by Emlyn Rees
I look Matt straight in the eyes. ‘I love her,’ I tell him. ‘I told her about McCullen because I love her.’
Matt raises his hand. ‘Hold it right there, my brother.’
‘What?’
‘You know exactly what. The L word. You just said it.’ He wags his finger at me. ‘You did. You did. You know you did. Don’t even attempt to make out that you didn’t.’
‘I’m not.’
Matt cocks his head to one side. ‘You’re not?’
‘No, I’m not. I said it and I meant it. I love her.’ ‘I listen to the sound the words make as they leave my mouth. It’s a good sound. It’s the kind of sound I could do with hearing again. I, Jack Rossiter,’ I tell Matt, ‘being of sound mind –’
‘A matter of opinion,’ Matt mutters.
‘– love her, Amy Crosbie.’
Matt looks hard at me for a very long time. ‘That would explain it, then,’ he concludes.
‘Explain what?’
‘Why you’ve been acting like a complete dick.’ We stare at each other in silence for a few minutes. ‘I suppose we’d better work out a way of getting you out of this mess,’ he finally says.
Being a lawyer, Matt approaches the problem like a lawyer: he starts with the facts. After checking one or two of them with me, he falls silent and I watch his expression set in a mask of concentration. I imagine his ruthlessly logical brain at work, tweaking, tugging, toying with the problem. Confidence flows through me. If anyone can find a path out of this hideous Minotaur’s lair, it’s Matt.
‘Accidental fellatio,’ he eventually considers aloud. ‘That’s a tough one.’ He scratches his chin and frowns. ‘A total bummer, in fact.’
This is not the solution I’ve been craving. ‘No, Matt,’ I correct him. ‘It’s not a bummer. Losing my wallet would be a bummer. Getting a parking ticket would be a bummer. This is an unmitigated fucking disaster.’
Matt waits patiently for my outburst to subside. ‘The crux of the matter,’ he ponders, ‘is whether you have or have not been unfaithful. Technically, I suppose the answer must be yes. You were indeed blown. The tip of her tongue did indeed touch the tip of your tool. That brings us to intent. Though, in the eyes of the law, ignorance is no excuse, it can be argued that, in your semi-conscious state, you were completely unaware that the tongue in question belonged to any other than your beloved Amy. Hence, your gaining pleasure from the motions of this tongue would not constitute emotional infidelity.’
‘Great, mate,’ I interrupt out of sheer frustration, ‘try telling that to Amy. Just a case of mistaken identity, darling. Happens all the time. Nothing to get worked up about. Yeah, Matt, she’s just going to love that.’
Matt looks at me sidelong. ‘You really must learn to channel this aggression, you know. It’s not good for you.’
‘What?’
‘Take a deep breath,’ Matt says.
‘What?’
‘Relax. Calm down. Float downstream a while.’
I’m not in the mood for any hippy shit right now – especially from a City lawyer who wouldn’t know a lentil from a loofah ‘Relax?’ I snap. ‘How the fuck am I meant to relax? I’ve just been chucked, for Christ’s sake.’
He gives me a few seconds to calm down, before saying, ‘Listen, mate, nothing’s ever as bad as it seems.’
‘Mind telling me how exactly?’
He purses his lips in consideration, then suggests, ‘Objectivity. You’ve got to be objective about this.’
‘Objectivity?’ I splutter.
‘Yeah,’ he explains, ‘you know, like when you go and stand on a hill and look down on a town and it appears completely different, because you’ve put some distance between you and it.’
‘Matt,’ I say, ‘I sincerely doubt that standing on a fucking hill is going to be of much help.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Just hear me out, okay?’
‘I’m listening.’
Matt lights a cigarette and takes a couple of drags. ‘The objective view,’ he begins, ‘is this. The love of your life no longer wants you. She’s discovered that you’ve been slipping your dick into another woman’s mouth behind her back. As a result of this, and the fact you didn’t tell her about it straight away, she now thinks you’re a low-down, no-good piece of shit who deserves to burn in hellfire for eternity. Suffice to say, she never wants to see you again.’
‘Thanks, Matt,’ I tell him, beginning to have serious concerns about his counselling skills. ‘Why not just hand me a razor blade and go run the bath for me?’
‘Okay,’ Matt says, ‘forget objectivity. You’re right; objectively, you’re fucked. Still,’ he says, after a pause, ‘things could be a lot worse.’
For the first time, he’s said something that makes sense. ‘Yeah,’ I agree, ‘I could be in the middle of the Sahara without a drop of water. I could be being eaten alive by maggots. I could even be being forced to watch every episode of Dynasty ever made. Aside from these, though, I really think there’s very little worse that could happen to me.’
Matt studiously ignores this volley of sarcasm. ‘Seriously, mate, it could. You’re still alive. So’s she. Shit happens. It happens to us all from time to time, doesn’t it?’
‘No, Matt,’ I interrupt, ‘I don’t believe it does. I don’t believe, for example, that it happens to you. Does it happen to you, Matt? Well? Does it? I mean, do feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but answer me this: have you ever been dumped by someone you’re in love with?’
‘No.’
‘Right, so it doesn’t happen to us all. It happens to some people. And that I acknowledge. That I don’t have a problem with.’
‘So what is your problem?’
‘My problem it that it shouldn’t have happened to me,’ I snap.
‘Why not?’
I hold my head in my hands. ‘Because I trusted her, Matt. That’s what’s really killing me. I’ve spent my whole life lying to women, keeping stuff back. But not her. I trusted her and I told her the truth. I told her the truth because I love her. And what did it get me? It got me dumped. She didn’t even give me a chance to explain.’
‘Do you really think it would make a difference,’ Matt asks, ‘if she could hear your side of what happened?’
‘Yeah,’ I mumble, ‘I do. I really do. But what’s the fucking point? I’ve been calling her all day and she won’t even pick up the phone.’
Matt puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Maybe she just needs some time to calm down,’ he suggests. ‘Give her some space. Believe me,’ he assures me, ‘she can’t go on hating you for ever.’ He stares into the middle distance. ‘Like they say,’ he adds, ‘if you love something, set it free. If it returns, it’s yours for ever. If it doesn’t, it never was.’
For Matt, this is pretty profound. I can only conclude that it’s going to take a stroke of genius to get me out of this one.
The Waiting Game
‘I know you can hear me,’ I say. ‘Yes, you, Amy Crosbie, I’m talking to you.’
I wait a few seconds for a reply, but none comes. I’m not backing down, though. I’m here on a mission. I’m a Guerrilla of the Heart. And Guerrillas of the Heart don’t go chickening out at the first sign of resistance. We’re committed, fearless. We relish the challenge, knowing that victory, when it comes, will be twice as sweet.
‘Fine,’ I call out loudly. ‘You can skulk all you like. I’m not going away. Do you hear that, Amy? I’m not budging. Not one inch. I’m staying right here until you come down and give me a chance to explain.’
Still nothing.
Suddenly, my resolve takes a dramatic turn for the worse. I press my lips up close to the intercom and whisper, ‘Please, Amy. I love you. I love you and this is killing me.’ I wait again, but all that answers me is silence.
An old guy on the bench across the street rolls his eyes at me and takes a swig from his bottle of Thunderbird. He looks like he’s seen it all before. But I don’t care. I mean what I say: I do lo
ve her. And I couldn’t give a damn who knows it. She’s the girl. The Uberbabe. She’s the one I’ve been looking for all this time.
Ever since I told Matt last night that I was in love with her, she’s all I’ve thought about – almost like saying it out loud to him made it real to me. No, I don’t give a damn who knows. I want everyone to know, but most of all Amy.
And that’s why I’m here.
It’s just gone ten-thirty on Sunday morning and I’m standing on the steps of her building. I’ve been here since nine. Apart from the old guy, the street’s deserted. With the pavements on either side coned off for roadworks, there aren’t even any cars. Above me, in keeping with my mood, and for the first time in weeks, the sky is grey. I take a couple of steps back and crane my neck and look up the building to the top floor where Amy’s flat is.
There are no signs of outward aggression. No boiling oil pouring down the battlements. No archers at the ready. But no signs of imminent reunion, either. No white handkerchief fluttering in the breeze. No waving hand, beckoning me up, nor Rapunzel hair tumbling down. Not even so much as an open window. But that’s OK. I’m certain she’s in there. I’m prepared to wait. If she wants me to lay siege to her, then that’s precisely what I’m going to do. If she wants proof that I love her, then here it is. And if she doesn’t – well, tough, I’m going to give it to her anyway.
I return to the door and press my finger down on the intercom. It makes a noise like an angry wasp. I hold it there and picture Amy inside, listening to it. It must be driving her mad. I hope it is, anyway. Sounds harsh, I know, but I don’t care. The only thing I care about now is getting a chance to give her my side of the story. This is a democracy, after all. People don’t go getting convicted without a trial. Justice decrees that she has to listen to me. I screwed things up. I know it. But everyone makes mistakes, don’t they? And I’ve learnt from mine. I won’t ever allow a situation like the one with McCullen to occur again. I won’t ever lie to Amy again, or deceive her the way I did. All I need is a chance – just one – to let her know that I love her and that I’m hers, and that I don’t want to be with anyone else. As in ever.
Still no response.
Take heart. I’m better equipped to deal with this state of affairs than she is. For a start, there’s food. What’s she going to eat? I know Amy. Stocked cupboards aren’t her strong point. Those two cartons of Long Life milk and the past-the-sell-by-date tub of hummus in the fridge aren’t going to keep her going for long. And then there’s the new job. She’s not going to blow that out just to avoid a confrontation with me. It means too much to her. No, she can’t hide for ever. She’s got to get tired soon, let me in, or at the very least come down and listen to what I’ve got to say. Logic dictates that the odds on this one are definitely stacked in my favour. Especially with the preparation I’ve put in. As temporary MD of Sieges Us, I’ve brought along the ultimate Relationship Survival Kit:
a) Twelve pink roses (granted, they’re wilting, but rich with romantic potential nonetheless)
b) Food: one family-sized packet of Chick-O-Lix TM (the only item left in the twenty-four-hour garage’s fridge); Kendal Mint Cake (standard army issue); and two bags of dry roast peanuts (protein rich)
c) Beverages: two cans of Toxoshock (isotonic energy-boosting drink, containing caffeine, taurine and guarana); plus one carton of Nutroshake (strawberry-flavoured)
d) Vestments: jeans and FCUK T-shirt (both Matt’s); desert boots (ideal for rough terrains)
e) Other: two packs of Marlboro (Lights); one windproof lighter (petrol)
Apart from my choice of clothing – I glance up at the sky; it’s darkening down – I reckon I have the capacity to last out here for hours, if not days. Amy, in other words, short of constructing a hang-glider out of her bed sheets and miscellaneous household items and launching herself from the roof, has little chance of escape. Like it or not, I will have my say.
With a valedictory, ‘I’m still here,’ I let go of the buzzer and slump back down on the steps. I feel something on my face and, looking up, notice that it’s started to rain. Shuffling back against the door, I take the box of Chick-O-Lix from my rucksack and nibble at one unenthusiastically, before discarding it and lighting a cigarette in its place. Down the road, the church bells start ringing out, calling people in for morning service.
Say a little prayer for me.
I didn’t sleep last night. Not a wink. I just lay there, staring at Fat Dog, watching the minutes flick by. Needless to say, it was Amy who was keeping me up. Or, rather, the lack of her. Because, obviously, she wasn’t there. She wasn’t there because she hated me. She thought I was scum. And why not? In her position, I would have thought exactly the same. Reverse psychology. How would I feel if she told me some guy had gone down on her? Angry? Jealous? Disgusted? Yes, all of these. But most of all, betrayed. Only I didn’t betray Amy. I didn’t set out to hurt her. I just fucked up. Acknowledged: bad. Not that this made me feel any better. It didn’t. As I lay there, not even able to hold on to my pillow for comfort – because it still stank of McCullen – I just felt gutted. Devastated. I felt like someone had torn my heart in two.
Even my dick agreed. And this was not a dick-like thing to do. Normally (the Ella Trent incident excepted), come fair weather or foul, my dick’s constitution is unassailable. I didn’t think it was capable of letting me down in this way. Yet there it was, slumped between my legs like a hibernating creature. If it could have talked, I suspect that our conversation would have gone something like this:
Jack: ‘What’s up with you, then?’
Dick: ‘Nothing’s up. That’s the point.’
Jack: ‘What point?’
Dick: ‘Exactly.’
Jack: ‘Do you feel like talking about it?’
Dick: ‘I don’t feel like anything. Apart from numb, that is.’
Jack: ‘I take it you’re talking about Amy?’
Dick: ‘Well, I’m hardly talking about McCullen, am I? Not after that pathetic excuse for a blow job.’
Jack: ‘I can’t even remember it. Was it really that bad?’
Dick: ‘Put it this way, Jack: as blow jobs go, it sucked – and I don’t mean that kindly. There I was, psyching myself up for a cracking wet dream. It had all the makings of a classic. You and me sitting in this sauna, steam all around, and in walks Amy in her school uniform …’
Jack: ‘Her school uniform? I don’t even know what her school uniform looks like.’
Dick: ‘Dramatic licence, Jack. Give me a break.’
Jack: ‘I see. What happened next?’
Dick: ‘Bloody McCullen turns up. In she marches and, without so much as a by-your-leave, pushes Amy aside and takes over the whole shooting match.’
Jack: ‘It doesn’t sound that bad. For a fantasy, I mean.’
Dick: ‘Yes, well that shows all you know. Take the word of a pro, Jack, it’s not much fun driving a Mini when you’re used to a Rolls-Royce. But even then, I coped. All right, I said to myself, let’s make the most of a bad job. But – oh, no – you weren’t having that, either. You weren’t prepared to stop at duping me with the wrong girl. You had to go one better. Just when things were starting to look up again, you pulled out. Pulled out, Jack! That’s just sick. That’s just so … amateur.’
Jack: ‘I’m sorry, Dick. I won’t let it happen again. Can’t we just be friends, like we were in the good old days?’
Dick: ‘The good old days. Ah, yes, I remember them. Just you, me, the bottle of baby oil and a copy of Hustler. Not forgetting, of course, the occasional one-night stand to which I was treated. A quick plunge into 3D paradise, only for it to be snatched away once more the following morning. Great days, indeed. All the same, do forgive me if I don’t start jumping up and down at the prospect.’
Jack: ‘I said I was sorry.’
Dick: ‘I know, I know. It’s just that I miss her, Jack. She fitted, you know? She felt right.’
For once in my life, I had to admit it, my
dick definitely had the upper hand.
I started thinking about Matt’s advice – all that crap about giving Amy space. Space might well be the final frontier, but as far as I was concerned, it was for wimps. I didn’t want to give her space; I wanted to share her space. And as for all that, if-you-love-something-set-it-free nonsense, well Matt could stick that, as well. Why would I want to do that? OK, so setting her free was a right-on enough concept, and, yes, one with which I could deal with on a purely theoretical level. Or even practically – were I talking about mynah birds, or pet tigers. But I wasn’t. I was talking about Amy. I was talking about the woman I now realised I loved. And the way I saw it, if I did go setting her free, then the least I could do was let her know the facts. The decision she’d made had been a unilateral one. What I had to do was restore the democracy. There’d be no point in her flying off on her freedom thing if she didn’t know I wanted her back. I mean, she might have just kept on flying and where would that have left us? Her homeless, and me home alone. Blues times two. I didn’t want to set her free. I wanted to win her back. And if that meant I had to fight for her, then I would. All ten rounds. Muhammad Ali. Like a butterfly. Like a bee.
Or, alternatively, by just sitting outside her door.
In the rain.
Sleep-starved and cold.
I curl up closer to the stone and close my eyes.
It’s a quarter past three when I wake up. My mouth feels like it’s lined with wallpaper paste. Having seen the ingredients when I worked at ProPixel, I can only assume that this is a side-effect of the Chick-O-Lix TM I consumed earlier.