Love, Almost

by Hayley Doyle

  And we do.

  We play.

  We laugh.

  We disagree.

  We laugh some more.

  Giles draws a rocket and we all think it’s a penis. The harder he tries to convince us that it isn’t, drawing more lines and zigzags and buttons, the more it looks like a penis exploding.

  Oh. How. We. Laugh.

  It’s edging up to three in the morning by the time I leave. I’m drunk, thick with red wine and heavy from chocolate. Ingrid has passed out on the sofa like Sleeping Beauty. I make some daft comment to Giles about how he has to kiss her to break the spell and I pat Ingrid’s blonde hair, whispering a thank you for a lovely evening into her ear.

  ‘Ah, Chloe, I feel like we all finally know who lives in the basement now,’ Giles says. He’s talking with his eyes fully closed, his hands in his pockets and unsteady on his feet. ‘We invited Jack up often. He never came.’

  ‘Shame,’ Neil says, softly. ‘Shame.’

  ‘Never?’ I ask. All evening, I’d presumed Jack was familiar with this flat, these people.

  Giles shakes his head, eyes still closed. ‘But you did, Chloe. You did.’ He removes his hands from his pockets and holds out his arms like Jesus on the cross. Oh! He’s inviting me for a hug. We hug it out like real mates.

  ‘We never knew Jack,’ Giles says. ‘But we know you.’

  ‘Welcome to the house!’ Neil says. ‘That’s not inappropriate, is it?’

  I shake my head, still mid-hug with Giles, and sort of mumble something about how everything and nothing is inappropriate around a woman whose fella died, and I don’t know why, but we all laugh. A tired, final laugh that ends in a satisfying sigh, with a yawn thrown in for good luck. I slip my feet into my boots but I don’t bother doing up the laces. Neil takes his coat and throws it over his arm, only a flight of stairs away from home. ‘After you,’ he says, and I trudge down the stairs carefully gripping the banister, his footsteps clomping behind me.

  ‘Goodnight, Chloe,’ Neil says, fumbling with his key.

  ‘Night, neighbour!’ I say with a salute.

  35

  I close the door behind me in the flat, and it feels like a window has opened.

  I stumble into the bedroom and without turning the light on, flop onto the bed and tap my phone, the glow of the screen making me squint. I’m not doing anybody any favours by ignoring Justin’s message any longer. Even if he’s writing to tell me what a terrible mistake our horrid kiss was, I’ll be on his side at least.

  But by default – or habit – I open the Facebook app. Scroll.

  Channel 4 News clips flash by. A baby called Arthur flashing a gummy smile is six months old today. An article from the Guardian about the reality for ‘resting’ actors has been shared by three of my friends. And, like a ghost, there’s Jack. His hairy face laughing, one thick arm stretched upwards and his fist punching the sky like a superhero. His other arm is around Florrie.

  Florrie Ellen Tewkesbury

  Missing you. You knows it. xxx

  This is the Jack Carmichael who had that funeral. The one who liked Moby and The Mighty Boosh. He’s podgy, out of shape from too many cheap pizzas and kebabs after pound-a-pint night at his student’s union. He has a ponytail. Florrie is wearing a skirt over jeans. Both of them look pale and startled; maybe a harsh camera flash.

  I don’t want to see this version of Jack.

  Clicking on his name, his profile appears. Unlike his real life, his Facebook life remains active. Is this what happens now? We achieve immortality thanks to Mark Zuckerberg? Will we evolve into humans who no longer grieve, knowing the digital lives of our loved ones are available at our fingertips forever?

  I click into his photos. The most recent photo he posted was – of course – the man sat in the shopping trolley. I can’t say I feel a sense of relief that I went to Bangkok, but there’s a satisfaction in what I know. I can’t play our game any more because I got the final answer. I just wish, somehow, I’d won.

  What else is left unfinished?

  The fridge … Our life … Slowly morphing into my life.

  I plant my phone face down and wriggle out of my jumper dress and into bed. Once I’m cosy beneath the duvet, phone retrieved, I blink one eye open to open Justin’s message.

  But naturally, I bury my head into the pillow and pass out.

  36

  You’re round the fucking bend babes xxx

  At least Beth is back on text form. And she doesn’t approve of what I’m doing later tonight. She’d rather me double date with her new fella and his mate.

  Pal, that’d be weird.

  Unlike going out alone? xxx

  I never have and never will go on a blind date.

  He’s rich xxx

  You date him then!

  Nah way. My date is richer xxx

  Beth, just be careful. Ok?

  You too babes xxx

  ‘Who ya texting, Miss?’ Jonah Matthews asks. ‘Your boyfriend, Miss?’

  I don’t answer, just slip my phone into my black jeans. It might be after school hours, but I’m still on duty and should be setting an example. It’s Si’s big night: We Will Croon You. Don’t get me started on the other titles he came up with before deciding on that one. Anyway, it’s in fine shape and the kids are pumped. Ish. I’ve set up a makeshift wardrobe department in a maths classroom, the one closest to the drama hall. Layla Birch is in the classroom next door to that making siren noises to warm up her voice.

  Other than Beth, nobody knows where I’m going tonight after the show finishes.

  You see, something came in the post for Jack. An opportunity.

  I haven’t been reading Jack’s post. He still gets letters, junk mainly, and I’ve been collecting them in a Sainsbury’s carrier bag to give to Trish. Another month has passed without him, making it almost five months since he died; the same length of time we were together. My head can’t quite understand that equation. It certainly doesn’t feel equal. But anyway, a brochure arrived for Jack from an East End comedy venue. No envelope; his name and address were printed on the back page. During my uni years I went to the Edinburgh Fringe every summer, to perform in terrible student productions that played to an audience average of six. I’d spend my spare time watching stand-up. Once, in the Pleasance Dome, Michael McIntyre handed me a flyer for his gig. Goes to show – they’ve all got to start somewhere. I’d flicked through Jack’s brochure. It’s always nice to recognise a face from years ago to see who’s succeeded. Or at least who’s still trying. On the third page, a familiar photo caught my attention. Part fed up, part zany, one eyebrow raised high; Ross Robson. The same photo from the flyer on the fridge, but now rows of four-star reviews were printed across his curly hair. Jack and I were supposed to see his pre-Edinburgh show, testing out jokes before the big festival. Now he’s performing with the critics’ support.

  So that’s what I’m doing tonight, after the school musical.

  I watch from the wings, arguably the best seat in the house. I get to see everything without sitting behind the fourth wall: I’m involved. The pockets of my black jeans are filled with Kirby grips. My black polo-neck is lined with safety pins. I have a needle threaded ready for me to jump into action if a leotard splits.

  Some things, however, I can’t fix.

  The bulb on the spotlight bust during the dress rehearsal. The school budget doesn’t stretch far enough to fix it – not on such short notice anyway. The painted Manhattan backdrop is slipping lower and lower as the performance progresses. The cast are doing a (moderately) good job of squatting behind it as they cross sides, except for Jonah Matthews, who is now bobbing his head up and down comically, although perfectly in time, to Si playing the famous Kander and Ebb vamp on the piano. Widening my eyes, I telepathically tell him to make himself scarce.

  ‘Miss!’ I hear a loud hiss beside me.

  I look down to see a kid from Year Eight frantically flapping a loose piece of material hanging off her shoulder. I
mime a silent ‘shush’, then wink. I knew the threaded needle would come in handy.

  ‘You’re the best, Miss,’ she whispers. Right now, I’ll take that.

  Layla Birch’s solo is up next. Si added it in at my request, and now he can’t understand how it was never there in the first place. In his words, ‘It’d be like Cats without “Memory”.’ Layla’s long hair is swept up into a glorious bun, sparkling with glitter spray, and her elegant red dress gives her a classy maturity. It’s been a month since we had our chat outside the drama hall. I’ve watched her take small, brave steps towards this moment. Sometimes she sang beautifully in rehearsals, then sometimes she’d have a wobble, convinced she couldn’t do it. I was always convinced she could, though, and told her so, spending break times working on her song and never once doodling on my costume notes.

  Now, she’s captivating: every member of the audience is spellbound and everybody backstage is silent, peeking through the curtains, the only part of the show they desperately need to see one more time. I know she’s thinking about her mum. And I know her mum is here, too. There’s no way that the woman who created this young girl has just disappeared into nothing. She’s got to be somewhere, if only through her daughter.

  As she sings, my own thoughts drift back to Jack. He lingers on. I wonder if he ever won’t. Trish had never got back to me with a suitable date. I sent one follow-up message – you know, checking in – and when I got no reply from that, I went upstairs to see my neighbour, Neil.

  ‘Giles and Ingrid mentioned you’re going away for a while?’ I’d asked as he whipped up a cappuccino for us both. ‘For work.’

  ‘When am I not going away for a while?’ he sighed.

  ‘Where to this time?’

  ‘Cape Town.’

  ‘Wow. Lucky you.’

  ‘No complaints.’

  I’d told him about the bulging carrier bags and two cases filled with Jack’s things, still sitting in a pile beside the bookshelf in the hall. Neil had placed his hand on my shoulder mid-waffle, around when I was talking about how seeing the bags each morning churned my stomach so much that I couldn’t face breakfast, and I’d shut up.

  ‘Shall we go and get the bags now?’ he’d asked.

  ‘Now? But you’re not leaving ’til Sunday.’

  ‘I have a guest bedroom. And no guest.’

  So that’s where Jack’s things are. I know they’re there, above my head as I potter about the flat, but not physically seeing them has … helped. I’ve spent less time staring into walls and applied the energy to my job, marking work thoroughly, making lesson plans, doing whatever odd jobs have been needed for the musical. Sometimes, I catch the eye of the man sat in the shopping trolley and apologise, as if he’s disappointed in me. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I’ve said out loud, ‘I can’t move on. I’m just very busy.’ And I’ll hear a creak of the floorboards upstairs – it can’t be Neil, he’s thousands of miles away in South Africa – and feel hatred towards Jack for haunting me, for being right there and not being there at all.

  The applause for Layla is a gentle earthquake trembling through the drama hall. I spot Si’s face above the upright piano and see him flick away a tear from beneath his glasses with his thumb. As the stage lights fade to black and the audience shuffles, I’m knocked backwards by someone rushing forwards, into me. Arms are thrust around my waist, a cheek rests upon my chest, and I’m squeezed fondly.

  ‘Layla!’ I exclaim. ‘You did it!’

  ‘I loved it, Miss,’ she says. ‘Every second. I really loved it.’

  ‘You weren’t the only one.’

  ‘I wanna do this for the rest of my life.’

  I refrain from my typical cynical ‘Oh, don’t we all?’ and say instead, ‘And you will.’

  I mean it, too.

  The car park is manic within ten minutes of the final bow. Parents are yelling at their kids to get in the back seat, to stop hugging their friends, to please hurry up, they’ll see them tomorrow morning for God’s sake. It’s impressive how quickly the place empties. I could probably leave now, but I need to speak to Si. Laden with a huge bouquet, he’s man of the moment, lapping up the praise and thanks from both parents and pupils.

  ‘It was touch and go,’ I hear him say, not for the first time.

  Holding the door open, I usher the last few families out of the drama hall.

  ‘Hey, Miss Roscoe?’ Layla Birch is running towards me, dress in a plastic costume bag over her shoulder, phone in hand. ‘My dad wants to speak to you.’

  ‘Okay, no problem,’ and I look past her to see where he is.

  ‘He’s just moving the car, Miss. He was blocking someone.’ She rolls her eyes, typical.

  ‘Well, tell him to come and find me when he’s ready. I’ll be right here.’

  ‘Thanks Miss.’ Layla skips off, thanking Si, too. ‘You’re the best Mr S. You’re wasted in this school!’ And she disappears towards the main gate, embracing some of her pals along the way, grabbing a selfie.

  ‘And dear Miss Roscoe,’ Si says, once the last kid leaves. ‘There’s not a fallen sequin in sight.’

  ‘Too right. I’m not risking the wrath of that PE fella.’

  ‘He’s ex-marine.’

  ‘I know! Are you fuming? About the flowers?’

  Si feigns shock. ‘Never! I love them. Was this you?’

  ‘The kids. I just sorted the collection.’

  ‘You’re going to make me cry, Chloe.’

  ‘Please tell me you brought your car and you’re not taking them home on the tube?’

  ‘No, I didn’t bring my car. Thought we’d be going for a drink? You always said how much you love an after-show.’

  ‘Agh. Si, I’m so sorry. I can’t tonight,’ and I close my eyes, awaiting a monologue about how I’ve broken his showbiz heart at the final curtain.

  ‘Don’t worry!’

  ‘What?’ I don’t need to feign shock. I am shocked. ‘What’s with the cheesy grin?’

  Si hides behind the bouquet, his specs peeping over the top.

  ‘I might have invited a certain somebody to the pub to keep me company,’ he says.

  ‘Malcolm?’

  ‘Wah!’

  ‘Wah!’

  ‘I know!’

  ‘Well, go. Go! Don’t let me keep you!’

  We air kiss and I watch Si go, holding his bouquet like he’s Gene Kelly with an umbrella in Singin’ In the Rain.

  It’s not raining but it’s chilly, a biting wind in the autumn air. I get changed in the staff toilets; it’s a swift transformation into the shirt dress, the one I wore the night I met Jack at the Brexit musical. My roots are screaming again, but it’s nothing a cream beret can’t hide, complemented by a bright red lip. I wrap myself up inside my burnt-orange suede coat, a second-hand gem I’ve had for about ten years. Yeah, this is exactly how I’d dress for a date with Jack. I’m ready.

  Halfway across the car park, I hear a man’s voice.

  ‘Miss Roscoe, is that you?’ It must be Layla Birch’s dad.

  ‘Ah yes, you wanted to speak to me?’

  ‘Erm …’ It isn’t Layla’s dad. Not unless he’s the school caretaker and I wasn’t aware. ‘No. I’d like to lock up, if that’s alright with you?’

  I blabber some apologies and make a quick exit, keeping an eye out for Layla and her dad. The road outside the school is sleepy and the houses opposite are lamplit and cosy. The buzz from the musical has gone. I’m tired, and my enthusiasm for a late-night comedy show all the way out in the East End is diminishing. I’m surprised to feel disappointed. It would’ve been really nice to meet Layla’s dad; tell him how proud I am of his daughter.

  I guess, in a strange way, I should hold onto this feeling: at the very least, it shows I care.

  I dig my hands into my coat pockets and head to the station. I’ve already bought a ticket online for the comedy. It’s date night, and it’s all I’ve got left to stay close to Jack.

  37

  The gig
is at a comedy club near Shoreditch High Street. Steadying myself on the banister, I walk down the narrow staircase into the bar. Guffawing laughter growls from groups huddled together holding pints carelessly, booze spilling with every jerk. There’s a lot of talking. Words, words, words, fast-spoken, eager to be heard, nobody listening, everybody talking. More guffaws. It’s like the late, late Edinburgh Fringe crowd are all in one London basement, all desperate to invent the most controversial line. And this is just the audience.

  The bar is lit with blue fairy lights. The wallpaper has been stripped and I’m unsure if that’s because the place is about to be refurbished or whether that’s the style they’re going for.

  I go for a double JD and Coke. Not my usual, but one of Jack’s favourites, and I want to raise a glass. We’re here. We finally made it to the show.

  Inside the venue, I take my suede coat off and fold it over my arm. My beret stays firm on my head. My ticket is for the standing area, which isn’t all standing. There are stools, high tables and a ledge to lean on. It overlooks a seating area which is basically tables closer to the stage for double the price. Why would anybody pay to get picked on?

  I lean and people-watch.

  A long table dominates the centre of the seating area; it’s a large party. Everybody knows each other well: the chatter is animated and intimate, personal space not a problem; touching, hugging, shoulder-to-shoulder, head-to-head. And … no. It can’t be. It’s Florrie.

  I blink and lean in closer. Without that victory roll in her hair, I could be mistaken. No, it is. It’s her. And I recognise a few other faces from Jack’s funeral. The skinny-fat fella with – yep – there’s his enormous teeth. And the girl with the baby, without the baby.

  No wonder they’re here. They’re supporting their friend.

  I should be their friend, too.

  We’d all be well acquainted by now. Perhaps we’d have been to a barbecue or summer festival together. The girl with the baby looks cool; my kinda person. I imagine we’d have intense heart-to-hearts over too much wine—

  The lights go down and a trumpet blasts. The show has started.