This Could Have Been Our Song!: A coulda woulda shoulda ballad

by Ngontang Mba, Danielle-Claude

  “I only have fifteen minutes, Marcus,” she would say to me and guide her to the sofa.

  “I can manage,” I would tease back. But I never could.

  Patrick still hasn’t answered me.

  “Okay, so you’re not expecting. I really wouldn’t mind a nephew,” I casually say. He just turns around and leaves the room. Splendid! Another successful conversation. Something’s up between him and Sally; one way or another, I’ll get to the bottom of this. And I had better do it before he starts ordering new furniture.

  I follow him back to the living room and find him in the foyer.

  “You have a visitor.” He moved away from the door.

  “Hi, Bloody,” I say to Mary. I’ve been expecting her to show up uninvited at some point.

  “Hi, Silly,” she answers before entering the room. “Why is Pat here? Has Sally finally kicked his spineless self out?

  “As always a displeasure, Mary,” Patrick tells her and heads to the second floor.

  “What? He can’t take a joke now?” she asks me. She comes closer to me and wraps her arms around my neck. I take her glasses and coat off. “Just a small disguise.” I turn my head from her kiss but she brings it back. “God, I’ve missed you, Marcus. London hasn’t been the same without you,” she says before kissing me again.

  This time I don’t move my head. It was Mary after all. No, instead I bring her slender body even closer. Mary in my arms; now I’m officially home.

  I put the tea and treat in front of her and sit across. She looks stunning but when hasn’t she ever? Her neat makeup hasn’t been affected by the rain, nor her short, red dress. And her hair is shorter, much shorter. The last time I saw her, it was down to the middle of her back; it’s barely off her shoulder. And red. When was the last time Mary had red hair? She quietly takes her cup while still examining me with her piercing blue eyes.

  “So, do you like it?” she asks me, touching her hair.

  “You’re a natural redhead, Mary O’Connell. This color has always suited you,” I say, serving myself some tea.

  “I know but I haven’t been one in a very long time and I’ve never been this kind of red. But do you like it?” she asks again. She takes a treat and eats it. “This is bloody good! Are you having tea parties? Look at you all domesticated,” she adds laughing. She gets up and sits next to me. “Don’t you dare not ring me back again, Silly.”

  “Bloody…”I whisper. I trail my finger along her neck, her perfect neck, her soft, pale skin. “What did you mean by London is not the same? You don’t live in London anymore,” I ask, moving my fingers away from her.

  “So doesn’t Patrick, but still there he is in your townhouse in September. Let me guess; he’s responsible for all this.” She’s pointing at the room and the treats.

  “He’s always been a nester. But he’s just on holiday and Manchester is only three hours away. You moved to Barcelona last year.” What has she been up to here? She was supposed to be on a European tour all spring.

  “I like London. How are you enjoying your personal space?” she jokes and moves her perfect body towards me. “Where is Pat now?” she whispers in my ears.

  “Waiting for you to leave I’m sure,” I whisper back, smiling. I take her hair away from her face. “Where have you been staying all this time?”

  “With friends. You’re not the one friend I have in this city,” she teases and then goes for a kiss. The femme fatale act is not working on me tonight. “What’s wrong, Silly? You seem…different,” she pouts.

  I grab her hand before she gets it in my pants. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. Or just not in the mood,” I say.

  “Alright! Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” She moves away, “But I have missed you, Marcus. Did you miss me?” she adds.

  “Should I? I remember our last sober conversation very well. No more gloomy England for you. Your life is in Spain now, with that famous writer. What was his name again?”

  “Alright, I get it! Eric and I are taking a small break as you may have read in the magazines or saw on the telly. And it made me think about us. Have you thought about us at all?”

  She’s unbelievable! But as usual, straight to the point. “I’ve been busy, Mary,” I say, trying to sort out my own thoughts, leaving her on her own on the sofa.

  “I know! You haven’t been returning my calls. How’s Miss Silicon Valley by the way? I heard that Matty finally dumped her fake ass for Linda again,” she says.

  “We both know Matt will never leave Beesly. He’s crazy about her. And she’s doing fantastic by the way,” I say.

  “Still up to her evil ways I see. She never fooled me; that Barbie doll witch!”

  “Bloody hell! The both of you just have to sit down and –”

  “Drink some fucking tea! That American will never be one of us.” She angrily crosses her arms.

  “Mary, you’re not one of us anymore.” As I say that to her, I realize how much this is true and begin to understand Beesly’s motives. “We just work together now. We haven’t been a couple since the last time you dumped me.”

  “I see that you have been brainwashed; must have been that undeclared Canadian weather. Or Beesly,” she says. She gets up and joins me. “We broke up and I didn’t dump you. So stop playing the victim.”

  “You’re right; you chose the writer and left for Spain. But sorry, love, those are my mates more than they were ever yours,” I tell her.

  “Have you been listening to anything I’m saying? I’ve missed you a lot. I’ve changed my hair. Silly, I’ve changed.” She’s getting closer and closer. Too close to resist.

  “Bloody,” I whisper between kisses. “I think I have too,” I say, releasing her.

  She holds up her hands and walks away from me. “I’ve changed, Silly. The old me would just try to seduce you. The new me will be leaving,” she says, retrieving her coat.

  “You have tried, Bloody. And a few times,” I tell her and can’t help laughing. I open the door for her.

  “Don’t you dare gloat,” she laughs. She gives me a quick snog. “Lunch on Friday our favorite place. I’m telling you now –”

  “Mary…”

  “It’s about the album. We do need to talk. Don’t keep me waiting,” she says then closes the door.

  “Maybe there is still hope for you after all,” Patrick says behind me.

  “Eavesdropping? Really?” I say and begin to clean up the coffee table.

  “I don’t know if she has changed at all, this one. But I really believe you have. For once you were not drooling all over her.” He follows me to the kitchen. “How great of a cook was she?”

  “Luce?” I ask, starting the dishwasher. “The compulsive passionate type. And she eats meat,” I add, smiling.

  “Brilliant! I would really like to meet her,” he says.

  We both know that it won’t be happening anytime soon. “Maybe I could give her back her charm bracelet,” I joke too. The wedding is next week so all the Mpobo-Riddell should be in London now.

  “Marcus.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sally and I are separated. She might stay in Melbourne with the kids until Christmas. But I’ll go visit. A lot,” he tells me. Finally! I wonder if Mum knows or Dad or… “No one knows yet.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask him. Anything is better than nesting.

  “Not really,” he shrugs.

  “Did you just shrug off ten years of marriage, Pat?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Do you want to drink it off at least? I need a drink or twelve myself,” I say.

  “I’ll get the beer,” he eagerly says before going to my cellar. Yes, I have a cellar. “And Marcus?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, mate.”

  I purposely came fifteen minutes late to our lunch date. But it wasn’t enough, she still kept me waiting for another thirty. Now it’s the middle of the lunch rush at Hartley’s Pub and in early September it’s full of student
s from the University Of Westminster or The Royal Academy of Music. I’ve missed the West End’s energy these past months, but Toronto has its own charm. I finish my beer and order another one just in time to see Mary walking toward me and not alone. Her faithful assistant/manager/publicist/sister, Cally, made it this time. And no disguise, and on a rare September sunny day, she is wearing a designer blouse and skinny jeans. Everyone in the pub is recognizing her. Cally is not far behind and Paolo, her bodyguard, stays close to the entrance.

  “Miss O’Connell, you look ravishing,” I tell Cally, hugging her. And she does; her once-very-thin figure has been nicely filling itself out in all the right places.

  “Marcus, I need a ciggy. That witch made me stop three weeks ago,” she whispers in my ear. Nothing has changed. Mary is still trying to run her older sister’s life. “You little tease! You look fantastic; Canada did you some good. Away from it all,” she says, louder, moving her natural red hair away from her face. “We’re late. Sorry. Mary had a photo shoot this morning and double-booked herself without telling me.”

  “That’s right, Cally; I’ve booked lunch without telling you. Sue me!” Mary tells her sister while sitting across the table. “Hi, Silly. Sorry this wasn’t a star move. Just schedule conflict,” she adds.

  “Right. Lunch is on you anyway, as it’s about business,” I say. I’m not sure I believe her but bringing Cally with her is a nice touch.

  We order our food. Cally, who is compensating her nicotine addiction with food, orders a plate of fish and chips to her sister’s disgust. She orders a salad. She needs to stay in shape. Lucia, Noor and Axelle eat everything under the sun and just dance it off. I go for the roast beef with Yorkshire puddings, Hartley’s pub style, the best one in London.

  “I’m so pleased you’re back early. Does this mean that we can start recording Mary’s album earlier?” Cally asks me between bites.

  “Not really. It does give me more time to write a few songs before heading to the studio in October. What’s the rush?” I ask.

  “We’re recording in Paris!” Mary blurts out.

  “What Mary is trying to say,” Cally explains to a very shocked me and a dismissive look to her sister, “is that we signed with Eclipse and it’s a great contract, Marcus, but one of the requirements is that we have to record and produce any future albums in their studio in Paris.”

  “Congratulation, ladies! How good is this new contract? And am I getting a raise?” I ask them. I keep eating; best dish I’ve had since I’ve been back. I knew about the deal; it’s a much better one than Beesly & Matt have with Noël-Sarrow Records.

  “Your raise has already been negotiated by your agent,” Cally says.

  “You writers think you are above it all,” Mary jokes.

  “And you lovely singers can’t write a bloody single song,” I smirk back. We all laugh. “I’ll be in Paris –”

  “Fuck this! I need to smoke!” Cally abruptly leaves our table and heading to the doors.

  “Three weeks! A new record, love!” Mary yells back. She takes my hands. “Alone finally. So when are you coming to Paris? I’m renting this flat next to Charles de Gaulle Étoile station. Remember the last time we were there?”

  “In two weeks,” I say. I kiss her hand. I remember very well. We were young and in love. At least I was. “I proposed.”

  “And I said yes,” she whispers, her head closer to mine.

  I remove my hands. “And then two years later you gave me back the ring. What was the reason again? Me?”

  “I thought I was the one who has a flair for the dramatic. We were too young. What’s up with you lately?”

  “We were twenty-five.” Cally is back and looks more herself now.

  “Piss off, Mary. I’ll stop when I get pregnant,” she tells her sister before she even says a thing. Her mobile rings. “Cally speaking.”

  “Not like you haven’t been trying all over,” Mary tells her.

  She covers her mobile. “Stop hitting on Marcus, Bloody. It’s pathetic.”

  “I got it with you two. Hotel arrangements for you it is,” Mary reluctantly says.

  “I like the sound of that,” I say with a smile.

  Cally takes care of the bill and calls Paolo for their car. “Okay, love. We’ll see you in Paris in a few weeks.” She’s air kissing me goodbye.

  “We may have a few surprises for you there, but nothing has been finalized yet,” Mary adds and quickly hugs me. It’s a public place, so I know she won’t try anything that could end up the tabloids. After all, we never went public. “And I’m not giving on us yet, Silly,” she whispers.

  “Bye, Bloody,” I say. I watch them leave the pub, signing a few autographs here and there, taking a few photos with her fans; just an ordinary girl having lunch with friends.

  I’m not ready to leave yet. Another beer will be much appreciated; I look around, searching for a waiter when I notice a woman in sunglasses with a tank top stating “Mother of all Brides”, a mini skirt and stilettos. She’s sitting at the bar and talking on the phone but she stops as soon as she sees me. It can’t be her. She takes her sunglasses off and – yes – those all-too-familiar, big, grey eyes are staring back at me. Noor Mpobo-Riddell is waving at me from across the room and I can’t help but wave back.

  “Sweetie, I have to hang up now,” I hear her say as I approach. “Oh my god! It is you!” she adds while jumping off her stool.

  “Hi, Noor,” I say.

  “I’m getting married in eight days, Marcus. Can you believe it?” She turns around to show me the number eight on the back of her tank top. “One for each day left,” she laughs.

  “Noor, Noor, Noor! Always with the theatrics. What are you doing here?” I’m really happy to see her.

  “Just got back from dance rehearsal. I’m famished. Andrew and I have so many numbers planned,” she enthusiastically says.

  “Okay –”

  “And my dress; the final fitting is on Monday and my hen party is on that day as well. And still so much to do,” she keeps saying.

  “Right but –” I try to say. But, no; she doesn’t let me speak.

  “Okay, what’s the deal with sitting charts? And I still have to decide between an indoor or outdoor ceremony. Marcus, this wedding business is hard,” she says.

  “Are you done?” I ask, laughing. I touch my keys in my pocket. I’ve attached Lucia charm bracelet to it. Not that I wanted to have it with me all the time; I just didn’t want to lose it, that’s all.

  “Why?” she asks. She crosses her arms; a family’s trait I see. “What? You wanted to ask me something?”

  I’m sensing some tensions here. “Well…” I mumble. She’s got me exactly where she wants me to be.

  “That’s what I thought. You didn’t want to ask me about my little sister. You know the one you fucking lied to not once but twice, you prick! And then pretty much ditched without saying so much as a goodbye,” she blurts out seriously.

  The sisters are angry. I can respect that. I acted like a wanker that day. “I was going to ask you what you were doing here at Hartley’s,” I awkwardly tell her.

  She giggles. “I told you; I’m famished. They have the best Yorkshire pudding dishes in town, you know.”

  I do know but how does she? Is it in the tourist guide for hungry Canadians? Around us the lunch rush is almost over, the students are back to school or are preparing for Friday night. I remember that feeling. Matt, John and I would be sitting here for hours just making plans for the weekend. Mary would join us soon after and our weekend would begin.

  “I’m on my own, if you were wondering. Just picking up my orders,” she tells me. I must have been hinting or something because the next thing she says is, “Unlike you earlier. Was that Mary Gillis? I never had the pleasure of meeting her before.”

  “Business meeting, that’s all.” There’s no need to explain myself to her.

  Her orders arrive; there’s enough to feed about fifteen people. “I don’t care.” She s
ignals a man at the door,“You made it clear back in Toronto that none of us should,” she adds. The older man comes and pick up the orders. “Thank you, Tom. Could you please bring the car around; these shoes are killing me,” she tells him with a smile.

  “Wait,” I say as she’s about to leave me in front of the bar.

  “You have one minute.”

  I take the keys out and give her the bracelet. “She left it at John’s.”

  “You have five minutes.”

  “I came by to return it but she was with Greg.”

  “So?” Noor says, apparently not understanding me.

  “He was all over her and –”

  “Yeah? He flew all the way from Sydney to mend her broken heart, you asshole!” she shouts.

  I really don’t think she’s understanding me. “He saw me, Noor. He saw me standing there. You should have seen the look on his face…and hers,” I finally reveal.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are? The center of the universe or should I say Lucia’s universe! So your ego got bruised; he’s in love with her. Deal with it!” she shouts again. People are starting to look. “Twenty-four hours on the plane, Marcus, just to tell her that everything is going to be okay, just to hug and dance with her. What have you done lately?” she says, lower. She’s doing the quotation mark gesture. “Business meeting with your ex?”

  “That’s not fair, Noor,” I say.

  “Your five minutes are up. I’ve got to go,” she says and she’s walking away, towards the door. I follow her outside. Her car is still not here; this is a very busy neighborhood.

  “So, how did you hear about Hartley’s Pub?” I ask her.

  “What do you mean? By eating there. All my life,” she says.

  “I beg your pardon?” What does she means by that?

  “A little too late,” she jokes. She waves at the lady across the street. “This was my hood, Marcus. Axelle, Lucia and I grew up a couple of streets from here and were all born at Portland Hospital. We still own our house here. Andrew and his family are staying there.”