Love, Almost

by Hayley Doyle

  The MC gallops on and gets various groups of people whooping; those from London, those from ‘UP NORF’, those from far, far away. A fella in the front row gets a grilling about working in IT. It’s standard amusement, but it’s fun to be sharing a group experience, laughing amongst a crowd. I watch Florrie. She’s unable to keep still, nosing around the whole room, perhaps looking for somebody or counting heads. Whatever she’s doing, she’s not listening to the jokes. Her applause lacks vigour.

  ‘Righto, boys and girls,’ the MC shouts, ‘Give it up for … Ross Robson!’

  Wearing a corduroy blazer over a creased Metallica t-shirt, Ross Robson combs back the tangled curls hanging over his eyes with his free hand, the other holding a half-drunk pint. He sports his fed-up face and a downhearted grin, dimpling at his jawline. Although he’s very tall, he doesn’t adjust the mic stand. Instead, he ducks.

  The skinny-fat fella mouths to Florrie, ‘You okay?’ and she nods with a whole-body jitter, giving an equally jittery thumbs up. He gives an OK with his hand.

  Ross begins. He doesn’t say an awful lot, and when he does, it sounds like he’s woken up with a hangover. At one point he drinks his pint and waits for a burp. He furrows his brow and releases loud sighs. Silence is padded with the odd ‘fuck’. He tells a weird story about his ex-girlfriend’s mum. It’s really, really funny.

  Florrie is sitting on the edge of her seat. She’s less frantic now.

  Her whole table is roaring, hanging onto Ross’s every word. Jack would definitely have been here tonight. He was the first to buy tickets for the Greenwich show and promoted it like crazy on Twitter. There’s no way he would’ve missed this one. Which means I was always coming, too. I do belong.

  I clap loud at the end, wishing I knew how to whistle.

  The MC returns and Ross takes an awkward bow, gives a wave-salute. Florrie is on her chair, cheering. Security wander over and tell her to get down. She’s overly apologetic – bless her – and the skinny-fat fella holds up a cigarette, widens his eyes. She declines. Ross has run straight past the crowd out into the bar. The MC is introducing the next act, but I want to catch Ross, so I slip out to congratulate him.

  ‘’Ello mate,’ he greets me with his deep, throaty voice. ‘Chloe? I got that right, yeah?’

  We kiss each other’s cheeks awkwardly. He has this natural expression that’s both worried and smug. It’s probably his dimples, combined with his need to pull comedy out of every single situation he finds himself in: the curse of the creative.

  ‘That was great, Ross.’

  ‘You’re from Liverpool. Aren’t you supposed to say “Eh, that’s boss, that!”?’

  ‘Sure. Boss. How’s it all going?’

  ‘Not bad, mate. Yeah. Busy. On the road a lot. Did the Fringe over the summer and it’s been non-stop since then, so yeah. Not bad. It’s been worse, yeah. You?’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree. Not bad. Been worse.’

  Ross sips his pint and nods. Then, as if he’s suddenly found something that he’d lost, he lets out an ‘Oh,’ and asks me if I’d like a drink. I shrug, take off my cream beret.

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Who you with?’ he asks, tapping his card to pay for my next JD and Coke.

  ‘No one,’ I say, defensive, as if he’s accused me of bringing a new lover. Ross is dripping with sweat and he grabs a napkin from the bar. He’s pulling an odd expression and I can’t be sure whether that’s because he’s dabbing his face or if he’s weirded out by me being here, flying solo. ‘I had to come and see what I missed. What Jack missed.’

  Ross rolls the napkin into his fist and stuffs it into his jeans pocket.

  ‘You’re amongst friends here,’ he says.

  ‘That’s kind, but not really. I don’t know anyone.’

  ‘Mmm. Yeah. Suppose you weren’t given the chance, were you?’

  ‘Nope. I appreciate you acknowledging that, Ross. It’s shit, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, mate. Totally shit. Then again, we’re a bunch of absolute tossers so maybe you made a lucky escape.’ Ross pushes his hair out the way again. ‘We’re not worth getting to know.’

  The bar is quiet and most people are inside watching the next act. The blue lights make the basement mellow.

  ‘Boss. I’ll get a taxi now, shall I?’

  ‘Drink up first, mate. Cost me nearly a tenner, that.’

  We cheers. I want to say, ‘To Jack!’ but it doesn’t feel organic. It was kind of Ross to buy me a drink, but he’s distracted. He’s clearly looking for company elsewhere. His agent, maybe. I swig and Ross lifts a single wave at somebody behind me. I turn to acknowledge whoever it is, too, but they’ve disappeared towards the loos. Ross continues to sweat.

  ‘Gah,’ he grimaces, flapping his Metallica t-shirt to create a breeze.

  ‘I’m guessing that’s “The Gang”, then?’ I ask, before he makes a getaway, referring to the table inside.

  ‘The Gang?’

  ‘Jack’s gang. His crew, or whatever.’

  ‘Ah, right. Yeah. The London lot. We’re the ones who migrated here and – for our sins – stayed. I met Jack at uni—’

  ‘Yeah! You shared a house in the third year and you used to cut your toenails at the kitchen table.’

  ‘Hey. At least I cut them, rather than rip ’em off or let them grow into hooves.’

  ‘You don’t deny it then?’

  Ross hangs his head low. His damp curls mask his pink cheeks.

  ‘Ah, mate. I wish I could get my own back,’ he says, his eyes falling to the floor.

  He’s got nothing. He’s a stand-up comedian, someone used to heckles and quick comebacks, and it takes me for him to draw a blank. I’m a mystery to him, but I’m upsetting, not intriguing. I remind him of Jack, the one person not here. It’s perplexing to think that minutes ago, I was belly-laughing at this man from the audience. I’ve single-handedly killed the comedy.

  This crowd – this gang – can function without Jack here. Yeah, it’s sad. But they all have history and it didn’t always involve Jack Carmichael. Ross Robson will have been to parties with people sat around that table, ones that Jack didn’t go to because he was working, or he was in bed with a cold, or at a family do. Ross might have been to Ibiza with them, or judging this lot, skiing. He’s probably slept with one of the girls; possibly a few. That’s how big groups of mates work, isn’t it?

  But when you throw a newbie like me in, everything shifts.

  ‘You know what?’ I say, placing my JD and Coke on the bar like a delicate ornament. ‘I’m gonna go. I’m – erm – sorry. Thanks for the drink, and sorry I didn’t drink – erm – I better just … bye, Ross.’

  The narrow staircase beckons. I slip into my long suede coat and trudge upwards. Outside, two lads having a ciggie obstruct the door and before I get a chance to squeeze past them, I hear my name. My whole name.

  ‘Chloe Roscoe,’ Florrie states slowly, as if addressing an old school chum at the twenty-five-year reunion. As I turn around, I expect her to say something along the lines of, ‘Well, look at you now!’ or ‘Who would’ve thought you’d become a …,’ but she just repeats my name, even slower. ‘Chloe. Roscoe.’

  ‘I have to go,’ I say, attempting a smile and hoping it sounds like I have somewhere important to be.

  Florrie’s bottom lip puckers and she twists from side to side. Her dress is navy blue, crushed velvet and floor length, the sleeves tight along her slim arms. Rings cover her fingers: gemstones and pagan patterns. Her eye makeup is heavy, her fiery hair loose and unstyled, as if she got out of the shower and just left it to dry. I’m into this look. It’s gothic and it suits her.

  ‘But I want to know everything!’ she cries. ‘After the funeral, I tried to find you on Facebook – I know, PSYCHO – but I couldn’t. Are you laying low?’ And she crouches down, like a cartoon cat about to pounce. She’s so, so posh, it’s making me want to sneeze.

  ‘I go by Chloe Marie. Me middle name,’ God knows w
hy the fuck I told her that, ‘’cause I’m a teacher. Secondary. Anyway, better dash.’

  I push the door a little, giving the two lads a bit of a nudge. Without any acknowledgement of my action, they flop off the step and onto the pavement in slow motion, still chatting, still smoking. The Gherkin looms in the near distance above a row of Dickensian rooftops, and the air greets me with a hint of weed from a passer-by, on a lane where Jack the Ripper supposedly once roamed.

  ‘Chloe! Wait!’

  It’s Ross. He’s stood in the doorway behind the two lads smoking, waving my cream beret like a flag. Florrie is on her tiptoes peering over his shoulder and beckoning me back inside with her hands.

  ‘You forgot your hat,’ Ross says.

  ‘It’s freezing,’ Florrie calls out.

  In a fatherly manner, Ross rubs his hands up and down Florrie’s upper arms to give her a boost of warmth, telling her to go back inside, he’ll be down in a minute. He joins me and I take back my hat, fixing it onto my head. I need to go.

  ‘Come on,’ Ross says, reaching out and punching my arm lightly. A brave move. ‘Come back downstairs. I might even buy you another drink, if you’re lucky.’

  I raise my eyebrows.

  ‘God, I’m a sick bastard. That just sounded like I was coming on to you, didn’t it? Ah, mate. I’m sorry. I’d never. I mean, you’re gorgeous. I didn’t mean I wouldn’t. Although I wouldn’t. You’re … Actually, you’re probably still single, yeah?’

  ‘Wow. Now I know what Jack meant by you being “close to the bone”.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Now can we go back inside?’

  There’s a twenty-minute interval before two more comedians finish up the entertainment. Ross goes straight to Florrie once we’re inside at the table and I’m left without introduction or welcome. The skinny-fat fella leans across and tells me his name is Benji. Or Ben. Or Benjamin.

  ‘Balls, call me anything!’ he says, flashing his teeth. ‘Everybody else does.’

  ‘Chloe,’ I remind him.

  He doesn’t have a fucking clue who I am.

  I sit down, committing to half a seat, unsure if it’s going spare. Benji-Ben-Anything yells at someone I don’t recognise and a ritual ensues; fists banging on tables, thigh-slapping. A rugby chant, maybe? Was Jack into rugby? He was a Man United fan. Little old me never presumed he could be into football and rugby.

  The girl with(out) the baby bends towards me.

  ‘You’re in my seat.’

  ‘Oops – so sorry,’ I say, standing immediately.

  ‘Are you lost?’ she asks, shuffling her seated self closer to the table, finding her question rather hilarious. I don’t answer. I mean, I’m not seven years old in Tesco looking for my mum. She stares at me brazenly, amazed at – well, I don’t know – something. Me? She’s looking amazed at me. One thing’s for sure – she also doesn’t have a fucking clue who I am. So I hover, trying to get Ross’s attention.

  ‘You’re blocking the stage,’ the girl says, thinking she’s made another joke.

  ‘There’s nobody on the stage,’ I tell her.

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean!’ God, this one takes posh to next level. I mean, we’re talking royalty. Clipped, Keira Knightley posh. Like, even when your family are killed in a massacre, you smile and talk through your teeth because you’re bloody well English, and that’s how the English bloody well deal with it, sort of posh. To think I’d thought we could be mates.

  Florrie is waving me over.

  ‘Goodbye!’ I say to the girl, unable to resist putting on my best Queen’s English.

  ‘Don’t talk to Minty, talk to me!’ Florrie cries. Florrie and Minty. Sounds like a kids’ telly programme from the seventies with sock puppets. God knows what Minty is short for. If she was from Liverpool, she’d only get called Minty if she had bad breath.

  Unlike Minty, Florrie stands to talk to me. ‘Was she awful to you, Chloe?’

  ‘Who? Minty?’

  ‘It’s all a facade. She’s got a heart of pure gold, that one.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘But Chloe – we’re all super keen to know your story. You were the first girlfriend Jack had … since me. And that was a long, long time ago. Like a hundred million years.’

  ‘How long, really?’

  ‘Erm …’ Florrie’s eyes shoot into her brain. ‘Fifteen, no sixteen years. Maybe seventeen. Fuck, how old am I?’

  ‘Dunno? Thirty-eight?’

  ‘Eek. I’m sozzled. I was so nervous for Rossy. We heard rumours that the Beeb were in tonight. I really didn’t want him to fuck up. He can be so hit-and-miss, don’t you think?’

  ‘I enjoyed it.’

  ‘But what did you think?’ Florrie closes one eye, pouts. The open eye flickers, the rest of her is statue-still. I should prod her, see if she tips over. ‘Benji-doo! Benja-min! Can you talk to Chloe? I need the loo. Ah-gain!’

  And whoosh. She’s gone.

  Benji-bloody-doo-dah makes a gross gesture for me to sit on his knee. I avoid any expression. Really, there isn’t one suitable. He jumps up, apologises, plays with an unlit cigarette, puts it behind his ear. He’s very sorry.

  ‘I’m a total dick. These things give you the impression that any fucker can be funny, but well, I prove that theory wrong.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘So, what am I supposed to be filling you in on? How can I help?’

  God, I’m so tired. This is a show. An utter show. Who are these people? I wouldn’t even follow them on Instagram. Even Ross, for all his depressive pleasantries and remembering to buy me a bevvie: he didn’t even bother introducing me to the group.

  ‘I’m Chloe,’ I remind Ben for the third time. ‘Jack’s …’ Partner? Girlfriend? Ex? What am I?

  ‘Aha! Got it. We all thought Jack would never settle down after breaking Florrie’s heart. So what was your trick? Your magic spell?’

  ‘Wait – he broke her heart?’

  ‘Shattered it. Told her he loved her, wanted to marry her. Slight problem, though. He was high as a kite on disco treats at a festival in Bath. Dressed as a pirate, I recall. We all were. Ah, those were the days.’

  I bet.

  ‘They were on-off childhood sweethearts,’ Ben elaborates, ‘and Florrie had Jack on a pedestal. Fuck, we all did. Fucker,’ and he chokes up a little. ‘But she really loved him. And Jack loved her, although not in the same way. I think he battled with it, if I’m honest; wished he felt the same, you know? But when the eyepatch came off and the comedown kicked in, well – he tried to put an end to it.’

  ‘Tried?’

  ‘Her response lacked finesse, shall we say? She refused his request. I mean, their parents used to go on holiday together; the expectations were high. So Jack went about it all in a … different way.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Started seeing somebody else.’

  ‘Whilst continuing to see Florrie?’

  ‘Actually, he started seeing people. Plural. Playing the field, as the saying goes.’

  ‘Behind the poor girl’s back? The fucking rat!’

  ‘Yikes. Feels creepy speaking ill of the dead like this, don’t you think? Look, we were young,’ Ben reassures me. ‘Jack was an idiot. But there were – and always are – two sides to the story. Florrie never did herself any favours. She refused to read the signs. Anyway, she caught him—’

  ‘Stop. I don’t need to know the ins and outs.’

  ‘Jack never forgave himself, you know.’

  ‘Well, you can’t choose who you love,’ I say, unsure of who I’m defending.

  ‘True, true. And Jack was ever so aware of that after hurting our Flozza-belle.’

  The MC interrupts us: the second half is about to commence. Ben sits, attentive; a pupil after a gold star. Since I don’t have a seat, I’m able to make a French exit.

  Passing through the bar, I spot Ross nursing a pint.

  ‘Leaving, mate?’ he asks. ‘I sort of threw you to the lio
ns, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yeah. Look, is Florrie alright?’

  ‘She’s fine. I’ll be taking her home in a minute.’

  ‘Oh, good. She seems—’

  ‘I’m used to it, mate.’

  ‘Right … I just wanna know, did she, erm, how can I put it? Did she ever get over Jack?’

  And for the first time all night, including his performance, I witness Ross Robson break into a wide, dimpled grin.

  ‘I fucking hope so, mate. She’s been married to me for the last ten years.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

  ‘You really didn’t know?’

  ‘Ross, I really didn’t know anything. Did I?’

  His grin drops into a bittersweet smile. ‘Maybe you knew enough.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  I back away, wave.

  ‘Not gonna stick around for the end, mate?’

  ‘With “a bunch of absolute tossers”?’ I offer. ‘Your words, mate.’

  ‘Don’t steal my lines!’

  ‘Ta-ra, Ross.’

  And it is goodbye. These people aren’t my friends; were never destined to be. I don’t dislike them. They aren’t bad people. Well, that Minty probably keeps puppies locked in her attic, but … I can’t picture it. Me, hanging out with them. Imagine the bloody skiing holidays I’d have to endure. So I turn left out of the comedy club and head for Shoreditch High Street.

  Back at the flat, I remove the flyer for Ross Robson’s gig from the fridge and toss it into the recycling with the brochure advertising tonight’s show. This isn’t anger; there’s no bitterness. This is simply practical. Cleansing. Another plan completed.

  ‘We did it,’ I say, removing my beret.

  But – oh, Florrie. I know it was a lifetime ago, but she’d imagined a love between her and Jack that never truly existed. What if that’s what I was doing, too? Ben had said it, how they all had Jack on a pedestal. What makes me so different? I’d thought Jack was the most brilliant person to walk under the sun. He was the fucking sun. He was the moon. He was everything.

  What if I’m another Florrie?

  He only ever reckoned he loved me.

  The man in the shopping trolley catches my eye. I suppose I’ll never know.