Perfect Timing

by Owen Nicholls

  I can’t read what I should do and so I ask her flat-out. “Do you believe me? About making up Sarah?”

  “I didn’t realize I was here to vet you for Jess.” My silence makes her fill in the blank. “Honestly? Yes. You come across as genuine.”

  This seems like a compliment somehow, but her shift to the edge of her seat isn’t inspiring me with hope. I can see how carefully she’s considering what to say next. Reluctant to say what’s on her mind for fear of sticking her nose in where it doesn’t belong. I try to remove any guilt she may be feeling and home in on the truth as she sees it.

  “I’m just looking for advice.”

  “OK,” she says directly. “I’d say…I’d say wait.”

  I screw up my face like she’s suggested I throw myself in front of a train to prove my feelings for Jess. She reads me like a novel.

  “Is that so hard?”

  “Until when?”

  She offers me a look of sympathy and I can tell there’s no malice behind it. “I have absolute faith that Jess is going to be huge. She’s smart, hardworking—when she wants to be—and without making this too much about aesthetics, she’s got a face that looks pretty damn great on camera. She’s gonna make it. If she doesn’t get distracted. Just wait until she’s where she needs to be.”

  “But then she won’t want to be with me.”

  Julia lets out a laugh with a weird amount of anger in it.

  “If you believe that, then you’re basically saying you want to keep her at your level.”

  “I’m not saying that!”

  I sort of realize I was saying that and hang my head in shame. Once again, Julia’s compassion and empathy are fully on display.

  “Those early days of a relationship—and I’m guessing a relationship is the thing you want out of this…”

  I nod, realizing this is my first opportunity for a real relationship in eons.

  “Those early days are tough. I’m not sure if pinging each other messages across the world, both of you waiting for the other to wake up and respond, is the best start to it all.”

  She paints a pessimistic picture, but it’s one that I can see clearly. Would I be able to cope with that distance? Or would I be second-guessing every message she sent? Every pause in every phone call? Julia tries to lift the mood.

  “Look, what do I know? This is just my advice. Jess is strong-willed. If she wants to start something she will. I’m guessing once she learns the truth about you and your made-up girlfriend, she will. Nothing I suggest will deter her.” She pauses here and I feel a “but” coming that will undo all the nice words she’s just uttered. Sure enough—“But…from where I’m sitting, it sounds like things are going pretty great with the band. Things could go great for Jess down under too, given some space, without the distraction of everything a new relationship’s saddled with. It’s only four weeks.”

  I don’t want to see her point but I do.

  “So what do I do?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “No.” I try to convince her it’s OK. That she’s right. “I’m glad you did. It makes sense. Like you say, it’s only a few weeks. Then we can go for drinks like normal people do.”

  Julia’s glass is empty, as is mine, so we both stand and make our way out of the pub. It’s pretty clear what I have to do. Even if I don’t want to. Eat your veg before you get your pudding. I instruct Julia not to tell Jess right away about the Sarah thing. I made a promise to myself, I’d do it in person. I can do it at the same time I tell her that we should put a pin in this.

  Julia doesn’t say anything more as we step out into the street. The rain is getting worse and it comes with the wet chill of life in Northern England. Just before she says goodbye, a thought hits me. A surprise for Jess, something to show her how I feel when she gets back. Something to look forward to down the road. Long after I have to tell her that now is the wrong time for us.

  “This is a weird one,” I tell Julia. “But do you have Jess’s mum’s address?”

  Julia’s expression is one of horror and incredulity. If I had to guess what she’s thinking it would probably be “Why the hell has this guy not listened to a single word I’ve said?” I work quickly to quell her fears.

  “I’m not going to go there, I promise. It’s for a favor I promised her a while back. Something for when she gets back. A gesture, if you will.”

  I pass Julia my phone and she writes the address in a message I send to myself. Then she leaves.

  Tonight did not go as I hoped it would. But the future? The future might.

  18

  A Little Fun

  Jess

  Heathrow, Terminal Two

  May 27, 2016

  Looking at myself in the mirror, it’s like I’m playing fancy dress and my character is “a backpacker.” Hair tied up beneath a baseball cap, sunglasses on, backpack bigger than I am.

  This look isn’t exactly the one I’d go for on a second date—is this a second date?—but this was all our schedules would allow. And there’s something romantic about it. The airport scene. I have a couple of hours before my flight. And about five minutes before I meet Tom at the Costa. In the airport bathroom, I glance at my reflection and pull a couple of strands of hair out to fall on my face just so. It would be impossible to look great right now, but I’d like to aim for good at least.

  I find him waiting in the corner of the chain bean dispensary, his leg bouncing up and down as he pours black coffee into his mouth. There’s a drink for me, sitting opposite him. I take off the sunglasses and swing the giant luggage down to my side. He rises and tries to help me with it, to stop me crushing an old lady under the weight of my clothes and a month’s supply of suntan lotion.

  Once the bag is under control, I take a seat and grin at him.

  “So, you made Sarah up, right?” I say it with a shit-eating grin, proud of my detective work.

  He shakes his head but smiles. “I told Julia not to tell you.”

  “It wasn’t easy, I’ll be honest. But I have my ways.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Mornings are her weakness. I played Metallica loud and jumped on her bed at five a.m. until she blabbed. It didn’t really take long. Impressed?” I ask.

  “Very,” he replies.

  “I’ve spent a long time not liking you very much…”

  “Rightly so, given the information at hand.”

  I say the next bit softly, because he’s been through enough. “Julia also told me you didn’t get in touch earlier because you were too embarrassed.” I wasn’t quite soft enough, because his cheeks still go red.

  “It’s a pretty humiliating thing to confess.”

  “I don’t get humiliation.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “The way I see it, everyone is equally useless as human beings. I’m not going to judge anyone for their mistakes in the hope they’ll let mine slide.”

  “And do they?” he asks.

  “No. The bastards!”

  We take a sip of our coffee at the same time and both end up with burnt lips. It’s a shared moment for sure, and as the drink hits my stomach, I feel the rare joy of happiness inside. The happiness you only really get from being with a person you’re beginning to feel something for. In the light of the revelation about Sarah, I’m reminded again that my radar was right about him. This one’s a good one. As if to back this up, he asks a caring question.

  “How’s your mum?”

  “Oh, right. Yeah. It turned out she was just watching TV and butt-dialed me. Her phone was on silent. She was pretty shocked when I kicked the front door in like a SWAT team member.”

  Tom laughs and then frowns. I can guess what’s going through his head. The frustration of little things getting in the way. I attempt to remedy it,
but his hangdog expression seems here to stay.

  “Did you have to run to the airport?” I ask. “Like in the last act of a romantic movie?”

  He shakes his head and downplays it. “No. Thankfully, I’m very well organized. No mad dash to leave me covered in sweat.”

  He cringes a little and I have to remind myself that while he’s a good one, he does have a habit of saying the absolute worst thing. I don’t know him well, but I do feel like I know him. And I know I have to give him time to say what he wants to say. No pressure.

  “The EP title was a good one, though, yeah?”

  “Was it?” he asks.

  “I think so. I mean, you could have called it, ‘Sarah isn’t real. I made her up. Jess, please get in touch,’ but…”

  “It probably wouldn’t have fit on the spine.”

  I let out a bark of a laugh and feel a little self-conscious. Which is not like me at all, but being in his presence is doing weird things to me. He looks a little sad again, like there’s too much on his mind. I want to reach out for his hand and tell him it’s OK, but let’s face it, we’re not there yet.

  “I just wish…” he says, pushing each word out like it’s a car that won’t start. “I just wish I’d got in touch earlier.”

  Sod it, I think, a hand touch is fine right now. I reach out and put mine next to his.

  “We’re here now, though.”

  He pulls his hand away.

  “About that.”

  The look on his face is all I need to know that this isn’t going the way I want it to. It amazes me how quickly I can go from happy to hurt. The speed at which anger can take over from elation. I withdraw my hand and place it in my lap, my shoulders hunched. A protective little ball for what’s to come.

  He continues, “I like you, I want to make that clear. I just…” He hides behind his coffee cup again, as if the answers are written on the rim. “I don’t think the timing is right. Like, right now, I mean.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask.

  “Distractions?” he says, as a question. When what I could really do with right now are answers. I try to remind myself to be patient. That whatever this is, probably isn’t easy for him.

  “Are you saying, I don’t need the distraction?”

  “No,” he tries. “I mean, yes.”

  “Or you don’t need the distraction?”

  “Yes! I mean, no. What I’m trying to say is the band is going really well at the moment. Nothing should really get in the way of our careers, right?”

  I seethe. There’s nothing like being told you’re “getting in the way” to make a woman feel special.

  He carries on, oblivious. “We’re super busy and we’re meeting new people every day. And you will too. In Australia.”

  An alarm rings in my head. Loud and clear. Nah, mate. You got this wrong again, Jess. He’s basically telling you he doesn’t want you. He doesn’t want you distracting him from what he’s now being offered. He wants a month—at least—of dicking around. Before he settles with you. If he even wants to.

  I ask him flat-out. “So, you want a little fun, do you?”

  “Exactly!” he says, happily crushing my heart. “You should have fun. Enjoy yourself. Then when you come back…I mean, four weeks is nothing really.”

  I stand and grab my stuff. He looks confused, somehow unaware of what he’s done. Self-doubt creeps in and I start to question whether I have any right to be getting upset about this. He hasn’t promised me anything. But I know my worth. I’m worth more than this. Aren’t I?

  “What even is this, then?” I ask, trying to keep the anger out of my words. Instead, I sound pathetic. “Why did you even come here?”

  Tom looks around, down at the floor. “To see you. I really, really wanted to see you. And I desperately wanted to tell you about Sarah. I’m a bit gutted Julia got there first, to be honest.”

  The anger boils over. “Forget about your bloody made-up girlfriend for a second. This, me getting on a plane now, us not exchanging numbers, you not calling me when I land…that’s really what you think is best?”

  He breathes a weird sigh of relief.

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  I can feel my face suddenly fall expressionless. A light inside me has just gone out. He opens his mouth to speak but no more words come out. I look over at the Departure Board and my gate number is flashing. There’s a different Jess waiting for me when that plane touches down. I can leave all this baggage on the conveyor belt.

  I punch Tom on the shoulder.

  “See you around, then, Mr. Delaney.”

  And with that, I’m gone.

  Part Three

  CHANGES

  19

  Bulldust

  Jess

  Brynmaer Road, London

  December 6, 2016

  Something happened at the airport. A new Jess was born. And her mantra was I do not give a fuck. She takes no prisoners and suffers no morons. My routines became darker, edgier. Less earnest, less sincere. While I always wanted to do some of the stuff I was doing at Edinburgh, Dean was right. If I keep doing that, I’ll play to fifty people. It turns out not caring about what you say makes people laugh. Quite a lot, actually.

  When I took the stage for my first gig I had the trifecta of rage coursing through my veins: lack of sleep from jet lag after twenty-four hours on a plane; angry thoughts about Frank’s sudden and unwanted reappearance into my life; and Tom. Bloody Tom. I couldn’t shake him and that car crash of a “whatever” at the airport. And so I channeled it. I wore the anger on my sleeve and ranted and raved about all the things that piss me off.

  And it worked. People laughed. Ultimately that’s all the feedback I need, and when I started to vent and didn’t hold back, audiences lapped it up. And so I did it more. And more. And the high of the applause was unlike any I’d had in comedy before. There were nights when I said things I didn’t believe. There were nights when after I felt guilt for overstepping the mark. There were nights when I was cruel. But none of that mattered. Because…people laughed.

  And my new boyfriend laughed.

  Even at the age of twenty-eight, I like saying it. “He’s My Boyfriend.” “Yep, that’s him. My Boyfriend.” “Just waiting for My Boyfriend.” I especially like saying it when “My Boyfriend” is this mega. I like walking down the street with him and watching other people check him out. That probably sounds shallow, but meh, I get a buzz out of it. He’s fit. Like, he-can-actually-run fit. It’s rare to meet someone who lives their life on stage who doesn’t get out of breath climbing stairs. He’s charming. Ruggedly good-looking. And yeah, every time he opens his mouth and an Australian voice comes out, I find it absolutely ridiculous—like I’m dating someone from Ramsay Street—but that will fade in time. I’m sure it will.

  And Chris is also, let’s not beat around the bush here, a great shag, I mean it. I’m not being cute. It’s almost like he’s actually taken the time to read a book on it. Or asked a living, breathing woman what she actually wants and likes. None of the usual poking and prodding that we all thought would run its course after secondary school. The roles—captain of the football team, head boy—turned into job titles—project managers, chartered accountants—but the one thing that never changed, the one constant, was the old bad moves. But Chris…Well, I’m not going to go into graphic detail (I’ll save that for my next stand-up set); all I’ll say is, Yes, Chris. Very, very good, Chris.

  Which is pretty much verbatim what came out of my mouth thirty seconds ago. As we lie here on my bed, a tangled mass of limbs and sweaty hair, I think back to five months ago when he asked me out. After what had come before, it was nice to find someone who actually wanted to be with me and said so in no uncertain terms. Someone who didn’t think of me as a roadblock to their career. Someone who saw me as more than a distraction.

 
Our hookup story is a pretty simple “funny boy meets funny girl.” We met in a club in Sydney celebrating the end of my tour. Four weeks done and dusted. I’d taken my agent’s advice and not been me for thirty-one days. I was not me on stage and I was certainly not me off it. It felt good not being me. I was getting sick of her anyway. And Chris evidently got the new material. Which is why when he invited me for a post-show drink, I said yes.

  “I REALLY LIKED YOUR BIT ABOUT THE QUEEN ON THE THRONE?” he yelled. His voice was so loud in my ear, I could feel my eardrums dying.

  “THANKS!” I shouted in reply. “IT’S THE SORT OF THING I’D GET CRUCIFIED FOR IN ENGLAND.”

  For some reason I was spitting on him. It might have been that I had to raise my voice to levels usually reserved for family arguments or alerting the authorities that a crime is currently in progress. Or it might have just been that I was mega squiffy. My two-drink limit was also a thing that New Jess had jettisoned.

  The club—and the volume of music within it—seemed designed specifically to prevent effective communication. Like an Orwellian experiment to curb all conversation. Despite the repeating beats and thumping bass, we were doing a fine job of flirting.

  “I LIKED YOUR SET TOO. TAKING OFF YOUR SHIRT WAS A GOOD BIT.”

  “THANKS.”

  “ALTHOUGH YOU’VE RUINED A THEORY I HAVE ABOUT HOW GOOD-LOOKING PEOPLE AREN’T FUNNY!”

  Chris laughed with all his body.

  “HAVE I NOW?” he called out, swishing his beer in time to the music. “I’D SAY THAT THEORY IS BULLDUST.”

  “I BET YOU WOULD,” I replied, nailing the last of my pint.

  He cupped his hands over my ear and said, “I wasn’t talking about me. Fancy another drink somewhere quieter?”

  The “somewhere quieter” was his camper van. He told me he didn’t like being tied down, that he liked to go where the wind took him. I’ll be honest, I was never entirely sure in those first few days how much of Chris was intentionally funny. But I laughed a lot.