Out of Love

by Hazel Hayes

  ‘Right,’ she says, ‘good. That’s good.’

  She pauses a moment, as though deep in thought.

  ‘What if you thought you were a banana? Would that make you a banana?’

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘I would be a human who thinks she’s a banana.’

  ‘Okay, good to know,’ says Nadia, like I’ve just given her the answer to a puzzle that’s been bothering her for ages.

  ‘I’m not sure what the point is,’ I say, a little frustrated now.

  ‘Well, I’m just wondering, if your brain were to tell you all the time, rather loudly and emphatically, that you were a banana, would you be a banana then?’

  And suddenly it clicks, and I smile and say, ‘No. Because thinking something doesn’t make it real.’

  Nadia flashes me a playful smile. Her dimples reappear.

  ‘Exactly!’ she says. ‘So until next week, whatever your brain tells you – that you’re useless, that you’re broken, that you’re unfixable – just hear it, acknowledge it and try to let it pass. You are not broken just because your brain says so.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll try,’ I say, and she sees me out.

  I stand on the steps outside and I turn my face up to the sun for a moment. For the first time in a long time I feel calm.

  Nadia and I will work together for almost a year, by which time I’ll have discussed all this with Theo, and things will be going well with him. I’ll have my anxiety under control by then and I’ll be feeling much more positive about myself and my future. Nadia’s area of expertise is cognitive behavioural therapy and, being such a diligent student, I’ll take easily to this structured, scientific approach to bettering my mental health. Together we’ll regulate my emotions, rewire my thought patterns and practically put a stop to my panic attacks. Ostensibly, I will be better, but while CBT will help me function day to day and cope better with whatever life throws at me, it won’t address the past events that led to me being unwell in the first place. My anxiety and depression are actually symptoms of a much deeper issue, caused by a lifetime of trauma, but I won’t even begin to understand that until long after Theo and I have parted ways.

  One day, years from now, a therapist in London will diagnose me with borderline personality disorder, stemming from complex post-traumatic stress disorder. But for now, unfortunately, Nadia fails to figure all this out – partly because her training hasn’t prepared her for it and partly because psychiatry itself is still catching up with me and my plethora of problems.

  What I fail to figure out is that Theo has issues of his own, maybe not as severe as mine, but enough to make him unstable and ill-equipped to cope with life. We are both wounded in our own way and, like a pair of tectonic plates shifting over time, our wounds will gradually grate against one another’s, causing damage at a glacial pace. Neither one of us will notice until it’s too late.

  I leave this first session feeling hopeful, and blissfully unaware that Theo and I are playing with a losing hand.

  This Charming Man

  I arrive at Theo’s apartment at exactly 8 p.m., carrying a bottle of wine and the coat I borrowed from him last night. I actually got here fifteen minutes ago, but I’ve been sitting in my car, watching the snow falling and gearing myself up to go inside.

  I’m nervous, bordering on terrified. We only met yesterday and Theo’s already invited me over for dinner, which seemed exciting on the way here but now it seems insane. I haven’t been on a date in almost a decade. Is this a date? I think it’s a date. I’ve shaved my legs and I’m wearing red lipstick and a pretty dress, so it must be a date. But I’m not ready to date! What am I doing? I’ll just give Theo the coat and go, I decide, but then he opens the door, takes one look at me, and a big, adorable grin spreads instantly across his face.

  ‘My coat!’

  ‘Your coat,’ I say, handing it to him.

  ‘And I suppose it’s nice to see you too,’ says Theo, with a wry smile.

  He’s wearing jeans and a white shirt, with the top two buttons open. His dark blonde hair falls in cute little waves around his face and his brown eyes are practically sparkling at me. I need to get out of here.

  ‘Listen,’ I say, and I’m about to explain that he’s very lovely but I’m not ready for any of this, when I’m cut off by a deafeningly loud alarm coming from inside his apartment.

  ‘Shit,’ says Theo, and he rushes off down the hallway.

  Unsure what to do at first, I eventually follow the sound to the kitchen, where I find Theo desperately trying to turn off the grill. Above him, on the ceiling, a smoke alarm is wailing incessantly.

  ‘Where are your towels?’ I shout. Theo is clambering over the dining table to open a window but manages to point to a tea towel by the sink. I grab it and climb up on the counter to waft fresh air around the alarm. After thirty seconds of frantic fanning, the screeching stops and blissful silence is restored. I look down from where I’m kneeling on Theo’s kitchen counter and I see what he’s just rescued from the grill – a tray of fat, crispy sausages. There’s a pot of onion gravy bubbling on the hob too, next to a much larger pot of thick, creamy mash.

  ‘Holy shit, that looks amazing!’

  Theo told me he was making mash, but given he’s a twenty-three-year-old man, I was expecting the dry, lumpy student equivalent.

  ‘You weren’t joking about the mash,’ I say.

  Theo looks up at me, deadpan, and says, ‘I never joke about potatoes.’

  My laughter quickly dissipates when I become aware of my predicament; perched on his counter in a rather short dress with no obvious way to get down. He notices me considering my options and steps in to help.

  ‘If you could just, sort of, not look,’ I say, tugging at the hem of my skirt with one hand and leaning on his shoulder with the other. Theo turns his face away, but laughs at my utterly ungraceful attempt to climb down, which ends up with me stepping on one of his feet and landing with a thump against his chest.

  ‘Whoa,’ he says, catching me by the waist before I can fall any further.

  It’s in these moments that I wish I were one of those waifish little Thumbelina types – the kind that men can just pick up and pop back down wherever they like. Alas, I am five foot eight with gangly limbs and a penchant for clumsiness.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, still pressed up against him. ‘You can let go now.’

  ‘I know,’ he says, smiling down at me. I smile back in spite of myself and we stay this way a moment longer, his face just inches away from mine, before he steps away and returns to the food.

  ‘Wine?’ he asks, over his shoulder.

  ‘None for me, thanks. I have to drive home.’

  ‘Sorry. Of course,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to assume …’

  His cheeks flush red. This only adds to his charm.

  ‘No problem. Can I help you with anything?’ I ask.

  ‘No, no. Please, sit down, it’ll be ready in a sec.’

  *

  We eat at the table by the window, which Theo promptly closes when an icy wind picks up outside. He’s put jazzy Christmas music on and lit some candles. This is definitely a date.

  Theo’s apartment is simple but cosy – one bedroom, one bathroom and a small living room with a kitchen at one end. It’s a bog-standard box with magnolia walls, but he’s clearly made an effort to make this space his own; there are framed posters of movies and musicians he likes, and shelves full of well-trodden books, and in the kitchen pots of fresh herbs grow in neat rows along the window ledge.

  ‘What were you about to say earlier?’ asks Theo as we tuck into our food.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Before the alarm went off, I thought you were about to tell me something.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, through a mouthful of mash, ‘I was about to tell you that you’re very nice but I’m not ready for this. And then I was going to run away.’

  ‘Right,’ says Theo, his expression unchanging. ‘So why didn’t you?’

  ‘Well, you mad
e me bangers and mash, for a start.’

  ‘Fair,’ he says, ‘I appreciate your honesty.’

  ‘Also, I like you.’

  Theo tries and fails to conceal a smile.

  ‘But …’ I continue, ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘Of bangers and mash?’ he asks. I laugh and roll my eyes at his awful joke.

  ‘Of dating.’

  ‘Dating!’ says Theo, in mock horror. ‘Who said anything about dating?’

  I just stare back at him with a look that says, Come on.

  ‘All right,’ he says, suddenly sincere, ‘I get it.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Sure. I mean, from what you said about your ex last night, he sounds like a real wanker.’

  ‘Oh God,’ I say, mortified by the memory of drunkenly ranting at Theo about how all men are essentially trash. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ he says, ‘and I get why you’d be scared to date again after that. So, we don’t have to date, if you don’t want to.’

  I’m not sure what to say. I do want to date him. The thought of it just fills me with paralysing dread.

  ‘And as much as I’d like to kiss you right now,’ he adds, casually, ‘we don’t have to do that either. In fact, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I’m fairly certain that’s how that works.’

  I giggle at this and he smiles reassuringly.

  ‘Just so it’s abundantly clear,’ he says, ‘it really would be great if you ever did want to kiss me too. But until then, there’s no pressure. We can just be mates.’

  I let out an involuntary shriek of laughter.

  ‘We can’t be mates!’

  ‘We bloody well can!’ Theo sounds suddenly very defiant and very English. ‘If that’s what it takes to keep spending time with you. I’ll be the best goddamn mate you’ve ever had!’

  I regard him for a few seconds, still laughing a little, then I offer him my hand across the table.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, and he shakes my hand.

  ‘Okay then.’

  This whole time the TV has been on silently in the background. Neither of us were paying attention to it before, but now I notice a severe weather warning on the nine o’clock news.

  ‘Oh shit, turn it up,’ I say, and Theo goes to find the remote. Some poor reporter is stood in the middle of a blizzard, clutching a microphone with both hands and screaming over the sound of the storm. She’s urging people across the country to stay indoors and avoid unnecessary journeys.

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘we’d best open that bottle of wine.’

  We decide to watch Star Wars and wait it out, but the weather keeps getting worse. By 3 a.m. we’ve watched A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back. We’ve just begun Return of the Jedi when we both pass out on the sofa.

  I wake up with my legs on Theo’s lap and his hands resting on my feet. I can hear the wind howling outside as it smacks fat flakes of snow against the window. I check the weather update – the DART is down, as are most bus routes, and the roads have all been deemed treacherous. I get up and put the kettle on, then go to the bathroom and try to salvage what’s left of last night’s makeup.

  When Theo finally stirs, I hand him a cup of tea and give him the weather report.

  ‘Oh no,’ he mumbles, sleepily, ‘I guess you’ll have to stay here a bit longer.’

  ‘Guess so,’ I say, settling back onto the sofa.

  ‘What happened in the end of that movie last night?’ asks Theo. ‘I fell asleep.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘the Space Bears all turn to the Dark Side and destroy the rebellion. It’s pretty bleak, actually.’

  ‘Wow, I did not see that coming.’

  Theo notices me trying to get comfy in my too-short, too-tight dress.

  ‘Would you like to borrow some clothes?’ he asks.

  ‘Christ yes!’

  He finds me some pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt to wear, then he pulls a pile of dusty board games off the shelf and we spend the day playing slightly less boring variations of them. These include a version of Monopoly where the objective is to go bankrupt – easier said than done – and several rounds of Rude Scrabble, featuring such semi-offensive gems as ‘tosspot’, ‘wankstain’ and ‘arsebadger’. I’m particularly delighted when I manage to turn ‘fuck’ into ‘fucketybye’, picking up a triple word score and winning the game in the process.

  It’s still too wild outside to walk to a shop, so in the evening Theo throws together some pasta, tomatoes, mozzarella and fresh basil he just had in his kitchen. It’s one of the tastiest meals I’ve ever had, and we eat it curled up on the sofa with another bottle of wine.

  ‘Why the hell aren’t you a chef?’ I ask him, having practically licked my plate clean.

  Theo laughs modestly.

  ‘And give up the dizzying heights of accountancy? Are you crazy?’

  He’s joking but there’s an undertone of sadness.

  ‘Did you always want to be an accountant?’ I ask.

  ‘No. My mother wanted me to be an accountant.’ Then he smiles. ‘I wanted to be a rugby player.’

  ‘Oh? What happened?’

  ‘She’s very persuasive,’ he says. ‘Also, I’m not very good at rugby.’

  Another almost-joke tinged with resentment. I decide not to push it.

  ‘I wanted to be an astronaut,’ I offer, ‘but I can’t do maths and I get sick on rollercoasters.’

  Theo laughs.

  ‘So you became a writer instead.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say I’m a writer,’ I say. ‘I just take writing classes and fabricate reviews for a travel magazine.’

  ‘You write. Therefore you’re a writer. And you’ve had some stories published, haven’t you?’

  I can feel my eyes widen.

  ‘You’ve read those?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, a little bashfully, ‘they’re really good. I mean, I liked them. For what it’s worth.’

  ‘That’s worth a lot, thank you.’

  I feel an overwhelming urge to touch his leg and I’m about to reach out when he stands up and starts collecting the dishes.

  I follow Theo to the kitchen and insist on washing up, since he did all the cooking. After I’m done, I find him in his bedroom, tidying up. There’s a record player belting out music in the corner and I stand in the doorway, watching him and listening to a song I half know but can’t quite place. Theo’s bedroom, like the living room, feels very him. He’s got posters on every wall, and an impressive record collection for someone living here temporarily. One wardrobe door is covered from top to bottom in Polaroid pictures of people who I presume are Theo’s friends and family. He doesn’t feature in the photos, I suppose because he took them all.

  ‘Thought you might like to sleep in a fresh bed tonight,’ says Theo when he spots me in the doorway. He’s just started to change the sheets from a stripy blue set to ones with big green, red and black discs on. They’re unusual-looking but they suit the room.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Sorry to put you out again though.’

  He shrugs it off as I nod towards the record player.

  ‘Who’s this?’ I ask.

  ‘Jeff Buckley.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  Theo looks genuinely affronted.

  ‘Jeff Buckley,’ he repeats, like this might jog my memory. ‘He was only the most iconic musician of the twentieth century.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘He died,’ explains Theo, ‘before he could finish his second album. So, he only made one complete studio album.’

  ‘Is this it?’ I ask.

  ‘No, this is a collection of his live sessions.’

  Theo puts down the sheets and hands me the record sleeve. I read the title out loud: ‘Live at Sin-é.’

  ‘That’s that,’ I say.

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘Sin-é,’ I say, ‘It’s Irish for that’s that.’

  ‘Huh,’ says Theo, smirking to himself as I hand the sleeve back. �
��All this time I never knew that.’

  ‘Are you a big fan then?’

  Theo points to a framed poster above his bed, a sepia-toned print of a very forlorn-looking man in a white t-shirt. I assume this is Jeff, with his long, drawn face and perfectly unkempt hair. He reminds me of Theo actually.

  ‘I’ll bet you have heard of him,’ says Theo, as he sits cross-legged next to the record player. He changes the record with delicate precision and carefully lowers the needle onto a particular groove. I hear a crackle first, and then a quick intake of breath, before the first few bars of ‘Hallelujah’ come floating into the room.

  ‘I know this one,’ I exclaim, sitting down on the half-made bed. Theo smiles up at me.

  ‘I knew you would.’

  Halfway through the song I lie down on my back and stare up at the ceiling. Theo lies next to me, propping his head up on one elbow.

  ‘He didn’t write this song,’ he says, ‘Leonard Cohen did. But it’s one of those rare cases where the cover is better than the original.’

  ‘Like when the sequel is better than the first film?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, smiling down at me.

  ‘We are officially a cliché,’ I laugh.

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘Little bit,’ I say. ‘Lying here listening to pretentious vinyls. At at least it’s not The Smiths. Then we’d be just like every rom-com couple.’

  I flinch at my use of the word couple and hope Theo didn’t notice.

  ‘Like in Five Hundred Days,’ I go on, trying to fill the silence.

  ‘I haven’t seen it.’

  My jaw literally drops.

  ‘All right,’ I say, taking his hand in mine and dragging him to the living room. I plonk him on the sofa and find 500 Days of Summer online and we watch the whole film in silence, except for the fantasy-versus-reality sequence, at the end of which Theo shouts, ‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ and I look over at him and smile.

  ‘Well,’ he declares when it’s over, ‘Summer’s a bitch.’

  I laugh.

  ‘Everyone thinks that at first, but the more you watch it, the more you realise that Tom is in the wrong.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Theo. ‘It’s like how I used to watch Die Hard and think John McClane was the hero, but now I feel like maybe the terrorists had a point.’