Love, Unscripted

by Owen Nicholls

  It’s not. But here on my own, I’m allowed to pretend.

  NOVEMBER 5, 2008—5:35 A.M. GMT

  OBAMA 338

  MCCAIN 155

  BARACK HUSSEIN OBAMA IS PRESIDENT-ELECT

  The camera was trained on an empty podium in Grant Park, Chicago, as “Higher and Higher” by Jackie Wilson played out. As historic an event as this was, to me that song is so synonymous with Ghostbusters II, all I could think about was Bill Murray and company as Obama greeted the crowd with a rock-star-ish “Hello, Chicago.”

  “Shut up. Everyone shut the hell up!” yelled the brasher of the two American guests.

  And everyone did. Including Tom, who stood, arms folded, ready to make a quip or snide remark to undercut the feeling of unity.

  The president-elect opened his address with a reference to just how unbelievable his accomplishment was. “If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible, who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time, who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.”

  While the Americans whooped and hollered, there was a knowing nod rippling through the British contingent. Namely the other 95 percent of the house.

  Maybe it was a case of everyone present—Tom excepted—wanting Obama to be their leader, but I felt there was something peculiarly British about him using the opening of his speech to point out just how absolutely nuts this was. “America is a place” was a little jingoistic for sure, but the subtext was “Okay, everyone, this has actually happened.”

  A small group a few years younger than the rest were playing drinking games with the speech. Much to the annoyance of Americans One and Two. One player was taking shots of Southern Comfort every time Obama said the word “change.” He was unconscious before the end of the speech.

  For me, it was one simple line: “What we’ve already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.” Even though it wasn’t meant for two comfortable twentysomethings in south London, Ellie and I locked eyes and our hands found each other. The moment was broken by someone shrieking with laughter and pointing at Tom. “Are you…are you crying?” they accused him, despite having wet cheeks themselves.

  “He has feelings!” another yelled. And Tom was quickly in the middle of a huge bundle of hugs.

  “Get off me, you fucking liberals,” he shouted, gasping for air.

  As the bundle disbanded, ruffling his hair as they went, I looked over to Tom, who was pushing tears back into his eyes.

  “It is pretty good, I suppose,” he grudgingly confessed.

  I let go of Ellie’s hand to throw my arms around him. She watched on, grinning, as he playfully pushed me off too.

  The familiar sign-off of “God Bless the United States of America” heralded the end of the speech, but more Springsteen signified that the night was far from over. I put my arms around Ellie’s shoulders and we swayed in time to the music.

  In that room, at that moment, there was no cynicism, no doubt. Nobody was saying anybody couldn’t do anything. There was hope.

  My original plan was to watch the final video at Ronnie’s. But today he and some friends are having their yearly Yuletide bake-off. So instead, I packed up my laptop and Ellie’s USB stick and started to walk.

  I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going, but I was enjoying the Christmas lights making even the gloomier parts of London that little bit brighter. My internal navigator took me past a number of my and Ellie’s haunts. The pub where we had our second date. The venue where we saw Frightened Rabbit play The Midnight Organ Fight in full. The bench she’d sit on to meet me after work.

  And now I’m here, staring up at the building I’ve been in a thousand times before.

  * * *

  —

  “THAT’S QUITE A favor during opening hours,” Seb says. “How long’s the file?”

  “Less than five minutes,” I reply.

  He checks his little slip of paper with the film start times on it. The only analogue remnant in his all-new digital world.

  “Screen Two’s free,” he says, pointing to a blinking panel of dials and LEDs.

  “More machine now than man,” I quip.

  “They were always machines, Nick.”

  He pulls out the port window that separates the projection booth from the auditorium and feeds through a long gray cable. He attaches one end to the digital projector.

  “Thanks for the Edinburgh hookup,” I say.

  “No problem. I know it’s only temporary, but you think you’ll take it?”

  “I’m not sure. I want to, but it feels…I dunno, we’ll see.”

  He doesn’t push for an answer; instead he fires up the digital projector by tapping in a few bits of code.

  “Have you named her?” I ask.

  Seb shakes his head.

  “Can I call her Brigitte, the Maschinenmensch? For an old friend?”

  He places an affectionate hand on my shoulder. “Do what you like, just get out of here by quarter to. Deal?”

  I salute him and make my way down the back of Screen 2. I plug in the other end of the long gray cable and my laptop screen saver fills the auditorium screen. I open BONUS and click play.

  Ellie’s face is smiling back at me from forty feet, looking just like it did when I said goodbye to her at the airport. And also completely different. Maybe this time I’ll work out why.

  Hey, Nick—bet you thought I’d suffix that with a “the Dick,” right? Well, I’m thirty-one soon, and as The Korgis—and latterly Beck—said, “Everybody’s gotta learn sometime,” and by learn, I mean grow up. New York is big. And tall. Bet you didn’t know that.

  Americans like work, and as a wannabe American, I guess I do too now. I wouldn’t say I was oversold the job, maybe I had a case of the Nicks in fantasizing what it would be like—more historic events, less making folders of pictures of cats—but it has been a little mundane at times. Therefore, after five weeks out here, I have very little to wow you with that isn’t work-related. Although I did share a lift with Michael Sheen the other day! He was making the woman he was with laugh a lot. I thought of you.

  I thought of you again when I went to the cinema by myself last week. I know, right? Four years together and I never contemplated it. Always balking when you recommended I go to a movie you’d already seen. “But who will I go with?” I’d fret. And you’d be all “Just go on your own,” and I’d be like “No, only losers go to the cinema alone!” and you’d be all pretend offended.

  The day came and it was okay. Kind of fun, actually. You’ll be pleased to hear you were right. It’s easier to say that now.

  The film I watched was called Ruby Sparks and had the mute guy from Little Miss Sunshine in it and a girl whose name was Zoe something. You know I’m not good with names. I won’t give away too much because you might want to see it, but it was about a lonely guy who’s down on his luck with love and he’s a writer and so he writes about his dream woman and she comes to life. It probably sounds a bit like Weird Science. But it’s really nothing like Weird Science.

  I don’t mean this in a loaded way, but you really should watch it. I’d love to know what you think of the guy and the ending and…well, I don’t want to give away too much. It came out way back in June, but this cool little indie cinema was playing it as a rerun. Has it come out in the UK yet? That felt weird to write.

  I hope Gabby and little Freddie are doing okay. I never thought Gabby would become a Facebook mum, recording every moment and sharing it online, but judging by the frequency of her posts, I regret to inform you she has indeed. I assume you’re still bypassing all social media? I chat to Gabby quite a bit on there and, well, one of the many reasons I wanted to film this for you was to say she told me you felt awful about forgetting Lucas Day this ye
ar.

  Please. Don’t.

  Those videos, that idea, it was the single most lovely thing anyone has ever done for me. They reminded me how much I loved him and made me feel close to him for the first time in years. I know you always said they weren’t meant for anyone but me, but I thought they could be useful to you. Or to me. Anyway, I hope you’ve watched them. I wanted you to.

  Now for a harder bit. I know it’s wrong of me to say this, but I always thought if we went through a bad patch, you’d be the one to pull us through it. I’m so sorry for leaving that up to you. It wasn’t fair. Or right. I will always regret that.

  Finally, I don’t want you to think Gabby and I only talk about you—this is obviously just for you, so I’m not going to mention all the other things we talk about—but she also mentioned you thought my invites to come to New York with me weren’t genuine. They were, Nick. Of course they were. And they still are.

  I don’t know how to convince you of that, if you don’t want to be convinced.

  I know it’s a long trip, but if you ever wanted to come, it’d be great to see you.

  I miss you.

  And like that, she’s gone. But not before I finally figure out what the difference was in her eyes. It was her growing. Seeing multiple versions of Ellie, from four years ago through to now, I see the way she made it out the other side.

  We were both kids for so long. Way past the time we shouldn’t have been.

  It’s easy to argue over the intent of the written word. A short email can easily be misinterpreted. A text even more so. This, however, there’s something real about it. I feel the words more. And in these words, I feel Ellie. I feel that she’s lonely and I feel her love for me. And I wish, I wish so much that I could separate those two things to find out which is more powerful.

  * * *

  —

  LESS THAN TWENTY-FOUR hours later, I’ve drafted a letter to Ellie. I say drafted; what I mean is I’ve written it out fourteen times. Sometimes I omit details of my boring job. Other times I include them. A couple of versions have a recap of Obama Election Night II: The Twattening, in which I detail my every cringeworthy move. One even reveals the full extent of the date with Mia. Window and all.

  This last version, the one I’m holding in my hand, is the right one to send.

  Making Ellie feel good is essentially the purpose of the entire document, and so I’ve included a passage where I let her know that solo cinema won’t last long if she doesn’t want it to. That once she’s over the ten percent rule—invented by a genius, I add—she’ll have every guy from Brooklyn to the Bronx beating down her door. And on that ten percent rule, I tell her, I now have irrefutable proof that it is the absolute bare minimum of time needed.

  I use the letter to apologize too. To say sorry for the “narcolepsy,” as Gabby calls it. I tell her that while I hope she knows, if she doesn’t, I’m so happy for her and her new job. That I think she’s amazing and it’s good that good things happen to good people.

  I let her know that alongside the ten percent rule, there’s a three-month rule for any new job, and so if she’s not happy after three months, she should find something new. Wherever it might take her. She’ll learn everything she needs to know within those twelve weeks, and if it’s not for her, like she told me on several occasions, life’s too short to waste it being unhappy.

  The hardest part of the letter to write was the response to the video. I even thought of filming one in return in which I talked about how great she was, but it always came out like I was trying to get her back.

  I can’t do that in a letter.

  If she was just here again. If she was just down the road…

  I thank her again for the invite. State for the record that I now know the offer is genuine. Even make a joke that as I have her address, I might just turn up on her doorstep one day with a hot dog and a baseball cap.

  My reply mentions that I’ve been writing again, and so I thank her for the pen and pad she hid away for me. I tell her I’ve had more rejections but one production company said my stuff has potential. They gave me notes to make it better. The old Nick would have thrown his toys out of the pram and refused to change a word. Now I take comfort in the realization that a script isn’t anything unless people want to make it into something.

  I hope she won’t mind, but I wrote a bit about us. Changed the names to protect the guilty. I tell her that I wrote about our first Christmas. About our ill-fated trip to Cannes. About the pregnancy that wasn’t and the fight that was.

  I’ve typed them up, I tell her, saved them to my laptop, and emailed them to myself so they won’t get lost. But I think she should have the originals. I tucked them into the envelope before I left the house.

  What I don’t include in the letter—because I don’t think it will help her—is where I’m at now. With myself. That’s something I can only reveal to her in person. Gabby was so close to asking the right question in the hospital. She asked, “Do you like being unhappy?” but what she should have asked was “Do you like yourself, Nick?” Too much of the time the answer is no.

  And that’s the truth I’ve been avoiding.

  Ellie and I didn’t end because we started too strong. We didn’t end because life conspired against us. We didn’t end because everything eventually does. And we didn’t end because her parents put the seed of doubt into us.

  It was none of these reasons and all of them.

  Relationships end when people stop putting the effort in. And for lots of stupid little reasons—and one big one—I stopped putting the effort in.

  We ended because of me. Because of decisions I made. Because, like I said to her dad, she deserves to be happy. Just like that first night, when I tried to run away and she persuaded me not to. I wanted to run away because I was scared, yes, but also because I truly believed I didn’t deserve her. The magic of Ellie was that when she was fully there, she never made me doubt myself. With her, the answer to the question was yes.

  She made me like myself.

  For one short period of time when she needed me to look after myself, when she needed help, I wasn’t there. I was thinking of myself and how I’d feel if she left. How scared I was to be on my own again and how I was desperate for it to not be her decision. I protected myself the only way I knew how. By switching off. To do what I did was selfish, cruel, and blind. A monumentally stupid act of self-sabotage. But here I stand. I am sad. I am free. Free from the doubt that I’m not deserving of her love.

  Here’s the final lesson to be learned. Because if decades of watching movies has taught me anything, it’s that there is always a lesson to be learned.

  In this story—my story—it doesn’t matter what Ellie’s mum said. Or what Ellie’s dad thinks. Or the looks we got in restaurants. Or how I feel too much of the time about myself. What matters is what the people who matter think. And on the whole, they see a better picture of me.

  As for Ellie? It was never up to me whether I thought I was good enough for her.

  It was up to her.

  * * *

  —

  ARRIVING AT THE post office to buy the little envelopes with the red, blue, and white border, I stretch out my cramping hand in the freezing air. It’s pretty sore from writing multiple versions of what turned out to be very similar letters. I always knew what I needed to say, I just wanted to get it right.

  Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat, and the queue for stamps is longer than Santa’s naughty list. A blinking board tells me the current exchange rate is 1 GBP = 1.59 USD. I’m also holding my reply about the projectionist’s position in Edinburgh. I only ever drafted one. I know where I’ll be spending Christmas. I know that when the New Year comes around, this year I’ll make my resolutions stick. For the first time in a long time, I know where I’m going.

  NOVEMBER 5, 2008—6:45 A.M. GM
T

  OBAMA 338

  MCCAIN 155

  BARACK HUSSEIN OBAMA IS PRESIDENT-ELECT

  “Smile,” Ellie said, and as I turned, I took a faceful of blinding flash. It left that little white spot when I blinked. She shook the Polaroid and explained how each of these was roughly a quid, and so she rarely used this camera except for special occasions.

  “I like the immediacy of them, though,” she said, as the image came into focus. “And this one? This one’s a keeper.”

  She showed me the picture and I was happy with the result. I rarely thought I looked good, but the way she was watching me gave me confidence. If a girl like that could look that way at a boy like me…

  “A keeper? It’s too early to be jumping to conclusions like that,” I said.

  “You’re probably right. I’ll give it a year.”

  “How about four? We could meet here again at the next election. Fall in lo—” I corrected myself. “Get to know each other a second time.”

  Looking around at our fellow revelers, it didn’t seem like a bad plan to do it all over again. There were lots of happy, lovely people here.

  The party was winding down and a few familiar faces were heading for the exit. One young couple holding hands were immediately recognizable. He was the poor unfortunate who’d been given the word “change” in the short-lived drinking game. He’d made a speedy recovery. She, Ellie and I noticed simultaneously, was only wearing one shoe.

  Ellie pointed to the girl’s bare foot as they walked out of the front door.

  “Is that…?”

  “I think it might be,” I replied, as we followed them out to watch them navigate the garden steps. The sun was just about ready for the new day.

  “Fair play to them,” Ellie said.

  “How long do you give them?” I asked.

  “Oh, this is the start of something special for those two,” she said with surety. “I’m talking marriage, kids, the full catastrophe.”