Love, and Other Things to Live For

by Louise Leverett

  She laughed. My plan had worked – share a giggle and the problem is half solved.

  ‘So now that I’ve got you here, why don’t you tell me all about it?’ I said, topping up our coffee from the pot.

  She went on to tell me about her work: the mutterings in the office, the advances, and the stares. How he had told her that it felt wrong. How he so desperately wanted to go with her that day, but couldn’t.

  ‘He was right,’ she said, nodding.

  ‘Where?’ I interjected. ‘He wanted to go where?’

  ‘He even offered me money,’ she said, scoffing. ‘Maybe it was just a demonstration of his authority.’

  ‘Money for what?’ I said, growing more and more confused. ‘Amber, what are you talking about?’ It was clear this wasn’t one of her typical meltdowns, one of her innocent mistakes. Like the time she accidently unplugged our fridge-freezer to charge her phone. This was serious.

  ‘It’s all a mess. I quit my job. I think I’ve got enough on without seeing the look of regret on his face every morning.’ She peered up at me, as a tear ran down her left cheek. ‘It just wasn’t worth it in the end, was it?’ she said.

  ‘Amber, you’re going to have to be clearer and you’re starting to scare me. What happened?’

  ‘I got pregnant, Jess. And now… I’m not. So that happened and now it’s not there anymore.’

  I could hear her voice quiver and my heart stopped.

  ‘I mean, it’ll be okay,’ she said, taking a napkin to wipe away a small tear. ‘The hard part’s done, right?’

  We both sat there speechless, only the hum of the light above us breaking the silence.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gone with you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To be with you,’ I said.

  ‘I was fine. I was on my own and it was fine.’ I could see the barriers slowly building up again around her. As if the best way to function was to be on her own.

  ‘Who was there?’ I asked.

  ‘A volunteer, who was lovely and sweet and kind. She actually held my hand the whole time.’

  I wanted to get up and wrap my arms around her, protect her from her own sense of self and the accusations that I knew she would be thinking but instead I just sat there and listened.

  ‘You know the worst part?’ she said, almost laughing. ‘Everybody else in the waiting room was so much younger than me. I felt ashamed not to have my life in a place that could withstand it, to have to resort to this. We couldn’t have brought a child into that, Jess. It was just impossible.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I asked.

  ‘I think I was scared that you would look at me differently if you knew.’

  ‘You’re my best friend,’ I said. ‘How else could I possibly see you?’

  I reached out across the table and held her hands within mine. She wasn’t a talker, Amber. She got on with things. She wasn’t one to pester you for your time or unleash heartrending secrets. But the time for her to talk had come and I was finally there to listen. I was right in my perception: the quiet girls, the ones who bear the burden alone – they are usually the strongest.

  Trying to Catch Water: Part Two

  The first frost had gathered and a thin, glittery mist had now blanketed the city. Sean had spent the evening having drinks with a musician called Henry, a man who had revealed himself to be by all accounts, a bit of a mystery. They had met on a gay app, a digital haven at this point in Sean’s life, where work had rendered anything more serious, or time-consuming, a sheer impossibility. And to be honest, he didn’t want the distraction. But rather than go home to an empty flat he had agreed to migrate north for a couple of hours to see Henry’s studio in Kentish Town. Henry was twenty-five and the youngest man he had met on there. Up until now, Sean had been the young one and naturally migrated to the older, slightly studious type of man like a moth to flame. Paul had taken care of him and discouraged his, often, wild ways. The dynamics had proved perfect. After all, it’s difficult to be a rebel when you’ve no one to rebel against.

  Looking at Henry, he knew instantly that it wouldn’t work long term, but a bit of fun in December never hurt anybody. Henry seemed a lot younger than his years with tanned skin and soft eyelashes. A drunken chatter could be heard from the pub on the corner as they walked down the cobbled street arm in arm where drunken people wearing tinsel and Christmas jumpers, a bit too confident in their post-mulled wine revelry, spilled out onto the pavements littered with beer cans and crisp packets.

  ‘It’s just up here,’ Henry said, turning past a launderette and down an unlit alleyway.

  Away from the safety of the crowds in the street, Sean paused. He barely knew Henry. And although there was something so completely disarming about him, and although they had spent the majority of the night getting to know one another, he couldn’t hide from the sound of his own instincts. He hesitated.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Henry said, looking back. ‘Scared or something?’

  Despite his reservations Sean followed him inside, always the first to take the plunge and never one to resist a dare. After climbing up the fire escape and in through what appeared to be an open sash window, Sean took off his navy blue coat and carefully dusted down the back of it.

  ‘Sorry,’ Henry said. ‘Gets a little dirty out there.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Sean said, hanging it over the corner of the door.

  ‘Would you like a drink? Beer?’

  ‘Beer would be great.’

  While Henry went off to the kitchen, he looked around at the white walls and the piles of sheet music that scattered the floor.

  ‘Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess,’ Henry said, coming back with two cans of beer. He was self-conscious, and quickly moved over to the chair which was covered in more papers. ‘Here,’ he said, moving them, ‘you can sit down now.’

  ‘Leave it,’ Sean said, ‘I’m fine standing.’

  He glanced slowly around the room at all the cases covering the floor. Sean had never seen anything like it. He walked over to the row of instruments lined up against the wall.

  ‘So what type of instrument do you play?’

  ‘All sorts: jazz, mostly. Why, do you play?’

  ‘No,’ Sean said. ‘I was more of a hard house, techno kid when I was your age.’

  ‘Sit down, please,’ Henry pleaded, gesturing an old brown leather armchair with a spring protruding from the underwire. ‘Do you want something to eat?’

  ‘Do you play all of these?’ Sean asked.

  Henry nodded with a mouthful of beer that he swallowed quickly so he could answer him. ‘About eight or nine in total: it’s really not that hard; they say once you know one the others come pretty easily. The difficulty is reading the music.’ He looked over at Sean who was crouched down over a guitar. ‘That’s a Gibson,’ he said, proudly.

  ‘You know, I always wanted to play,’ Sean said, running his forefinger over the strings.

  ‘What stopped you?’

  ‘Life?’ Sean grinned. ‘Back in New York I was in a band called The Blonds of Brooklyn.’

  ‘But you’re not blond?’ Henry laughed.

  ‘No, but I was eighteen and high…’

  Henry nodded in understanding. ‘Do you still get high?’

  ‘Do I what?’ Sean asked, thrown by his comment.

  Henry laughed. ‘It was a mind fuck. I thought that if I offered you a smoke and you immediately said yes then that would be proof.’

  ‘Of what?’ Sean said.

  ‘That you’re not talking crap,’ he said, suddenly becoming one of the most intriguing men Sean had ever met.

  He walked over to open a dented filing cabinet, pulling out some filters and a see-through bag of weed. After watching him roll it, Sean joined him and took a large drag of the slightly crumpled cigarette. In truth, Sean hadn’t got high since his last year of college but looking at Henry and his light turquoise eyes shining, he couldn’t find a reason not to.
/>   Half an hour later, the pot had kicked in for them both sitting side-by-side leaning against the cold, white-painted wall.

  ‘Doesn’t toast taste much better when you’re high,’ exclaimed Henry, licking off the butter with his tongue.

  ‘Uh huh,’ Sean said, finishing his third slice.

  They both caught a glimpse of each other at the exact same moment and broke into hysterical laughter. By now Henry had put on some loud jazz, a screeching, piercing attack on the ears.

  ‘Hear that?’ he said, waiting for a piano solo in the track.

  Sean listened dutifully. ‘What am I listening for?’

  ‘Freedom,’ Henry said. ‘God, you can almost smell the prohibition.’ He turned the cigarette lighter around and lit it against his thumb.

  ‘Isn’t there anything that scares you?’ Sean said. All of this was a bolt out of the blue, even for him.

  ‘Missed potential,’ Henry said, taking another drag of the cigarette.

  Sean had only come here tonight for a few beers and perhaps a quick lay, but in the meantime Henry had completely derailed him. Sean looked at his messy hair and spotted a hole in the sleeve of his jumper. The sound of the track had now faded and rather than sit in his curiosity any longer, Sean got up to leave, not wanting to get too drawn into the boy in the loft with a million guitars.

  ‘You could stay?’ Henry said. ‘I can sleep on the sofa?’

  Sean smiled and shook his head. ‘No, I think I’d better get going.’

  As he put his coat on and walked back over to the fire escape, Henry placed his hand on his arm. Sean pulled away gently, shrugging off his attempts. But as he lifted the window to climb out he did something even less familiar to him.

  ‘I don’t suppose you want to meet again tomorrow night, do you?’ Sean said with caution.

  ‘That would be great,’ Henry said.

  Just as Sean leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, Henry turned his face. There, under the sash of the window, their lips met. After a slight reluctance Sean kissed him back, fully and without hesitation.

  ‘I don’t think we should do this,’ Sean said, nervously pulling away.

  ‘Don’t start something you can’t finish,’ Henry whispered.

  It wasn’t supposed to mean anything: just a prominent display of harmless fun. But there they were, two apparent strangers in the midst of the familiar. And he had never felt more alive.

  Chapter Fifteen – And a Partridge in a Pear Tree

  I could feel the car shudder as I uploaded a new picture onto Instagram. It was taken of myself and Amber decked out in reindeer antlers with a large blob of red lipstick on the end of our noses. So far it had received 107 likes and 36 comments. I wouldn’t usually dream of putting on fancy dress, in the same way I wouldn’t dream of wearing blue eyeshadow, but we had been ice skating at Somerset House and got a bit carried away in the moment. It was a Tuesday night and I was in the back of a taxi having spent the entire evening late-night shopping with Charlie. He had been picking out a suit to wear at a wedding that I wasn’t invited to. In what could perhaps be seen as a role reversal for the stereotypical sexes, he had dragged me to the tailor to watch as he tried it on for the first time.

  ‘I just don’t know about the cut,’ he said, while I attempted to colour-edit some pictures I had taken on my laptop.

  ‘Charlie, I swear to God if I have to hear about that bloody suit one more time…’

  I could hear my phone ringing in the bottom of my bag that was hooked precariously over the back of the doorframe as my cold, chapped hands struggled to grasp it.

  ‘I can’t remember if I kept the receipt?’ Charlie said to himself as he rummaged in the bottom of the plastic suit bag.

  ‘Hi, Cathy,’ I said, finally retrieving my phone.

  ‘Jess, I’m not disturbing you, am I?’ she said.

  ‘Not at all, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I’ve got a bit of good news. Saatchi are planning on exhibiting a couple of my pieces at a show they’re doing on Christmas Eve. I know it’s a time for families and all that but there’ll be a few photographers there, mostly my age, and I wondered if you’d like to come along?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much for thinking of me.’

  ‘Fantastic, I’ll put your name on the door…’

  ‘Wait, Cathy?’ I said, looking at Charlie who was still elbow-deep in his suit bag. ‘Can I bring someone?’

  ‘Of course. Does that mean I finally get to meet Charlie?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ I said, still watching him. ‘I think it would be good for him to see what I’m trying to do here.’

  ‘In that case I’ll give you a plus one,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you then!’

  As I hung up the phone I heard the front door slam. It was Amber. Against a constant barrage of noise, our flat had now turned into Piccadilly Circus.

  ‘Been shopping too?’ I said, hearing the rustling in the hallway. She’d been out all day and was carrying half a dozen carrier bags. ‘Please tell me it’s more exciting than Charlie’s inside leg measurements.’

  He looked up at me, put out for a second.

  ‘Hi,’ Amber said with reservation as she made her way into the kitchen. It was the first time they had seen each other since that infamous night at Marlowe’s.

  ‘Amber, what a pleasure…’ Charlie said with a cocky grin.

  I could tell she wanted to punch him but instead she glided slowly past him and offered him a drink. To the outside eye this would seem like a kind gesture, but I knew Amber, and she was indicating to us both that he was a merely a guest here.

  ‘So what’s in the bags?’ I asked, trying to catch a glimpse.

  ‘Office supplies. I’ve gone freelance.’

  Charlie looked over at me before stating the obvious, ‘Freelance by choice or…?

  ‘I quit my job,’ she said, bluntly. She looked at me. ‘You don’t mind if I set an temporary office up in the living room, do you?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ she said, half to herself. ‘It shouldn’t take too long to get a client base going.’ She looked at me for approval and I nodded in support. She took a deep breath and collected all of her bags together. ‘I’ll be in the living room if anyone wants me.’

  As I heard the door close I tried to avoid Charlie’s gaze. ‘Is she okay?’ he asked, this time with genuine concern. ‘She’ll be fine.’ I didn’t want to talk about it because I didn’t want to lie to him. ‘Let’s just look for this damn receipt.’

  They say that nothing’s ever perfect but we were certainly edging closer. Since my father was spending the holidays in the South of France with his latest girlfriend and my mother was on a cruise with the women from her book club, I had made the decision to spend Christmas in London. Now that she was freelance Amber had gained a little more time to herself and had taken both Christmas and New Year off to go and visit her family. Sean was nestled away in a cabin somewhere with Henry and Marlowe was at the in-laws’.

  I had been offered the chance to spend time with my father, but had politely declined to spend the festive period eating shellfish opposite a woman only two years my senior. Consequently, that left me with only Charlie, a bottle of scotch and a pack of twenty-four mince pies. As he had made the unusually romantic gesture of inviting me out for dinner on Thursday night, I thought it would be the perfect chance to sound him out.

  On a rare occasion such as this, I’d taken an increased amount of time to make the extra effort: I’d tidied my eyebrows, trimmed my fringe and painted my nails, both hands and toes. I looked down at the red gloss and could see a smudge on the left side of my forefinger. I licked my finger and rubbed it gently but the patch stayed there unchanged, permanent. It was never going to be perfect. It was always going to resemble me, in some way, pretending. It was as if the shiny outer layer that I’d taken so long in becoming, represented a different version of myself – an everyday form of
fancy dress.

  I had arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes early and sat at the table, confidently, slowly taking in my surroundings. I watched as the waiters were rushing to the tables, carrying trays of food and opening bottles of wine, as the sounds of ‘Service!’ bellowed from the bustling kitchen. Seated in my chair, on the opposite side of the expensive table, I couldn’t help but feel like a fraud: I was one of them.

  I watched Charlie make his way through the restaurant and he sat down in front of me with the grin of a teenage boy.

  ‘What’s that smile for?’ I asked, intrigued.

  ‘It’s just James. He’s sent me an e-card for Christmas and it is shall we say? Amusing.’

  He turned to show me his phone as I watched a cartoon Santa swinging his hips at the top of a chimney, totally naked from the waist down.’

  ‘I’ll send that to Sean,’ I said, laughing, ‘that’s something he’d appreciate I’m sure.’

  ‘Anyway, come here,’ he said, giving me a kiss, ‘haven’t had a chance to say hello yet, have I?’

  His kiss lingered longer than it usually would. It never failed to catch me off-guard.

  ‘So do you have a big family?’ I said, as we made our way through two bowls of soup.

  He shook his head as he brought the spoon to his mouth and slurped the liquid gently. ‘You?’

  ‘Just me. And my mum and dad. And his girlfriend.’

  ‘How very European of them.’

  ‘They’re not still together!’ I said, smiling. ‘My dad’s the successful businessman and my mum bore the brunt, I’m afraid. Both of them are away for Christmas so it’s just me on my lonesome. You could join me?’ I was sounding out the situation. Testing the water.

  ‘Can I think about it?’ he said, wiping his mouth with a tissue.

  ‘Of course you can.’

  I could tell there was something on his mind but as with any other argument we’d had in our history, I knew not to press the issue. Instead, I reverted back to our initial conversation.

  ‘So what was your family like? Were they part of that stereotypical tradition too?’ I asked, my mouth running away with me. ‘Who was the breadwinner?’