Come Together

by Emlyn Rees

  It’s your basic nightmare.

  It’s Chloe.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asks.

  ‘Yep, fine,’ I say, raking my soggy hair away from my face. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Great. Did you have a good time the other night at Matt’s?’

  I’m experiencing mild panic. She must know about me and Jack. I nod dumbly. Hello? Where is my personality?

  ‘You left with Jack, didn’t you?’

  ‘Nothing happened,’ I blurt.

  ‘That’s not what I heard.’ She gives me a teasing wink.

  I clear my throat. ‘What did he say?’

  Thank God I’m red already and she can’t tell I’m blushing.

  ‘Nothing much. He was pretty plastered by the time he got back to Matt’s. You mustn’t take much notice of him. To be honest, he’s a bit of a tart.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He’s dreadful! He shagged my neighbour Cathy the other day and chucked her out without even so much as a cup of coffee. And he leches after all the nude models he paints. We tease him all the time, but you know blokes like him …’

  ‘Yeah. I kinda figured that.’ I suppress the urge to throttle her, but maybe something in my tone suggests to her that all is not well.

  ‘Of course, I wouldn’t blame you if you did want to … you know. He’s quite cute.’ She cocks her head at me.

  ‘You seem to know him pretty well,’ I mutter.

  ‘Known him for years. We were all at school together.’

  ‘Oh yes, he told me. I forgot.’

  I’m a liar. I could recite his every word at gunpoint.

  ‘He’s a good mate, actually. Always game on for a laugh. You should come out with us more often.’ Chloe beams at me.

  I experience the emotion hatred.

  ‘I’d like that. I had a great time. Actually I was going to call Matt and thank him, but I don’t have his number.’

  Inspirational, my girl. Inspirational.

  Chloe unzips her bag and whips out a thick personal organiser. I ogle as she rips out a crisp lavender page and scrawls the number on it with her funky but obviously expensive ink pen. She hands it over.

  ‘Cheers,’ I say, trying to sound nonplussed whilst I carefully fold it up.

  She smiles at me, leans forward and kisses my steaming cheek. ‘Excellent. I’ll see you soon then.’

  She’s almost out of the door when she turns back. ‘Oh, by the way, I did give Jack your number. I hope you don’t mind.’

  It takes a packet of chips and three pints of Stella with H to digest this information. We go over every possible meaning. My thoughts are that Chloe is trying to warn me off because she likes me and doesn’t want me to get hurt, or that she’s trying to make Jack seem more attractive by making him out to be a rogue. H is having none of it, but then she doesn’t like Chloe much. She says that Chloe is deliberately stirring because she doesn‘t want her cosy inner circle of friends upset, and for all we know, she probably fancies Jack herself.

  Chloe went out with H’s brother’s friend once and by all accounts was a bit of a bitch. I met her at a party about a year ago just as the relationship was ending and she got drunk and cried on my shoulder. Then I met her again at H’s brother’s wedding and we’ve sort of stayed in touch ever since. I like her, but I agree with H that she’s not a girl’s girl, but a boy’s girl. They’re altogether different.

  ‘Ah,’ I say, but if that’s the case, why did she ask me to go out with them and why did she give Jack my number?’

  H shrugs and shakes her head, ‘Dunno. I don’t trust her, though. Anyway, you haven’t got a problem, you’ve got his number now.’

  ‘Yes, and he’s had my number for days, but he hasn’t bloody rung it, has he?’

  H sips her pint thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure you really want him? It doesn’t sound like he’s particularly trustworthy.’

  ‘He hasn’t found the right girl, that’s all,’ I smile, before a worrying thought comes into my head. ‘What if Chloe tells Jack she saw me and I looked a state?’

  ‘For God’s sake!’

  ‘But maybe when I told him I fancied Matt, he believed me and has written me off and doesn’t fancy me at all.’ I plunge into a monologue of self doubts and further reasons for his silence, before H silences me herself. She stands up with her empty glass.

  ‘This is really getting on my tits,’ she warns.

  Over the next pint, H dispenses practical advice. She says that if she were me, she’d call Jack and suss out the situation for herself. But she’s not me. She’s much braver. I tell her that if he really wants to get in touch he will. I’ll just have to wait. H says I’m being defeatist, but it’s easy for her to say, she’s got Gav.

  I’m drunk by the time I get home and I’m feeling sorry for myself. Jack still hasn’t rung, even though Chloe must have said something by now. I’m not going to call him. He had my number first, so it’s up to him. It wouldn’t be cool to call him, despite what H says.

  I snuggle up with Power Women and drop off instantly.

  On Wednesday, I wake up and I can’t move. Every muscle in my body is in shock. At first I think I’ve been in a bad car accident and then I remember the gym. I haven’t even opened my eyes yet and already I’ve got a bad feeling about today.

  In theory, my morning routine should go roughly as follows:

  7.00 a.m.:

  Alarm goes. Press snooze button.

  7.20 a.m.:

  Alarm goes again. Press snooze button again.

  7.40 a.m.:

  At third alarm, get out of bed. Wash face, put kettle on. Run bath.

  7.45 a.m.:

  Consume tea. Do positive affirmations. Get into bath.

  8.10 a.m.:

  Emerge from bath with washed and conditioned hair.

  8.15 a.m.:

  Dry and attempt to style hair (always a disaster).

  8.25 a.m.:

  Open wardrobe. Assemble and don outfit of choice. (Ironing optional.)

  8.30 a.m.:

  Consume bowl of cereal or toast (depending on milk situation).

  8.35 a.m.:

  Double-check I’m properly dressed. Clean teeth. Assemble kit for possible chores, i.e. dry cleaning, shoe repairs, etc. Apply make-up.

  8.40 a.m.:

  Check and recheck contents of bag. Locate keys.

  8.45 a.m.:

  Leave flat.

  Today I wake up at 8.45 a.m. It’s not a good start.

  Why is it that when I oversleep, I always wake up at the exact time I’m supposed to leave the house? Weird.

  Vinegar Tits gives me a lecture on punctuality and I resolve to poison her. I put through calls to the wrong people and generally Fuck Up all day. I console myself with a BLT at lunchtime with extra mayonnaise. There seems to be no point in being thin now.

  I spend the afternoon having run-through conversations with Jack.

  Me: Hello?

  Jack: Hi Amy, it’s Jack here.

  Me: (Confused) Who?

  Jack: You know, from the other night. I had a fantastic time. You were amazing. Honestly, I’ve never met such an intelligent, sexy …

  No scrap that. It’s never going to happen.

  Me: Hello?

  Jack: Hi, Babe, it’s Jack.

  Me: (Super cool) Hi, how are you?

  Jack: Lonely without you …

  Blah! He’s making me puke.

  This goes on and on. I’ve rehearsed it all, except the conversations where I’ve rung him. However, by the end of the afternoon, I’ve got so used to talking to him that I know he will call. It must be impossible for one human being to think about another one this much without them picking up some kind of vibe. Surely?

  There’s only one message on the answer machine when I get home. It’s from H telling me to call her when I’ve called Jack.

  I can’t back out of it. I psyche myself up by flicking through a few pages of Power Women. ‘Don’t give away your power to other people �
�� Women who get what they want are always proactive … etc’

  I stare at the filofax page with Jack’s number on it. Just do it. Do it. Do it. Come on, pick up the phone.

  Jack’s phone rings four times. I squeeze my phone to my ear. My knuckles are white. I feel so exposed. I’m ringing inside his house!

  Then the answer machine clicks on. It’s Matt’s voice.

  ‘Hi, Matt and Jack aren’t here right now. Please leave a message after the tone and we’ll get back to you. Beep.’

  And then something strange happens. Out of nowhere, a chipmunk becomes lodged in my oesophagus.

  ‘Hi, this is …’ I begin. Then nothing. I’m so shocked by the sound coming out of my mouth. I try again. ‘This is Amy. Um.’ More silence, then the beep.

  I have single-handedly left the worst message ever on an answer machine. Ever. In the history of the world. And I can’t do anything about it. I put down the phone as if it has given me an electric shock and start to flap my hands about. I’m burning up.

  I rip the phone out of the socket and switch off the plug of the answering machine, open the window and hurl Power Women into next door’s garden.

  Thursday: melt down.

  I am catatonic at work. I’ve realised that my problem is much bigger than the Jack answerphone incident. It has expanded to encompass my whole life. Unwittingly Geoff steps into this personal crisis.

  Geoff is a consultant at Boothroyd, Carter and May and he’s been hanging around the reception area all week. This is because he’s the office Billy No Mates. He can only be described as a damp squib. There’s nothing remotely attractive about him. He has rectangular glasses, a bald patch and a body odour problem.

  Such is my state of mind that when Geoff asks me out for lunch, I agree to go. I go on a date with Geoff!

  He takes me to an Italian restaurant and orders spaghetti which he splatters down his tie. He’s very nervous and obsequiously flattered that I’ve agreed to go out with him. I don’t really connect with this, because I’m having an out-of-body kind of a day. Conversation is getting a bit stilted and I start to prod my lasagne with my fork.

  ‘You don’t seem very happy,’ observes Geoff.

  Top marks to Einstein over there.

  I shrug. ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ he asks (stupidly).

  So I tell him.

  I let rip.

  I tell him that I’m thinking that people only attract people that they can attract. For example, Elizabeth Taylor attracted Richard Burton because they were more or less as attractive as each other. And I have attracted Geoff. So that must mean that I’m the same kind of level of attractiveness as Geoff. And that, quite frankly, makes me want to top myself.

  I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never said anything so unkind to a virtual stranger before. We stare at each other for a while and then I smile nervously, but Geoff looks really upset. With shaking hands, he pulls some cash out of his wallet, drops it on the table and scuttles off.

  Fortunately, because no one speaks to Geoff, he doesn’t have anyone to bitch to, so there’s no showdown at the office. However, I spend the afternoon in deep remorse.

  When I get home, I pluck up the courage to reconnect the phone.

  Immediately, Mum calls for one of her ‘chats’.

  ‘Darling. How’s that lovely new man of yours? I’m dying to know—’

  ‘He’s not lovely and he’s not mine!’ I yell.

  I’m having some sort of personality collapse.

  Jack still doesn’t call. H comes round and we have a barney when I refuse to allow her to pull me out of my black mood. She tells me that I’m being pathetic and there’s no need to take it out on everyone else. She’s got a point, but I’m beyond seeing it.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I say spitefully. ‘You don’t know what it’s like to be dumped even before you had a first date.’

  She takes a tough line. ‘This has got nothing to do with Jack,’ she says, infuriatingly calmly. ‘You’ve finally cracked and it’s the temping that’s done it. I knew it would.’

  ‘So what if I have a shite job and a shite life? That’s my lot. I can’t do anything else,’ I snap. ‘I’m hopeless at everything.’

  She refuses to rise to this. ‘That’s utter bollocks. You’re not trying. It’s as if you’ve given up. You know you want to get into fashion and make a go of things, but you’re too scared.’

  ‘Oh shut up! That’s ancient history. It’s too late anyway.’

  ‘It’s not too late, you’re just being stubborn.’

  ‘Oh, and what would you know? You with your swish job in television and Gav to come home to. What would you know about being at a dead end?’ I say, but I’m losing it and my voice starts to shake.

  ‘Having a boyfriend is not going to solve all your problems, Amy.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Claire Rayner,’ I choke. ‘It may not be the answer, but it’d be a bloody good start, because you have no idea how much I hate being on my own. Dealing with all this … shit,’ I spit, as I start to blub. ‘But if you hadn’t noticed, I can’t pull anyone. I can’t even pull Geoff, because he’s realised the truth – that I’m a horrible person and my life is going nowhere … and … and … I’m going to end up in my thirties, a bitter, twisted failure and … and … I’ll die a vi-ir-ir-ir-ir-ir-gin.’

  H gives me a big hug, opens the box of coloured tissues, makes me a cup of herbal tea and puts me to bed. She reassures me that everything will be fine in the morning.

  Right. Fuck them all! No more wimping about. I’ve had it. I’ve expended far too much energy waiting for that fucker to call. One measly little call was all it would have taken, but oh no, he’s just a selfish bastard! Well, I’m through with wasting my time on him. He’s not going to put me through any more of this agony. This week I’ve lost and regained half a stone, argued with everyone, including H, and for what? Answer me that? Sweet Fanny Adams.

  So that’s it. Jack Rossiter is out of my life for good. I mean, doesn’t he know who I am? He should be round here begging for a date, making my phone wires melt, turning my flat into a bloody florists. Well, do you know what? He can Fuck Off. Take his bloody floozies, fancy clothes and all his arty bollocks and Shove It.

  Boy, I’m in a feisty mood this morning. I am Tarzan; who needs to be wimpy Jane? I am a Power Woman after all.

  I don’t need men. Men and all their smelly genitals, disgusting toenails and hi-fi snobbery. Who needs them? Not me. No siree.

  I stand on the doorstep and take an invigorating breath. Huh! No stupid man is going to get one over on me ever again. Today is the last day of the temp job and THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE.

  Unfortunately, I slip on the front steps and snag my tights.

  However, I refuse to be fazed and I think my new attitude shows. People get out of my way on the tube and, in the office, people’s greetings wither on their lips. I cruise through the day with brutal efficiency. I even tidy up the stationery cupboard which certainly impresses Vinegar Tits.

  At 5.30 on the dot I hand her my timesheet. This is the part of temping that I usually detest most. People make such a fuss about signing your sheet, quibbling over the hours and making you feel like you’re some kind of prisoner on parole. Not today though. Vinegar Tits looks me up and down as I stand to attention by her desk.

  ‘Thank you, Anna, for all your hard work,’ she says. ‘I must say that today you’ve been most, um, diligent.’

  ‘It’s Amy actually. You’re welcome.’

  ‘Well we won’t be needing you next week. Janet’s back from holidays, but I’ll be in touch if anything comes up.’

  She doesn’t mean it and that’s fine by me. I’m out of here.

  I stride over to the Top Temps offices. Elaine has a Friday night party for all the temps which is impossible to avoid when dropping off your timesheet. It’s supposed to make us feel like we’re one big happy family and not the scourge of the p
lanet that everyone else seems to think is the case. Actually, these parties are just embarrassing. Temps don’t have much respect for themselves, let alone each other.

  The offices are tropical. There’s a platter of curling sandwiches on the reception desk, a couple of bottles of pop, and a Blue Nun wine box. Elaine is halfway through this already, her smudged eyeliner giving her panda eyes.

  ‘Stay, come on, stay for a drink,’ she slurs, chucking my timesheet in her in tray.

  I decline her offer and tell her that I’m going out. She tells me that she’ll call me about more work next week.

  I use the office phone to leave a message on H’s mobile. I tell her that she has no choice, we’re going to paint the town red.

  Blood red.

  I hum my way up the stairs to the flat, excited about the prospect of a girls night out. I’m going to get shit-faced. Beyond shit-faced. I deserve it. I might even indulge in a few Class As if they make an appearance. There’s nothing that could possibly stop me. I’m In Control.

  I put the key in the door. I’m not even going to so much as look at the answering machine. I wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of knowing that I care. Because, quite frankly, I don’t. Even if there were ten messages from Jack-Fuckwit-Rossiter, I’d wipe them all off. And if he were to call again, I’d just tell him to drop dead.

  The phone starts as I open the door. Great, that’ll be H, ready to make plans.

  I lunge for the phone.

  ‘Hello,’ I chirp.

  There’s a small pause.

  ‘Hi, Amy, it’s Jack. I just wondered what you were doing tonight.’

  And I know this is bad. Really, really bad. That in two seconds I undo the work of two decades of the Women’s Liberation Movement. It’s just that I’m so happy to hear his voice. So pathetically grateful that he’s called at last, that I hear myself saying, far more enthusiastically than I mean to, ‘Nothing. Why?’

  3

  Jack

  The Phonecall

  ‘NOTHING. WHY?’

  Well, the why’s the easy part. The why I can do standing on my head with my hands tied. Because it’s a Friday night and I’m home alone. Because, Amy, despite the fact that last week you told me you fancied Matt, I’m still hoping you might fancy me, too. Because I haven’t had sex for over a week and you haven’t had sex for over six months. Because, Amy, we therefore have a mutual need. And, yeah, because I fancy you, too.