Love, Unscripted

by Owen Nicholls

* * *

  —

  THE KITCHEN WAS a state.

  While even the most proper of people should just get over the mess of a bedroom, an untidy kitchen is intolerable. For starters, there are the health ramifications. This was London, you were never more than six feet from a rat. Why incite them?

  Then there’s the annoyance of not having anything to use. If your sink is overflowing with crap, you’ll have to rummage around for the thing you need, in and under and around the rest of the crap. No. This simply would not do.

  “Where are your rubber gloves?” I asked in a rather matronly tone.

  Ellie was at first shocked and then intrigued as to where this was going.

  “There may be a pair under the sink,” she replied.

  I opened the cupboard expecting to be greeted by a kraken, or at the very least a family of vexed mice, put out by my intrusion this early in the morning. Instead, I found only the gloves—never used—and a few cobwebs.

  I moved everything out of the sink and filled it with nonbranded washing-up liquid and lukewarm water, while Ellie fished a questionable loaf of bread from the cupboard above my head.

  “That’s in date, right?” I asked with unbridled skepticism.

  She answered with a face that said “relax,” and the non-reassuring words “I’m sure it’s fine,” which worried me even more.

  “You really don’t have to do my washing-up. I was going to do it tomorrow.”

  I raised a single eyebrow.

  “I was!” she contested. “Now put your eyebrow down and tell me what you want in your sandwich.” She opened the fridge. “Cheese or ham?”

  “What’s the date on the ham?” I asked for the sake of my weak constitution.

  I saw her read it and grimace. She tossed it on the top of the overflowing bin and turned with a smile.

  “Cheese it is.”

  I quickly washed the things I knew she’d need, for fear she might just grab any old dirty plate to put my magnificent feast upon. She held the loaf up to the light and crinkled her nose, deeming the bread fit for human consumption. I was suddenly not hungry but knew I’d eat the sandwich anyway as a gesture of goodwill.

  “I hear Bill Murray sometimes turns up to parties on college campuses and does their washing-up,” Ellie said.

  “I hear he goes up to people on the tube, taps them on the shoulder, and says, ‘No one will ever believe you,’ before disappearing into the night,” I offered back.

  “Like Batman.”

  “He would have made a great Batman. I curse you, Tim Burton.”

  “Hey, I love Tim Burton films.”

  I dramatically took off my gloves and threw them into the bubbly water.

  “Well, that tears it. I thought we had a future together, but I can never love a woman who loves the films of one Timothy Burton.”

  She blushed and I realized I’d taken the role-play too far with my ill-thought-through and far-too-soon inclusion of the L word. I put the gloves back on, carried on with the task at hand, and pretended I hadn’t said it, hoping she’d go along with this alternative timeline.

  “That said, I really liked Big Fish. How’s the sandwich coming?”

  I turned around to be presented with—“Ta-da!”—a sandwich cut out in the shape of a little man. Not wanting to wait for me to clean the utensils, she’d simply grabbed a tool from the back of the cupboard—in this instance a gingerbread man cutter—and made do. On top of everything else, I was now in awe of her spontaneous survival instinct.

  “That’s one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen,” I said, before reaching forward and decapitating the little bread man with my teeth.

  I took a punt. “Do you want to go to the cinema with me?”

  She blinked twice. “You’re a fast mover, aren’t you? Shall we see how the rest of the night goes?”

  “No, I mean tonight, now. Do you want to go to the cinema with me?”

  She looked at her watch to present me with the evidence.

  “It’s three minutes past two in the morning. And we have a party to go to.”

  I took the keys to the cinema from my pocket.

  “I have keys.”

  She didn’t pause before replying.

  “I’m in.”

  Ellie sent me a message two days ago, saying she had some important news she wanted to share. For reasons known only to the gods of irony, we have decided to meet in a Camden pub called The World’s End.

  It’ll be two months to the day since I last saw her. That particular piece of trivia is as heartbreaking as it is baffling. How we’ve managed to avoid each other for that long seems like an Olympic feat, but here we are.

  Since she texted, her big news has been whirling around my brain constantly. I see it on spinning newspapers in black and white, landing with a thud, her colored surname the basis for Fleet Street’s terrible puns.

  QUICK FOX BROWN JUMPS INTO ANOTHER’S BED—this is how they’ll announce her new boyfriend.

  BUN IN THE ELLIE?—Well, that one’s self-explanatory.

  Could she be, though? What bigger news is there? Could it be mine? Yep, only been a grand total of eight weeks, three days, and fourteen hours since our fight.

  At least I’d get to see her at Christmases again.

  As this last thought rambles through my head, I realize I’ve accidentally gotten quite drunk. She’s not even late. I just arrived early and, having been wasted last night, the two double gins in the space of thirty minutes have coalesced with the previous evening’s winery to put me at one hell of a disadvantage for this upcoming grudge match. Maybe it’s not a disadvantage. Maybe some lubrication will get me speaking my mind on a few things.

  As she walks through the door looking incredible, any advantage I may have had evaporates like…like, like crisps in tea? Christ, I am drunk.

  I stand to hug her and stumble a little. She leans in and puts her arms around me. We both go to kiss the wrong cheek and abort. I wonder what others in the pub think of this awkward exchange. Do they imagine we’re on a first date? That we’re related? If I were an innocent bystander, my best guess after witnessing an embrace as cringeworthy as this would be “she’s the girlfriend of his best friend who recently died and they’ve agreed to sort out the funeral together despite having never really seen eye to eye.” That is until I realize that’s an elevator pitch for a pretty shitty romcom.

  “You want a drink?” she offers. “Same again?”

  I nervously push my empties to one side.

  “Please. Gin and tonic.”

  “Nice summer drink. I’ll join you.”

  She puts her jacket down on the chair opposite me and I scurry back to my side of the table. She opens her handbag and takes out her purse.

  “Back in a sec.”

  I take out my crumpled little notepad and specifically the well-thumbed list titled Why Ellie Left. Reflecting on our abandoned Cannes trip had inspired me to add the—admittedly maudlin—BECAUSE THINGS NEVER WORK OUT THE WAY YOU WANT THEM TO. I think I wrote that after a few. It was in at the number 4 position, below WE PEAKED TOO EARLY, I’M A BRICK, and PRAGMATISM (her) vs IDEALISM (me).

  I wish I’d written more and wonder if I’ll ever steer the conversation on to these bullet points as I notice her phone is on the table in front of me. I try to work out if I have enough time to grab it and ascertain crucial information about who she’s been talking to, what’s she’s been up to.

  I’m probably drunk enough—and low enough—to actually do something so unbelievably stupid and counterproductive to my happiness, but thankfully the bar is almost empty and she’s back before I can betray any trust that may be left between us.

  “Your beverage,” she says, handing me my third drink in thirty minutes.

  “Thanks,” I say to her. Go slow, I say to mysel
f.

  “How have you been?” she asks, trying to inject a breezy intonation to her words. “I’ve been Facebook-stalking you but haven’t seen any updates.”

  “I don’t use it anymore,” I lie, having just checked her page moments before she arrived. “And to answer your previous question, I’ve been better. You?”

  “Ups and downs.”

  “And this big news of yours? An ‘up,’ I assume?”

  Even without the worry I see etched on her face that I’m in “one of those moods,” I have enough presence of mind to realize I’m being a belligerent shitbag. What I don’t have is enough presence of mind to stop it.

  “I have some news too, actually,” I offer, steering the conversation toward me and how I’m feeling.

  “Okay. What’s yours?”

  “My parents are going to New Zealand.”

  Her expression suggests this isn’t front-page material, and I realize I’ve buried the lead.

  “That’ll be nice for them. I didn’t think they were the long holiday type. Have they even been out of their postcode before?”

  “No. To stay. I mean they’re going to New Zealand to stay. To live. Forever probably. I mean, what have they got left? Twenty years tops. It’ll probably be forever.”

  Her face is awash with pity and I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.

  “There’s more.”

  “Nick, are you okay?”

  “I have more news…well, you know about the house. I’ve also been made redundant.”

  “Oh Nick! I’m so sorry.”

  Her sympathy is genuine and it crushes me. She looks at me the way she used to and I want to scream how sorry I am and how much I want to make it right. How I want to find out all about what she did today and the day before and every day since she walked out. But I don’t. Because she asks this:

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  And like that, my blood’s pumping again.

  “Because you dumped me,” I tell her.

  Her eyes flick from soft to wild rage in an instant, a sight seldom seen.

  “No I fucking didn’t.”

  Yes she did.

  “You were the one who wanted to spend some time apart,” she says, her voice trembling a little.

  Is she insane?

  “Are you insane?” Our voices are rising in volume with each exchange.

  She steadies herself. “We had a big fight. I said some things, things that I still stand by, but things I know must have been hard for you to hear. And then after a day of ignoring me, I asked what you wanted and you said, ‘Not this. So we might as well be apart.’ I said I’d give you some space and go stay with my dad for a few days and for you to call me when you were ready.”

  She leans across the table for the big reveal.

  “You never called.”

  We sit in anger for a few minutes, me trying to think of anything and everything rather than face up to the idea that she’s right about what she just said. I find the perfect diversion from accepting any responsibility, the thing that has been keeping me up at night. The big news.

  “So, what’s your news? New boyfriend?” I spit out, the vitriol at its most vitriolic.

  This, more than anything else, raises a smile from her.

  “I believe in the ten percent rule. Some idiot once told me that you should spend at least ten percent of the time you’ve been in a relationship trying to figure out where the hell that relationship went wrong before you move on.”

  A callback such as this is almost enough to break me, but I keep it together, not showing a flicker of acknowledgment for the intimacy we used to share.

  “I’ve been offered a job.”

  “Good for you.”

  If I could jump out of myself for a second, I’d kick seven shades of shit out of me. Who I’m pretending to be is killing me. I hope and pray she knows I would never be this indifferent to her. That all I want to do is wrap myself around her and find out every detail of what she’s been doing since we last talked. To hear about her news. To hear about her day.

  But something is pulling me to the depths.

  She stands. “Maybe this isn’t the right time.”

  “Sit, come on. We’re friends, right? I want to hear about my friend’s new job.”

  The completely wanky way in which I say “friends” is more than enough ammunition for her to justifiably leave. But instead she sits back down and I instinctively know there’s more than just a job announcement coming.

  “So who’s the job with?”

  “It’s with AP.”

  I can see she knows I have no idea what this is.

  “The Associated Press. They’re a nonprofit news company. They collect news from around the world and distribute it to others.”

  I shrug.

  She grits her teeth and continues.

  “Anyway. They have offices all around the world. Although their main office is in New York.” She pauses and lowers her voice. “Which is where I’ll be working.” Another pause. “If I take it.”

  My eyes are wider than they’ve ever been and my eyebrows are trying to escape off the top of my head.

  I am Bambi versus the full beams of an articulated lorry.

  I just about manage to emit some noises that could be mistaken for the words “oh,” “okay,” and “so.” I also squeak out a “that’s” but fail to complete the sentence, instead circling back to the “so” a few more times.

  I gain a form of consciousness for long enough to down my drink, hoping the gin will provide an alcoholic slap in the face. Ellie, tentatively, almost embarrassed, sips on hers. The slap works and I sit forward with renewed vigor. I even clap my hands together for some reason known only to my nervous system.

  “Ellie,” I say with a weird use of her first name. “I’m really, really pleased for you. This is your dream.”

  She edges forward in her seat. “I have you to thank for it. When I sent my portfolio to them, I included a few shots from the Obama thing.”

  She didn’t say “our night,” which I must admit I’m hugely grateful for. If she had, my gin would be two parts tears.

  “The feedback was that I’d ‘captured a moment of history from a unique perspective.’ I’m not sure what was so unique about a group of white, liberal twentysomethings in England watching an election, but I took the compliment.”

  This should be the happiest moment for her, the realization of a lifelong dream, but she still looks so defeated. And that’s on me. If my list has done anything, it’s crystallized why she’s better off without me.

  #2 I’M A BRICK. I’M A BRICK. I’M A BRICK.

  “When did you apply for it?”

  “You remember that night my mum came around?”

  Margaret’s drunken visit. Until the day I die.

  I nod.

  “It was the next day. I was in a pretty bad place and applied the hell out of it.”

  “When does it start?”

  “October the fifth.”

  “A month!” My exclamation gets looks from the barman and our fellow drinkers.

  “And a week,” Ellie offers, as if seven days will change everything.

  Anything more I can think of to say sounds bitter and sulky and so I keep my mouth firmly shut and let her do the talking.

  “So, the redundancy? When does it…?” she asks.

  “Next week.”

  “That’s quick.”

  “I took voluntary redundancy. No use putting off the inevitable.”

  The pity look is back. The same one offered by Seb and Lizzie and pretty much every person I come into contact with lately. I’m done with it. I’d rather be hated than pitied right now.

  “Did you get a decent payoff?”

  “Close to fiv
e grand.”

  I can still recognize when she’s having an idea: she squints slightly and bites her bottom lip, her teeth almost in the corner of her mouth.

  “Well. You could come with me?”

  “Where?”

  “To Outer Mongolia, Nick. Where do you think? America.”

  I won’t allow myself to drag her under.

  “Why? We don’t have a future together?”

  “Says you.”

  “Don’t I get a say?” I blurt out, realizing as I’m saying it that this makes no sense.

  “Of course you do. If that’s what you want. Just don’t go around telling people—or yourself—that I dumped you, feeling sorry for yourself and blaming me for your life falling apart.”

  Another sharp intake of breath. From both sides now.

  The second such silence in two months.

  Neither of us budging.

  Her with gritted teeth.

  Me with pouty lips.

  We wait each other out and the waiting lasts another lifetime.

  NOVEMBER 5, 2008—2:21 A.M. GMT

  OBAMA 175

  MCCAIN 97

  270 NEEDED TO WIN

  I can’t for the life of me remember why, but Ellie was wetting herself laughing. All I do remember is being particularly proud of myself for being the cause of the laughter. We had left her house and were making our way to the cinema together, the cold night turning even colder.

  Before we left, I’d asked to borrow a book from her shelf. It was titled Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs and was written by an author I liked. He wrote mainly about pop culture, but peppered his books with weird hypotheticals about swapping your vocal cords with alt-rock singers, or how much extra you’d have to be paid to go to your regular job in evening wear.

  I’d read the book a couple of times before and was pretty sure I knew where my copy was, but I reasoned I needed something of hers so I could make an excuse to see her again.

  I sort of felt bad that I’d (a) lied about having never read the book, and (b) chosen such a lame, clichéd trick to try and see her again. Was she laughing because she’d uncovered my ruse? No, because I wouldn’t have been happy about that. And I definitely was happy. Had I told a joke? Nope. Can’t remember. Whatever it was, she was doubled over and I was beaming like I’d won a BAFTA.