Not Gonna Happen

by Adam Carter

  “Play your cards right,” she had said, “and you could be moved up in the time slot a second time.”

  “That’s a different show,” Corsac had said, but neither of them laughed.

  Sam had also advised him against making any decision before he had somewhere else to go. His one mistake in leaving his old life of comedy was that he had nowhere to turn to. Crotcher should have stopped him from leaving, should have seen his client was on the verge of walking out, but he had done nothing. Now that Sam was his agent, she was more prepared to look out for him. After all, it had been her job to see this coming and indeed she had seen it. To that end she told him she had already extended her feelers (strange imagery aside) to see what else there could be for him out there. It was difficult for her, since she was trained only in the music business and comedians did not generally make the best pop idols. However, the essence of the business was the same and she had not only a cool head but also contacts.

  She was keeping an eye out for things for him and once she had found something she would let him know and they could go to Castle together. It was a compromise: one which Corsac knew he would have to be prepared to accept.

  She had also chided him for going to see Castle about something like this without first checking with her. Even if he knew what her reaction would have been, he still needed her with him from a purely business point of view. Besides, she had said, it wasn’t as though this had come as any great shock to her.

  So Corsac was left in the same job, which was far from being bad, and with prospects for a new one. Perhaps even a better one, if such could possibly be true. All that was left for him now was to go and inform Liz, like he’d promised to.

  It was approaching nine o’clock by the time he reached her flat and while it was late he knew she would want to be informed of his decision. He knew she would appreciate his coming in person and respected her enough to comply with that wish. As he approached her door, he was rather hoping this encounter could be over and done with in moments. He could deliver his report and head home, didn’t even have to set foot inside. Where Liz was concerned, however, the only thing he was certain of was that anything was possible.

  He had no idea where that stray thought had come from, yet did not despise it. Corsac was changing, he knew that much, and not entirely for the better.

  He rang the doorbell and took a step back to have a look about him. This was the new address Liz had given him. He had no idea why she had moved, but at the time had assumed it was because she had the money now to move into a better area. Looking around, he wondered whether her sudden move had anything to do with her ex-boyfriend and the possibility he knew where she lived. This part of town was not quite what he expected of Liz. He knew she wasn’t being made rich from Deadlock, far from it, but he believed she could afford something better than this area. That was not to say there was anything especially bad about the area, it was just that Corsac felt strangely disappointed, guilty even, that she should have anything short of the best accommodation. The surrounding area itself was fine – lots of open green space and several trees dotting the place – but the building itself didn’t appear to be in the best of conditions. True, he was still outside, but there was chipped paint, a rusty pipe lying not two feet from him and he could see graffiti on a wall close by. The building simply looked scruffy to his mind. He supposed it was the age talking through him once again.

  “Yeah?”

  Corsac snapped out of his reverie, for the box beside the door was talking to him at last. He leaned close. “Uh, Liz?”

  “Mr J?” She sounded surprised.

  “I bring news.”

  “Do you also bring wine?”

  He paused. “No.”

  “Ah well, better be good news, then. Come on up.”

  The door buzzed and Corsac pushed it, finding himself in a corridor which reflected well his presuppositions of the exterior. He took the stairs slowly, all the while contemplating exactly what he would say. By the time he got to the third landing he began to question why he was so uncertain as to what he should say. He had agreed to stay on for the moment, which was entirely the news Liz had wanted. There was no need to feel nervous while delivering news someone wanted to hear.

  He also questioned why he hadn’t taken the lift.

  Corsac reached her door and stopped to gather his thoughts. And his breath. He was not a young man any longer and didn’t want to heavy-breathe at Liz’s door. Finally he decided he was ready and rapped on the door with his knuckles. “Just a minute!” he heard her call from the other side and he stepped back to wait. It was a peculiar sensation, standing there waiting for her to open the door. He had no idea why he felt so nervous, why he continually clenched and unclenched his fists. And he was short of breath again, he didn’t know why.

  “J!” Liz stood within the doorway dressed in cut-off jeans and a green T-shirt. She wore a brown belt with a large black buckle and her legs and feet were bare. He had never before been to her flat and supposed she generally walked around it barefoot. Her hair was tied back and there was a pair of spectacles perched on the end of her nose. She beamed at him with a perfect smile and playful eyes.

  “Liz,” he said. “You don’t wear glasses.”

  “Fashion,” she replied. “That all you’re gonna say?”

  “Fashion?”

  She could instantly see his disapproved and clucked her tongue. “Reading glasses, was joshing you. You coming in or are we doing this on the doorstep?”

  “Either’s fine.”

  “J, come in.” It was a strong insistence and Corsac knew better than to argue with an insistent woman.

  The interior of her flat was as the inside of a volcano was to the outside. Visually it was so different from the corridor that Corsac almost had to step outside and take another look around to make sure he was still in the same place. Whereas the exterior of the flat was bland and depressing, Liz had worked on her flat with such an obvious intensity that it could only have been described as homely. Which was apt, considering it was her home.

  Her living-room area contained a small settee and matching chair, along with a pouffe and table. There were several pictures hanging on the walls and her shelving held a great deal of books. The walls were papered and painted a pale shade of blue, lending the room a strangely calm aura.

  “Nice pictures,” he commented as he wandered in.

  “Came with the flat,” she replied.

  “Oh. Books too?”

  “No, they’re mine.”

  Corsac didn’t bother with the pictures and instead perused her bookshelf. There was everything from crossword books to trashy romance to the latest Harry Potter. Not that he knew whether it was the latest, since he’d never read any of them, but it was just like Liz to be up to date with things.

  “I should have known you’d read a lot,” Corsac said, running a finger along the spines of several books slowly, taking it all in.

  “It’s how I met Richard. He works in a bookshop.”

  “Oh.”

  “But we’re not here to talk about Richard,” Liz said, giving Corsac the impression she’d mentioned the man’s name by mistake and was now attempting to do anything to take his mind off the fact. “You want some tea?” she asked even as she disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Please.” Corsac was left alone for a few moments and after realising he was standing there swaying his arms decided to sit on the settee. He looked about himself, noticed three mirrors in the room – one of them floor-to-head height – and let his gaze linger upon one of the pictures which was left behind with the flat. It depicted a man kneeling beside a river, hands placed at points upon the floor so he could best gaze at himself in the water. The figure was clothed in what appeared to Corsac to be humble attire. It was not what he had come to expect from paintings: he thought all old paintings were of nudes.

  “That one’s mine,” Liz said, re-entering the room with two steaming cups. She handed one across to him and
sat beside him on the settee, getting herself comfortable.

  “Narcissus,” Corsac said.

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Sam has a thing for him. Got a statue of him and everything. No idea why.”

  Liz chuckled, leaning back into the settee. “Narcissus was one of the greatest Greek heroes. Herakles could kill lions, Atlas could hold up the heavens, but Narcissus was the one everyone wanted.”

  “Why? I didn’t think he could do much of anything.”

  “He loved himself. And everyone loved him because of it.”

  “Nowadays they’d hate him for it.”

  “But they’d love him as well. Must have been the same back then. Despised for his attitude, but the girls just couldn’t keep away.”

  “Nice. So why the picture?”

  “It’s a reminder.”

  “Of what?”

  “Why does Sam like Narcissus?”

  “No idea. I asked her once. Said something about him being the ultimate good-looking boy. She’s a music agent, don’t know if I ever mentioned that. These days it doesn’t matter if kids can sing, they just have to be able to synchronise dance and look good doing it. Show enough flesh, swing whatever bits they’re told to swing and they sell records. Teeny pop tarts, I always call them.”

  “Focusing more on their ability to dance than sing, I like it.”

  Corsac shrugged. “Never got around to using it in an act, though.”

  “Don’t mention it on the show, eh?”

  “You didn’t answer my question. That’s why Sam likes Narcissus, what about you?”

  “Because, like most good-looking guys, he was dumb.”

  “He was?”

  “That picture shows how he died. There are a few versions, there always are, but I think generally people agree he died at a river. He found his reflection and couldn’t bear to disturb the image by drinking from the river. So he died of thirst instead. He was so self-obsessed that he would rather die than stop looking at himself for two minutes.”

  “And how does being reminded good-looking men are all dumb help you?”

  Liz’s expression changed as she tried to work out whether he was being serious. She crossed her legs and rested her elbow on the back of the settee, placing her hand to the side of her head. “You know, if you’re not trying out a routine on me, that was actually quite a cute answer.”

  “And what routine would I be trying out on you exactly?”

  “You tell me.”

  Corsac coughed, turned his attention back to the room. Liz remained exactly where she was, completely at rest. “Why the mirrors?” he asked. “If you’re against people being self-obsessed, why all the mirrors?”

  “I’m against men being self-obsessed, J. I’m a woman, I’m allowed. Besides, you should see the bedroom.”

  “The show,” Corsac said quickly.

  “Forward, aren’t you?”

  “Deadlock.”

  He could see that Liz could sense he was not entirely comfortable with her flirting and with a small smile allowed him to change the subject. “Have you made your mind up?” she asked.

  “Sam thinks I should stay on with the show.”

  “Told you she would. Sam and I are more alike than you realise.”

  “She’s looking out for something for me, something along the comedy lines again.”

  “And until then we get to keep you?”

  “It might be ages, might never happen. Who knows?”

  “I hope it doesn’t.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You know what I mean. I’d hate to lose you, Mr J.”

  “Liz, why do you call me Mr J?”

  She blinked, feigning offence. “You don’t like it?”

  “I don’t mind really. Just wondered why.”

  “Well,” she said, shifting slightly closer to him, “when I was little I used to watch you on the telly and I couldn’t say your name. All I could manage was J, so for some reason I started calling you Mr J. I think I thought that was actually your name.”

  “Thanks. Makes me feel so young.”

  “You’re not old, Jack. I keep telling you that. You’re only old when you feel old.”

  “I feel old.”

  She leaned close and nuzzled his ear. “Wanna feel young again?”

  “Liz, I’m a married man,” he said as though that cleared up everything.

  “You’re a married man who didn’t leap out of the chair the instant I touched you.” She crossed her leg over his. “You’re still not making any move to go, Mr J.”

  “I’m married,” he repeated.

  “That only means you having been getting any for a while. I’m not asking you to leave your wife, J, I’m just asking you to not go home to her tonight.”

  “I should go.”

  “Then go,” Liz said, moving quickly so that she was sitting on top of him now, her knees pressing into the settee either side of his hips, her hands pressing into the back just either side of his shoulders. “Go,” she repeated, leaning down towards him slowly, “just throw me off first.”

  Her lips brushed against his, gently at first and when she felt no resistance they became more forceful. Corsac acted shocked, he did not understand why, yet within moments he was returning her embrace. She tasted as sweet as she smelled and he knew she thrilled when at last she could feel his hands roaming her back before positioning themselves on her buttocks. She held the kiss, hungrily, greedily devouring him, her hands working down to flip off her belt buckle in one simple move before her fingers began working at his own. He could feel her excitement, her heavy frantic breathing against him as their chests pressed together and she tugged loose her T-shirt, pulling it up to her breasts ...

  And then he threw her off.

  Liz lay upon the settee, her trousers half down, her T-shirt half up, while Corsac rose, hastily buckling together his own trousers. She panted heavily, her eyes upon him as a cat watching a mouse which was attempting to bolt. Corsac felt dishevelled, confused, maybe even a little scared.

  “What?” she asked. “What’s the problem?”

  “Marie.”

  “Funny, I don’t see her.”

  “I do. Whenever I close my eyes.”

  “You want this,” Liz told him. “I know you want this, you wouldn’t even be here if you didn’t.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t. I just ... don’t.”

  “And there’s a joke in there somewhere,” she said, resigning and collapsing onto the settee properly. “Oh, sit down, Jack,” she added glibly. “There’s no need to go. If you don’t want to sleep with me, I’m hardly gonna force you.”

  Corsac sat, on the pouffe. He could see the move surprised Liz, for she thought he would have been out the door by now. It spoke a clear message: it told her the night was far from over yet. What Corsac said he wanted and what he actually wanted were two completely different things. Even if he didn’t know it himself.

  “So,” Liz said conversationally, pulling her trousers back up and snapping the buckle back into place, “how long have you been married, Mr J?”

  “Long time. Thirty years, maybe.”

  “Well, you’ve either had your thirtieth wedding anniversary or you haven’t.”

  “Haven’t,” he said, not meeting her gaze now. “Might be next year, could be this year I guess.”

  “Bet it drives Marie mad that you can’t remember.”

  “I don’t know; I guess.”

  “She do much that gets on your nerves, J?”

  “Marie’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with my wife. She paints. She likes to paint. She sells them too, she’s good.”

  Liz blinked. “Uh, I’m sure she is.” She had not enquired as to what Marie did, which told them both that Corsac was instantly on the defensive. “You want some more tea?”

  “No. Thank you,” he added a moment later.

  “You sure? It’ll calm you down.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Gee, sor
ry.” She pulled her knees up to her chest, placing her feet on the settee. “Wasn’t gonna lace it with whisky or anything.”

  “I never said you were. You didn’t put anything in my tea before did you?”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Liz choked. “Blame me, why don’t you? I suppose what happened was entirely my fault.”

  “I ... never said that either. But, now that you mention it, you were the one who came onto me. And you can’t tell me that tight shirt’s not for me.”

  “And who’s been sending off signals the past couple of months?” she asked, tears forming in her eyes. “And who came by my flat at half nine in the evening when any decent person would have just phoned?”

  “I ...”

  “Yeah, all my fault. I can’t believe you’d just ... just ...” She bolted. Before Corsac could say anything, she’d run out of the room. He was lost for words. One moment she was all over him, the next she was calm and sociable, the next she was on the verge of tears and had presumably run away so he wouldn’t see her crying. Had to be on drugs, he told himself, he’d never seen that weird behaviour in anyone before.

  But what should he do? If she’d thrown him a parting comment like “Show yourself out!” he could leave. But she hadn’t, and she was obviously upset, which meant he should, as a friend, see whether she was all right. And they were friends, no matter what had nearly happened between them. They were still friends and he would like to have thought they might always be friends. Which meant he had a duty to try to comfort her, or at least make sure she was all right before he left.

  He followed her to the door through which she had fled, treading lightly and taking his pace slow. He could hear her sobbing and he felt instantly terrible over what had happened. All thoughts of just walking away were gone from him now and he followed the sounds of her crying until he found her in her bedroom, curled up in the protective foetal position on the sheets. Corsac stopped at the open door and gingerly knocked. “You all right?”

  “Fine,” she replied through her tears. “God, as if I’d drug your tea. I know you can’t take alcohol. How can you even think that of me?”