Me and You

by Claudia Carroll

The very second the mobile on my bedside table rings, I’m instantly awake, thinking, please be Simon, please be Simon …

  ‘Angie? It’s me! Did I wake you?’

  It’s not Simon. I try v. hard to keep the deflation out of voice. Not easy, though, given that I’m half awake and am only capable of sounding remotely human after two cups of super mocha grande latte, with muffins and jam on side, etc.

  ‘Oh, hi, Jeff,’ I manage to yawn down phone. ‘No, don’t worry, I’ve got to get up for work shortly anyway.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ he says, sounding ready to burst if he doesn’t get the inside scoop v. soon. ‘Anyway, I’m in the make-up room out at Good Morning Ireland and can barely concentrate on my Mac primers and Chubby Sticks till I find out exactly what’s going on! So come on, babes, tell me everything! How have you been holding up?’

  ‘Oh, I’m all right. I suppose. You know,’ I tell him groggily.

  ‘Dunno about you, but I’m finding all this so stressful.’

  ‘You’re finding it stressful?’

  ‘Well, yeah, of course! One half of me is delighted that Kitty is back safe and sound, while the other half of me is in flitters till I know how all this is going to play out in the final reel.’

  ‘Jeff! It’s too early to talk about final reels … Please! I need caffeine for this conversation!’

  He’s not listening, though.

  ‘Because I just can’t get my head around all this drama! The returned ex-girlfriend, the man who used to love her and the new woman in his life who also happened to be her erstwhile best friend … God, it sure as hell beats any plotline Coronation Street could come up with! But then, you know me! I’m always saying that real life trumps fiction every single time.’

  He warbles on as I haul myself up onto one elbow and try to act like I’m alert and awake.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ Jeff’s demanding in one ear. ‘No pressure or anything, Ange, but I’ve already told the whole make-up room and we’re all beside ourselves to know.’

  What indeed?

  ‘Just like in Rebecca,’ he adds dreamily. ‘The absent influence that casts a shadow over a fledgling relationship …’

  ‘Excuse me, it’s absolutely nothing like Rebecca at all!’ I tell him stoutly, bloody well wide awake now.

  ‘Though mind you, at least in Rebecca the ex had the good grace to be buried underwater. Not alive and well and suddenly back to cause the second Mrs de Winter yet more trouble.’

  Running down Dame Street to work, v late by now. Scarily late

  I bump into Sarah outside Chocolate Bar, who’s pulling up the shutters and unlocking the place. And yet somehow – typical Sarah –managing to look like she just stepped out of a beauty salon, with immaculate hair, tank-proof make-up, high heels, the whole works. In one quick up-and-down look, she takes in the manky, dishevelled state of me. (Haven’t slept and I was so v. late getting up this morning, I had to choose between washing my hair and/or brekkie. Unsurprisingly, brekkie won out.)

  ‘There you are, honey! Are you OK?’ she says, giving me a big, warm hug.

  I already filled her in on all developments over the phone last night, including Jack Crown coming here just before I locked up. So she knows that Jean is finally safe and that McGuinness piece of pond scum can never harm her again.

  ‘And what was Simon’s reaction? When you told him that Jean is safe, I mean?’ she asks, as together we whip up the clattery shutters and let ourselves inside to set up for the day. Which usually involves switching the alarm off, getting the espresso machines up and running, then nattering at length about last night’s telly.

  ‘I haven’t. That is, I tried to … I mean, I called him and everything, but he never got back to me.’

  ‘What? You mean you never heard a peep from him last night? Nothing at all?’

  ‘No, and now I think I’m being dumped Irishman style.’

  ‘What’s Irishman style?’

  ‘You know. When a guy just starts acting weird on you, not returning any of your panicky calls and generally making you feel like you’re turning into a stalker, just for trying to make contact. When he’s theoretically supposed to be your boyfriend. Then eventually, you’re supposed to cop on that you’ve actually been, or are about to be dumped. It’s what all Irishmen do when they can’t bear to have the face-to-face chat with you. Act weird for a bit and hope you’ll be good enough to do the dumping for them. Classic coward’s way out.’

  ‘Can’t quite believe that of Simon,’ Sarah says, shaking her head worriedly. ‘Mr Perfect? Who’s always so attentive to you?’

  ‘Well, you’d better believe it, hon,’ I mutter exhaustedly, heading into the store room to pull on my Chocolate Bar apron and a v. unflattering hairnet. Don’t mean to sound this cranky, it’s just that the whole thing has the head scalded off me.

  ‘Just like in Rebecca,’ Sarah sighs, her face the picture of concern now.

  ‘No! It’s nothing like in Rebecca! Nothing at all!’

  And as an aside, I wish everyone would bloody stop trying to cast me as the second Mrs de Winter! I’m seriously bloody fed up with it. Enough!

  8.50 a.m.

  Phone rings. Finally, finally, finally, it’s Simon. I’ve had my mobile stuffed in my apron pocket just in case, and nearly drop it into a jug of frothy soya milk, I’m so anxious to answer. He apologises profusely for not calling last night and fills me in on the reason why.

  ‘So … Jean called over to see you?’ I ask him in a v. small voice, slipping into the store room for maximum privacy and leaving Sarah on her own to deal with customers.

  Subtext: do you still love her? And does she still love you? And why am I once again getting the sick feeling that I’m on the arse end of a love triangle here?

  ‘She was trying to make her peace,’ he says flatly.

  ‘And?’

  Silence.

  No, I think furiously, no more with the long-drawn out silences! I’m sick to the bloody gills of them!

  But now Simon’s doing what he always does when faced with emotionally awkward questions. Just goes frustratingly quiet on me, so of course, I end up warbling like a complete moron, just to fill dead air.

  ‘Because you know, I’m first and foremost your friend here!’ I tell him. ‘I care about you and of course I know just how difficult this must be for you. But it’s not exactly a barrel of laughs being in my shoes either, trust me.’

  ‘I know that, Angie,’ he eventually says, after a pause worthy of Chekhov.

  I take a leaf out of Sarah’s book. And decide on direct confrontation.

  ‘Well then, I suppose the big question is now, what are we going to do?’

  I so badly want him to say: I’ll tell you exactly what we’re going to do, love: you and I are going to skip town, take the first flight out of here and spend the next two weeks on some remote desert island with absolutely no internet or mobile signal. Just till all this shite dies down. Then we’ll just go right back to where we used to be. Happy and untroubled.

  He doesn’t, though.

  ‘Look,’ he eventually says, ‘I’m in the office and just about to head into a meeting, I can’t really talk properly now. But I’ll call you later, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I say, though I’m actually thinking, you fecking well better, mate. I’m seriously starting to get sick of all this lack of communication and ‘just bury your head in the sand and wait till it all blows over’ carry-on.

  Who in right mind would put up with that? I mean, who’d even want to?

  ‘Oh, just one more thing,’ he says.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Be ready at the airport with your bags packed and meet me there in an hour, with your passport tucked under your oxter? Yes, I think, clutching wildly at the hope, I’m so there …

  ‘I have a feeling Jean may want to see you too. She’s here to make peace, so don’t be surprised if she pitches up at The Chocolate Bar anytime soon.’

  ‘Wel
l, bring it on. Quite apart from everything else I have to tell her that Jack Crown called here last night and said if she got in touch, I was to contact him.’

  I fill him in v. quickly on the reason why.

  Another agonising silence while I fret about what conclusion he’s coming to.

  ‘So she’s finally safe then?’ is all he says. Flatly, in a monotone. Like I’ve just given him the latest shipping forecast.

  ‘Yeah, it seems so.’

  ‘And just before I go … the thing is, there’s something else you should know, Angie. I told her about you and me too.’

  Jesus. Now the legs suddenly feel like they’ll buckle under me.

  ‘I thought it was only fair and right,’ he adds. ‘Just because she kept secrets from us for so long doesn’t mean we have to.’

  ‘OK. Well, yeah, absolutely.’

  ‘Shit, look, I’m so sorry about this, but my meeting’s about to start, I really have to go. Let’s talk later, yeah?’

  ‘OK. Later.’

  But in the meantime, what am I supposed to do? Wait around and see if Jean will just stroll in here and clobber me over the head with a large skillet for seeing Simon now?

  Jean … I think as a fresh wave of worry hits me. Why did she come all the way up to Dublin anyway? Suppose she’s really come this far just to try and get back with him?

  The worst pang of all comes when I think about Simon, though. Which leaves me exactly nowhere. Except waiting to see what he’s going to decide. And if it comes down to it, whether he’ll choose her or choose me.

  And I’ve an incredibly prescient gut feeling that I already know what the outcome of that will be.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Chocolate Bar, 10.30 a.m.

  The phone rings in store room. Jamie, our new barista, answers it while I’m wiping down tables after a particularly mental brekkie rush. Sarah’s gone out to the airport to crack the whip and keep a beady eye on things. (She’s convinced staff nicking chocs is becoming an issue out there, though personally I can’t really blame them. I’d do the v. same myself. The goodies here are just too addictive.)

  ‘It’s for you, Angie,’ Jamie says, coming back to man the espresso machines.

  Bowels instantly turn to water.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Didn’t say. Some woman looking for you.’

  But I know, just know, deep in my womanhood exactly who it is and why she’s calling. And for once, I’m right on the money. I pick up phone and suddenly it’s like putting the clock back two years.

  Except I’m talking to someone called Jean, not Kitty at all.

  12.50 p.m.

  ‘So what exactly did Jean say to you?’ Sarah shrieks at me, when she gets back from her fact-finding mission out at the airport and I fill her in.

  ‘Just that she wants to meet for lunch today, so we can talk. And that was it really.’

  ‘That can’t have been it! You mean she didn’t say anything at all about you and Simon?’

  ‘Well, what exactly could she say? I mean, yeah, I know I’ve broken this unwritten commandment of friendship, but in my defence, she bloody well broke it first, didn’t she?’

  What I don’t tell her is that I’m actually having such serious doubts about Simon and the way he’s been carrying on, that I’m half tempted to pull a disappearing stunt myself, till all this crap is long behind me. I was just about to text him to let him know I’d be meeting her, then I thought to myself, why even bother? So he can just not reply to yet another one of my messages? I knew deep down it was a complete waste of time. And if he wants to bury his head in sand till this all blows over, then shagging well let him.

  ‘And did you tell Jean that Jack Crown needs to see her urgently?’

  ‘Didn’t get the chance. Just then a clatter of customers all came in together and it got so noisy in here, I could barely hear myself, let alone anyone else. Besides, that’s a conversation to be had face to face, don’t you think?’

  ‘So where are you meeting her?’

  ‘The Exchequer Bar,’ I tell her, unsure really of why I even suggested it, only that it’s a) public, in the event of furniture flinging, b) close by The Chocolate Bar, in case I’ve the sudden urge to make a quick getaway, and c) somehow I can’t imagine ever meeting Jean for lunch in anywhere other than a pub. Back in old days, Kit— sorry, keep meaning to say Jean, would only ever eat lunch in bars.

  ‘Hmm. Good call,’ Sarah says. ‘Nice and close by in the event of your needing backup or reinforcements.’

  ‘Can you spare me in here for an hour or so?’

  ‘Of course! Don’t even think about rushing back till you and she are sorted, one way or another. Take all afternoon, if you’d like. I’m here and I’m going absolutely nowhere, in case you need backup or support.’

  ‘You’re an angel, hon.’ I smile gratefully at her.

  ‘Or I could come with you, if you’d like me to?’

  ‘Thanks, but I think I really need to see her alone. Just this once. If you don’t mind, that is.’

  ‘No, don’t worry, I understand. Just can’t bloody well believe I was out when she rang,’ she goes on, whipping off her jacket, pulling on her work pinny and starting to get a bit worked up now. ‘Because I’m telling you, if it had been me who answered that phone …’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance to talk to her very soon,’ I tell her nice and soothingly. Always best way to deal with Sarah whenever she’s getting a bit wound up.

  ‘I mean, when you think about it,’ she says, efficiently going to the till to count the morning’s taking so far, ‘here we are, and we’ve all learned to somehow live without her, and now what? Do we just unlearn the past two years and start over? Are we suddenly just expected to reintegrate her back into our lives and just pick up where we left off? Easier said than done, you know.’

  ‘Hon, I know …’

  ‘And another thing; if she as much as thinks that she’s got any right to come between you and Simon, she’ll have me to answer to. That’s no idle threat, by the way.’

  ‘But in the meantime, just stay here with your phone to hand and if I text you with an SOS, don’t think twice. Just come running.’

  Exchequer Street, 1.00 p.m. on the dot

  Thank God, the pub is only round the corner from The Chocolate Bar, so I’ve only a v. short distance to race, to get there on time. Completely on impulse, I whip the card Jack Crown handed me last night out of my handbag and call him. He answers after about two rings. I fill him in and tell him I’m just about to meet Jean.

  ‘Great,’ he says warmly. ‘That’s terrific news. Good of you to let me know.’

  ‘It’s no problem.’

  ‘So can you get her to call me as soon as possible? You can tell her why and that it really is urgent. Tell her I’m in Harcourt Street all day, if she’d like to drop in instead; or if she’d prefer me to meet her somewhere else, that’s fine too. Main thing is that I get to talk to her. She needs to know the full facts and the sooner the better. The girl deserves to have her mind put at rest.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will,’ I pant breathlessly down the phone. ‘And thanks for the lift home last night, by the way.’

  ‘Anytime. Always a pleasure to meet a fellow movie buff.’

  I think it’s the first time today I’ve actually managed to crack a smile.

  ‘And by the way, Angie?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘If you wanted to come into the office with Jean later on today, you’d be more than welcome.’

  ‘Oh. OK then.’

  ‘’Course, I can’t promise the coffee here would be up to The Chocolate Bar’s exalted standards, but I’ll do my best.’

  Exchequer Bar, 1.05 p.m.

  Jean’s already here ahead of me. Waiting for me in a quiet table for two, tucked right away at the very back. A good, suitable spot, I think distractedly. Nice and private. I wave over at her as I weave my way through the lunchtime throng. Still not
able to get head round how in one way she looks so different and yet in another, she’s exactly the same.

  She’s wearing jeans today and a v. sober-looking plain black sweater. Inconspicuous-type clothes. The kind of gear Kitty would have laughed at and probably claimed she looked like she was trying to sell life insurance. But then back in the day, Kitty would have gone round wearing the lagging jacket off the boiler if she was let. Her short, tight, cropped hair is so difficult to get used to as well. It’s utterly bizarre; a bit like looking at a close relative of someone you once knew intimately.

  Jean gets up when I come over and there’s a tense pause as two of us just stand looking at each other. Like two actors in a bad play who’ve forgotten their lines. And suddenly, I just choke up. Just at the thought that this was the one single person who I was closest to in the whole world for such a long time, and now we’re like two distant acquaintances tiptoeing politely round each other.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ I eventually manage to croak out.

  ‘Hey, I’m just happy that you agreed to meet me at all,’ she says quietly, sincerely. ‘I wanted to talk to you on my own. There’s just … well, there’s things I need to say to you that I just couldn’t, at least not in front of Simon. You understand, I hope?’

  I nod as we sit down, then of course nerves get the better of me, so I immediately start gabbling. Tell her all about Jack Crown, that she needs to contact him and, more importantly, the reason why.

  There’s a v. long silence as Jean just slumps back against her chair and exhales deeply, somehow trying to take it all in.

  ‘So, you understand, you’re finally safe,’ I tell her insistently, half wondering why she doesn’t look a bit more relieved. Not that I expected her to get up and start dancing jigs and reels on tables or anything, but come on, this surely is good news, isn’t it?

  ‘Joe McGuinness has emigrated to New Zealand,’ I find myself repeating, really pressing the point home. ‘And according to Jack, it’s highly unlikely he’ll ever show his face in this country again. For one thing, he owes far too much money. It seems the guy’s gone bankrupt, he’s in debt up to his oxters and there’s even talk of a pending fraud charge against him. And secondly …’