by Anna Mansell
I flop against the wall outside the pub, taking a lungful of August night air. Eyes closed, I imagine what it might be like to be leant against a wall outside a Cornish pub, the air being so different to here. There’s a faint smell of the bins in this part of the car park and not a note of seaweed. Instead of a seagull, two magpies fly above. One for sorrow, two for joy? I salute them, as I always do, before necking the rest of my drink.
‘Still on the sauce then?’ comes a voice. I turn to face the person who has just interrupted my attempt at a Cornish daydream to be met with a look of pure hatred from Ben’s best mate, George Newman.
‘George.’
‘I’d have thought you’d have stopped by now,’ he sneers. ‘You know, what with all the trouble it gets you in.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Well, I reckon Ben’d still be here if you could have put him before your love of anything that numbs your self-induced pain.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You. Drink. It makes you do bad things. Like come on to people you’re not supposed to because your boyfriend had a moment’s clarity and tried to leave you.’
‘That was not my fault, at least, it wasn’t just me. It takes two…’ I run out of steam because I know he’s right. However much I hate the fact. I did come on to him. I was drunk at the time. Ben and me falling out was never a good enough excuse and that’s why I wanted to own kissing George in the letter. Own it in real life. I just don’t want to own it in front of him when he stands here being all pompous and superior.
‘Yeah, you can’t justify it, can you? Sometimes it takes two, sometimes though, it just takes one. One drunken, stupid girl who thinks she can get away with it and only did because I was not about to tell him and hurt him the way you had. Thank God he finally saw you for what you really are. What was it that finished him off in the end? He never would tell me.’
I fold my arms, tightly, partly to try and stop my heart from leaping out of my rib cage. ‘There are lots of reasons a relationship breaks down and I don’t have to talk about any of them with you.’ My heart now clatters in my chest. I feel sick. A taxi pulls into the car park forcing George to step aside. ‘Who even are you to come up to me and say these things anyway?’
‘Your ex-boyfriend’s best mate. The one who would pick up the pieces every time you were a dick.’
Mitch gets out of the cab, peering at me suspiciously. I try and force a smile but he throws cash at the driver then slams the door shut as George takes a step closer to me, leering. ‘You know, you’re a waste of space, Jem Whitfield. I always thought it and I was so glad when Ben finally caught up. But because of you, my best mate now lives hundreds of miles away. That’s how far he had to go to escape you. That’s how awful you are.’
‘Woah, hang on a minute, mate.’ Mitch has forced his way between George and I, and there’s something comforting about the sight of his broad back and his chest, puffing up in defence of my honour. ‘Do you wanna carry on talking?’
George puffs up in response, taking a step towards Mitch, and realising what was initially comforting could turn into something entirely stressful and inappropriate at Aunty Vi’s birthday party, I jump in between them. ‘Just leave it,’ I say, over my shoulder to Mitch. ‘He’s angry. It’s fine.’
‘Doesn’t give him the right to talk to you like that,’ spits Mitch.
‘Nice, Jem. You got yourself a new sucker to—’ but before he can finish his sentence, Mitch has pinned him up against the wall by the scruff of his neck and I’m pulling at his hands to try and free him.
‘Get off him, Mitch, please!’
The men stare at each other, testosterone apparently burning through their veins.
‘Please, leave him alone. For me.’
Mitch lets go of George’s shirt with a final shove against the wall. George readjusts his clothes, smoothes his hair down and slopes off up the steps into the pub.
‘Are you okay?’ Mitch asks, turning to face me, taking me by my shoulders. ‘Did he touch you?’
‘No, he didn’t touch me! Christ, Mitch. I can handle George Newman.’
‘I’m sure you can, but you don’t have to. I’m here.’
I adjust the straps on my dress, frustrated and embarrassed. ‘I don’t need you fighting my battles. I made my bed. I can lie in it.’
‘I can’t help it if I don’t appreciate people I care about being spoken to like that, can I?’
He sounds like an injured bird. Unappreciated. We pause. Staring at one another. He’s not quite so puffed up as he was. I should be grateful.
‘I need a drink,’ I say, going back inside.
Mitch catches my arm. ‘Hey, I’m sorry. If I got that wrong, I’m sorry. I was just trying to defend you. You’re vulnerable. I can see that.’
‘I’m fine.’ He lets go, his eyes drop to the floor and I immediately regret being so defensive. ‘Hey, look, sorry. I’m sorry, I appreciate it.’ I search out eye contact. ‘I appreciate you.’ Tentatively, I reach for his hand, he doesn’t resist. Through the window behind him I see Leanne has noticed something’s gone off. I wonder how long she was watching. ‘Come on.’ I lead him into the pub behind me, our hands clasped together, and we don’t let go until we’re through the pub and I free mine to open the door of the function room, painting a smile on.
36
Two hours, many drinks and a lot of dancing later (because apparently, now, I do in fact dance), I think Mitch and I are back on an even keel. The last orders bell sounds and I fetch my purse. Leanne texts Andy to check up on Elsie whilst stroking Harley’s head as he sleeps on the bench beside her. She adjusts her boobs and I know they’ll be straining under the pressure of not having fed for a few hours, probably made worse by wondering if Elsie is okay. It reminds me how selfless you have to be to have babies and I wonder if mothers are born that way or if they learn it?
I need another drink.
‘Last orders?’ I shout to them, straining to be heard over music that has now got quite a bit louder and I don’t know how Harley can sleep through Taylor Swift or Katy Perry or whichever American pop singer is being played on full volume. Mitch and Leanne shake their heads.
‘Two vodka and Cokes, please,’ I say, swaying sweatily into the bar. I can’t remember the last time I had such a full-on night. I don’t remember ever dancing as much, for so long, even back in the day when me and Leanne would go into Sheffield and dance the night away in Kingdom or Republic or, if it was student night, despite neither of us being students, The Leadmill. With the exception of Kate the other day, I can’t remember the last time someone made me feel as small as George did earlier, yet as tall as Mitch makes me feel now. What a combination. It’s like someone just put me in a box and nailed the lid down just as I’ve rediscovered freedom and music. I am not that person. Not any more. George can think what he likes but I’ve changed. I’m changing. There’s no beauty in perfection. If I was that bad, Mitch wouldn’t like me, would he? And he does, I’m sure he does. I feel it. I see it when he looks at me. And it terrifies me but excites me, too. When did I last feel that?
Drinks in hand, I stumble over to Mitch and Leanne. Mitch places his hand on the small of my back. ‘Steady on.’
‘Blimey, I’m jiggered,’ I say, necking the first vodka to quench my dance-floor induced thirst.
‘For someone who doesn’t dance, you have got some moves, Calamity Jem.’
‘Calamity?’ asks Leanne, dropping her phone into her bag.
Mitch laughs. ‘You must have noticed, there’s always some kind of something following her.’ Leanne cocks her head, agreeing though not entirely enthusiastically.
I give my (sweaty) hair a flick. ‘I guess you’ve either got it—’
‘Or you’ve had enough drink to make you think that you’ve got it,’ chips in Mitch, before he falls about laughing.
‘And that there is why I don’t dance!’
He pleads he’s just joking, pulling me towards him
by my hips.
‘I saw you watching as I taught that teenager how to do the running man. Jealousy is an ugly trait, my friend.’
Leanne narrows then rolls her eyes. ‘I should get him home,’ she says, gently, stroking blond hair from Harley’s forehead. ‘Daddy’s back off to work tomorrow afternoon, so it’d be nice for Harley to be awake enough to spend the morning with him. He’s danced his socks off, little thing.’ She gazes at him, so full of love for her small person and once again I’m forced to wonder what it’s like to love someone so completely, so unconditionally. The idea terrifies me.
‘You want me to call us a cab?’ asks Mitch, standing. He looks tall, tired, gentle.
‘I think I’d like to walk.’
‘Okay. We can walk.’
‘You don’t have to come with me, I’ll be fine on my own.’
‘Let you weave your way home on your own after the skinful you’ve had? Not likely.’
‘I’m fine!’ I plead, losing balance on the chair as I reach down for my handbag.
‘I can see that,’ says Mitch, shaking his head at me with a smile.
Leanne feeds her arms into her cardy, gathering her bag. ‘Go on, let him walk you. Me and H are getting a cab, you can’t go off on your own.’
‘And I don’t mind,’ Mitch says, standing. ‘I quite like a late-night wander through the streets.’
‘Weirdo!’ I say, knocking back the last of my final vodka and catching Leanne’s watchful eye.
‘Shut your face, you.’
‘Oi! Don’t you start! Or I’ll give you a bit of George treatment.’
‘What? You’re gonna pin me up against a wall?’ There’s a beat between us, my heart rate quickens.
‘Well, I don’t know what you two “friends” are talking about, all this up against a wall business, but I think I’ll leave you to it.’ She pulls me into a hug though I’m still staring at Mitch. ‘Aunty Vi had a bloody lovely time, thanks for coming.’
‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ I say into her hair.
‘Thanks for coming, Mitch.’
‘My pleasure, it was nice to be able to bring Jem and her mum.’
‘Yeah. Lovely of you. Thank you.’ She turns back to face me. ‘When do you take your mum to Basingstoke?’
‘Tuesday.’
‘Will I see you before you go?’
‘Not sure, I’ll try. I need to do a few bits of work before I go, make sure I don’t get behind.’
‘Okay, I’ll probably talk to you tomorrow at some point anyway. Come on, Harley, come on, sleepyhead, time to go.’ He rubs at his eyes, barely able to open them. ‘Ahhh, so sleepy! Come on, baby, you just need to walk to the cab. Just outside.’
Mitch stands. ‘Come on, little man, climb on. Let me give you a piggyback.’ Harley does exactly as instructed and my heart is warmed by the sight of Mitch being so lovely and borderline dad-like.
37
Half an hour later and we’re slowly wandering up the hill back to mine. The moon is full, casting a pool of blue-white glow before us. ‘Gosh, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ I pause by the gate to the park, the sky full of stars.
‘It is,’ Mitch says, leaning against the stone wall. But he’s not looking at the stars. And I daren’t look at him because I think my lady parts might explode. Which may not sound very sexy, but let me tell you, the walk and the chat and the watching-him-with-Harley and the smell of him (Goddamit Kouros and your teenage hormone-inducing scent), it’s all got a bit much. ‘I had fun tonight.’
‘Did you?’ I’ve just applied a coquettish tone to my voice because I am an obvious idiot fuelled by vodka, should I stop myself? I mean… I know what I want. ‘I’m sorry about the George stuff. And us missing the theatre.’ I move in between the gate entrance, closer to him, our groins probably only centimetres apart. If Leanne could see us, she’d be judging with her eyebrows.
‘Hey, it’s fine. It’s forgotten. And you were having a good time. I was hardly going to drag you away from that, was I?’
‘I know but—’
He takes my hand, just briefly, squeezing my fingers. ‘Honestly, it’s fine.’
Electricity surges through my body. Out of the corner of my eye I see a shooting star and take that as a sign that now is the perfect time to lean in and kiss him because it’s hot, and I’m a bit drunk, and I realise I like him. I really do like him. And I fancy him, too. I fancy him a lot. So I kiss him. Full force. My breath heavy, my hands reaching inside his shirt to realise he is significantly more ripped than his wardrobe would ever let on, and Jesus, I am so hot for him right now.
‘Hey, hey…’ he says, catching the words between my kisses.
‘Come back to mine. I need you, I just…’ I kiss him again, and at first I think he’s kissing me back but then he stops and he takes my hands, which are now realising how incredibly perfect his bum is. Like, tight and taut and fuck me… Actually, fuc—
‘You’re drunk.’
‘I am.’ I lean in again.
‘So, we shouldn’t…’ He pulls back, out of my reach, flexing his jawline in a way that makes me want him even more.
‘I’m fine though, I know what I’m doing.’ I really know what I’m doing and now I’d like to show him.
‘Not like this, I’m not sure…’ He links his fingers through mine, holding my hands to his (incredibly well-defined) chest. ‘I like you.’ He lets out a low growl, looking up at the sky, which is quite a sexy thing to do under the circumstances. ‘But, we shouldn’t. I can’t.’
‘Right.’ And just like that I wonder if I could die of unfulfilled lust combined with acute embarrassment. ‘Sorry… I just… sorry.’
‘It’s fine. I’m sorry, God, I’m sorry.’
I start walking across the field wishing I hadn’t made that choice because the moon’s gone behind some clouds and I can’t see (to avoid) the dog poo that’s bound to be all over the grass, but obviously I can’t turn back and go round the path because that’s like leaving a room in a huff then having to go back for your coat.
‘Jem!’ he calls after me. ‘Please…’ He catches me up, taking hold of my hand, spinning me to face him. We look at each other as the moon comes back out of the cloud and the fact this will be giving me an attractive Insta style filter on what is undoubtedly a slightly drunken, too much dancing, rejected face, does not go unnoticed. His eyes flick from mine to my lips, then back to my eyes. Slowly, he leans into me, this time not taking his eyes off mine. Our lips brush and touch and I inadvertently let out one of those movie sighs before realising he is just giving me a peck. And now he’s leading me through the park in the direction of my house. And I don’t think we’re going to have sex tonight after all. ‘I like you, Jem,’ he says, as we reach the bottom of my drive. Mum’s drive. Whichever. ‘I really like you. But this… like this… it’s not right.’ He leans in again, brushing my lips with his, again, before planting a gentle kiss just to the side of my mouth in possibly the hottest non-kiss I’ve ever actually had. And that includes those times I was perving over Ben when he was in the shower and I was in his bed, reliving what we’d just done.
God. Ben.
Ben.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ says Mitch, turning to walk back in the direction we just came.
Hot. Confused and suddenly, very, very drunk, I lock the door behind me and stumble up to bed.
38
‘Is this everything?’ I hulk Mum’s massive bag into my boot.
‘I think so, love.’ She’s fussing about at the bottom of the staircase, fiddling with curtains and shuffling bits of scrap paper that sit beside the house phone.
‘Are you sure?’ I peer into the boot, wondering if I can just about manage to squeeze my tote bag with a pair of pants, a T-shirt and my toothbrush rammed into it. ‘It’s just that I don’t think you remembered the kitchen sink?’
She puts her hands on her tiny hips. ‘You never know what you might need.’
I peer at th
e collection of bags, noticing the one she carries her curling tongs in.
‘Planning on a night out?’
Mum rolls her eyes at me, heading into the lounge for a sweep look around. I follow her, shoving my tote bag on my shoulder, remembering to dash into the kitchen to get my phone charger just as it rings. I cancel Mitch’s call. As I have done each time he’s tried calling since he walked away the other night.
‘Get that if you need to, love?’
‘No, it’s fine. They’ll leave a message if it’s important.’
‘Right,’ she says, nipping into the downstairs loo for what must be the tenth or eleventh time since I said we should make a move, about an hour ago.
My phone dings out a text.
Hope the journey isn’t too bad. Call me if you need anything. X
I hover over what to say in response but he texts again.
I miss the sound of your voice. Xxx
He misses my voice. I keep avoiding talking to him because I’m embarrassed, confused even. Does he like me? Was he being polite? I miss the sound of your voice though, I mean, you don’t just say that to anyone. I wouldn’t say it to Leanne. I might say I miss her face. I do if I don’t see her for a few days. Or like that time when she moved to Bath and I barely saw her at all. I missed her face a lot then. But her voice? That’s… too intimate. Maybe I didn’t make a total tit of myself. I mean, sure, I made something of a tit, let’s say seventy per cent tit. But if he can text that, he can’t think I’m one hundred per cent, can he? I just wish I knew what to say. I’ve answered his texts. The one the next morning after I ignored his call to check I was okay, where I told him I was totally fine, just swamped with cooking dinner for Mum and some of her friends. It wasn’t a lie – I was cooking dinner. I just could probably have talked to him as the roast potatoes parboiled. Or while the gravy simmered. And I could certainly have spoken to him when they’d all gone and Mum and I were watching Antiques Roadshow; there wasn’t even any decent jewellery on it.