NICK: I didn’t realize I’d left them in.
MIA: That’s funny. See, I could tell you had some smarts.
Nick plays with the edge of the tablecloth.
NICK: So, Mia. That’s a nice name. Do people make lots of jokes about you being missing in action?
MIA: Nope.
NICK: Well, it’s just. Mia is…Never mind.
Our third diner enters. She is a figment of Nick’s imagination that only he can see. She is lit by a spotlight, but only when she speaks.
IMAGINARY ELLIE: Are you gonna start singing Emmy the Great songs to her now? “Her name was either Mia or M.I.A….” Is that sort of what made you pick her?
Nick ignores the unwelcome presence and continues talking to Mia.
NICK: Do you go on a lot of these?
MIA: Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?
NICK: No. Neither. It’s just, this is my first.
MIA: Date?!
NICK: Internet date. I’ve been out with people before, a few, actually.
IMAGINARY ELLIE: Ooooh. A few. Nice brag.
NICK: Where are those drinks, huh?
Nick looks around for the waiter.
MIA: How come you’ve never done internet dating before?
NICK: It wasn’t really that big a thing when I was last single. I mean, I knew of it and knew people who’d done it, but I suppose I thought I was above it. In a way. That’s not to say it’s lame or…It’s just four years ago it wasn’t the done thing, I suppose. Erm. Yeah, so, I was in a relationship for four years.
MIA: Riiight.
IMAGINARY ELLIE: Oh look, she elongates her words like I do. It’s meant to be.
The waiter arrives with the drinks. Nick downs his before the waiter has a chance to get away.
NICK: Sorry, just mega thirsty. Can I get another?
IMAGINARY ELLIE: She’s cute. A bit young. Didn’t you set an age limit on your profile?
MIA: That’s some quick drinking. So, how long have you been split up?
NICK: It was ages ago.
IMAGINARY ELLIE: Not even ten percent. But sure, Nick.
MIA: I wouldn’t just be a rebound fuck then.
Nick almost chokes on his drink and Imaginary Ellie shifts uncomfortably in her imaginary seat. Mia appears excited by Nick’s embarrassment.
MIA: You look so uneasy. Does your generation not talk about sex?
NICK: What do you mean, my generation? How old are you?
MIA: Old enough.
Mia takes a big gulp of her drink.
MIA: You see, my generation eats a—
Nick erupts into a fake coughing fit to drown out Mia’s comment, then excuses his outburst to the middle-aged couple at the next table who almost overheard her remark. Nick stares at Imaginary Ellie, more than a little scared.
MIA: Lighten up. I’m just fucking with you.
She follows this up by mouthing, “Or am I?”
MIA: But seriously, you do like sex, right? I don’t want to be wasting my time.
NICK: Yes, I like sex. But I’m looking for something a little bit more…y’know.
MIA: Like kinky shit?
IMAGINARY ELLIE: Is she for real?
NICK (to Imaginary Ellie): Are you?
MIA: Am I what?
NICK: Nothing. I was talking to someone…I meant, I’m looking for something more. Like I wrote in my ad, I still believe in—
MIA: Ha! I thought that was a joke. Like an ironic statement or something to take the piss out of all those sad old romantics looking for their “one true love.”
IMAGINARY ELLIE: I think I might go. This is pretty devastating to watch.
NICK: You don’t believe in all that?
MIA: What, romance and teddy bears and walks in the rain? No, not really. Do you?
NICK: I used to.
IMAGINARY ELLIE: Oh Nick.
NICK: So why do internet dating? Why not just go to a club?
MIA: No thanks. They’re just full of pissed-up horny bastards. I don’t mind you being pissed up and horny, it’s just nice to witness the progression, you know what I mean?
NICK: So what made you choose me?
MIA: I dunno. Like I said, your ad was different. And your photo. You are pretty fit.
NICK: Really? Thanks. I guess.
The waiter arrives with the food.
NICK: Thanks. Looks great.
Nick begins to cut up his food, but bits fly off the edge of the chopping board.
NICK: What’s wrong with plates? I mean, they seemed to be doing a pretty good job for a few thousand years.
MIA: What’s that?
Nick looks up to see Mia on her phone.
NICK: Don’t worry about it.
Nick puts down his cutlery. The couple sit in silence for a moment.
NICK: Look, I’m not sure if I’m ready for this. I don’t mind if you want to leave.
MIA: Okay. We can go back to mine if you like? I think we could have a lot of fun.
Nick’s eyes widen as he chokes on his food, gasping for breath. He swallows just in time. After he composes himself, he looks over to see if she’s serious.
MIA: Like I said, you’re pretty fit.
IMAGINARY ELLIE: You’re on your own, Romeo.
And like that, Imaginary Ellie is gone.
End scene.
There’s an alternative reality in which I immediately take Mia up on her very generous offer of uninhibited, no-holds-barred, mind-blowing sex. But I don’t want that. I mean, one part of me does, but that timeline is not for me. I have nothing against anyone who enjoys a one-night stand, but my own past experience has proved that that way lies dollops of self-hatred and confusion and mess.
Also, there’s a pretty big part of me that thinks this entire dinner is being filmed and that I’m going to be the lead on the next series of To Catch a Predator.
“Gabby,” I whisper.
“Why are you whispering?” my sister replies.
“Because I’m in a toilet.”
“Why are you in a toilet?”
“I’m on a date.”
“Why are you on a date? I thought you had a ten percent rule?”
I almost drop the phone into the toilet bowl.
“Can everyone give me a break about the ten percent rule?”
The toilet next to me flushes and I realize whispering is doing me no favors.
“I need your help, Gabby. My date is being crazy forward. She’s basically asked me back to hers for sex and we haven’t even had pudding yet.”
“Pudding. Who still says pudding?”
My sister’s ability to wind me up has never been, and never will be, matched by anyone. And in this particular instance my gears are being ground to nothing.
“Gabby!”
“What? What do you want me to say? Have sex with her. Don’t have sex with her. It’s really up to you.”
“I’m pretty sure it would be a terrible idea.”
“Then say no!”
Her screech causes so much feedback on my phone that I have to give my ear a little rub with my open palm.
“But what if she’s the last person who ever wants to sleep with me?”
“Nick.” There’s a softness to her voice now. Either that or I’ve got tinnitus from her screaming at me.
She continues, “My sisterly advice is that you are not ready for this yet. Go back out there, eat your pudding, and bid her a fond farewell.”
This feels like great advice, and for a second I actually convince myself I’ll take it.
“Thanks, Gabby.”
“No worries, pudding boy.”
She han
gs up before I can come up with a pithy retort.
Right, I think to myself. I’m obviously not going to take Gabby’s advice and do the grown-up thing. Because if Mia makes one more suggestive comment, my willpower isn’t powerful enough to resist.
What are my options? Escape through the kitchen à la La Femme Nikita? It’s a strong move but riddled with potential accidents of the third-degree-burn kind. The ventilation shaft, like John McClane and countless others? I don’t think I have the upper-body strength for that.
Then I see it. The open window. This should be no problem.
It’s a good job I still have my phone in my hand when I realize I haven’t paid for the meal. Skipping out and leaving Mia to stump up for my half-eaten pie doesn’t seem fair.
I dial the restaurant’s number.
“Hi, yes…This may seem a bit odd, but can I pay for my meal over the phone…No, no problem with the service, it’s just I had to leave early and…Great, thanks…The long number across the top? 5550 6700 0923 1121…April 2013…195. Can I leave a tip?…How does twenty percent sound? Actually, make it thirty…Yes, thank you…Actually, before you go, could you do me one big favor?…Great…Could you send someone down to help me out of your toilet window? I seem to have got myself a little stuck.”
NOVEMBER 5, 2008—4:01 A.M. GMT
OBAMA 273
MCCAIN 141
270 NEEDED TO WIN
The cheer that erupted when I walked through the door was deafening. And for the shortest of moments I was sure it was meant for me and Ellie, a hooray to celebrate our newfound togetherness.
“Yeah! Way to go, Nick and Ellie!”
“Nick, our hero! You communicated effectively with someone you’re attracted to!”
“You did it, dude, you managed not to freak out all evening long!”
My answer to the last one was: Oh so nearly.
In the short space of time between opening the front door and entering the living room, I even convinced myself that Tom had arranged this euphoric reception specially to make me feel like the king of the world. Then I remembered he would never do anything nice like that if he knew people would find out. And then I remembered what the point of this party was and what people were actually cheering for.
The ticker tape below David Dimbleby’s chin read VICTORY FOR OBAMA. California’s fifty-five electoral votes had turned the map blue.
The two Americans—the ones who had a legitimate reason to be celebrating this hard—had taken control of the sound booth (Tom’s laptop and speakers) and were blasting out some Springsteen. The crowd was hollering back “Working on a Dream” in the most off-key way possible. I had the feeling Tom would delete that from his iTunes library quite quickly tomorrow morning.
Ellie was waiting for me just inside the living room.
“Fucking hell,” I yelled, eloquent as always.
“I know!” she whooped back. “This is a really good party and you made me miss it.” She gave me her best shit-eating grin as she waved to a friend across the room.
“I have to say hello to someone, but DON’T GO ANYWHERE.”
As she left my side, the hole was instantly and rather spookily filled by Tom, sipping from a bottle of Jameson.
“All right there, Nick?” he asked, both of our eyes on Ellie and her friend.
“McNulty,” I said back, eye-checking his booze.
“I see myself as more of an Omar type.”
“Course you do. Good party. Did we miss anything while we were gone?”
Tom surveyed his kingdom, filled with shiny, happy people. I could see his cold heart thawing.
“Just a load of hope-filled sycophants whose optimism will turn to abject misery in four years when Obama fails to live up to any of the promises he made and they vote in Jeb Bush.”
“Ha. You said Bush.”
“I knew there was a reason we were friends.”
He passed me his bottle and I took a mini swig. Clear minds would be needed from this moment on.
“So, Ellie Brown?”
I nodded casually.
“You can’t pull off the casual nod, Nick,” Tom informed me. “You’re not a casual person.”
“What am I then, you big Irish drunk?”
“You’re one of them, aren’t you,” he said, gesticulating wildly to the room. “One of the hopers. One of the dreamers. One of those ‘things with feathers.’ Except for you it’s not about an idealistic world or unworkable, over-simplistic international relations. For you it’s as simple as one day a boy will meet a girl and all will be well.”
I nodded, this time less casually, because between the front door and here I’d made a decision. A stupid, stubborn decision. But it was my decision, nevertheless.
I’d like to say that Tree-Trunk Neck’s words hadn’t affected me. The truth was, while sticks and stones might break my bones, it was words that tore me apart. And his words had cemented an instinct I’d been fighting since I’d watched Ellie let him down far more gently than he deserved.
While it was the most painless breakup I’d ever witnessed, I didn’t want it to be me someday. And I was sure it would be. I could not be good enough for her. I didn’t believe it was better to have loved and lost if you never found someone better.
My decision then. That future didn’t have to be mine.
I could keep tonight special. Perfect, almost.
I could walk away at any time.
Needless to say, I did not see Mia again.
She did, however, see me, being helped backward through a sixty-centimeter by thirty-centimeter window. She laughed possibly harder than I’d ever seen anyone laugh and I was quite pleased I’d at least been able to give her this gift. She could dine out on it for months.
There was one dicey moment in Windowgate where the sticky-uppy bit of the window lodged firmly in my belly button and I was sure I’d end up disemboweling myself on the bathroom floor and thus claiming the number one spot on the Darwin Awards all-time funniest deaths list.
Ultimately, the only thing bruised was my ego, and there wasn’t much of that left to bruise.
* * *
—
I MADE A rule: If I’m ready to start dating, I won’t check Ellie’s Facebook page to see what she’s up to in New York. That rule lasted a whole day.
She updated her location to New York, New York two weeks ago, but still hasn’t posted a status since she landed. Her last was the day before we went to the airport, when she wrote: Until we meet again, Mrs. England.
But—and here’s the big update—she has three new friends.
Two female.
And one male.
I worked out that one of the females went to the same school as Ellie and moved to New York a few years ago. It makes sense they’d connect. The other woman is an account manager for Associated Press. New workmate. That too checks out.
But Brad Bright? Who the fuck are you? Why is your account set to private? Why can’t I find out anything about you other than your superhero name? What are you hiding, Brad?
I’m staring at my phone trying to ascertain key information from his tiny, blurry profile picture—which is piss-wankingly arty—when Gabby calls, giving me a fright due to the proximity of my face to the screen.
I compose myself and open with “All right, Arbuckle?”
To which Gabby instantly replies, “When this baby comes out of me, I’m going to beat you to death with its placenta, then we’ll see how many more fat jokes you make.”
Her inflection on “fat jokes” gives me pause.
“You know, if I thought they actually upset you, I wouldn’t make another,” I say as a check-in.
A warmth seeps into her voice.
“Of course, you big softie. But that’s nice of you to say.”
“I am nice. No
w, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
The warmth is replaced with sketchiness.
“Nothing. Just wanted a chat with my little bro.”
There’s a long pause as Gabby tries to work out how to steer the conversation in the direction she wants. The pause is long enough for me to pull open my laptop and bring up Brad Bright’s profile again, all lens flare and blue sky.
The pause doesn’t end, so I say, “Come on, Gabby, out with it.”
And out it comes.
“I spoke to Ellie. Last night. She called me, in case you think this is a betrayal.”
I don’t give even the briefest of expected pauses.
“It’s fine,” I say, with such indifference I almost convince myself. “You guys were pretty good friends. I wouldn’t want you not to speak.”
“That’s very grown-up of you.”
The surprise in her voice makes this a competitor for backhanded compliment of the week.
“So, who’s this Brad Bright guy then?” I spit out.
“Who?”
“Ellie’s new boyfriend.”
“She doesn’t have a new boyfriend.”
This is good enough for me. Gabby has never been a bullshitter, and for that matter, neither has Ellie. But I’m not yet ready to lower my guard, because I know Gabby has an ulterior motive for her call. What it is, I have no idea.
“How did the rest of your date go the other night? Did you get out with your pants still on?”
“More or less,” I say, omitting the toilet-window ending for fear of that becoming the go-to story of every family gathering for the next twenty years.
“So you didn’t…” She fake-clears her throat as a way to imply the words “have sex with her,” a coy move for someone with a sailor’s vocabulary.
Is that what this is? A fact-finding phone call for Ellie? My hackles are up again.
“No. I didn’t. You can tell your friend that next time you speak to her.”
“You know it’s possible for two women to have a conversation with each other without it being about a man?” Gabby retorts.
A lengthy silence follows, which I can only presume is because Gabby’s trying to work out a way to undercut her last comment by saying they did talk about me. Because let’s face it, if they didn’t, why is she calling me now to tell me they spoke?
Love, Unscripted Page 19