by Alexis Hall
Okay, this was okay. This was just facts. It was facts about a specific thing that had happened to me recently involving a guy who had sworn blind he wouldn’t do something like this, but it was just facts.
“Hi,” I began. “You’re Jon Fleming’s kid, right?”
I’ll never forget the way he looked at me with these intense blue-green eyes—come-to-bed eyes they’d have been called about a decade and a half ago—full of hope and fear and suspicion all at once. Here was a man, I thought, who’s never known what it’s like to be nobody. And I hadn’t realised until that moment what a burden that must be. It’s a cliché to say that fame has taken the place of religion in the twenty-first century, the Beyoncés and the Brangelinas of our world filling the void left by the gods and heroes of antiquity, but like most clichés there’s an element of truth to it. And the gods of old were merciless. For every Theseus who slays the Minotaur and returns home in triumph there’s an Ariadne abandoned on the island of Naxos. There’s an Aegeus casting himself into the ocean at the sight of a black sail.
This was still okay. This had to be okay. It was just air. Just words. Just self-serving waffle about nothing. But those were my eyes he was talking about. My fucking eyes.
In another life, I like to think that Luc O’Donnell and I might have worked out. In the short time I knew him, I saw a man with endless potential trapped in a maze he couldn’t even name. And from time to time I think how many tens of thousands like him there must be in the world—insignificant on a planet of billions but a staggering number when considered as a whole—all stumbling about blinded by reflected glory, never knowing where to step or what to trust, blessed and cursed by the Midas touch of our digital-era divinity.
I read the other day that he’s seeing somebody new, that he’s getting his life back on track. But the more I think about it, the less I believe there was ever a track for him to be on. I hope I’m wrong. I hope he’s happy. But when I see his name in the papers, I think back to those strange, haunted eyes. And I wonder.
I put my toothbrush carefully down by the sink. Then I sank down on the cold bathroom floor, put my back to the door, and pulled my knees up to my chest.
Chapter 31
“Lucien? Is everything all right?” Oliver was still tapping politely on the bathroom door. I wasn’t sure when he’d started.
I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my T-shirt. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You’ve been in there rather a long time.”
“I said I’m fine.”
There was a sort of dithery noise from outside. “I want to respect your privacy, but I’m becoming increasingly concerned. Are you ill?”
“No. If I was ill, I would have said I’m ill. I said I was fine because I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.” It was Oliver’s most patient of patient voices. “And if I’m being honest, this doesn’t seem like fine behaviour.”
“Well, it’s how I’m behaving.”
Then came a soft thunk like he’d put his head against the door. “And I’m not challenging that, it’s just… I know that a lot has happened today, and if you’re upset about anything, then I’d hope you could talk to me about it.”
With a somewhat louder thunk, I put my own head back rather harder than I’d expected. The sudden jolt of pain felt like it clarified things, but probably didn’t. “I know you do, Oliver, but I’ve talked to you too much already.”
“If you mean this evening, I… I don’t know what to say. I liked having that connection with you—I liked knowing I mattered—and I don’t think that’s something either of us should regret.”
“Shouldn’t isn’t the same as won’t.”
“You’re right. Neither of us can be certain we aren’t going to look back in five years’ time and think this was the worst idea we ever had. But that’s a risk I’m willing to live with.”
I scraped pointlessly at the grouting between the floor tiles. “That’s because when you regret something, you do it on your own in a house with a cup of tea and a bottle of gin. When I regret something, I do it on page eight of the Daily Mirror.”
“I’m aware this is a concern for you, Lucien, but—”
“This is more than a fucking concern. It’s my life.” My nail snagged and tore awkwardly, a half-moon of blood gathering on my fingertip. “You don’t understand what it’s like. Every stupid thing I’ve done. Every time I’ve been dumped. Every time I’ve been used. Every time I’ve been even a little bit vulnerable. That’s forever. For anyone. It’s not even a proper story. It’s the article you read over someone’s shoulder on the Tube. It’s the half headline you catch as you walk past a newspaper you’re not buying. It’s something you scroll through when you’re having a shit.”
There was a long, long silence. “What’s happened?”
“You’ve happened,” I snapped. “You’ve fucked me up and made me think things could be different and they can never be different.”
Another, even longer silence. “I’m sorry you feel that way. But whatever is going on right now is clearly about more than just me.”
“Maybe, but you’re the bit I can deal with right now.”
“And you’re dealing with me by having an argument through a bathroom door?”
“I’m dealing with you by telling you this isn’t working. Apparently even a fake relationship is beyond me.”
“If you’re going to dump me, Lucien”—Oliver had become very, very cold—“will you at least do it to my face instead of through two inches of plywood?”
Hiding my face against my knees, I definitely wasn’t crying. “Sorry. This is what you get. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“You did, but I hoped you’d think I deserved better.”
“No, I’m that much of an arsehole. Now get out of my flat.”
The faintest of sounds, like maybe Oliver had been about to try the handle and then thought better of it. “Lucien, I… Please don’t.”
“Oh fuck off, Oliver.”
He didn’t reply. From my white ceramic cell, I listened to him dressing, heard his footsteps walking away, heard the front door closing behind him.
For a while I was too fucked up to do anything. Then I was too fucked up to do anything except ring Bridget. So I rang Bridget.
She picked up straight away. “What’s wrong?”
“Me,” I said. “I’m what’s wrong.”
“What’s going on?” Bridge’s phone was just sensitive enough to pick up Tom’s sleepy voice.
“It’s an emergency,” she told him.
He groaned. “They’re books, Bridge. What problems can they possibly have at half one in the morning?”
“It’s not a publishing emergency. It’s a friend emergency.”
“In which case, I love you. And you’re the best and loyalest person I know. But I’m going to sleep in the spare room.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll be quick.”
“No you won’t. And I don’t want you to.”
Down the slightly shitty connection I caught the rustle of bedclothes and a kiss goodbye. And then Bridge was back on the line. “Okay, I’m here. Tell me what’s up.”
I opened my mouth and then realised I had no idea what to say. “Oliver’s gone.”
A slight pause. “I don’t know how to say this without it sounding bad but…what did you do now?”
“Thanks.” I let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “You’re my rock.”
“I am your rock. Which is why I know you make really bad decisions.”
“It wasn’t a decision,” I wailed. “It just sort of happened.”
“What just sort of happened?”
“I told him he’d fucked me up and to fuck off.”
“Um.” Bridge gave me the audible equivalent of her confused face. “Why?”
> The more I thought about it, the more I wasn’t sure. “I’m in the Guardian, Bridge. The fucking Guardian.”
“I thought the whole point of dating Oliver was to get better press? After all, it’s a broadsheet. They’d probably only run a celebrity sex story if it was about an MP or a Royal.”
“It was worse than a sex story. It was a thought-provoking opinion piece about what a broken victim of celebrity culture I am written by that guy I failed to pull at Malcom’s T Party.”
“Should I look?”
“Why the hell not?” I huddled further into a corner of the bathroom. “Everyone else will.”
“I meant, would reading it help me support you better.”
I mumbled something along the lines of urnuhnuh.
“Okay I’m going in.”
A pause, while she switched apps and read the article, during which I shivered and sweated and felt sick.
“Wow,” she said. “What an utter wanker.”
That was less consoling than I’d hoped it would be. “He’s right, though, isn’t he? I’m this half-person wreckage of someone else’s fame, who’ll never have a normal life or a normal relationship or—”
“Luc, stop it. I work in publishing, I can spot articulate guff a mile away.”
“It’s how I feel, though. And he must have seen it, and now the whole world can too.” I pressed my cheek against the wall, hoping the chill would help somehow. “It’s not just a picture of me getting off or throwing up. It’s…Miles all over again.”
“It’s not at all like Miles. This is someone who met you for five seconds and decided to use your name to sell a completely generic article about nothing in particular. Besides, you only need that many classical allusions if you have a very tiny penis.”
I gave a weird hiccoughy laugh. “Thanks for that. Here, I thought I was having a crisis, but it turned out all I was looking for was an opportunity to insult a stranger’s dick.”
“Comfort comes in many forms.”
Perhaps it did, but it left in many forms too. “Look, I wish I was better at not caring. And, actually, I’ve worked fucking hard at not caring. Except then I started caring and look where it’s got me.”
“Where has it got you?” she asked gently. “If you mean on the phone with me at two in the morning, that’s been a constant of both our lives for as long as I can remember.”
“Bridge, when we’re on our deathbeds, I hope the last thing we do is ring each other. But I kind of meant Oliver.”
“Yes, what happened? This article has nothing to do with him.”
“I know, but”—I tried to assemble my thoughts, which remained stubbornly unassembled—“he was nice to me, and that made me feel safe, and maybe not worthless. And so I got all soft and happy and shit. And then this happened and I couldn’t cope. And it’s going to keep happening, and I’m going to keep not being able to cope as long as I’m trying to live like a normal person.”
Bridget let out a long, sad sigh. “I love you, Luc, and that does sound terrible. But I don’t think ‘make yourself miserable’ is the one-size-fits-all solution you think it is.”
“It’s worked so far.”
“Do you really believe you’d have felt better about that article if you’d read it alone in a flat full of empty Pringles tubes?”
“Well, at least I wouldn’t have had to break up with someone through a bathroom door.”
“You didn’t have to break up with him. You chose to break up with him.”
I ground my forehead against the tiles. “What else was I supposed to do?”
“Well, this might be quite a radical notion.” I could always tell when Bridge was making a huge effort not to sound cross with me. I was telling it right now. “But did it at all occur to you that you could have told him something upsetting had happened, and then have a conversation about it?”
“No.”
“Do you not think maybe that might have been a good idea? Do you not think maybe that might have helped?”
“It’s not so simple.” Shit, I was crying again. “Not for me.”
“It could be, Luc. You just have to let it.”
“Yes, but I don’t know how. I saw this thing in the paper, and suddenly I felt as if I’d spent the last month wandering around with all my clothes off, and I hadn’t even noticed.”
“But you liked being with Oliver.”
“I did,” I snuffled. “I really did. But it’s not worth this.”
She made a supportively confused noise. “I don’t understand. What this? The article would have come out anyway. And you can’t break up with someone so you don’t have to break up with him.”
“No, it’s neither of those. It’s both of those. It’s this whole big everything. Fuck, I’m such a fuckup.”
“You’re not a fuckup, Luc. You sometimes do fucked-up things. But, and I mean this in the nicest possible way, I still don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
I tugged at the ragged edge of my nail with my teeth. “I told you, it’s everything. I can’t… I’m not… Relationships. I can’t relationships. Not anymore.”
“There’s not a magic formula,” she said. “It’s hard for all of us—you’ve seen how many times I’ve messed it up—but you just have to keep trying.”
Sliding the rest of the way down the wall, I curled up on the bathroom floor, with the phone tucked against my shoulder. “It’s not that. It’s…bigger than that. It’s…”
“It’s what?”
“It’s me.” I had that creeping nausea again that isn’t quite about your body. “I hate how being with someone makes me feel.”
There was a little pause. Then Bridge asked, “How do you mean?”
“Like I’ve left the gas on.”
“Um. I’m sort of glad you can’t see my face now. Because I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I did that thing where you pull your knees and elbows in, and try to get so small you disappear. “Oh, you know. Like I’m going to come home one day and my whole world will have burned down.”
“Well”—she made a pained sound—“I don’t really know what to say to that.”
“That’s because there’s nothing you can say. It’s just the way it is.”
“Okay,” she announced, with the unwarranted confidence of a World War I general sending his men over the top, “I’ve got things to say.”
“Bridge…”
“No, listen. There is actually a choice here. And the choice is, either you never trust anybody ever again, and pretend that stops people hurting you when clearly it doesn’t. Or, um, don’t do that. And maybe your house will burn down. But, at least you’ll be warm. And probably the next place will be better. And come with an induction hob.”
I couldn’t tell whether Bridget’s strategy of distracting me from my problems by being odd was deliberate or not. “I think you’ve drifted from ‘giving me a pep talk’ into ‘advocating arson.’”
“I’m advocating taking a chance on a nice man who you’re clearly into and who’ll treat you well. And if you think that’s arson, then yay, arson.”
“But I’ve already dumped him.”
“Then undump him.”
“It’s not that—”
“If you say ‘It’s not that simple’ one more time, I’m going to get in an Uber, come over there, and poke you sharply in the ribs.”
I gave another weird weepy laugh. “Don’t call an Uber. Their business practices are unethical.”
“The point is, this is all fixable. If you want to be with Oliver, you can be with Oliver.”
“But should he be with me, though? I mean, he drove me all the way to Lancashire to see my dad, stood up to my dad for me, drove me all the way home again, and then I broke up with him through a bathroom door.”
“I
agree,” conceded Bridget, “that wasn’t ideal. And you probably hurt his feelings quite badly. But, ultimately, whether he wants to be with you is his decision.”
“And you don’t think maybe he’ll decide not to go out with the crying man in the toilet?”
“I think people surprise you and, really, what do you have to lose?”
“Pride? Dignity? Self-respect?”
“Luc, you and I both know you have none of those things.”
She’d made me laugh again—I was pretty sure it was her superpower. “That doesn’t mean I want to give Oliver Blackwood a chance to kick me hard in the feels.”
“I know you don’t. But from what you’ve said, he sort of deserves one. And, anyway, it might go well.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, “that’s what they said about the invasion of Iraq.”
“We’re talking about asking a cute boy to give you a second chance. Not starting a war.”
“You have no idea how many second chances he’s already had to give me.”
“Which means he clearly likes you. Now go and tell him you’re sorry, and that you like him back, because you obviously are and you obviously do.”
“But I’ll fuck it up or he’ll not want to see me or—”
“Or you’ll be unbelievably happy together. And if it goes wrong, we’ll figure it out like always.”
That was about 50 percent comforting, 50 percent embarrassing. “You shouldn’t have to keep scraping me off the floor.”
“That’s what friends do. Scrape each other off the floor and hold your hair back when you’re being sick in the toilet.”
“You’re so sentimental, Bridge.”
“Holding someone’s hair while they throw up is one of the most loving things you can do for them.”