by Hayley Doyle
Si folds his arms and purses his lips, making them so thin they disappear.
‘Whatever. Forget it,’ he sulks. ‘Thanks for the tickets, Chloe. I mean ticket. Singular.’
Well, he’s made me feel awful. And perhaps that was his intention, because I tell him fine, fine, fine, I’ll go with him to see Mamma bloody Mia! And he breaks out into a bouncy routine – something which I expect is along the lines of what I’ll witness on stage tonight – and tells me he knew I wouldn’t let him down. Which is kind, if inaccurate. I’d had every intention of letting him down. I wanted to stay in tonight, terrified that tomorrow might be the day a member of the Carmichael family shows up and boots me out. You see, it’s been two weeks since the funeral. I’m floating through each day, waiting for something to happen; wanting nothing to happen. I just want to stay in the flat and imagine Jack’s just late home from work.
I arrive at the theatre ten minutes before showtime, still in my school clothes: a maxidress and baggy cardigan. I haven’t seen a West End show for years, something I used to get as an annual birthday treat, with a hotel deal and open-top bus tour of London. Now I live here, I’m already taking it for granted.
‘This is my fourth time,’ Si tells me, brimming with pride, as we bustle through the busy foyer, up the lavish staircase towards the dress circle. ‘Thank you, again.’
‘You’ve seen Mamma Mia! four times?’
‘It’s ALL about the second half,’ he says, giddy. ‘Well, the second half of the second half. But I won’t spoil it for you. Unless you’ve seen the film?’
‘No, haven’t seen either,’ I say, settling into my seat, miffed at how Si has completely undersold the majority of what I’m about to endure.
The overture kicks in, almost knocking me out with its powerful beat. It’s so dynamic, so alive that my eyes water. I get that old tingle from my youth, the smell of the greasepaint, and I’m not even on stage. I calm down once the acting begins: it’s upbeat and perky, and I don’t pay much attention to what’s going on. I just revel in the dark at not having to speak.
During the interval, Si buys himself an overpriced bag of Minstrels and asks if I fancy a wine. I decline and sip a plastic glass of free tap water from the end of the bar: my period hasn’t made an appearance yet. He bops over to me, loving every second of being here. I miss having that abundance of enthusiasm: I’m here merely to pass time, to continue breathing, to keep going.
‘What’s your favourite bit so far?’ he asks. ‘Mine had to be “Dancing Queen”. You?’
‘Same.’
‘So, did you ever see yourself up there, treading the boards?’
‘Didn’t we all?’
‘Not everybody, surely?’
‘Ah, come on, Si. It’s a pretty common dream to be a star,’ I say, realising that I’m behaving like a right bitch, raining on his parade – no theatrical pun intended. I soften my tone. ‘I loved it as a kid. I used to dance in the local pantomime every Christmas. One year I even got a speaking role, but I fucked it up.’
‘No!’
‘Yep. You know when Cinderella shows up to the ball and nobody knows who she is?’
‘Incognito. The best part, of course. Go on …’
‘Well, it was my line to introduce her as a mysterious princess from a faraway land, and as I opened me mouth, I somehow – well – breathed wrong.’
Si chokes on a Minstrel. ‘How do you breathe wrong?!’
‘I dunno! I kind of breathed in when I should’ve breathed out – or the other way round – and ended up coughing uncontrollably. Some other kid jumped in like a trouper and said me line for me, but it was drowned out by the fit I was having. Seriously, Si, I sounded like I was on me last legs. The show couldn’t continue until I stopped.’
‘I can’t bear it!’ Si shrieks, and covers his face with the Minstrels bag. ‘I can’t even look at you! This is mortifying.’
‘I know, right? So there you have it. My glittering career as an actress. I joined the youth theatre in the backstage department once I was old enough. I used to paint the sets, did a bit of wardrobe.’
‘Ooh, I can totally see you as a wardrobe mistress.’
‘Ha, well. When the girl playing Elizabeth Proctor fell ill the night before we opened The Crucible, I knew exactly who’d fit into her costume.’
‘You?’
‘Yep. Easy as that, I was back in the game.’
Si gives a neat round of applause. ‘And were you marvellous?’
‘Nah. I was a total flop. And so what? I just liked the whole world of it, you know. That feeling of being part of a big, weird family. On the stage, off the stage, the after-show parties—’
‘Oh, I loooove an after-show.’
‘That’s probably where I was going wrong. I preferred that to putting in the graft. I ended up doing a piss-poor drama degree at a poly nobody’s ever heard of; but God, we had a good laugh. Used to put on terrible sketch shows in the student union – we thought we were hilarious. Loads of Blair jokes.’
‘Cringe!’
Over the tannoy, we’re instructed to take our seats as the performance will recommence in three minutes. I’m a little lightheaded from talking so freely about something that’s nothing to do with Jack or my life with him. A shard of guilt stabs me and I grab onto the bar, willing that freedom to return. But no. It’s gone. I should be here with Jack, not Si.
‘Chloe?’ Si asks, clearly wondering why I’m not following him into the dress circle.
‘Sorry. Coming.’
Settling back in our seats, I just want the second half to start. Now.
‘Chloe, can I ask you something?’
I want to say no.
‘Just something that’s been playing on my mind this evening,’ he goes on.
I look at him, waiting.
‘Why didn’t you want to come tonight? Is it because I’m a bit of a – well, er – a dweeb?’
‘A dweeb?’ I laugh, taken by surprise. ‘What is this? Grease?’
‘It’s just you really, really didn’t wanna come, and—’
‘Me boyfriend died. Recently. This is me first trip to the theatre without him.’
Si grabs me and hugs me tight. I don’t reciprocate because of his haste, and I let him hold me as if I’m a wooden plank. He releases me as quickly as he grabbed me and apologises for being unprofessional.
‘It’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘We’re not at work now.’
‘Did you both go to the theatre often?’ he asks, tentative.
I shake my head. ‘Just the once. It’s how we met. At the opening night of a new musical in Liverpool. A friend of mine was playing one of the leads.’
‘Oh, marvellous. What musical?’
My face scrunches up as I admit, ‘The Book of Brexit.’
For a second, I think Si is going to vomit.
‘I heard that was atrocious,’ he says.
‘It was.’
The chatter surrounding us is quite loud, the audience having enjoyed a swift drink or two at the bar, now eager for the second half to begin. A group of women sitting behind us have started singing the title song, each making up their own version of the words and the tune. Si unsubtly sticks a finger in his ear and scratches until it squeaks, making me chuckle.
‘Chloe,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. I wish I’d known.’
‘Please, it’s fine.’
‘No, it’s not. I never would’ve guilt-tripped you into coming. The firsts are the worst.’
‘The what?’
‘The firsts.’
I’m lost.
‘My dad passed away two years ago,’ he says, edging closer to me so he can lower his voice. ‘After the funeral, that’s when it began. The firsts. The first birthdays we’d all have to celebrate without him; the first Christmas; the first flipping Wimbledon. And sometimes you’re just not ready to face them, and nobody should force you. We ignored Christmas that first year.’
An almighty bang of drums
throws us upright in our seats and the band blasts the audience with the entr’acte as our attention is thrust towards the stage. I listen to the mashup of Abba songs half-heartedly, waiting for the curtain to rise, thinking about what Si has just told me. The firsts. Jack and I never got the chance to make enough memories to warrant a whole year of firsts. We never made it to my birthday. Is this a good thing? Because it sure doesn’t feel good. When Mamma Mia! finishes tonight and I tick the theatre box, what’s next? A restaurant? A holiday? Fuck me, I’ve already done the first pub and the first overnight stay, both with Beth last Friday. And I’ve been to the Sainsbury’s Local without him almost every other day. What happens when I’ve completed all the firsts? Am I forced to move on? Like an expired parking ticket?
I rest my hand on my belly.
Yesterday, in the Sainsbury’s Local, I stared at the home pregnancy tests on the shelf. All I had to do was take one. But I reached left, added a tube of toothpaste to my basket instead. It’s always good to have extra toothpaste. And it won’t give a negative result.
Don’t be over. Please, please. Don’t.
I’m sucked into the performance. The mother, the daughter. Si was right. It’s all about the second half, and I listen to the songs and the words and the winner taking it all, the loser having to fall, and oh, I sob. I’m not alone, of course. Tears stream down Si’s pointed little face. When the happy ending inevitably comes, the whole audience jump to their feet to boogie to ‘Waterloo’ and it unnerves me. I preferred wallowing in my safe, dark haven, but Si won’t let me get away with it and I’m yanked up, pressured into dancing like a middle-aged woman around her handbag. I even sing along, shocked that I know the bloody words.
‘Thanks again, Chloe,’ Si says as we follow the exit signs along with hundreds of others, many of whom are still singing Abba songs. ‘You could’ve ripped up these tickets and who could blame you?’
‘No, thank you. It was a good “first”. I have to admit I enjoyed it. And Jack, well – he would’ve hated it.’
Si beams.
‘Well done, you,’ he says.
We edge towards the street, stuck between a hen party and a group of Japanese tourists.
‘We’ve talked a lot about me tonight,’ I say, ‘but I’m intrigued. What’s going on between you and Mr Belling? Drew?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Doesn’t sound like nothing.’
‘He thinks I’m gay.’
‘Oh.’ I’m stumped. And embarrassed for presuming.
‘And, I’m not.’ Si folds his arms, his lips disappearing into his mouth again. ‘And I’m not straight, either. I don’t know what I am, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I tell him, gently. ‘That’s totally okay, Si.’
‘Is it?’
We stand there as the crowds disperse into old pubs and late-night coffee shops, or hop aboard rickshaws heading across the West End. I don’t know if I should return the hug Si gave me before the second half began; whether we’ve crossed the line from being colleagues to mates. But he’s started to unravel his headphones and places them into his ears.
‘Got the soundtrack all ready for my tube ride,’ he grins, although a little awkwardly.
‘You’re going to listen to Mamma Mia! now?’ I laugh.
‘Nobody’s gonna stop me.’
I give him a wave which he mirrors before heading towards Holborn to catch the Central line and I back off in the direction of Charing Cross for the Northern line southbound. It’s a beautiful night, the perfect temperature for a night-time city walk. I turn before reaching the station’s entrance and keep walking towards the river, stopping once I reach the front of Embankment. My head turns right, up at the Golden Jubilee pedestrian bridge.
But I can’t go there, can’t walk across it.
That would be another first.
The evening of the day I moved to London, Jack had brought me here. We took the tube to Waterloo, walking from the South Bank, opposite where I’m standing now. I remember the sky was orange, with dashes of cloud like tiger stripes. Once we reached the middle of the bridge, Jack told me to look out beyond the National Theatre. Buses, already lit up, crossed Waterloo Bridge ahead; iconic buildings – St Paul’s and the Oxo Tower – stood proud, pleased to be watched. Jack stood behind me, his arms around my waist, and he kissed my neck, my cheek.
‘I love this spot,’ he said. ‘But it’s also overwhelming.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s London in all its glory. I feel like if you can make it here, you can make it—’
‘Erm, isn’t that New York?’
‘Meh. New York, Shmew Shmork! This city is glorious. Tough. Awesome.’
I swivelled around so we were face-to-face. In the near distance, the London Eye and Big Ben framed Jack’s head. Friends, couples, families were passing by, or stopping to take selfies.
‘And have you?’ I asked. ‘Made it?’
‘Darlin’, we’re making it.’
As I remember what came next – a kiss; soft and long and unashamedly public – I rock against the station wall in pain. It’s not painful pain – not the kind you can take a pill for or wince through the ache – but a grand itch, a restless shake, a feeling that’s too much and never enough all at once.
The air is calm, the vibe low-key.
I breathe.
Bangkok is the only other capital city I’d had the chance to visit with Jack. If I were there now, overlooking the Chao Phraya instead of the Thames, I’m not sure I’d have time to reflect. The place moves by so quickly, even late at night. From my experience, anyway. Oh, how we’d wanted to return there one day; find the man sat in the shopping trolley. We’d invented a Saturday night drinking game, coming up with the reasons he might’ve been there – in protest; to sunbathe; waiting for a Big Mac; posing for art students – and the lamest guess had to be drink. I start wondering, again, what really is behind that picture – just as Jack wondered before he died – what that man is doing right now. Alone in the big city, perhaps. Like me. Like Si.
I check my phone, mindful of not ignoring Beth if she’s messaged.
My mum’s been texting again.
I have a job for you. It requires your crafting skills!
Well, I do excel with a needle and thread. Or a glue stick. I click on the next text.
It’s for the wedding. Come home and I’ll explain. Love you. Mum x
Forty minutes later I arrive at the flat. On the fridge, there’s a space where the Mamma Mia! tickets had been. The magnet – a Man United shirt – has nothing to hold up any more. One of our plans is done and dusted. The gas bill was paid weeks ago, too. I take it down, rip it in half, chuck it into the recycling.
‘So, what next?’ I cry.
Skiing lessons, holidays, birthday celebrations …
‘I can’t … I can’t do anything else without you, Jack.’
I go to the bedroom. The moonlight filters through the open blinds, shedding a low glow onto the king-size bed, which takes up the majority of this room. I want to see Jack in his boxers, sitting up against the pillows on his iPad with his bare feet crossed, wriggling his chunky toes. I want to see him tucked up and flicking through a paperback filled with scientific facts about what makes humans behave in certain ways. I want to see him crashed out; or fuck it, I want to see him passed out drunk, stinking of ale and snoring so loud I have to wallop him on the back just to get a minute’s peace.
‘Jack?’ I whisper.
I step away, back to the lounge, and curl up on the sofa. I stay exactly where I am, my head upon Rudolf, where it’s been every night since Jack died.
Si was right. Nobody should force those firsts.
13
It’s Saturday and I’m a week late. I’m going to nip out to buy a pregnancy test. Today could be the day when that something I’ve been waiting for happens.
Would I have left it this long to take a test if Jack had been alive? Or would I have told him immediately, as soon as my period
didn’t show up? It would be sudden to hit this milestone, but it’s one I don’t doubt we were heading towards. I’m thirty-six – time’s not on my side. So the serious baby chat would’ve taken place next year, for sure. What a luxury that seems like now; next year with Jack. Confidently expected; nailed-down impossible.
I shower, pull on a tight black t-shirt and throw the cotton rag I refer to as my ‘holiday’ dress – the one I’d worn endlessly in Thailand – over my head. I finish off my summer look with some chunky beads and a hint of bright-red lipstick. I’m ready. And what’s more, I’m motivated.
The flat’s a mess, though. An empty pizza box is tossed on the kitchen floor, too big to fit into the recycling bin. I imagine Jack in the kitchen, sulking that the only pieces of bread left by the toaster are the crusts. I make a mental note to grab a loaf while I’m out, too. I grab my keys from the blue Marrakech dish, and the doorbell rings.
‘Chloe,’ Trish Carmichael says, elongating the second half of my name and flashing her teeth into a plastic smile. ‘Nice to see you again.’
She looks like Patricia from the telly today: pastel makeup; dangly earrings; hair spiked, ready for business. She’s not wearing one of her panel-show suit jackets, though – they always look a size too big – but rather she’s in her casual wear, a pashmina draped with finesse around her small frame, her specs on a gold chain. John’s not with her.
‘Wow, Mrs – erm – Trish. Hi.’
‘I was going to call,’ she tells me. ‘But I thought, well—’
‘You have a key, so what’s the point?’
Trish clicks, points at me and winks. ‘Exactly.’
I hold the door open and she walks straight into the kitchen and tosses her orange Michael Kors handbag onto the breakfast bar. She slowly twirls around, taking it all in, her fingers re-spiking her hair.
‘Thanks for keeping an eye on this place,’ she says.
‘Sorry about the pizza box,’ I say, pointing it out.
‘Oh, we all have to eat, Chloe, don’t we?’ Trish laughs, a punchline to a joke I misheard.
If Jack could just show up, you know, in an alternate universe from the one Trish and I are enduring, then I wouldn’t be the Chloe who Trish has convinced herself I am. I’d be more important.
