Out of Love

by Hazel Hayes

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say, losing my train of thought.

  I might have meant why are we in this service station in Chippenham, or I might have meant our relationship, or the universe, but I can’t remember now and every time I try to get hold of the thought it feels like I’m pulling on an elastic band until it snaps back and hits me in the brain.

  ‘Why won’t you talk to me?’ I ask.

  ‘I am talking to you.’

  I go back to staring at the wallpaper.

  ‘What do you want to talk about?’ asks Theo with a sigh.

  ‘You know what I want to talk about.’

  ‘This isn’t the time or the place,’ he says. ‘Drink your tea, please.’

  I take a sip and almost spit it back out.

  ‘I don’t take sugar any more!’

  ‘I know. But the lady said sweet tea is good for shock.’

  ‘What shock?’ I ask. Theo doesn’t respond, he just opens the chocolate wrapper, breaks off two squares and hands one to me.

  ‘I think you love it,’ I say through a mouthful of chocolate. ‘I think you love that I fucked up.’

  ‘Yeah, I love that you cheated on me.’

  I wasn’t ready to hear that word.

  ‘Is that what you think?’ I ask, and suddenly I’m crying again.

  ‘Let’s not do this now,’ he says, not unkindly.

  We spend the rest of the wait in silence. Outside, I can see Derek changing the tyre. The wind whips his ponytail against his head and I find this very satisfying to watch. As soon as the car is fixed, Theo drives us the rest of the way to Dunkerton.

  Jocelyn is flapping about on the steps of the church when we arrive. Her sister Eugenie and brothers Magnus and Halbert (presumably Augusta named all of her children) appear to be consoling her. The service is due to start in ten minutes.

  ‘Don’t tell her about the car,’ says Theo as he pulls on the handbrake.

  ‘Obviously,’ I reply.

  He gets out and goes straight to his mum.

  ‘Theodore!’ she wails, throwing her arms around him and crying in great, heaving sobs.

  ‘Sorry we’re so late,’ I hear Theo say as I approach behind him, his voice muffled in the collar of Jocelyn’s faux-fur coat.

  ‘What kept you?’ She casts a scornful look over his shoulder at me.

  ‘Traffic,’ says Theo.

  ‘I told you to drive down with us,’ she says, and I know she means him, singular.

  While I wait for Theo to be set free, I offer my condolences to his aunt and uncles who, despite being a glum old bunch of Tories, seem positively charming next to Jocelyn. We shake hands and nod solemn nods and they ask how the drive down was. I tell them it was fine. Just a bit of traffic.

  Jocelyn’s still nattering on about us being late when Eugenie steps in.

  ‘Everyone’s here now, Jossy, that’s all that matters,’ she says.

  Jocelyn looks around, nonplussed, then finally relinquishes her grip on Theo and hooks her arm around his instead. His cheek is smeared with her magenta lipstick.

  ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Jocelyn,’ I say, now that she’s no longer wearing my boyfriend like a shield.

  ‘She was a great woman,’ Jocelyn replies. I can smell the booze on her breath when she speaks to me.

  We all nod. Then Jocelyn turns to Theo and abruptly changes the subject.

  ‘No sign of your sister,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah. Sorry,’ says Theo, even though it’s not his fault his sister, Octavia, isn’t here. She moved to New Zealand nearly ten years ago and never came back.

  ‘It’s a long way to travel, Jossy,’ says Eugenie, ever the appeaser.

  ‘Humph!’ says Jocelyn. ‘She could at least have called.’

  Theo and Eugenie share a confused look.

  ‘She did call, Mum,’ he says. ‘You spoke to her last night.’

  Jocelyn looks completely dumbfounded.

  ‘Remember?’ asks Theo.

  ‘Of course I remember!’ she snaps.

  She doesn’t. And we all know it’s because she was drunk when her daughter called. Everyone stares at the ground or the sky or anything else and suddenly I’m very jealous of Octavia, thousands of miles away from all this.

  ‘We’d better be getting inside now,’ says Eugenie, and as we turn to go into the church, Jocelyn looks me up and down and says, ‘You look nice,’ levelling the compliment at me like an accusation.

  ‘Thank you, Jocelyn,’ I say. ‘I like your coat.’

  We’re making our way slowly past the small congregation when I spot Maya and Darren in the back row and the sight of them almost reduces me to tears. Theo must have told them about his gran and I’m very glad he did. I smile at them and Maya gives me a little wink, which I know means, ‘You’ve got this.’

  Jocelyn is still clutching on to Theo when they reach the front pew. She drags him in alongside her, followed by the rest of the family. Theo realises and looks back at me apologetically, but I just smile to let him know I understand, and then find a spot in the second row next to one of his cousins.

  The service itself is like any I’ve been to, only much shorter; I’m used to Catholic masses and Theo’s family is Protestant. I once asked Theo what the difference was between Catholics and Protestants, but aside from the length of the service he couldn’t tell me. We were eating pizza in bed after a night out and were both far too drunk to figure it out.

  ‘It’s all made up anyway,’ said Theo, ‘so who gives a shit?’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ I said, and we toasted by smacking two slices of pizza together. The next day I found several bits of pepperoni mashed into the sheets.

  I’m smiling at this memory when Jocelyn throws another contemptuous glance in my direction and I suddenly realise everyone around me is standing as the coffin is being carried into the church. I immediately stand up and join them but it’s too late, I’ve already pissed her off.

  I’m not really a fan of dead bodies. That is to say, I actively dislike them. So I spend most of Augusta’s mass acutely aware that her corpse is mere feet away from me. Afterwards, when the coffin lid is lifted and people are invited to come pay their final respects, I decide not to join the queue to see her. This isn’t a traditional part of the ceremony, I’m told, but Jocelyn insisted.

  Jocelyn is first in line, with Theo by her side. She howls over her mother’s body, and it takes ten minutes and both of her brothers to finally tear her away and return her to her seat. All eyes are still on Jocelyn when I look back and notice Theo alone by the coffin, a lost child once again. I go to him and place a hand on his back, turning him away from the commotion and towards his grandmother instead. I gently rub away the lipstick on his cheek as I talk to him.

  ‘Don’t worry about your mum. She’s okay. Just take your moment to say goodbye now.’

  Theo nods and looks down at his gran and I realise I’m in this now, until he’s ready to go. I can’t help but look at Augusta’s face – a vague approximation of humanity – and I realise that all dead bodies look the same.

  When I was ten years old, Connor From Up the Road died from lymphoma. We called him Connor From Up the Road because there were two Connors, one of whom was from round the corner. After Connor from up the road died, we started calling both of them just Connor again, the new distinction being the tense in which we referred to them.

  Connor played football for his school team and was an avid Liverpool fan, so they buried him in his jersey; I remember how the red cloth hung loose around his little body, made frail from months of chemotherapy. He was laid out in his living room and I had to stand on tiptoes to see inside the coffin. Lying there, his face pallid and his cheeks more rosy than they’d ever been in life, surrounded by folds of white satin lining, he reminded me of the hollow plastic dolls I used to push around in toy prams.

  For a whole day the neighbours came and went, visiting Connor’s body, bringing food for his family and keeping the kettle constantly on
the boil, despite it being a hot June day outside. I have a vague memory of one of the adults saying the heat could cause problems for the viewing, but when I asked what that meant nobody answered. I wanted to leave as soon as I saw the body and to this day I’m not sure what bothered me more: that I knew it wasn’t Connor, or that I felt like the only one who knew.

  I can’t count how many funerals I’ve been to since, but my nana’s was by far the hardest; my nana had always been a fat, sturdy mass of a woman – even her laugh was big – yet here she was, small enough to fit into a little box. I watched as my family touched her hands and kissed her forehead and whispered goodbyes into her ear, and I marvelled at the love they still seemed to feel for her dead body; not only could I not find love for it, I resented it, this thing that looked like her but wasn’t her. I could see it, touch it, even talk to it, but I wouldn’t be talking to her. It felt like a cruel joke.

  My nana had been ill for a long time and I found solace in the fact that she was no longer suffering, but on a purely selfish level I wished there was some relief from the pain I felt in losing her. My usual information-gathering instinct was useless in this case – no matter how much I learned about death, she’d still be gone and I’d still be grieving – and so, having rejected religion at a young age, I suddenly found myself wishing for the comfort blanket that is faith.

  I wanted to be able to blindly believe in something that might make me feel better, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it because I feel much the same about the Church as I do about dead bodies – that they can both provide consolation, but only if you’re willing to ignore some harsh truths. I find no more comfort from whispering in a dead person’s ear than I do from whispering to a made-up God in the dark. Though sometimes I envy the fools who can.

  Theo nods to let me know he’s done and I take him back to his seat while the remaining mourners say their farewells.

  It rains throughout the burial; thick, bulbous drops splash down on umbrellas and make mud of the soil. Afterwards the procession moves quickly to a small pub down the road, and I stop at the B&B next door to drop off our bags. A silver-haired woman shows me to a poky room at the top of the stairs, where the carpet, curtains, wallpaper and bedspread are all different shades of dusty pink. I make a vain attempt to dry my shoes with a whiny plastic hairdryer, and I spend the entire time wondering how many of these hairdryers were stolen over the years to warrant this one being attached to the wall by a too-short anti-theft cord. I give up and crawl onto the bed where I spend five glorious minutes lying on my back in complete silence.

  Eventually I squeeze back into my warm, damp shoes and head to the pub, where Theo’s family are crowded around wooden tables, sombrely sipping their drinks and speaking in hushed tones. Hardly any light makes it through the bottle-brown windows and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom inside. This is nothing like an Irish wake, I think, where at least there’d be some respite from the sorrow; my uncle’s funeral was a veritable hoot compared to this.

  Jocelyn is at the bar, ordering what is probably her third or fourth drink of the day, and Theo is engrossed in conversation with Darren. I spot Maya at a table by herself and make a beeline for her. She’s ordered me a bowl of vegetable soup and even though it’s tepid by now, I am incredibly moved by the gesture.

  ‘Hungry?’ she asks, as I guzzle it down.

  ‘Starving. Haven’t eaten today. Well, I had some chocolate …’

  ‘Chocolate isn’t food.’

  ‘It’s not not food,’ I say, and she rolls her eyes. Then she drops her chin into her palm and glares with a sour expression at the pub full of wrinkly white Conservatives.

  ‘I feel like I’m in Get Out,’ she says and I look around and laugh.

  ‘I’m surprised they don’t have a “No blacks, no dogs, no Irish” sign,’ I say.

  ‘Oh they did,’ replies Maya, deadpan. ‘I asked them to take it down before you got here.’

  ‘You’re a good friend.’

  I catch the attention of a waitress to order some drinks. Maya says she’s driving so I just get a glass of wine for myself.

  ‘Soup and wine?’ asks Maya.

  ‘Good point,’ I say, turning back to the waitress. ‘Can I also get some chips please? And a separate plate?’

  ‘What’s the extra plate for?’ asks Maya.

  ‘So I can douse my half in vinegar.’

  ‘I didn’t say I wanted any,’ she says indignantly, but I only have to look at her before she acquiesces and her face melts into a cheeky grin.

  Soon enough I’ve got chips and wine and time alone with Maya – I’ve even slipped my damp shoes off under the table – and I genuinely can’t remember the last time I felt so thoroughly content.

  ‘Dare I ask how you are?’

  ‘In this moment,’ I say, ‘I’m happier than I’ve ever been.’

  ‘And outside of this moment?’ asks Maya as she blows on a hot chip.

  ‘Not great.’

  Maya was the first person I called when I got back from Paris. I told her everything that had happened and while some details were sketchy because I was blackout drunk for the main event, the headlines were all there and I gave them to her as objectively as I could. She spent the first few days after I got home convincing me I’m not a monster and, once I believed this, she had to convince me that Theo wasn’t a monster either, since he still wasn’t talking to me. This is a prime example of my ability to think only in black and white, and it’s often Maya’s job to remind me that most things are actually interminable shades of grey. I haven’t spoken to her much this past week; I tell her I’ve been busy and even though she knows I’ve actually been wallowing, she doesn’t call me out on it.

  ‘How are you two now?’ she asks, and I can’t bring myself to tell her that Theo didn’t call me until last night; she might get angry with him or she might side with him, but either way I don’t want to hear it.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure what he wants.’

  ‘Fuck what he wants. What do you want?’

  ‘I want to talk. I want to fight, and cry, and spend days screaming at each other if we have to. Whatever it takes to sort this out and get back to being us.’

  ‘You want answers,’ she says.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You want certainty and stability and a return to the status quo.’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘Well,’ says Maya, ‘tough shit.’

  My mouth opens and snaps shut again.

  ‘A big thing happened,’ she goes on, ‘and it doesn’t matter who’s right or who’s wrong, this has changed things. They may never be the same again.’

  I can feel hot tears behind my eyes and I try to blink them away. Maya hands me a napkin before continuing.

  ‘That doesn’t mean things will be better,’ she says, ‘or worse. They’ll just be different. But you need to accept it will take time.’

  ‘And what am I supposed to do till then?’ I ask, like a petulant child. I hate the sound of my own voice right now.

  ‘Just be there,’ she says. ‘Unless you don’t want to be, of course. You can leave him tomorrow if you like, push the fuck-it button on the whole sodding relationship, and I’ll be there to pick up the pieces. But if you want to make things right, you’ve got to resist the urge to force a resolution. Stop poking and prodding him and just bloody be there.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, crossing my arms. Maya smiles at me.

  ‘His grandmother died,’ she says, pleadingly.

  ‘His grandmother was a cunt,’ I reply, not noticing the waitress leaning over me to collect our plates. Maya just about suppresses a smile but erupts as soon as the waitress turns her back.

  ‘Do you think she heard me?’ I ask earnestly, and Maya doubles over in another fit of giggles. Maya’s laughter is infectious and I can’t help but join in. One by one, heads turn in our direction; a sea of bushy grey eyebrows all furrowing at the pair of us laughing in the corner, and
all I can think to do is hand back the napkin Maya gave me, pat her on the shoulder and loudly announce that she’s very upset. Finally, Maya rights herself, wipes tears from her eyes and whispers, ‘She called me a negro once.’

  ‘She did NOT!’ I say, incredulous, and Maya just nods. With that, Darren joins us, sitting beside Maya and slipping an arm around her waist.

  ‘What are we talking about?’ he asks.

  ‘That time Augusta called me a negro,’ says Maya, and Darren laughs a dry, sarcastic laugh.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he says. Then, after a reflective pause, ‘May she rest in peace.’

  The three of us talk until it’s dark outside and the room is bathed in tungsten light, meandering our way through various topics of little to no real importance. Chatting to Maya and Darren is familiar and comfortable, like putting on a set of old pyjamas at the end of a long day.

  I notice that they seem especially loved up. Darren keeps nuzzling at Maya’s ear while she speaks and asking if she’s okay or if she needs anything. But despite Theo and I being distant at present (in every sense of the word), I’m not in the slightest bit jealous; if anything I’m glad of the reminder that relationships can be nice sometimes. I find myself scanning the room to check on Theo. He’s forever talking with some cousin or other, but I give him the odd smile and he responds in kind. At some point there’s a minor commotion at Jocelyn’s table – an altercation with the waitress, I think – but when I look over I see Eugenie’s got it under control.

  The waitress, who now seems a bit disgruntled, stops by to ask if we’d like more drinks. I order another glass of wine and ask Darren what he’s having. He says he can’t drink because he’s driving.

  ‘I thought you were driving,’ I say to Maya.

  ‘I am,’ she says, a bit flustered. ‘I mean, we both are.’

  ‘You’re both driving?’

  They both nod in unison.

  ‘We’re taking it in shifts,’ says Maya.

  ‘To drive back to London?’

  They nod again.

  I pretend that this is perfectly normal, order my wine, and turn back to Maya.