Love, Unscripted

by Owen Nicholls

  “Okay,” she finally admits. “Your name came up. A couple of times.”

  Before she can get to what she wants to talk about, I feel my stomach tighten and the hurt and shame and regret of the last year rises up inside me and I just want off of this call and to stick on a DVD and shove pizza and Pringles into my face with the wild abandon of a latter-day Orson Welles.

  “She says she misses you.”

  “Then she should have fought for me.”

  “You didn’t exactly make it easy.”

  “Yeah, I forgot I was the one that moved out first and then flew three thousand miles away.”

  And the award for greatest use of righteous indignation in a telephone call goes to…

  “Are you still not going to take any responsibility for how you’ve been this year? I don’t know what happened in that head of yours, but—”

  “That’s right. You don’t.”

  “So tell me!”

  I go silent long enough for Gabby to let out a long, frustrated sigh. I use it as my cue to put an end to a conversation I was never in the mood for in the first place.

  “Next time you speak with her, tell her I said hi and I’m really happy for her and Brad.”

  I flip the phone shut without saying goodbye in the way people do in movies but never do in real life.

  Then I flip it open again.

  And text Lizzie.

  NOVEMBER 5, 2008—4:09 A.M. GMT

  OBAMA 273

  MCCAIN 141

  270 NEEDED TO WIN

  Tom was growing impatient. “I’ll ask again. So, Ellie Brown?”

  I took my time responding; it was, after all, a complex question with a multitude of different answers. I’d started to make a list of reasons to justify the One Perfect Night plan.

  1. Who am I kidding?

  Like Nathaniel said, “You really think she likes you?” I mean, she might do a bit—the kiss, the jokes—but not enough to see us as equals, to see someone she could actually be with. Which brought me to point number two.

  2. I foolishly told her I’d never been in love.

  This seemed like the most legitimate of points. And the one I thought Tom would be able to sympathize with. That little revelation meant she’d always view me as someone who was naive about relationships. She’d put every little communication hiccup down to my inexperience and eventually it’d be too much for her.

  3. She mentioned how she wanted to move to New York.

  Even at the time, I knew this third reason was clutching at straws. But who was I to stand in the way of her dream? What if we did start seeing each other and then she flew away after a couple of months? I didn’t think I could take that kind of rejection.

  If I told Tom the truth—I had three reasons why I couldn’t see a future that didn’t end in tears—he’d frogmarch me over to her and force me to make arrangements to see her again. Which would totally go against the One Perfect Night plan.

  I settled on the middle ground between truth and lie.

  “She’s very cool. But I think she’s just getting out of something with some guy.”

  “She isn’t,” Tom replied, directly. “I mean, she went out with a guy—his name’s Nathaniel and he’s a bit of a poser—but she never had any feelings for him. It was her decision to end it and she’s certainly over it. So, you like her, then?”

  This combative questioning was unnerving.

  “Yeah, like I said, she’s pretty cool. I just don’t know if…”

  “If she likes you? Haven’t you just spent the best part of the night with her? Didn’t she just tell you not to go anywhere?”

  What was his game?

  “I’m not sure we have that much in common, though.”

  “Yeah, you do. She loves movies, has great taste in music. She’s smart, funny. Super-talented and driven.”

  “Well then, we don’t have that in common.”

  I quickly began to realize there was more to Tom and Ellie than met the eye. He had an insight into her world I hadn’t expected him to have. I felt a bit like Han Solo on Endor when Leia started banging on about how much she cared for Luke. Please let Ellie be his undiscovered sister, I thought. No. It didn’t matter. I was never seeing her again after tonight.

  “So,” I prodded carefully. “You and Ellie?”

  “You’re as subtle as a sledgehammer and only slightly smarter. No, Nick, I do not fancy Ellie.”

  It was almost time for another phew.

  “Then why the interest?”

  He turned to face me and took a long sip of his whiskey.

  “I know you think of me as this hard-hearted, cynical Tory whose only goal in life is to return England to the Victorian age, when poor people worked in factories and rich people lived in mansions.”

  “I don’t think that, Tom.”

  I did sort of think that.

  “But when it comes to my friends, I only want the best for them. And you, young Nicholas Nickleby, are my friend.”

  The jubilant atmosphere must have gotten to him. He was one step away from a hug, and I’d never seen him physically embrace another person in my entire life.

  He continued, “When my sister first told me about Ellie, I thought of you. When I met her, I thought I was meeting the other half of you. I invited her here tonight hoping that you’d have the courage to speak to her. Which, unbelievably, you did. I’d sown the seeds of your ‘you-ness’ but I don’t think I’d fully prepared them for how ‘you’ you can be. Because right now, as you stare with puppy-dog-eyed devotion at a girl you like, who unless I’m mistaken—and I’m never mistaken—likes you back, you seem to be looking for the best way to sabotage things. Am I right?”

  I stayed silent, annoyed and impressed at how right he was. In turn, he became even more serious, resting his hands on my shoulders and looking me earnestly in the eye.

  “Whatever you’re planning on doing or planning on not doing. Don’t.” He paused and tried to sober up enough to make this advice seem irrefutable. “Or do. Do.”

  I nodded, even though I was sure he was wrong and I was right.

  The One Perfect Night plan was still a go.

  “For now, my friend,” I said, “I just have to hope this party never ends.”

  He shook his head and stepped back.

  “And when that doesn’t work?”

  His fatalism was not going to get me down, however correct it was.

  “You think you’ll throw another one in four years’ time?”

  I will admit, the timing of my drinks with Lizzie could have been better.

  While not exactly the date of what would have been my and Ellie’s four-year anniversary—that was two days ago—the occasion is just as monumental. Because tonight is the night of the 2012 presidential election.

  The night is young, though, and there’s a long time before any of the results will start coming in. The TV in the corner of the pub isn’t yet doing rolling coverage, and for that I’m thankful. Tom is, of course, having another party, in the hope that America will, in his words—definitely not mine—“undo the damage they’ve done with their silly throw of the dice.” So yes, my decision to ask Lizzie for a drink tonight of all nights is largely due to wanting a distraction.

  But.

  It is equally due to the fact that I’ve been thinking about Lizzie a lot recently. I have to move on, and the Mia fiasco has taught me that internet dating might not be the best move for someone in my condition.

  Lizzie—and I don’t mean this to be an insult—is a safe pair of hands. She has said she likes me, so the large part of my brain that hates me can shut up for an evening. We share very similar interests, so conversation should be a breeze. Finally, as she comes through the door, I’m reminded that she is objectively an attractive, smart, cool, and switched
-on woman, and that I should be very grateful she has asked me to ask her out.

  I stand and we awkwardly hug. A little more matey than datey.

  “How have you been?” I ask.

  “Good. Work is weird, but we’re—”

  I hold up my index finger and she stops talking, aware of what’s coming.

  “Rule number one. No previous work talk. I’m not sure my tender heart could take it. Rule number two—”

  She interjects, “No previous relationships talk.”

  We shake hands and grin.

  “Wait, does no work talk mean no film talk?” Lizzie asks.

  “God, no!” I exclaim. “I wouldn’t have a clue how to get through a day, let alone a date, without talking movies.”

  At this she beams.

  “Great. Because last night I saw a film you are going to adore!”

  * * *

  —

  DESPITE THE WITTY repartee and extremely enjoyable company, my eyes keep drifting to the TV behind Lizzie’s head, and on the third time of asking she calls it out.

  “Is there a football match on?”

  She turns and clocks what’s been taking my attention.

  “Oh, right, the election.”

  Then the penny drops.

  “Right. The election. You and Ellie…”

  I put my hands up in surrender.

  “I know. I know. The timing is really weird, but if I can confess something…”

  She nods.

  “This is a much nicer distraction than I would have thought possible. I think I really needed it tonight.”

  She places her hand over mine and offers a compassionate “It’s all right” before standing and picking up our empties.

  “Let’s distract you properly then. Same again?”

  As Lizzie makes her way to the bar, I take out my phone and see four messages from Seb. Not wanting him to get too carried away with the idea of me and Lizzie, we decided not to tell anyone about our date—including Seb—who is now doing his best to persuade me to come to Tom’s election party with poorly spelled messages such as There ain’t no party like a NckNick party.

  “Lining up your next date?” Lizzie asks as she hands me my fourth drink.

  “Yeah, I’m such a player. No, it’s Seb. Trying to persuade me to join him at the party.”

  Lizzie sips a little nervously at her drink and we share our first uncomfortable silence.

  “I absolutely wasn’t planning on going,” I state for the record. “But. We can. If you want?”

  Her eyebrows rise in surprise and she starts nodding enthusiastically but without actually stating an opinion. It’s like she’s gone mute and I’m having to decipher her desire through the movement of her head.

  “You would like to go?” I ask gingerly.

  Her head makes tiny, fast movements from side to side, but this time with contradictory words falling from her mouth.

  “Yes. I mean sure. Yeah,” she replies. “If you want to?”

  If you were to put a gun to my head and ask me to tell you categorically whether Lizzie wants to go to the party or not, there would be a fifty-fifty chance of my brains being splattered up the pub wall.

  I try one last time.

  “Honestly, it’s completely up to you. I’m happy to—”

  “Great. Then so am I.”

  That settles it. We’re going to the one place I absolutely don’t want to go.

  * * *

  —

  BEN FOLDS IS singing about how weird it is to be back here. And he’s one hundred percent correct.

  It’s not the first time I’ve been to Tom’s since November 2008. Because he was a mutual friend, and played such a pivotal role in our eventual coupling, Ellie and I were invited over for many special occasions, including Christmas drinks, the occasional summer BBQ, and the 2010 general election. The last was a big win for Team Tom and the Libertarians.

  Tonight, however, feels the worst kind of weird.

  Compared to 2008, this party is lackluster at best. There are half as many people in attendance as four years ago, and a quarter of the buzz. Maybe it’s because it can’t ever be as historic as Obama’s first, maybe it’s because the whole night seems to be such a foregone conclusion. Romney’s “47 percent” comment, in which he managed to write off just under half of all the people who could vote for him, seemed to most commentators enough to make him a dead candidate walking.

  And also, he’s really, truly boring. It’s often said that America votes for the guy you’d most like to have a beer with, regardless of policy. Mormon Romney isn’t anyone’s idea of a drinking buddy.

  My drinking buddy, Lizzie, is way more fun than Mitt Romney.

  I’d like to think that my arrival sparks a bit of life into the party, but it’s all Lizzie. Within five minutes of our arrival she’s already endeared herself to Tom by giving him a legitimate debate about church and state, and started a game of beer pong with a bunch of Tom’s weed friends.

  But still. But still.

  I know Ellie’s in America, but I’m convinced I’ll see her here, the place where it all began. Tom and Seb see me constantly checking the door from the other side of the room and make it their duty to intervene before Lizzie notices my wandering eye.

  “I like her,” Tom says, just the right side of lecherous.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “She’s very likable.”

  They exchange a look of concern that they make no attempt to mask.

  “Don’t get carried away,” I tell them. “We’re just seeing where it might lead. And yes, of course I realize that this is the weirdest place for a first date, but she wanted to come. At least I think she did.”

  We watch on as Lizzie bounces another ping-pong ball into a red cup to a chorus of cheers. She accepts the applause and makes her way back to the three of us, two beers in her hands.

  “I won you a beer,” she says, passing me one of them.

  “I thought the idea of beer pong was to get your opponents to drink?” I ask.

  “It is. But that seems like a stupid way to play. So I made up my own rules in which you get more beer if you score more.”

  Everyone nods, suitably impressed.

  “This isn’t quite like 2008, is it?” Seb says, without realizing he’s saying the exact wrong thing.

  I gloss over it. “I still remember your reaction to Obama’s speech, Tom.”

  “Shut it,” Tom says.

  “What’s this?” Seb asks.

  I look at Tom and see him reddening.

  “Nothing.” I grin.

  The grin is quickly eradicated when I spot a familiar face. Nathaniel.

  It makes sense that he’s here, but his face is still an unwelcome one, a ghost of elections past.

  “Fancy a smoke?” I ask Lizzie.

  * * *

  —

  AS LIZZIE IS kissing me in the back garden of Tom’s house, meters from where Ellie and I helped a girl with spew in her shoe, it hits me like an ACME load.

  I can see our entire relationship.

  It begins with good films and great sex and reminiscing like we did tonight about shared happy times. She’ll be understanding of the fact that I’ve just gotten out of a long-term relationship and give me the time I need to deal with that. I’ll move in almost straightaway, because circumstances dictate I must. As the early months go by, she’ll start to become bitter that the ghost of Ellie is hovering Rebecca-like over our heads. But she’ll ultimately accept my false declarations that I’ve moved on.

  Then there’s the middle section, where we comfortably segue into the day-to-day pleasantries of being with someone we like just enough. The cinema will become a constant reminder that we do have a lot in common, the thing we tell ourselves is proof that this is right,
even when part of us knows it isn’t. I’ll meet her friends and I’ll consciously try to get them to like me—because I must be liked—while subconsciously I’ll try to alienate them, in the hope that my not being the perfect prospective friend-in-law is enough to drive a wedge between us.

  In the end, there will just be misery. Because I know I’ll try to make it work. Because I’ll do anything to not be the bad guy. And by doing so, I’ll inevitably become him. With each day that goes by, I’ll become more and more like Michael Myers. The next Darth Vader. Harry Lime, Nurse Ratched, and Tommy DeVito all rolled into one.

  She’ll ask me if I’m happy, and I’ll say, “Sure.”

  She’ll ask me if I love her, and I’ll say, “Of course.”

  I’ll lie about how I feel until the day she says something like “Don’t you think we should start thinking about being a family?” or “Can you imagine what we’ll be like as an old couple?” and I’ll finally, quietly mouth, “No.”

  Did Ellie leave because she couldn’t handle the pain of pretending to love someone?

  I pull my head back and look, as Lizzie’s smiling, happy face sees my expression and turns to one of worry.

  “I can’t,” I say.

  Her new expression is strange. If I had to define it, I’d say it was a mixture of hurt rejection and smug satisfaction. Like she knew this was coming but took a shot anyway. She shakes it off and steadies herself. Projecting an aura of being cold and composed.

  “I’d rehearsed a speech ready for this moment, if it happened,” she says. “But it feels a bit self-indulgent, if I’m honest. I could give you the edited highlights if you like?”

  I nod.

  “I knew this would be a gamble. That it would be too soon or feel too wrong or too whatever. But I thought it was worth a shot because, like I said, I like you. You fit the bill…”

  “…for a prospective mate.”

  “The fear I had was that I might never be able to make it special enough. Big enough. That short of employing Burt Bacharach to serenade us through our early courtship, you’d always struggle to justify the normality of two friends hooking up. You’d never be able to persuade a brain and heart that wants total romance. Any minor blip, any fluctuation from the Hollywood narrative, and…”