Ghosts
Page 13
We contemplated a third bottle of wine, and as light, silly tipsiness slid towards full-blown, slack-jawed drunkenness, the bell of a thousand soon-to-be-first-shags rang. “Last orders!” echoed down the bar.
“I’m not done drinking,” I said.
“No, you’re not,” he said, a filter held between his lips as he rolled a cigarette. “Now, what’s next on the agenda, Nina George? What else have we got to fix, because I can’t bear seeing you sad and wallowing with your pretty little mouth all downturned and sulky.”
“The nightmare neighbour downstairs.”
“I think I should just go talk to him,” he said. “He sounds like he might be one of those awful men who only listens to other men.”
“No,” I said, laying my palm against his shoulder and stroking the soft brushed cotton of his navy shirt. “I have to deal with him on my own.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do,” I said, draining my wine glass. “I know that sounds petulant. But it’s important that I manage this situation without the help of a man. I need to know I can operate efficiently on my own.”
“But—” He stopped himself mid-thought and put his tobacco back into his pocket. He tucked the cigarette behind his ear. “You’re not on your own.” Max often disarmed me in seemingly unromantic conversation with these grand, surprising statements about our relationship. It felt like a test. I never knew the correct way to respond.
We staggered out of the pub with our arms around each other and spilt into the East London street, with Max promising that there was an ornately carpeted, decidedly inelegant, sweaty pub that I would love nearby with late hours and a pool table. I followed him as he took a twisting route through the streets, stopping at every corner and assessing which way to turn, like he was on a quest.
“I used to drink here every night between the ages of twenty-seven and thirty,” he said.
“You between the ages of twenty-seven and thirty. I wish I could meet every single Max from every single year since birth. I want them all lined up for me.”
“Right,” he said, standing still in the middle of the silent, residential road, the heat of his breath forming clouds as he spoke. I imagined a furnace inside him, generating every word and thought. He took his iPhone out of his pocket and opened Maps. “I hate that I’m too drunk to navigate without this, but it turns out I’m too drunk to navigate without this.”
I looked around the street we found ourselves on and felt the threat of déjà vu build momentum from a distance and come towards me like a crashing wave.
“Max. Where are we?”
“I’m just finding out, Nina George.”
“I think we’re near the flat.”
“Which flat?”
“The first flat I lived in. Are we near Mile End?”
“Yes, the station is about ten minutes’ walk away.”
I felt myself being drawn towards one end of the road and I followed it like iron to a magnet. “Are we near Albyn Square?” I asked.
“Hang on,” Max said as I carried on walking ahead of him. “Hang on.”
“We are, I know where we are.”
I got to the end of the road, turned right, walked past the pub where Dad and I used to eat our weekend chips together and turned left on to Albyn Square. My body responded with more than my senses—I felt it in my cells. It was biological and visceral, prehistoric and predetermining. There in the middle was the garden square, perfectly kept in accordance with every angle my memory had captured. Every plant, every path and every tree looked exactly as it did since the last time I was here over twenty years ago. I walked towards the railings and looked into the garden. I wrapped my hands around the cold, shiny black metal poles and, as I looked down at them, remembered the fleecy mittens I used to wear.
“Max, this is it,” I said. “This is the square I grew up in.” Without thinking, I put one foot on to the latitude of the railings and heaved myself up to stand on it. I jumped off the other side and stood in the garden. Max followed behind me.
“This is where my dad and I came together every weekend. This is where I learnt to ride my bike. This is where they took me in my pram when I was a baby. This is the first place they took me to when they brought me home from the hospital.” I pointed at the bench on the outskirts of the grass. “There’s a photo of me and Mum sitting there when I was a couple of days old.” In the top right-hand corner of the square towered a tall mulberry tree. “That tree—” I could sense I was garbling now, as I hurriedly walked towards it. “I used to sit under it. I used to pretend I was in a forest. Mum would make me sandwiches and I’d take my toys out here and play under it for hours. I fell out of it once. I had to have stitches on my knee. Maybe it wasn’t for hours. I never know if what I remember as an hour when I was a child was actually ten minutes in reality.”
“Wow,” Max mustered. I wouldn’t know what to say to someone being swallowed up by a vortex of nostalgia either. For Max, this was just a London square—a collection of roads, a patch of grass, a handful of street lights. For me, it was the source of my existence. I had been conceived here, carried here; learnt feelings and faces and words here.
“I’ve just realized something,” I said. “This exact tree is what taught me what the word tree is. Any time I’ve said that word, or stood by a tree, or thought of a tree since I could speak, I’ve seen this one. In the bottom of my brain, there are all these pictures of the objects that taught me what the world is. I’m not even aware they’re there, but they are. It’s like this tree is inside me, somehow.” Max watched me place my hand on its trunk and lean closer to it. “Sorry, I know I’m talking total fucking bollocks.” I touched my forehead against its bark as the branches brushed the top of my head. “I feel really sick.” He put his arm around me and we walked to the bench and sat down.
I folded forward, holding my head between my knees, and Max rested his hand on my back.
“I think my dad knows what’s happening to him.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I can just tell. I know him better than anyone. And he knows that something is changing inside him. He knows he’s losing easy access to parts of himself and his memories. I wish I didn’t know that was the truth, but it is. I wish I could let myself believe he’s blissfully unaware, but I can’t. How awful and confusing for him, Max. He must be so scared. It must be completely unbearable.” He ran his hand up and down my back as we sat in silence.
“This is a beautiful place to live,” he finally said. I sat back up and looked at the imposing row of giant doll’s houses across from us.
“It’s perfect, isn’t it? I wonder if I knew how perfect it was when I was here.”
“I want us to live on this square.”
“We’re priced out. Like the rest of the world.”
“One day,” he said. “I will find a way for us to live on this square. Even if it’s just in someone’s garden shed. I can see us here.”
“I think everyone can see themselves here,” I said. “I think it’s like really attractive people—everyone thinks they belong with one. Everyone thinks the hottest person in the room is their soulmate.”
“No, I really can see us here.”
“Can you?”
“Yes, Nina,” he said. “I love you.”
I held his face like a Magic 8 Ball. I brought it inches away from mine and peered into his eyes to try to see all the pictures of streets and squares that lived inside him.
“I love you too,” I said. The mulberry tree stood tall and proud against the moonlight, casting a shadow on our bodies wrapped up in each other.
New message from: Nina
20 November 10:04
My hero—thank you for cheering me up after such a rotten day. You left this morning before I got to lovingly force-feed you and your hangover toast. Hope your head isn’t too sore
. Have a good day at work x
New message from: Nina
21 November 16:27
How’s your day? X
New message from: Max
21 November 23:10
Long and cold. No worries about cheering you up, was lovely to see you as always x
New message from: Nina
22 November 11:13
Just saw a seagull swallowing a dead rat whole outside Tufnell Park station. Hope your week is going well, it can’t be grimmer than that x
Missed call from: Nina
25 November 19:44
New message from: Nina
25 November 19:50
Don’t worry about calling me back, wasn’t ringing about anything important, just wanted to check how you are x
New message from: Max
25 November 20:16
All good this end, Nina George. Hope all’s good with you x
New message from: Nina
25 November 20:35
All fine. Writing a piece about how to make perfect caponata, so I’m up to my neck in aubergine. Wanna come round and be my official taster?
New message from: Max
25 November 21:01
Wish I could but working late tonight x
New message from: Nina
25 November 21:13
Oh poor you. Hope work isn’t too hectic. Let me know when you’re free x
New message from: Nina
27 November 9:07
Morning! Fancy the cinema tonight? X
New message from: Max
27 November 14:18
Would love to but have dinner plans I’m afraid.
New message from: Nina
27 November 16:05
OK—will leave it to you to let me know when you fancy hanging out. Hope things aren’t too stressful.
New message from: Nina
29 November 12:15
That weird Peruvian bar we love has started a bottomless pisco sour night. Shall we see how far we can push the limits of the deal?
New message from: Nina
1 December 11:00
Morning. Slightly feel like I’m pestering you. Totally understand if you don’t have loads of time to chat or hang out at the moment, but can you let me know that everything is OK?
Missed call from: Nina
1 December 15:02
New message from: Max
1 December 15:07
Hey—I’m at work. Are you OK?
New message from: Nina
1 December 15:10
Really not trying to distract you from work—just wanted to check you’re OK, as per my message above.
New message from: Max
1 December 18:39
Fine—things just so busy at the moment.
New message from: Nina
1 December 19:26
Is there anything I can do to help? Don’t like thinking of you stressed.
New message from: Nina
4 December 10:54
Morning. Hope work is easier and you haven’t been staying late too much. Fancy a drink this week? Or if you’ve got early starts, I can come to yours and cook or you could come to mine? Whatever’s easiest for you x
New message from: Nina
5 December 14:40
Get the feeling something is up. I would really appreciate chatting on the phone to you, even if it’s just for five minutes. Let me know when works.
New message from: Nina
7 December 08:11
I really hate feeling like I’m harassing you. It’s making me go a bit insane. Please can you just let me know you’re OK?
New message from: Max
7 December 09:09
Sorry if I’ve made you feel that way. I don’t feel like you’re harassing me.
New message from: Nina
7 December 09:17
Thanks for your response. I guess I’m just worried you’re not being honest with me about something. If you really are busy with work, that’s totally fine and I don’t want to be another burden/pressure on you, but I need just a bit more communication so I know that you/we are fine. It’s odd to have been seeing each other so regularly and speaking every day to have not spoken to you in three weeks. I hope you have a good day at work x
New message from: Nina
12 December 12:01
Hiya. Not sure if you remember but we’re meant to be going round to my mum and dad’s tomorrow night for dinner. 1) Do you still fancy it? 2) If you do, Mum wants to know if there’s anything you don’t eat? As a warning: she nearly always does some undercooked rice stuffed in something overcooked. So if you’re not in a rice mood: let it be known now or for ever hold your peace x
New message from: Nina
13 December 10:05
I assume you’re not coming for dinner tonight.
New message from: Nina
13 December 22:17
I don’t understand why you suddenly don’t want to talk to me, Max. It seems strange that the last time we saw each other you told me you loved me for the first time, then you went completely silent and lost all inclination to see me or even pick up the phone when I call. I hope you can see how confusing that is. I’d really appreciate an explanation when you’re ready.
New message from: Nina
19 December 11:10
Another week of no contact from you. I don’t really know what else I can do at this stage. I’m really, really hurt at how you’ve behaved and I hate that you’ve made me feel like I’m being intense and demanding and weird, when it’s your actions that are strange. If you don’t want us to see each other any more, that’s OK, but you have to be honest with me about it. You can’t just disappear. It’s staggeringly cruel and (unless I’ve been totally wrong about you over the last three months) I don’t think you’re a cruel man.
Missed call from: Nina
19 December 20:14
New message from: Nina
19 December 20:33
Max—please just call me back and tell me what’s happened. Then you never, ever have to speak to me again.
“I dedicated my practice to you and Max in hot yoga yesterday.”
“I don’t know what that means, Lola.”
She was lying across her sofa with her feet on my lap, eating chocolate raisins and wearing a navy polo neck that had no photos, please emblazoned on it in cerise sequins.
“Yoga is most effective when you focus on a cause or a person who you want to send all your energy and focus out to,” she said. “So when it gets really hard, you think of that person, and you almost feel like you’re doing this work for them. So, when I was in Dancer’s Pose yesterday and I thought my back was going to break in two—I just closed my eyes and imagined Max coming to your house.”
“Okay, well it hasn’t worked.” I pulled the sofa throw over us. Lola’s flat always had a very specific and irritating temperature—that of a house with all the windows open and the heating on full-blast.
“I know this isn’t a comfortable thought,” she said, tentatively reaching up to stroke my ponytail, “but is there any possibility he could have died?”
“I have wondered that.”
“Let’s try and trace him,” she said, sitting up. “We’ll need to go full Miss Marple. Oh God, I do love this bit!”
“What ‘bit’?”
“Trying to work out if a man who is ignoring you is dead or alive.” She opened up her laptop. “What’s his Instagram handle?”
“He’s not on Instagram.”
“Okay, what’s his surname?” She brought up Facebook.
“Max Redmond.”
She typed his name into the search bar. Up came a teenager i
n Derbyshire proudly holding a mug with Chewbacca on it and an elderly, topless man in a bandana from Idaho. “Any of these?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t think he’s on Facebook. I don’t think he’s on any social media.”
“Okay, how about WhatsApp? How do you message each other?”
“Just texting.”
“Ah-ha!” she said, one fluorescent-orange fingernail held aloft. “He’ll definitely be on instant messaging service and that will tell us when he was last online.” She typed his number into her phone and brought up two instant messaging apps. She frowned at her screen. “How weird. He’s not on one.”
“He’s a sort of hippie,” I said, loathing myself for speaking his own propaganda.
“Yeah, but nearly everyone I know is on at least one. Even my gran and I talk on one.”
“Have we run out of options?”
“Give me your phone,” she said. She went to the app store and downloaded Linx—I had deleted it about a month ago as it was doing nothing on my phone but inhabiting storage space and collecting occasional likes from plain-faced men with job titles I didn’t understand such as “brand behaviours.” She passed me my phone back and I logged in. “Scroll down to find the conversation you had with him. We can go on his profile and see when he last updated it.” I scrolled down to the very bottom of my matches—they hung there morbidly, encased in cryonic ice—dead but perfectly preserved and ready to be desperately revived.