away the sweet, hard stone of sadness in her chest.

  But, even as she felt the loss, she knew she was going to be fine. In the midst of the grief, at the eye of the storm, was the certainty that she was going to cope with this. She was alone and it was OK. And something else was with her – a firm conviction, an unshakeable faith in the fact that she wouldn’t be alone for the rest of her life. It didn’t make sense because she was now a single girl, but she had a strange warm sensation of being loved. She felt surrounded and carried by it. Empowered by it.

  Gathering her bag and book, slipping on her shoes, she shuffled down the aisle towards the door. As she came down the plane’s steps she inhaled the mild English day, so different from the thick hot Los Angeles air. Then she took a moment to stand on the runway and look around at the vast sky, curving over and dwarfing the airport, stretching away forever. And this she knew to be true – that somewhere out there was a man who would love her for what she was. She didn’t know how or why she was so certain. But she was.

  Before getting on the bus to take her to the terminal, she paused and did one last scan of the great blue yonder. Yes, no doubt about it, she could feel it in her gut. As surely as the sun will rise in the morning, he’s out there. Somewhere …

  Lisa Jewell

  Lisa Jewell was born and raised in north London, where she lives with her husband and two daughters. Her first novel, Ralph's Party, was the bestselling debut of 1999. She is also the author of twelve other novels including Vince and Joy, The Truth About Melody Browne, The Making of Us, Before I Met You, The House We Grew Up In, The Third Wife and The Girls.

  Rudy

  Lisa Jewell

  Rudy brushes up the nap of his tan suede desert boots with an old toothbrush. He picks a bit of dried food off his grey T-shirt and checks the fly on his beige brushed-cotton combat trousers. Turning towards the mirror, he hooks his shiny conker-coloured hair over his ears and pushes his fringe out of his face. His top lip curls itself up over his teeth to allow for a tooth inspection and he’s ready to go.

  He moves through his sparsely furnished flat, dominated by his collection of guitars, displayed on stands: two Fenders, a twelve-string, two acoustics and a bass. He pulls the door closed behind him and takes the narrow stairway that separates his hallway from the kebab shop upstairs. He has to walk sideways because his feet are too big for the steps. Mojo, his dog, follows closely behind, his claws tapping on the bare floorboards.

  On the street outside, he puts his hand to his eyes, shielding them from the sunshine. He doesn’t get any daylight in his flat and the sudden burst of light brings tears to his eyes. He doesn’t own any sunglasses, because he always loses them.

  Rudy is on his way to Parliament Hill. Even though it’s a mile and a half away, he’s going to walk. Rudy walks everywhere. He doesn’t believe in cars, he hates London Transport and the thought of negotiating a spindly little push-bike through the ruthless streets of London makes him break out in a sweat. He’ll get in a cab if someone else orders it and he’ll accept a lift if someone offers it, but otherwise, Rudy walks.

  Rudy is what you might call non-conformist. Rudy hasn’t got a job. He busks on the Underground, he signs on, the state pays his rent. He hasn’t got a girlfriend. He sleeps with a girl called Maria nearly every other night, but he won’t call her his girlfriend. He doesn’t watch the telly, he doesn’t read the papers, he doesn’t read books, he refuses to buy CDs. He’s a vegetarian and he lives over a kebab shop. He breaks the rules. Even the shape of his body, the size of his feet, the length of his fingers are non-conformist.

  He’s tall, very tall, about six-foot-three, with thick, unruly hair that he keeps tucked behind his ears. It’s thinning a bit on top, but unless he’s sitting down or with someone taller than him (unlikely), that remains his secret. He has his father’s Italian features – thick eyebrows, an expressive mouth and very, very long eyelashes. That’s the first thing that most women ever say to him: ‘God, your eyelashes are so long.’

  Very embarrassing.

  He keeps himself in fairly good condition, washes his hair every morning, shaves every day, buys himself clothes occasionally, nice clothes, tactile clothes, chunky hand-knitted jumpers, moleskin trousers, huge desert boots for his size elevens, a big cashmere overcoat. It’s all second-hand of course, he couldn’t afford to buy nice stuff like that new. But when you know which shops to go to, when you know exactly what yo
u’re looking for, it’s amazing what you can pick up for next to nothing.

  Rudy’s thirty-three years old and he’s never had to work in an office, answer a phone or write a memo. He’s never experienced that moment of ultimate flatness when you open your payslip and find that your boss hasn’t given you a surprise pay rise, that your tax code hasn’t changed overnight and that the accounts department hasn’t cocked up and given you too much money by mistake. He’s never had to wake up before ten o’clock or stay late or go to an office party. He only wears ties for weddings and funerals and he gets his hair cut whenever he feels like it. He can take his dog to work and have his lunch whenever he wants and for as long he likes. He doesn’t have to be nice to anyone he doesn’t like (except the police when they come to move him along every now and then) and he doesn’t have to go on training courses or learn a company mission statement. He doesn’t have to pretend to be ill if he wants to stay at home and watch television and he doesn’t panic if someone in his department gets a better car than him. And best of all, better than anything else, he doesn’t have to pay those thieving bastards at the IR a single penny of his hard-earned cash. In fact, the only thing he has in common with someone who works in an office is that if he wants to smoke a fag he has to go outside.

  He lights a cigarette now, a slim white Craven ‘A’. He lights it with a lighter shaped like a pistol, which Maria gave him for his birthday, and smokes it as he walks.

  The sun-baked August streets of Kentish Town are thronging with fantastic women in fantastic clothes: midriff tops, halternecks, hotpants and skimpy sundresses. They are patchworks of honey, gold and strawberry pink skin. Some are rake-thin, some are muscular, some are flabby and some are curvy. They are all absolutely beautiful. He could fall in love with every one of them.