“What do you mean, ‘used to be cool’?” Seb bellows. “I am cool.”
And in seconds he’s on the roof of a nearby Volvo.
“I AM A GOLDEN GOD!”
Dave follows suit, as I knew he would.
“I LOVE THIS TOWN!”
They leap from car to car until the inevitable alarm lets out its piercing shriek and with uber-unfortunate timing a police car comes tearing around the corner.
Seb and Dave flee into the night and I turn nonchalantly in the opposite direction and start walking, the alcohol removing any sense of guilt I might have about my friends’ current predicament.
“Should we follow them, check they’re okay?” Lizzie asks.
“I really wouldn’t worry about it. Dave’s pretty fast and Seb’s a smooth talker. They’ll be fine. Just fine. Walk you home?”
She smiles and takes the arm I offer.
If I wasn’t more than a little squiffy, I wouldn’t ask this next question.
“Lizzie? When me and Ellie first started going out…”
“The pedestal thing, right?” she answers clairvoyantly.
I might get some T-shirts printed with NICK THE PREDICTABLE on them.
“Right. You made a really testy crack about me putting Ellie on a pedestal and how it must be the greatest pedestal in the whole entire world.”
She stops walking and rubs her right thumb across her left wrist.
“I’m surprised it’s taken you four years to ask, but yes, I liked you.”
She starts walking again.
“Really?”
This “really” pisses her off a little and she gives me the same expression Seb offered when I told him about how awkward I felt being with Ellie in public.
She continues as if explaining the situation to a toddler. “Yes. I really liked you. I don’t mean I really liked you. I wasn’t pining for the one that got away. But, yeah, why not. You fit the bill for a prospective mate.”
“A prospective mate? How romantic.”
“Look, dickhead,” she says with a smile. “It was four years ago. Don’t rub it in.”
“I wasn’t. I promise. I’m just surprised, that’s all. And flattered.”
“Well, you never were the quickest tool in the box when it comes to human behavior.”
“If I was, I probably wouldn’t be—”
She stops me both walking and talking.
“Homeless, jobless, ra-ra-ra.” She conducts this last bit of her sentence with a flick of the wrist. “As a word of advice from one member of the sex to the opposite, this woe-is-me shtick ain’t exactly intoxicating, if you know what I mean.”
“Sorry.”
She points up at the house we’re outside, and for the first time all evening I have an Ellie flashback.
“This is me. Thanks for walking me home. You’re a true gentleman.”
“Let’s not forget prospective mate,” I joke.
She takes a step up her path and shuts the gate between us, a definitive physical obstacle to let me know I shouldn’t be getting any funny ideas.
“You have my number, right?” she asks.
I nod.
“It may be far too soon for you, but any time you want to ask me out…”
She shrugs her shoulders, leaves the offer there, and exits, no bear in pursuit.
NOVEMBER 5, 2008—3:02 A.M. GMT
OBAMA 200
MCCAIN 115
270 NEEDED TO WIN
The minor disagreement over the ballad of Mr. Carrey and Ms. Winslet had brought a somber mood to the walk back to the house party.
I couldn’t speak for Ellie, but I knew I had an uncomfortable, spiky-to-the-point-of-being-testy reaction to her “that’s kind of the point of the film, Nick” comment. I think it was the “Nick.” It’s amazing how few times people use your name in conversation. It felt a bit like a disconcerting power move. Or maybe it was just because I thought she’d put a little patronizing sass on it. “Nick”—with a heavy keh.
I wanted to bring it up. To let her know I wasn’t being moody because she disagreed with me on a film-related matter. I wanted to do this. But I couldn’t entirely convince myself that that last statement was completely true.
Thankfully she offered an out in a rather unusual form.
“So, how many?”
I looked at her with just enough of a squint to say I wasn’t one hundred percent sure of the question. She looked back with one that said “you are one hundred percent sure of the question.”
“Is this because of the girl at the Chicken Cottage?” I asked.
“No,” she answered, convincingly matter-of-fact.
“Okay then. Less than there are Halloween films, more than there are Rocky films,” I said, with neither pride nor remorse.
“Oh.”
I was suddenly unsure whether I’d answered the right question.
“You did mean how many people have I slept with?”
“God, no!”
She said it with such conviction that it took me a while to realize she was teasing me again. It took even longer for the red to drain from my face.
“And you?”
She stopped walking and bounced her head from side to side, each bounce, I assumed, one more lover to add.
“How many Halloween films are there?” she asked.
“Ten.”
“And how many Rocky films?”
“Six.”
“Put them together then.”
“Sixty!” I wailed.
She stepped back, partially out of offense and partially because the volume of my cry was loud enough to cause a light to come on in one of the nearby houses.
“Why did you times them!?” she shouted back. “I said add! Sixteen. I’ve had sex with sixteen people!”
The window where the light came on suddenly opened and a frail octogenarian poked her head out and shouted, “Good for you, dear, but it is rather late!”
I think Ellie’s embarrassment came more from disturbing the nice old lady than the revelation of the number, but I wanted her to feel okay with revealing something so intimate and make sure she knew there was no judgment here.
“Sixteen is a good number. I mean, there have definitely been sixteen people I’d have liked to have slept with. If I was good-looking, like you, and had confidence, I could probably have gotten to twenty with few regrets.”
“Oh, there were some regrets.”
The conversation was heading in a direction I really didn’t want it to, hints of past demons rearing their ugly heads.
“Well, I bet the regret is on their side for not treating you better.”
Her smile helped me know she was back in the present.
“You’re sweet.”
“And that sweetness is why I’ll be number seventeen.”
She punched me in the arm in the exact same spot as before. But she didn’t deny it.
“So,” I asked, careful not to make too big a deal of the thing I knew was going to be a big deal. “How many of the sixteen were you…”
I tried to find a less sugary way of saying it, but Ellie came to my rescue before I needed a thesaurus.
“In love with? I don’t really know. I know I was crazy about Oliver. He was my first, y’know.”
I knew.
“I was fourteen. Which some might say is too young. ‘Some’ being the law and my parents. But he was sweet and we were very much crazy about each other. Not many boys would hold your hand in our school. It was not the cool thing to do. But Oliver did.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing really. He went to a different college. That was enough. I cried and cried and cried and cried about it. Locked myself away to silently sob.”
“Why silentl
y?”
“Didn’t think it was fair on my folks. Like they still had bigger problems—well, the biggest problem—to cope with.”
Something about this beautiful creature having to go through that romantic pain alone, to protect her parents, made me feel like the worst human being in the world. Even when my nan got ill, like hospital-stays ill, when I was fifteen, I still devoted more time to my relationship struggles than her well-being.
Not for the first time in the evening, I remember convincing myself that I did not deserve to be with someone this good.
“Hip, hip, hooray.”
Only Andrew the Accountant could make this asinine phrase sound any more vacuous.
“Hip, hip, hooray.”
God, I hate his stupid face.
“Hip, hip, hooray.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck off, more like.
I am surrounded by well-wishers wishing to wish my parents well as they abandon their only son to go off in their pursuit of snowcapped mountains and Sam Neill.
The second worst thing about events such as this is the location. They’re always in hotels that haven’t been updated since the eighties, featuring a bar that serves two different types of shitty lager, a tacky dance floor covered in a combination of said beverages, a “disco” consisting of one red, one green, one blue, and one yellow light, and carpets straight from The Shining.
They really put the fun into function room.
The first worst thing about events such as this is the repetition of questions I have to hear and answers I have to give. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to say it over and over again if the answers were “Great, thanks, just bought my own home,” “Yep, maybe we’ll be the ones giving them a grandkid next,” and “Well, I should keep it hush-hush, but yes, they have green-lit my feature film. I believe the dumper truck full of money is arriving Thursday.” But trying to put a spin on the fact that I am failing in my aim for both job creation and procreation puts me at a loss for tantalizing conversation.
Aunt Tess tries anyway.
“Nicky, my dear, lovely day, isn’t it?”
I look out of the hotel bar’s window at the gray, overcast sky and wonder what medication she’s currently on and whether I can steal some.
“Yeah, real scorcher. How’s Ed doing?”
“Edward’s great, sends his apologies that he couldn’t come. He’s moving into—”
She stops herself.
“Things. He’s moving things around a lot at the moment.”
Christ, I think. These pills must be the good stuff.
“And Kat?”
“Katherine, ah, she’s grand. Just got a great promo—”
She halts her sentence again midflight.
“Prom, prom, she’s got herself a great Proms in the Park ticket.”
It quickly becomes apparent to me that a brief has been circulated to our nearest and dearest not to mention relationships, work, or houses for fear that I might completely lose it, set fire to my clothes, and run off screaming into the busy high street.
It could be fun—albeit mean fun—making Aunt Tess try and wriggle her way free of talking about three such big topics, but I don’t have the energy for it. I’ve not been sleeping well. I’ve taken Ronnie up on his offer of a hemp roof above my head—on a temporary basis. His sofa bed is everything I dreamed it would be and less. Not that I’m not amazingly grateful to him for putting me up rent-free, seeing as my options were reduced to his house or the stairwell at the cinema.
Back when I was gainfully employed, I would sometimes daydream as to where I’d live in the semi-unlikely event I’d have to go on the run. I saw myself as a Bruce Banneresque drifter, moving from movie house to movie house using my in-depth cinematic knowledge to lie low in stairwells, back rows, and disabled toilets, living off popcorn, nachos, and the leftover contents of the slushie machine.
Aunt Tess is still backtracking as I ponder how long man could live off pick ’n’ mix alone.
“And so really, while the jobs and houses and relationships are going fine, I’m not sure either of them is truly happy.”
It’s such a British thing to do. To downplay the success of your own children to make someone else’s feel less shitty.
I look to Gabby for help, but she’s currently having her stomach rubbed by everyone from our parents’ travel agent to the couple who live at number 30, whose names I can never remember. The only downside to Gabby’s pregnancy is that it’s a constant reminder of how long Ellie and I have been separated. She’s due in just under two months, which means it’s been three months and two days since the point of no return.
With Gabby indisposed, I beckon my folks over to put an end to Aunt Tess’s torment.
“Mum! Dad! Tess was just telling me about how great her kids are doing!”
I know this will fluster my aunt and I feel sort of bad about it, but at the same time I need her to stop.
“I haven’t said anything about them doing well!” she protests.
“It’s all right, Tess,” my dad assures her. “Nick’s winding you up.”
“No I’m not,” I offer sullenly in one syllable, like I’ve just been accused of taunting a fellow primary-schooler. “And if I am, it’s only because you’ve obviously been gobbing off to everyone about how lousy I’m doing.”
Dad huffs, making it abundantly clear he’s in a real pisser of a mood with me.
“Well done, Nick. You figured out that we might have told a few people to be careful of what they say around you. What terrible parents we are to think of your feelings in this way.”
Tess gets out her shovel again.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause any tension. I didn’t mean to say that my kids were doing any better than your kids. I mean, Gabby is doing great!”
“Yep, there’s only one complete failure here!” I offer.
“Nick,” Mum says, rubbing my back in a signature Mum move, “you’re not a failure. And anyway, I’ve got some good news. You remember Jim and Paula, from number thirty?” She points them out and they wave in a creepily enthusiastic way. “They have a job offer for you.”
“They want to harvest my organs?” I helpfully suggest.
“They’ve started up their own charity business and they need someone to help on the phones.”
She’s so happy to be offering me this. But still…
“Oh, thanks, Mum,” I say, drenching everyone in sarcasm. “I always dreamed of being a phone monkey. Do you really think I have it in me, though? Do you?”
“I just thought—”
I go on.
“Speaking words into a phone. Do I need to dial the numbers too? I’m not sure if I can manage that sort of responsibility. I could always ask Katherine and Edward and Gabriella for help.”
This causes Tess to flutter again.
“I didn’t mean to upset him. I-I-I—”
“You didn’t,” Dad says. “He’s just being a little brat.”
Mum plays peacemaker.
“Why don’t we go to the bar and get you a refill, Tess?” she says, leading her away. But before she goes, she turns to my father and hisses, “This is exactly what we talked about last night.”
She leaves me and Dad chewing our cheeks.
Because he’s turned an angry shade of red, I look around for an out and see that Gabby’s finally free. I beeline for her, hoping for a friendly face. What I get is an unfriendly one being stuffed with Chinese spring rolls.
“All right there, Hugh Laurie,” I jibe.
Gabby offers a snarl and slurps up a loose noodle while failing to acknowledge my witty put-down. So I explain it.
“Hugh Laurie played Dr. Gregory House in the TV show House, also known as House MD, and you are—”
She picks up a handful of cheese puffs and through them says
, “As big as a house.”
I place the index finger of my left hand on my nose and swing my right arm to point at her, like she’s won the star prize. I don’t get so much as a flicker of a smile.
“Your references are getting more and more tenuous. And more and more annoying.”
“All right, cranky pants, do you need to eat something?”
She grabs me by my jacket and shakes me hard.
“I’ve eaten everything, Nick! They catered for fifty people and only thirty turned up. And still all the food is gone because I ate it. I ate twenty people’s worth of food. And I’m still hungry.”
She lets go of me and over her shoulder I see Andrew tiptoeing toward us. This should be fun.
“Can I get you anything, my love?” he asks with nauseating submission. I brace myself gleefully for what I hope will be an incredibly scathing retort from my sister, along the lines of “How about a bag of dicks for you to suck, you pathetic wimp?”
But instead she gently strokes the side of his face and pecks his nose with little kisses.
“I could murder a kebab,” she replies, in such a soft, caring voice it makes me wonder where the ventriloquist is.
“Of course, my snookems. Anything for you, Nick?”
I shake my head and stare in horror at Gabby as Andrew runs off on his latest meat-based errand.
“ ‘My snookems’?” I repeat, leaning heavy on the word.
“Don’t you dare say a single bad word against that man. He is a god. Compared to him, you are nothing but a wretched little dung beetle.”
“Easy.”
“Except dung beetles are useful, whereas what is actually the point of you?”
It’s nice to know the real Gabby is there somewhere, but I’m not sure why I’m getting it all to myself. A new tray of food distracts her and so I return to Dad, who’s standing alone clutching his pint, still flushed in the cheeks.
“What’s crawled up everyone’s bum?” I say.
“Do you really want to know? Do you want to know what’s up my bum, Nicholas?”
Considering he’s changed to a different color of red, I’m not sure I do. But he continues anyway.
“What’s up my bum is that I’ve dreamed about this bloody move all my bloody life and you know what I’ve been hearing from your mum these past two weeks? ‘We can’t go now,’ ‘It wouldn’t be right,’ ‘Nick needs us,’ ‘He’ll never make it on his own.’ ”
Love, Unscripted Page 15