Me and You

by Claudia Carroll

  I tell everyone that even in this crappy economy, where every single day seems to bring yet another bad news story, miracles can and do still happen. Because isn’t our story the proof? I say that if someone like me can get off the dole and actually make a success of a small start-up with absolutely no experience whatsoever, then anyone can. I tell them all that when we first started out, I knew next to nothing about the world of business, unless watching Dragon’s Den and The Apprentice counted. I tell them that two short years ago, I used to use the business section of the papers at home to line the cat’s litter tray. More laughter at that. Then I tell the room that all you need to succeed in a business like ours are two essential ingredients. A partner exactly like Sarah – calm, level-headed ying to my panicky, insecure yang – and a lifelong love of all things chocolate-related. Once you’ve those locked in place, I say to the whole room, then the sky really is the limit.

  I wrap it up by thanking everyone, Academy Award style, from investors and suppliers to family, friends and well-wishers. Then, in a wobbly voice, I turn to find Sarah, who’s in the front row, looking like she’s trying v. hard not to tear up.

  ‘Thank you for being you,’ I tell her sincerely. ‘Thank you for your extraordinary drive and ambition and for encouraging me everyday to go that bit further. Sarah O’Reilly, I’d run a mile in my highest heels for you, I’d give you my last handmade chocolate … and if you were a fella, I’d probably marry you!’

  There’s a big laugh at that and a v. generous round of applause, so I decide to quit while I’m ahead. And as the clapping shows no signs of slowing down, I look over at The Man, who’s looking intently back up at me.

  Thank you, I mouth silently at him and he winks back at me. Couldn’t even bring myself to name-check him in my speech; I knew I just wouldn’t have the self-control not to end up looking like an overflowing water feature. So I just content myself with gazing at him, in all his gorgeousness instead.

  Thank you for being the reason I can get out of bed these mornings, I say silently across the room to him. Thank you for being my best friend.

  I swear it’s as if he understands me. He grins back up at me, proudly. And I don’t need to be able to lip read to know what exactly what he’s mouthing back at me.

  Thank you for bringing me back to life.

  7.44 p.m.

  Finally, finally, finally the crowd clears enough for me to make my way over to The Man. He’s been chatting to a group of people that I don’t know, but breaks away when he sees me coming and smiles warmly.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he twinkles down at me, ‘these are for you.’

  I blush a bit as I take the massive bouquet of lilies from him.

  ‘Thank you, they’re absolutely stunning,’ is all I can manage to say back.

  ‘Your speech was great, by the way. Well done.’

  ‘I … well … I wanted to thank you as well, that is, I tried my best to, but I ended up just stumbling …’

  ‘Hey, now, none of that! I thought you did brilliantly. I know how petrified you were about it but to see you up there, you’d never have thought so. Not a nerve in your body. Like you’ve been doing this your whole life. And as for Sarah, it genuinely wouldn’t surprise me if that girl ended up in politics someday. She was born to run a small country, she really was.’

  So touched he said that. I look gratefully up at him, wishing he’d kiss me or that I’d the guts to kiss him in front of all these people, but I know it won’t happen. Funny, he can be so affectionate whenever we’re alone together, but never in public. Shame really. I mean, I wasn’t exactly looking for him to swing me up in his arms in front of everyone, sweep the counter display to the ground and roughly throw me across it for a passionate clinch, but a little, minor bit of hand holding would just be so lovely, tonight of all nights.

  That’s all. I’m only saying.

  ‘So how does it feel,’ he smiles down at me, ‘to be a successful business owner? Two Chocolate Bars under your belt already and both set to go from strength to strength?’

  ‘It’s … well, it’s hard to get my head around,’ I tell him. ‘All down to Sarah, though. You know what a tornado of efficiency she is—’

  ‘Credit where it’s due,’ he interrupts me gently. ‘Remember, you’re a team. None of this would work without equal input from both of you.’

  I beam proudly back at him. Then think, oh sod this anyway, I don’t care if he’s not demonstrative in public, shag it anyway, I am, and if I want to kiss him, then why can’t I? We seem to get feck all alone time together these days with all the mental hours I’ve been working, so can’t we act like a proper couple, just this once? I run my hand playfully up and down the lapel of his jacket and he doesn’t pull away. Then I’m just about to lean in closer to him, when a voice from behind stops me.

  ‘Very crowded, isn’t it? And this is only Prosecco they’re serving, not actual champagne. Just so you know.’

  O-kaaaay. Only one person I know speaks in that affected, pseudo-West Brit accent that used to grate on my nerves so much, but now makes me want to laugh. Funny, the confidence a small bit of success gives you. I turn round to see my sister, Madeline, with her mouth pursed into a v. irritated-looking cat’s bum shape, playing with her iPhone and looking like it’s anathema to her to even have to make appearance. The only person here who I actually noticed refusing a free chocolate goodie bag earlier, lest she gain a couple of ounces in weight. And I know right well she’s only here in the first place under strict instructions from the parents; otherwise it would physically choke her to stand by and watch the one-time loser kid sister she loved nothing better than lording it over, now actually making something of herself

  ‘Yes, it’s certainly crowded all right,’ I smile sweetly back at her. ‘But then, it is a launch party, Madeline. The general idea is to get as many people in as possible.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’ she says, indicating The Man, who’s looking at her with that dangerous, dark glint he gets in his eyes, which I know means that he’s on the verge of smirking. Right then, only one thing for it: get it over with and out of the way as quickly as possible.

  I mutter my way through introductions and am just about to drag The Man away from any further Blennerhasset torture, when Madeline stops me in my tracks.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she’s saying to The Man. ‘It’s so noisy in here, I didn’t quite catch your name. What was it again?’

  The Man smiles easily, confidently.

  ‘Oh, didn’t you?’ he says. ‘It’s Simon, actually. Simon Ashby.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  1.30 a.m.

  So here we are, Simon and me, in his car after the launch party, the dinner after the launch party and the drinks that followed on after that again. It’s stupid o’clock and I’m a bit drunk after one too many glasses of pretty much whatever floated on a tray past me. Had to, tension reliever. In fact, I was so nervy before the do, I think I’d happily have drunk car battery acid if I’d thought it might calm me down.

  Now normally, whenever it’s just me and Simon alone, there’s always an easy, comfortable silence between us. The kind of air-time that you never feel the need to fill, not when you’re with your best mate. But for some reason, instead of having to be scraped off the ceiling from the high of how well the whole night went, I’m just the teeniest bit on edge, now that it’s just the two of us and the night is finally over. Just wondering how the whole romance boyfriend/girlfriend bit will all play out at this, the final furlong of the evening.

  I’ve been so busy getting ready for the launch, and in putting finishing touches to our Dame Street shop, that he and I have hardly had any alone time together at all recently, let alone a date night. And even if we ever do manage to meet up, even for a quick drink, then chances are he’ll drop me straight home then head on back to his own house.

  Or should I say, Kitty’s house, because … yes, two years on and he’s still living there. But whatever we do,
as Sarah says, we won’t mention the war. For God’s sake, none of us are even at the stage when we can start referring to her as Jean yet, let alone tackle him on that one.

  Fact is, though, Simon refused point-blank to leave Kitty’s house and when the lease was up, just automatically renewed it with the landlord. I told him v. forcefully at the time that I didn’t feel it was healthy for him, that as long as he continued on there, he was still living in the past, but he was having absolutely none of it. Just shrugged his shoulders at me and said that he ‘still wasn’t ready to leave’. ’Course I’ve tried on countless occasions since to change his mind, as have Sarah, Jeff and all of his own mates too, but you know how stubborn fellas can be with their heels dug in.

  ‘Place just suits me,’ he’ll shrug, then wax on about how close it is to his office, how handy for town, blah-di-blah.

  So I just have to continually bite my tongue, while never actually saying anything.

  The whole thing just seems so wrong to me, though. Feels completely arseways, in fact. A bit like the guy has chosen to perpetually live with a ghost.

  It goes without saying that I can’t stay over in that house at all, ever since he and I got together. Can’t even bring myself to call over there to see him, like I used to, back in the day. V. hard to describe, but somehow it’s as if Kitty’s still there, in every single room, in the pores of the walls, even. I swear I can feel her presence surrounding me and looking down on me all the time.

  I never felt like this going there before, but in the past few months it’s like every time I open a cupboard and see her favourite jacket hanging there, or else the flowery wellies she used to wear in the rain, I get an instant pang of guilt that feels exactly like chronic indigestion. As if she’s watching me and Simon too, watching us together, seeing everything unfold under her nose. Just like in Rebecca, except she’s very much alive and living a whole new life somewhere on this planet.

  Indescribably weird.

  Mind you, the place is a helluva lot tidier now than it ever was when Kitty lived here, but, that aside, her things are still exactly where she left them the day she vanished. Or more correctly, the day she walked out. Simon not only won’t touch a thing, but refuses to let anyone else either. Kind-hearted Mrs Butterly from next door even offered to shift some of her old clothes to the Oxfam shop on Camden Street, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

  So now all of Kitty’s clothes still hang in the wardrobe, exactly where they’ve always been. Her cosmetics and face creams and hangover tablets are all still in the bathroom cabinet. Even a stack of her books and CDs are all still in the spare room, waiting for her. Like she’s about to turn the key in the door and stroll in any minute, saying, ‘Oh, hi, everyone. Jeez, was I really gone that long?’

  You never know, he keeps telling me, one day she could be back for it. Like he’s still clinging to that frail little wisp of hope, even though he knows it’s useless to. Even though I’ve pointed out to him on countless occasions the complete and utter insanity of what he’s saying. Because whatever corner of the globe Kitty’s in right now – and the last trace we had on her was in Morocco, of all places – one thing is certain. Given what we now know about her, that girl ain’t waltzing back into our lives, not ever.

  Sorry, I meant to say Jean. It’s v. difficult to keep remembering, though; to me she always was and will be Kitty Hope.

  Anyway, I just can’t hack being in that house with her ghost hovering around any more. God knows, it was hard enough when we first found out the truth about her, but it’s next to impossible now. Every time I even walk down the street where she lived, past her neighbours, who all did so much to try to help find her, I almost start palpitating. Got to the stage where I was even getting antsy just phoning Simon there. I swear I could almost see Kitty’s hazel eyes flashing at me and hear her voice reverberating round my head.

  ‘This is your idea of looking after him for me? You couldn’t get a man of your own, so you went and nabbed mine, when I was out of the way? What kind of a best friend are you anyway?’

  And yes, I’m fully aware of the irony of her saying that to me, after what she put us all through. Completely ridiculous, I know. It’s like I’m somehow cheating behind a former friend’s back, even though that friend was a person who never really existed.

  Beyond weird.

  So when I first started renting my own flat a few months back, I confidently thought I’d safely lay that problem to rest. In all my gobshite-ery, I genuinely figured that now Simon and I would have somewhere neutral to hang out in, somewhere free from painful memories at every turn. It’s a gorgeous little flat, too, in the newly kitted-out Granary Building on Cow’s Lane, right in the heart of Temple Bar and only a stone’s throw from our Dame Street Branch. (LOVE using that word! I’m now using it every chance I get! Branch, branch, branch, we’re a business with actually proper branches …) Plus it means I can stroll to work and open up first thing every morning. Dirt-cheap rent, too, and I was blessed to land it at all, given the huge demand for city-centre rentals.

  I really had high hopes that Simon would love it as much as I did, because it’s absolutely everything that Kitty’s house isn’t. Hers is a typical Corpo house, old and showing its age more and more every year, with all the problems you get with old houses that aren’t meticulously maintained.

  Whereas my new little flat in the Granary is the total exact opposite: light, modern, spacious, airy, with central heating that actually works and a north-facing bedroom that was deliciously cool in the summer heatwave we just had. As if that wasn’t enough of a carrot to dangle in front of Simon, the flat also has fairly sizeable balcony on the third floor, that looks out right over Temple Bar, down onto all the buzz that’s happening underneath.

  And believe me, in Temple Bar there’s always a buzz. Twenty-four seven, a bit like a mini city-within-a-city-that-never-sleeps. On my street alone, there are two theatres, countless bars and God knows how many pop-up restaurants that seem to sprout like mushrooms. Always busy, always bustling and packed out round here, even on week nights. Amazing to see; really lifts the spirits. As if by some weird osmosis, it’s somehow possible to pick up on all the youth and energy and messing and craic that’s going on, just a few floors down beneath you.

  Sure, admittedly, it can get a bit noisy late at night when the heavy boozers start falling out of the pubs underneath and screeching words like ‘waaaaankeeeeeeeeer!’ at each other. Plus, I’ve frequently walked home late at night after work to find a naked man chained and handcuffed to the lamppost beside my apartment block, who’ll politely claim that he’s absolutely grand, thanks, just on a bender of a stag night, but that he’s confident his mates will be back to free him up v. soon.

  Apart from that, though, it’s a fab place to live. Boy heaven, I thought when I first viewed it and snapped it up instantly. It even has giant flatscreen, for feck’s sake! But of course, back then, I naïvely thought Simon would love it here as much as I did. That I could gradually wean him away from Kitty’s house and introduce him to delights of living in a lovely, modern ghost-free home. Bit by bit, I thought. It’s a slow, step-by-step process.

  But no, nothing doing, at least not yet. Oh, sure, he’ll come back here with me, have dinner, watch TV, have a perfectly pleasant, quiet evening in. But then Cinderella-like, come the wee small hours, he’ll scarper off and retreat back to his lair.

  It’s hugely frustrating and after six full months of it, I’m starting to get a teeny bit worried. But then, as Sarah wisely points out, we’ve only been together a few months, it’s early days and we’re still v. much finding our way round each other, as a couple who crossed over the best friends line.

  Awkward, icky days.

  Fact is, though, ever since I moved in here, he’s stayed over a grand total of three times (not that I’m counting or anything). And, by the way, I use the term ‘stayed over’ v. loosely; we went to bed all right, but he has yet to actually stay the night and still be here when I wake
up next morning.

  ‘Should really get home,’ he’ll invariably say, ‘work tomorrow, need to get a clean shirt, etc.’ Even at weekends, always the same shagging story.

  ‘But it’s Saturday!’ I told him once, trying to hide my bitter disappointment.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ he told me, fumbling in the dark to get dressed, ‘but I just wouldn’t mind waking up in my own bed, you know how it is.’

  And I nod and smile through my teeth and tell him it’s fine, but in truth, I’m lying. It’s not one bit fine at all. Feck’s sake, we’re meant to be in first flush of lurve here! These are supposed to be the idyllic months when it’s all sex and talking and laughing and dates and romance, aren’t they? Before reality sets in and we get to the stage of rowing over whose turn it is to put the bins out and unclog hairs from shower tray.

  And I know I’m v., v. lucky to have such a loving, caring, ridiculously kind, generous man in my life. Not to mention a guy who’s so out-of-my-league good-looking. I’m constantly hearing all my customers’ horror stories about life at the dating coalface and I’m all too well aware of how rare it is to have a man who I’m so completely compatible with on every level.

  But still. Somehow, I can’t help feeling slight bit cheated. Whatever way you look at it, it’s a tad demoralising to think that your brand-new boyfriend would rather be with a ghost than with a real, live, three-dimensional person. We’re just like best friends who just happen to sleep together every so often. Friends with benefits, if you will.

  And even that’s a major source of deep concern for me, as I’m constantly wondering if he’s looking at my wobbly bits and comparing them with Kitty’s lithe, toned, perfect body. Best you can say about me in the nip is that I’m plus-sized and healthy-looking. Botticelli-esque, as my gym-obsessed buddy Jeff v. kindly describes me. Not that I’m suffering from body-image issues, but the fact remains I’m a good, sturdy 34FF, which just to put in context, is same size Jordan was before her breast reduction. And believe me, it’s no fun, constantly comparing myself to Kitty, who was beautiful and built like a sparrow, and wondering if Simon’s unconsciously doing exactly the same thing every time he has to look at my lardy bits.