Love, Almost

by Hayley Doyle

  ‘Oh, yeah! The plot thickens … Well, I thought it would. But I thought wrong.’

  ‘Cryptic.’

  ‘Sorry. Jack and I came here together in March, and … hang on,’ I take out my phone and find the original photo to show Justin. ‘You’ve no doubt seen this sort of thing on cheap souvenirs, yeah?’

  Justin nods, perhaps unsure.

  ‘Well, Jack took this photo, thinking he’d captured something unusual – funny.’

  ‘It’s kind of weird.’

  ‘Right! It’s so weird! And it’s hanging on our kitchen wall, massive.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what we thought. Except we also thought there was more to it.’

  ‘Like, how?’

  ‘Like, the fella. Why was he sitting there? What made him rock up and get inside a trolley? Look – he’s staring straight down the lens. Jack loved the notion that there was something more behind the picture, a story etched into his face. You know how you invent silly things or obsess over stupid stuff when you’re in love?’

  ‘Of course. Sabrina and I were obsessed with the number fifty-four.’

  ‘Y’what?!’

  ‘Yeah. We’d only just started dating and we were saying how much we loved each other, all goo-goo. I said I loved her twice as much as she loved me, then she said, no, she loved me ten times more … and I blurted out “fifty-four!” It made her laugh. Like, really, really laugh.’

  ‘So, it became a thing?’

  ‘For sure. Every card we sent – birthdays, anniversaries – “I love you, fifty-four” and a string of kisses. It was our number, our stupid … whatever.’

  ‘I get it.’

  ‘And your thing was this picture.’

  ‘Yep,’ I jiggle the remaining beer around the bottle and knock it back. ‘I came here to find out what Jack wanted to know. And, well, the answer is nothing. It was a gimmick.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Chloe.’ He rubs his palm against his dark stubble.

  ‘It’s shit, isn’t it? I even feel sorry for me. For Jack.’

  Justin takes the garland of flowers and puts it around my neck. We drink more beer and do a bit of people-watching: it’s a fantastic spot for it. It’s nice to have a mate. He’s easy-going and it doesn’t feel strange. I mean, this is what you do on holidays, isn’t it? You chat to strangers, you connect, simply because you’re both there, fish out of water. If it weren’t for the consistent twinge of pain running from my head to toe, the pain that’s been present since my towel dropped in front of Jack’s dad, I’d probably have moments here and there when I’d forget about Jack’s death, sat here, a spectator of Bangkok.

  ‘What did you hope to achieve?’ Justin asks. ‘By coming here.’

  I heave a sigh. ‘Meaning.’

  ‘Okay …’

  ‘Vague, right? I know. But – if I’m not part of Jack’s future and not part of his past—’

  ‘But of course you are—’

  ‘Nah, you weren’t at the funeral. There’s no trace of me in his life; not according to everyone he’s ever known. I’m just this person who occupied his spare time for five months. I somehow thought that if I could find that man, show the photo to people in the area it was taken, track him down by his work uniform, I’d get the story of his life, find out something interesting, and – oh, my God, I realise how fucking round the bend I sound. I’m from an entirely different culture from this fella. I mean, what was I expecting? Us to have a cuppa? Be invited over for Sunday lunch?’

  ‘A good friend of mine from back home worked here in Bangkok for many years. He said his family became close with their driver, but their relationship was established over four, maybe five years. It helped that the guy was good at languages. Your guy might not speak any English, but I don’t mean to patronise. I’m sure you already thought about that.’

  ‘Me head’s a mess. I haven’t slept much, you know, since.’

  ‘All is forgiven,’ Justin smiles. ‘Look, I can’t judge. I’m backpacking like a nineteen-year-old in the hope of a new life presenting itself to me. I’m sure in reality I should go home, get my job back and move the hell on. Hurt; heal. But this – I dunno – this somehow feels easier.’

  ‘Justin, give yourself some credit. What you’re doing’s brave.’

  ‘It’s also called running away.’

  ‘Nope. A lot of people’d sit at home, get drunk and feel sorry for themselves and stalk their ex online.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve stalked. I still stalk.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. But you don’t need me to tell you that’s pointless.’

  ‘Sure. Why take a knife to an open wound? Human fucked-up nature.’

  We cheers to that.

  ‘And Chloe, you need to give yourself some credit, too. Who gives a shit whether you and Jack were together five months or—’

  ‘Fifty-four years?’

  ‘Hey, don’t steal my thing!’

  ‘Haha, sorry.’

  ‘But, yeah. Who cares? You know what counts. You don’t need to start looking for a needle in a haystack in Bangkok to prove you loved each other.’

  ‘That’s the problem, Justin. I don’t know if Jack truly loved me.’

  ‘He never said it?’

  ‘He said he “reckoned” he loved me. Like a less serious version. He never just spat it out, said those three fucking words.’

  ‘And did you ever say them to him?’

  I shake my head, disappointed in myself. ‘I copied him. Told him I “reckoned” I loved him, too. I mean, shit. He died not knowing that I was so in love with him, you know, as much as a grown woman can be after a few months. Tequila?’

  ‘Ooh, I can still feel the first one about here,’ he indicates his upper torso with his hand.

  ‘Good. Two tequilas please!’

  Patpong market is on the opposite side of the road. It’s getting late now; the neon lights are in full glory, the haggling crowds growing by the minute. We’re handed paper flyers for ping-pong shows in nearby bars, as casual as a fast food discount.

  ‘Chloe, I think you know in your heart if Jack loved you,’ Justin says, kindly.

  ‘No, I honestly don’t.’

  And there lies the answer to my quest. Or maybe not the answer, but the reason. I came here to give my short-lived relationship a higher status; a deeper meaning. If I couldn’t get the words out of Jack Carmichael, I was seeking reassurance elsewhere. Failing on all levels.

  Naturally.

  This quest is fucking bonkers.

  I neck my tequila, clear my throat and put on a dreamy voice.

  ‘What’s behind the picture?’ I joke, taking the piss out of myself, then snapping back to normal. ‘Get a fucking grip, Chloe.’

  Justin drinks his shot and for a moment, I think he might puke. Instead, he whoops.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he says, drum-rolling his hands on the table. ‘I got a game for us.’

  ‘Oh no …’

  ‘Come on, gimme a chance. I just poisoned myself with tequila for you.’

  ‘Thanks for shifting blame, hun.’

  ‘I think this game’ll help. With our problems.’

  I squint, noticing how bleary things have become. I’m drunk. And glad of it.

  ‘You tell me one thing you loved about Jack – OR – that he loved about you,’ he says. ‘And then, I’ll tell you one thing I hated about Sabrina – OR – that she hated about me.’

  ‘How the fuck is this gonna help us?’

  ‘Trust me. I’m old. Wise.’

  ‘You’re pissed as a fart.’

  ‘Come on …’

  ‘Okay, but I need wine. This beer’s making me burp loads.’

  Justin staggers from the bench and calls for a large glass of red. I wanted white, but what the hell. I release another burp, covering my mouth, and feel instantly much, much better. I kick off the game.

  ‘I loved how Jack was a big, sexy bear.’

  ‘I hated how Sabrina wouldn’t let
me touch her legs if she hadn’t shaved them.’

  ‘I loved how Jack’d sing all the time, any place, if a song jumped into his head.’

  ‘Surely, you hated that?’

  ‘No, I loved it. And he loved how I’d listen, or dance, sometimes join in.’

  ‘Okay, well, I hated how Sabrina could never talk on the phone, not even to the bank, unless she was in a room all alone, door closed. A master of secrets.’

  ‘I can be like that.’

  ‘That’s not the game.’

  ‘Okay. I loved how Jack painted me toenails for me when I pulled a muscle in me back.’

  ‘I hated how Sabrina would watch what I ate in restaurants and disapprove of my choice—’

  ‘Justin, I think it’s safe to say you’re better off without her. Game over.’

  ‘Do you feel closer to Jack?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  I don’t want tonight to turn awkward. Neither Justin nor I deserve that, so I giggle – the easy way out of a sticky situation – and call Justin a divvy for coming up with such a shit game. He admits defeat and all seems well.

  ‘I’m flying to Vietnam tomorrow,’ he tells me.

  I stop giggling.

  ‘Jack was gonna take me there in October,’ I say. ‘Some place called Hoi An. He said it’s the most magical place, apparently.’

  ‘So come with me? Not with me – I didn’t mean to be so forward. But come. My flight’s to Da Nang, real close to Hoi An.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve been to Hanoi before, so I was gonna try out the south, make my way down to Ho Chi Minh, take another flight from there further east, maybe.’

  Could this be an opportunity? What if this is what I was always supposed to do? Perhaps my trip to Bangkok was to lead me to Hoi An, to a special place Jack wanted me to see. When we’d discussed this trip as a possibility for October half term, my initial reaction had been that Vietnam was too far away for a single week’s holiday and that we should go somewhere closer. Jack disagreed, because he knew it’d be worth every single second.

  Would it?

  Is Hoi An where I can find peace? Say a proper goodbye to Jack?

  ‘Well,’ Justin yawns, stretching his lean arms above his head. ‘I guess I better head to my minus-five-star hostel, shower in the en suite bathroom I’m sharing with five or six others, and hit the sack.’

  I realise I haven’t spoken for a while. The noise in my spinning head is making me feel quite sick.

  ‘What time’s your flight to Da Nang?’ I ask.

  ‘Noon.’

  We split the bill and squeeze out of our bench. I open my arms wide to Justin and we hug it out, proper pals. God, it was good to find one of those, even for just one night.

  ‘One night in Bangkok …’ I start singing, in memory of Jack – the kind of thing he’d do.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Chloe.’

  Off we go, in separate tuk-tuks. I adore the feeling of the warm air from the speed of the little engine. My hair dances all around my face. I fight to keep my eyes open, not wanting to miss a minute of the madness I’m in the thick of, a feeling that there’s more to this trip than sheer disappointment. When I get back to my room, I flop onto the bed and start drifting off into drunken slumber.

  Maybe I will go to Vietnam tomorrow. Maybe …

  21

  The sky is the darkest shade of grey I’ve ever seen. It’s so low, I want to touch it with my fingertips. I stare out of the round window, the rain battering against the glass. I never thought it possible for clouds to be this dramatic.

  Stepping off the plane, the wind slaps my cheeks and my polka-dot skirt does a full-on Marilyn Monroe. I grip the railing, taking each step slowly, just as the passengers before and behind me must be doing. If only I could see them. My eyes are squinting, and not through choice. On the tarmac, the force of the wind almost pushes my body back onto the plane. Welcome to Da Nang, eh?

  My return flight back to London is in four days – from Bangkok, of course – but like Justin reminded me, flights can be changed. Sure, it’ll cost me, but so would therapy. I had no way of telling Justin I was coming, but I got to BKK in plenty of time for the noon flight, and there he was, ahead of me at check-in.

  ‘I knew you’d come,’ he shouted over.

  ‘I like to think I’m unpredictable, but …’

  We meet again by the baggage carousel, his elephant traveller trousers still on his bottom half, a white vest covered by an open denim shirt occupying the top. He asks me where I’m staying in Hoi An.

  ‘Well,’ I begin, feeling pretty stupid. ‘I was gonna try the hostel thing. Am I wrong to think you can just rock up and get a room? Sorry, but I never went backpacking back in the day.’

  ‘That’s usually how it works,’ Justin tells me. ‘Presuming there’s room at the inn and all, but the weather isn’t gonna be on your side this afternoon, buddy.’

  ‘God, I’m such an amateur.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I got an idea. How about you come with me to my hotel, log onto the Wi-Fi and wait for the storm to pass. By the time you find yourself a room somewhere, the sky’ll be clear and we can go grab a bite. Or not. Totally your choice.’

  As we approach arrivals, we notice how drenched the drivers are, awaiting their passengers. A family exit the automatic doors and are literally blown over, all four of them piling on top of one another. I turn to Justin.

  ‘I’ll take you up on that offer, hun.’

  Justin spots the driver holding up a clipboard for the Golden Beach Resort, with his full name, Justin Bailey, written in black marker pen on the attached sheet of paper. He shakes the driver’s hand and pats him on the back, calling him ‘my friend’. We’re led to a minibus, the resort’s logo printed on the sliding silver door. It’s a struggle against nature, but we get inside thanks to the driver’s help, and wait for him to load the bags into the back as the vehicle rocks from side to side. There’s nobody else on the bus.

  ‘Fancy for a hostel,’ I say, referring to our private ride.

  ‘Oh, it’s not a hostel. This place looked too good to resist, and for a great price. It has a beautiful lagoon pool and the rooms are right on the beach.’

  The drive takes about thirty minutes and neither Justin nor I are particularly chatty. It’s a blend of hangover, the weather and the inescapable fact that we barely know one another. I don’t feel awkward, just tired and spaced out. I watch the intense rain from inside the minibus, the heavy clouds seeming rather permanent over something soon to pass. When we arrive in Hoi An, the driver crawls through some residential streets and pulls over outside a guest house called the Garden Villa.

  ‘You stay here,’ the driver says, looking at Justin through his rear-view mirror.

  ‘I think there’s been some sort of mistake,’ Justin says, leaning forwards. ‘I’m booked to stay at the beach resort.’

  ‘No. You stay here.’ And the driver pushes his door open against the wind.

  He removes the luggage from the back, running ahead into the guest house with our bags. Justin tells me to wait here as he heaves the passenger door open, grunting as he does so. I’m not pleased about it. What if the minibus topples over into the middle of the road? The tall palm trees lining the pavements look terrified: they’re no longer vertical, shaking with uncontrollable fear.

  I get out.

  And, whoa – I manage to get the minibus door open, but I can’t close it. My hair sticks to my face; my t-shirt and skirt fly upwards. I bear down, bend my legs and, as I howl something animalistic, the door shifts and I slide it shut with a hefty slam. Keeping one hand on my skirt and another holding back my hair, I stumble down the stepping-stone footpath and into the guest house.

  ‘No, this isn’t where I’m staying.’ Justin is arguing, calmly, with the receptionist.

  The driver is repeating what he said before, only more firm. ‘You. Stay. Here.’

  ‘Typhoon, sir,’ the receptionist is saying.<
br />
  Justin shakes his head. ‘But this isn’t typhoon season.’

  ‘It happens,’ she laughs. ‘Typhoon coming.’

  The reception area is small, a polished brown wooden desk carved with intricate flowers and matching chairs with red upholstered seats; a soft, shiny fabric. Fresh flowers sit in vases beside small statues of Buddha; lush green plants with beautiful large leaves stretch to the low ceiling. The main light, covered with a red paper lantern, has been flickering, just a little. It’s lovely, but it’s nothing like a beach resort with a lagoon pool.

  ‘But why can’t I stay at the Golden Beach? I’ve already paid good money for that.’

  ‘Oh, no. Evacuation, sir.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Justin sighs, and I join him beside the desk. ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘Yep,’ I say. ‘Kind of annoying, eh?’

  ‘Look, can you call me a taxi, please?’ he asks the receptionist. ‘We’ll make our own way to the beach resort.’

  ‘No taxi, sir. Typhoon coming.’

  The driver waves goodbye to the receptionist and leaves, laughter in his stride. The receptionist hands Justin a key and tells him sweetly that he has a deluxe suite, the best room. I’m guessing this place is much cheaper than the Golden Beach Resort.

  Another guest emerges from a room on the ground floor – a tall woman with broad shoulders and short, choppy hair. A sleepy toddler is sitting on her hip.

  ‘The same thing happened to us,’ she says. She sounds Dutch, pronouncing her ‘s’ like a soft ‘sh’. ‘We made it as far as the Golden Beach Resort and we spent a wonderful day and night there yesterday. But today, after lunch, we arrived at our room to find a sun lounger upside-down on the bed. It had smashed through the glass doors. The wind is so strong down there.’

  ‘You’re best off here,’ I tell Justin, who still seems sceptical.

  I, however, feel like I’ve landed on the moon. There are rooms available for sixteen quid per night, and from the photos on the wooden desk, they look beautiful. I leave Justin standing in the doorway of the main entrance, staring into the storm and cooking up an escape plan, and check myself in for two nights as a starting point. I’m surprised to hear that this price includes a breakfast buffet and use of the swimming pool in the garden, although—