Love Is Usually Where You Left It

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Love Is Usually Where You Left It Page 11

by Gary Locke


  She poured the boiling water into the cup and wearily walked the three steps to the fridge to get the milk. She opened the door inevitably knocking off all the things held on by the magnets and, as the cool air gently caressed her face, she stared inside like a moth mesmerised by the bright light at the back of the top shelf. After several seconds of numb staring she realised that something was wrong: there was no milk in there. She snapped out of her almost trance-like state and walked over to the bread bin and removed the lid. It was empty: there was no bread.

  “CLIIIIIIIVVVE!” she shouted at the top of her voice.

  Clive entered the kitchen holding the business card that he had been looking at when Gayle had arrived home. She’d assumed it was something that the estate agent had left behind in the morning and was going to ask him about it – after she’d made her coffee. It was weird that he was still looking at it.

  “Where’s the bread and milk?” she asked, her voice having calmed down to something close to its normal volume.

  “Oh shit!” said Clive, confirming Gayle’s worst fears that he hadn’t got any.

  “For God’s sake!” she said. “I ask you to do one little thing but I suppose you were too busy getting pissed. Should’ve known you’d be unable to do more than one thing!”

  Clive could see the disappointment on Gayle’s face, a look he had caused way too often.

  “God, I can smell the booze on you from here. Could you not have just taken five minutes to get some bread and milk? We’ve got none of either..... what am I going to put on Jacks cornflakes in the morning?”

  Gayle processed the words she had just spoken and tears began to swell from her eyes immediately. She wouldn’t be making Jack his breakfast the next morning, or any other morning, because he was no longer there.

  It made her feel so alone.

  She reached for the kitchen surface as she arched her head and shoulders forward as if unable to hold them up anymore. She couldn’t, and didn’t want to, stop the tears from flowing and the loud sobbing that accompanied them.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone!” she tried to say through her heavy breathing and blubbering.

  Clive stepped across to her and put his arms around her. He wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words he needed. Gayle carried on crying and kept her left arm down by her side; she certainly didn’t want to hold Clive back. She had defended him once more today, but why? He had, again, put his own interests before doing the one small thing that she had asked of him. It crossed her mind to tell him about the date she had arranged with Lee; to let him know that she was moving on with her life. She didn’t though; instead she couldn’t help her mind reverting back to its original thought: Jack had gone. Her baby was all grown up and he had flown the nest.

  Clive held his arms around Gayle as her body shuddered in mini crying spasms. He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to hold him back. As he looked down towards the floor he noticed Gayle’s left hand and could see that she wasn’t wearing her rings. He didn’t say anything but, if he hadn’t realised before, he certainly knew now that, as per those sandwich board messages he was thinking about earlier, the end is nigh.

  Yep, late is the hour.

  He couldn’t stop that part of a quote from Lord of the Rings forming into its full sentence in his mind: Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear. But it made him realise something. Much like it was when Gandalf did appear in The Two Towers, the current situation appeared hopeless, and yet all was not lost. Gandalf was able to rescue the situation and Clive’s visit with Jeremy at Love Is… was his attempt to do the same.

  Clive grabbed hold of Gayle’s, ring-less, hand.

  “Come with me” he said, before leading her, reluctantly, into the front room. “Sit down.”

  She sat on the sofa, still crying, and looked at Clive who stood in front of her looking like he was desperately thinking of how to say something.

  “I haven’t been drinking today.” He said finally, after kneeling in front of her and looking into her eyes.

  “Knobhead let me down..... again; like he always does. In fact, apart from Sue, the only person who has never let me down is you. But I’ve let you down. Time and time and time again. I’ve let us both down. I didn’t fight for you; for us, when I needed to. If I had, then things wouldn’t have got to this. I never faced the fact that things were really ever going to get to this point. I always thought that things would be ok; that they would just sort themselves out. I always looked away instead of facing things the way I should have. This is all my fault.”

  As he blinked his eye lids quickly, unable to stop the escaping of liquid from his own eyes, Gayle took a deep breath. Was it really all Clive’s fault? Could she really let him take all the blame?

  “I forgot the bread and milk because I got side tracked” Clive continued. “You are right; I can’t focus on more than one thing at once.”

  Clive wondered whether he should tell Gayle that, before he was side tracked by Jeremy, he had planned to buy her some flowers. This would make her happier, wouldn’t it? Seeing as it’s the thought that counts? Of course he decided not to tell her. No one believes any of that “it’s the thought that counts” shit!

  Instead, he passed the card that he was holding over to Gayle. She wiped her eyes and focussed on the writing at the top. LOVE IS … RELATIONSHIP SPECIALISTS.

  “That’s where I’ve been today. That’s why I forgot the bread and milk. I met a..... fairly strange man named Jeremy who says he can “re-find” our love for us. I know late is the hour but I want us to try and do this. I don’t know if it’s too late but this is my way of trying to fight for you; to fight for us.”

  For the next half an hour Clive told Gayle all about Jeremy (and his weird dressing up, impersonating other people and fake accents) and Love Is… and the deal he had made for the upcoming weekend. More than anything in the world he wanted them to try this. Gayle was completely taken by surprise by it all and, although she did feel that it was too little, (much) too late, she agreed that one weekend of their time was not too much to give up after all their years together and all the things they had gone through.

  Clive then went out for the bread and milk he’d forgotten earlier and headed off to bed for an early night. He had to be up for work at 4.30 a.m. and said he wanted to be fresh for the busy weekend that they both now had ahead of them. Gayle spent what remained of the evening wondering what she had let herself in for. For starters she had the “pleasure” of an early morning visit from the, very strange, Jeremy that Clive had described to her in worrying detail. She had no idea what this “Love is” interview, and the weekend as a whole, would have in store but, the more she thought about it, the more she was apprehensive. It felt like nothing more than a gimmick; an easy way for this Jeremy to make money rather than a real solution for rescuing doomed relationships. And the more she thought, the more Gayle felt pretty low about it; and pretty low about life in general.

  Around 11 p.m. she decided she would have one more cup of coffee, which would definitely be enough to make her think about the history of her full life instead of sleeping, before heading for bed herself. She also knew that, while she drank it, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself thinking about some of the other “low points” that she’d experienced over the last few years.

  Chapter Fifteen: Thanks, But No Thanks! (16 Years Ago)

  Clive let out a deep sigh as he put the letter he had been staring at for the last five minutes on top of the other letters in the small shoe box on the coffee table. He put the shoe box lid on and closed his eyes. Come on, he thought, out of sight, out of mind.

  It was a rejection letter advising that his art scholarship grant application to the Open Art Foundation had “regretfully” been “rejected”. He had been “thanked” for sending in his work (the new art portfolio he had slaved over for the best part of a year, most afternoons whilst Gayle had been at work) and was “wished every success in the future”. It re
presented the final response of the twenty four letters he had sent out to education councils, design firms and animation studios, that he hoped would open a door into a new world for him. The other twenty three responses were already in the shoe box and offered much the same “thanks, but no thanks” kind of sentiments.

  He looked over at Jack who was still sleeping on the sofa, his red blanket covering everything but his face and keeping him snug and warm. He had been somewhat under the weather for a few days now. Assured by the doctor that it was nothing more than a seasonal virus (“a lot of it going around” apparently) Jack had slipped into a routine of sleepless nights and daily snoozes on the sofa, punctuated by doses of strawberry paracetamol and orange ibuprofen, as often as the dosage instructions allowed.

  He looked so peaceful, comfortable and settled; unlike Clive who felt so anxious, troubled and so empty. He had always been of the belief that you have never, ever failed anything until you give up; until then you are still just trying. But he felt like he had tried to chase this “art dream” of his for long enough. It felt like it had passed him by; like it was nothing more than a fragile dream that had now been shattered into a million pieces. It felt like it was time to admit defeat and give up.

  Clive picked up the shoe box and took it into the kitchen. He put it back into the tall cupboard, on the shelf above the potatoes, where Gayle couldn’t see it. He had kept the fact that he was creating and submitting work hidden from her; probably for two reasons.

  One, he wanted to be able to surprise her when he got his big break – she would be so proud of him.

  And two, he didn’t want her to have to see any rejections that he received – he didn’t want her to see him failing again and again.

  Clive walked back into the living room and sat down gently on the edge of the sofa by Jack. He reached out and tenderly placed his hand on his little boys’ forehead while at the same time checking his watch. His temperature felt ok at the moment and, if he did wake up soon feeling unwell, then it had been over four hours since his last dose of medicine.

  He smiled as he gazed at Jacks angelic face. At least there was one thing that was going right in his and Gayle’s life. They had a beautiful little boy and were able to provide a roof over his head, and food in his mouth; and medicine when he needed it. And that little boy had a Mum and Dad who loved him more than anything in the world, and would do anything for him.

  Clive looked out of the window and checked his watch again, which funnily enough told him the same time as it had two seconds ago. Where was Gayle? He had been expecting her back well before now. He just hoped that she would be bringing better news with her.

  Just as he thought about this he heard a key in the front door. He instinctively looked up and saw the car was actually outside on the road; he just hadn’t seen it pull up from where he had been sitting on the sofa. Gayle was home.

  Clive stood in the middle of the room feeling even more anxious than he had before. He could hear his wife closing the front door and then hanging her coat up and removing her shoes; but it was all happening much more slowly than it usually did. Finally the living room door opened and Gayle walked in.

  Clive didn’t need to ask. Her face was red and blotchy and her hair was slightly sticking out of the neat up-do that she’d taken so long over “getting right” in the morning.

  “How is he?” she said, walking over to Jack and, now, placing her hand on his forehead.

  “He’s ok.” Said Clive. “He’s been asleep for a good hour and a half or so.”

  Gayle gently stroked Jacks cheek for a few seconds before tucking his blanket even further under him around the edges.

  She took a deep breath before standing up and looking at Clive for the first time since she had entered the room.

  “The job wasn’t even for a label liaison; it was just a secretary role.” She said, her voice quiet and quivery “Answering the phone, typing, filing, getting tea and coffee..... and the best bit? They said I wasn’t qualified enough for it!”

  She couldn’t hold her eye contact with Clive as more tears began to form, and she started to stare out of the window as she continued her hushed talking.

  “And there was no sign of Daddy Dearest not before the interview anyway. He was there after though, oh yeah. He was there to make sure that he told me that he had never been more embarrassed by me. Apparently he didn’t know I didn’t have Maths and English GCSE’s. If he did then he would never have got the interview for me. He said I should just stick to what I’m best at..... having a baby. He never even asked about Jack ..... or you! He just made me feel about one centimetre tall and then left…..”

  She continued to stare out of the window, the tears now streaming as fast as they had been when she had been driving home. She was not sure what she was most upset about. It could be that she had allowed herself to believe that maybe she did have a shot at landing a job that was somewhere close to her dream, or it could just as easily be the final words that her father had said to her; the words that she didn’t want to repeat to Clive.

  “You should just be thankful that you’ve got a job, because I have no idea how you ever actually got it. I suppose you must have worn a short skirt and flashed your eyelashes a lot!”

  She was pretty sure that not every girl in the world was lucky enough to have her own father make her feel almost like a prostitute.

  “I wish you’d never talked me into contacting him” said Gayle, weakly through her tears. “I never want to see him again..... not ever again.”

  Clive huffed a little.

  He knew somehow Gayle would turn this into being his fault. He was only trying to help; offer some small chance of her going for something that she really wanted to do. For most people who end up in these dream jobs, they seem to get their foot on the ladder because of who they know rather that what they know. He thought that Gayle’s Dad might be one of those “who you know” types for her; he had no idea that he would still be the same twat that Gayle had always described him as.

  As he thought, Clive stared at his wife who was slowly shaking as she continued to stare out of the window, still sobbing. He had never seen her looking so fragile and so broken. He realised that he had no idea how to “fix” her; or even how to make her feel any better. He wanted to hold her tight and tell her everything would be alright, but couldn’t help but think that she looked so delicate that he might break her even more. He had no idea how to even hold her properly anymore; something that had been the case ever since the incident with the loan shark.

  Gayle looked out of the window, focussing on nothing in particular other than the water that she couldn’t stop flowing into her eyes. Why wasn’t Clive holding her? He used to be able to make everything feel like it would be ok just by holding her in his arms. She felt like she needed him more than ever, right now, so why was he just standing there, doing nothing? She took a deep breath. Even though her Dad had made her feel like she was nothing, at least she had tried. It was more than Clive ever did. He was so good at art and always spoke about trying to do something with it, but it was just talk: he had never got around to actually giving it a go.

  Clive licked his dry lips and prepared himself to say something to try and make Gayle feel better. He needed to tell her that she didn’t need to take any notice of her Dad; he was just a loser and had always been a loser. Any father who hadn’t taken the time to have such a wonderful daughter in his life was just a complete tosser, and she never had to see him ever again. She didn’t need him anyway. She had a family of her own. They had a beautiful baby boy and had provided a house and a home for him. It wasn’t perfect, but the three of them had one another. And she had Clive, who would always be there for her, because it would always be Me and You vs. the World; just as they had promised each other.

  These words that he needed to say all jumbled up in his mind and he couldn’t put them in any kind of logical order to force them out of his mouth.

  “I’ll go and put the kettle
on.” was the best he could find right now. He would work on how best to say everything else later.

  Clive walked off towards the kitchen, hoping that the kettle would take so long to boil that he may have come up with the answers to everything, or that all their problems would be forgotten about, by the time that it had.

  Gayle continued staring out of the window.....

  Chapter Sixteen: The Academy.

  Clive’s alarm began to sound, pulling him out of one of those dreams that he felt like he was enjoying but would probably never be able to precisely remember what it was about. He contented himself that it was probably about happier times; times that, unfortunately, seemed like they were long ago now. At least it wasn’t one of those other types of dreams that he often had; ones that seemed to focus on him being in an aeroplane crash, wetting himself in front of lots of people, having all his teeth falling out or being in an exam that he was hideously unprepared for. What were those dreams all about? Although he accepted that dreams of under-revised exams could also be technically classed as “memories”. (And, unfortunately, the “wetting himself” ones also.)

  He reached for his phone and, although tempted to switch it to snooze (for the next three hours or so), turned the alarm off. Even after all these years of getting up at 4.30 a.m. Clive still found it difficult; especially on a Saturday. The only thing that had changed over time was that, instead of wanting to throw the clock radio alarm against the wall, he now wanted to throw his phone against the wall. But it was an expensive smart phone and the house insurance company would probably wheedle out of any claim expressing that somewhere in their (never ending) small print it says that they do not cover items damaged in a fit of early morning don’t-want-to-get-up rage.

 

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