Love, Unscripted

by Owen Nicholls

Now it was out there. It couldn’t be taken back. And while the sickness swirled in his stomach, there came with it a strange sense of validation. Validation of the part of him that had always doubted himself. The part that never felt comfortable with a happiness he was sure he didn’t deserve.

  * * *

  —

  ELLIE SAT AT her desk, unable to concentrate. Her inbox was filling up slowly but with the kind of messages she could easily ignore. Recent cutbacks had left her doing the job of three people, and she found herself increasingly tied to a desk, performing administrative tasks. She missed the distraction of being out of the office, capturing the picture that would tell a thousand words.

  But she was grateful to have the job. Lesser and greater publications than hers had switched to freelance photographers or—as was becoming depressingly familiar—were using “citizen journalists” to provide free, inferior work.

  Knowing the inevitability of redundancies, Ellie had made herself as useful as possible. Colleagues came and went, decrying all change and bemoaning the fact that things were not what they used to be. Their attitude, sadly, made her think of Nick.

  She wanted to fight these thoughts.

  But she was tired. She was tired of listening to the voices of doubt. The ones that said things had been stagnant for too long. That he had no drive, no ambition, no direction. That she was feeling that way about herself. Apathy by osmosis.

  She was angry with the voices too. She knew it was not her job to change him. To fix him. Whatever these voices said. Fixing someone was a game. A way to make yourself feel better, more powerful. For her it was an odious concept that went against her ethical—but never religious—doctrine of “do unto others.” Previous partners had tried to fix her, and she had resented them totally until they reached their inevitable catastrophic conclusions.

  But Ellie wanted Nick to change. And therein lay the rub.

  She opened another internal email. It was Martina’s birthday and she’d brought cakes into the kitchen. Ellie consigned the message to the digital rubbish bin and returned to that pervasive thought.

  “You aimed low.”

  It wasn’t true.

  Nick was kind, he was considerate. But lately he had not been happy, and this unhappiness was growing worse. Three and a half years they had been a part of each other’s lives, and Ellie could chart on a graph Nick’s descent from euphoria to ennui.

  That first day, which he would often recount, that was his peak. His mountain summit of joy. But even that, she knew, had been reworded to the point of fiction.

  She’d tried to convince herself that his lack of a life’s course would be fine for her if only he was content. She knew this was a fallacy. Was it because she cared for him so much that she saw this potential in him? Had she fooled herself into thinking there was more to him?

  “You aimed low.”

  It wasn’t true.

  * * *

  —

  NICK WAS ON his phone, reading an article about the domino effect of divorce on other couples, when Ellie’s mother awoke. It was around noon and she was sheepish in her salutation.

  She and Nick both adopted the opposite positions of authority.

  “Morning, Nick. Has Ellie…”

  “Gone to work? Yeah. A few hours ago.”

  She noticed the time on the clock and her eyes went cartoon wide.

  “Is it…”

  “Yep, noon, pretty late, huh?”

  Finishing her sentences was born out of both Nick’s pity and a pitiful way of seeking revenge. This adult/child dynamic they’d settled upon was unignorable.

  “I hope I didn’t do or say anything silly last night,” Margaret offered tentatively.

  Nothing that won’t have long-term effects on my and Ellie’s future happiness, Nick thought.

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  “Nick,” she said, suddenly taking on the demeanor of the responsible one. “Ellie’s going to have trouble with all this. I know I was a bit…silly last night, but Richard and I both think the world of you and…”

  Nick bit his lip and let her continue.

  “…when we were discussing us not being together, one thing we knew was that Ellie would be okay, because she has you. In many ways, we see you as being the one to take care of her now.”

  She stood up and attempted to hug Nick as she left, but he gave nothing back. Then she disappeared, leaving him alone with the two thoughts he’d do battle with for the next few months.

  One, he needed to make sure Ellie was okay.

  And two, there was a good chance—if her mother’s drunken declaration was anything to go by—that long term there were far better people for the job.

  * * *

  —

  MAYBE BUYING THE ring was a stupid idea.

  It had felt right at the time. The sales assistant, with his 1920s mustache and red braces, had certainly made it seem like a good idea. He’d asked Nick questions about where he and Ellie had met and listened to his plans for where he might propose. He’d even suggested a few wedding ideas. When Nick asked if the ring could be returned, he’d smiled and said he was sure there’d be no need for that. Before going on to inform him that they offered store credit.

  In hindsight, Nick would be the first to admit, finding out if marriage was something Ellie actually wanted should have preceded spunking his credit card balance on a tiny, shiny rock. A final dice roll of heart over head.

  * * *

  —

  ELLIE’S MOOD HAD worsened in the month since “the drunken visit,” and her dad’s far-too-fast move to London only sent her spiraling down a hole of questioning how long her parents’ marriage had been falling apart. Questioning that extended to “How did I not see this coming?” and “How much am I to blame?” in equal doses.

  When Nick suggested they raid “Nick and Ellie’s adventure fund”—current total, one hundred and fifty-three pounds and fifty-three pence—and stay somewhere for a romantic night and a fancy meal, he was met with a zero on the enthusiasm-o-meter.

  “How about just a meal then?” he tried.

  “I’m really not in the mood.”

  “We could go see a band?”

  “Can’t we just stay in?”

  “And do what?”

  She pushed air through her closed lips.

  “I don’t know. Open a bottle of wine. Watch some TV.”

  “Sure,” he said, wondering if after half a bottle of red he’d accidentally pop the question between University Challenge and Only Connect.

  Slumping on the sofa, Ellie took the remote and started hopping around the channels. Nick opened the cheap supermarket wine and poured two glasses.

  “Look, Four Weddings and a Funeral is on,” he said. “If they don’t make a sequel in the next ten years called Four Funerals and a Wedding, I’ll eat Hugh Grant’s hair.”

  She grimaced and offered to switch over to it with the same eagerness one would associate with cleaning a grill.

  “If there’s nothing better…”

  They settled into their usual positions, her legs on top of his, all four elevated on a footstool. As Hugh Grant took one to the jaw in the name of honesty and true love, Nick began fishing.

  “Would you punch me in the face at our wedding?”

  “Our wedding?” Ellie scoffed.

  Nick sat up so quickly he sloshed wine onto his legs and the sofa, causing Ellie to jump to her feet too.

  “Why did you scoff like that?” he asked.

  Ellie stared down at the stain. “Are you going to clean that up?”

  Nick was fixed in his position.

  “Do you not see us getting married?”

  She looked between him and the liquid seeping into the fabric before throwing her arms in the air and exclaiming, “Fine. I’ll do
it.”

  She took off into the kitchen and started running hot water and washing-up liquid into a plastic bowl. She grabbed the roll of paper towels and returned to find Nick standing with his hand out.

  “Give it here.”

  She shook her head and dabbed at the wine.

  “If you’re not willing to do it yourself, I don’t need your half-arsed attempt to help.”

  His voice rose with frustration. “What’s that supposed to mean? And why won’t you answer the question?”

  She scrubbed harder at the stain, her hand a blur.

  “What question? Would I like to marry you? Is that what you’re asking me? Are you proposing, Nick? Great timing!”

  “What if I was?”

  Nick grabbed the remote and hit the off button, knowing in that moment that her mum’s words had had as much of an impact on her as they’d had on him.

  “What if you were? Well, I’d ask a few questions, I suppose.” Her tone was getting angrier, like she’d been waiting for her chance to explode. “Questions like, what does our future look like to you? Sitting on that couch watching movies every night you’re not working? And as for work, what does that look like in a year’s time? You’ll just keep on at the cinema until you get less than half a shift a week?”

  “I like my job! What’s wrong with actually liking what you do?”

  Ellie, resigned to the fact that the sofa was beyond saving, threw the clumped-up paper towels into the bowl. Soapy water slopped over the edges onto the carpet.

  “It’s not wrong. It’s just finite. You’re the only one who doesn’t seem to see it. It would be nice if the man I planned to spend the rest of my life with had a Plan B. When was the last time you wrote something?”

  It was Nick’s turn to stamp his feet and have a fit.

  “I’m not a good writer.”

  “Says every writer!”

  “Says every fucking rejection letter.”

  “Fine. Don’t write. Become a sky-diving instructor or a flipping orchid collector, just find something that makes you happy.”

  “I have you! You make me happy!”

  “BUT THAT’S NOT YOUR JOB!”

  The eruption brought with it the first moment of silence between them. Both of them felt that sickness in their gut, the sickness that said this wasn’t just a row. Everything they said from now on would be permanent. It was a feeling that could rein in the anger, that could curb the emotion, or they could choose to ignore the feeling and persist. Ellie chose to persist.

  “I can’t love you like you want me to, Nick.”

  He would blame the sound of his heart breaking to explain why he didn’t hear what she’d really said.

  “You don’t love me?” he asked.

  The answer was still yes, she did, but she wouldn’t answer for fear of confusing him.

  She steadied herself, ready for what she knew had to come next. She said, “I know the words you want me to say, but I can’t say them. I won’t read from that script anymore.”

  She rubbed her eyes and continued.

  “I know you’re scared…”

  “Of what?” Nick asked bitterly.

  “Of so many things. Scared of trying. Scared of failing. Scared of rejection and everything that comes with it. Scared of being alone. Scared of a life where you don’t know what the next words out of someone’s mouth will be.”

  She knew he was listening. She didn’t know if he really heard her.

  “So what are the next words?”

  Ellie shook her head.

  “I don’t know.”

  It would take the Boy months to really see why the Girl was gone. Months to see that it was an act of kindness as much as it was self-preservation. There was a path they could blindly walk down until the cliff edge was in view. She had steered them away. Given them a chance at a future. When the Boy finally understood, he lamented the lesson learned too late.

  NOVEMBER 5, 2008—4:34 A.M. GMT

  OBAMA 333

  MCCAIN 145

  SENATOR JOHN MCCAIN CONCEDES

  The devil said, “There’s no time like the present.” The angel begged for fifteen more minutes. For one final conversation. Just a few more moments in Ellie’s company.

  I started off watching John McCain give his concession as my way of postponing my exit. But I’m a sucker for a good speech, and despite his earlier casting as Chief Villain, he nailed this one. One line in particular, in which he gracefully told the crowd that the loss was his fault and not theirs, genuinely moved me. I’m not sure anyone on the right has ever done that. But then he sang Palin’s praises and became persona non grata in the Marcetverse again. On the other side of the room I saw Dave speaking to Tom, and Tom was instantly not pleased.

  He marched over to me.

  “Can I have a word?”

  “I was just watch—”

  Before I could get to the closing part of my sentence, Tom had my ear between his finger and thumb and was dragging me into the vacant hallway.

  “Come here, Francine,” he scolded me.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” I replied.

  “What it looks like is Dave tells me the really nice girl you spent the night talking to has asked you out on a date, and rather than say ‘Yes, of course, I’d love to’ you’ve made up some bullshit excuse and left her hanging.”

  It turned out it was a little what it looked like.

  I knew Tom was a logical sort and so I attempted to wow him with reason.

  “Look. I like her. I do. A lot. But it’s like…it’s like The Phantom Menace.”

  He was not impressed by the start of the analogy.

  I carried on regardless. “You remember how excited, how head-over-heels, pant-wettingly excited you were in 1999 when you first saw the trailer for The Phantom Menace?”

  He nodded.

  “And you also remember how soul-destroyingly heartbroken you were when the credits rolled and you realized that it was a massive bag of crap and you wished you’d just gone to see The Matrix again.”

  “Sorry, who’s The Matrix in this metaphor?”

  I stopped to try and work it out.

  “Nobody’s The Matrix. The Matrix isn’t the point. The point is I felt excited about something again for the first time in a long time. It’s a nice feeling to have. But you know me, I’ll only fuck it up later. Or she’ll see the error of her ways and run a mile. If I leave it as it is, I can have one perfect, amazing, ‘tell the grandkids about it’ night.”

  I could tell Tom was trying so hard to see things from my, admittedly strange, perspective. But he just couldn’t.

  “There’s a problem with this master plan, Nick. If you always think like this, if you say no to every good thing that comes along for fear of spoiling it or fear of it going tits up, then you’ll never have grandkids to tell stories to. About this night or any other.”

  I’d heard him out. I’d considered his point of view and he’d considered mine. We were at an impasse, but I felt the need to reassure my friend that this was a significant occasion and a one-off, rather than some dangerous trend that would leave me alone at fifty with nothing but Lego reconstructions of famous film sets.

  “Tonight’s been pretty unique. How often can you say that?” I asked.

  He replied flatly, “Every night. You can say that every night. Because every single night is unique, Nick.”

  “Okay, tonight was special. It was…”

  His eyes pleaded with me not to say it.

  “…like a film.”

  It was then that he realized he wouldn’t be able to change my mind. No clever words would sway me. He knew me well enough and so he handed me my coat and hat from the banister behind him. All the while shaking his damn head.

  “If she asks…” I said. />
  “Which she will,” he countered.

  “…just tell her I had the best night of my life tonight.”

  I opened the front door and made my way into the cold morning air, the best party I’d ever been to behind me.

  Tom called out one final time, “You shouldn’t make monumental decisions based on the inferior work of George Lucas. You have to remember his good stuff, Nick! Remember his good stuff!”

  I’d had worse advice yelled at me in the early hours of the morning. But this was my decision. And no one would talk me out of it.

  I knew my worth.

  My hangover still hurts.

  It’s been two days since the 2012 election and the news is already speculating on 2016. The smart money seems to be on a Clinton/Bush rematch, with this round to be played by Hillary and Jeb.

  I know I have apologies to dole out to those who witnessed the debacle at Tom’s. I can access fragments of memory about what I said or did, and one that is crystal clear is that Seb deserves thanks for looking after me.

  As I’m strolling up the path to Seb’s house, Tracy, his wife, comes marching down it. Eyes and cheeks red from rage and snot.

  “Your friend is a fucking arsehole,” she aggressively informs me, not stopping for a second to say hello.

  On first meeting Tracy, you might be a little taken aback that this primary school teacher—who also tutors piano, sings in the community choir, and exclusively wears flowery summer dresses—could have the mouth of a sailor in a Mamet script. But when she is primed to blow, Tracy is a hamper of explosives.

  More tears meet me as I enter the house.

  I move toward the noise, inwardly marveling again at Seb’s journey from grotty apartment above an Indian restaurant in Brixton to this actual house with an actual garden in south London.

  The shitty part of the story is that he had to lose both parents to afford even the requisite 10 percent for a place like this. Even with mine gone to New Oz, I’m not sure I could come back from a double blow like that. And I know he’d go back to Brixton in a heartbeat if it meant his kids had their grandparents around.