The Best Thing That Never Happened to Me

by Laura Tait

  By the second bottle of wine we’ve both given up trying to sit upright, leaning back instead with one elbow each on the back of the sofa, facing each other, while he fills me in on who still lives in Mothston, who’s left and who’s dead. I’ve been waiting for a lull in the conversation so I can nip to the loo, but there hasn’t been one.

  ‘What about Mr Sawyer – the dwarf that ran the paper shop. Is he still . . .’

  I pause and wait for Alex to correct me.

  ‘What?’ he asks, confused about why I’ve stopped.

  ‘Aren’t you going to remind me Sawyer is a midget – not a dwarf?’

  ‘Nah.’ He shrugs, drinking his wine.

  ‘Wow, you’ve changed,’ I tease. ‘That would have annoyed the hell out of you eleven years ago. That’s why I said it.’

  He smiles. ‘Yep, he’s still there. Do you remember when I asked for a quarter of cola cubes off the top row, then after he’d spent half an hour going up his ladder to get them then down again, you—’

  ‘Asked if I could have a quarter too? Yes! He thought I did it on purpose – he wasn’t happy.’

  ‘Nope, he wasn’t. He was Grumpy.’

  I get his joke just as I’m swallowing wine, and my unexpected laughter makes me spit it everywhere.

  And then I blink and by the time my eyes are open again Alex has been to the bar and asked for a towel. My cheeks flush a little and I hope he doesn’t notice. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed – this is the guy who once held my hair back while I sicked into a wheelie bin.

  ‘Actually,’ I say, grabbing the towel and whipping him with it, before wiping the table, ‘Grumpy and Happy were dwarfs and Sawyer was a midget.’

  ‘Right, sorry.’

  I’d forgotten how funny Alex was. He was never one of those people who always tried to be the clown, all gag, gag, gag. He doesn’t even laugh at his own jokes. You’ll miss them if you’re not listening carefully enough.

  He tells me about his housemate sneezing with genuine horror, like he’s revealing he’s found dead babies in his basement or something, and I realize that I’ve gone from noticing how much Alex has changed to thinking how he hasn’t changed at all.

  His eyes are as wide and white as I remember, but the lines around them when he smiles are new. His hair hasn’t actually changed since school but he’s grown into it. While most lads at school had French crops, crew cuts or curtains, he wore his long and shaggy, hanging over his ears. A bit teacherish. But teacherish suits him now he’s a teacher.

  ‘Did your old key-ring get too heavy to lug around?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I follow the direction of Alex’s eyes to the table, where my silver heart-shaped key-ring with my door keys attached is spilling from my bag.

  ‘You used to keep your keys on that holiday key-ring collection.’

  ‘Ah, I stopped using that at uni. I still have it, but to be honest it isn’t much bigger than the last time you saw it.’

  I fill Alex in on my holidays since school. There was Magaluf with Leah, Susie and a couple of other uni mates. Then there was Crete with Max, Leah and Rob. Then Max and I went to Barcelona on our three-year anniversary.

  That’s it.

  ‘You’re kidding!’ exclaims Alex in genuine surprise. ‘How come?’

  Because you can’t have everything. I explain how I met Max at uni and we couldn’t afford to travel. That never changed for him when he became a sporadically working music journalist. And then along came Richard.

  ‘I’ll see the world one day, though,’ I insist, if only to get rid of that slight look of pity on Alex’s face, which I can’t bear.

  ‘With Richard?’

  An image pops into my head of Richard wearing a backpack and sandals, checking into a hostel. I almost laugh out loud. I guess I’m a bit old to do the backpacking thing anyway, but we’ll take loads of holidays, I’m sure.

  ‘Maybe.’ I squirm in my seat, then stop myself before Alex reads anything into it. ‘I don’t know. Things are easier when you’re younger, aren’t they? Even if you aren’t doing anything exciting, you can at least look forward to doing it. When you’re approaching thirty you have to accept you might never do it.’

  We both sip our drinks, experiencing something resembling an awkward silence for the first time. I try to shake off my defensiveness and think of something to say, but Alex beats me to it.

  ‘How come you’re never back in Mothston?’

  ‘Did my mum tell you to ask that?’ I narrow my eyes at him. He laughs and shakes his head but it wouldn’t surprise me. They used to gang up on me all the time.

  Mum: You’re not SERIOUSLY going out in that belt, are you?

  Me: Yes, and it’s not a belt – it’s a skirt.

  Alex: It is a bit short, Hols . . .

  Mum: Have you started that history essay yet, Holly?

  Me: Nah, I’ve got loads of time.

  Alex: Um, it’s due tomorrow, Hols . . .

  To be fair, there were photos of my bum cheeks from that party, and my late coursework brought my history GCSE down a grade.

  ‘I just need to get round to it,’ I tell him, putting my hand on his knee to lever myself up. ‘I’m just nipping to the loo.’

  When I get back Alex is pulling pound coins out of his wallet.

  ‘Fancy it?’ He nods at the quiz machine.

  ‘Sure.’ I pick up my glass and unsteadily follow him over, watching him attempt to balance his glass on the tilted top of the machine a couple of times before settling for the windowsill behind it. Thank God I’m not the only tipsy one.

  Alex feeds in the coins and I poise myself for button pushing.

  ‘Stop choosing Entertainment, you,’ he complains after the third question he doesn’t know the answer to.

  He gently shoves me away, buying himself long enough to select Art & Literature, hitting the screen before I have time to finish reading the question. Then he picks Art & Literature again.

  In which Shakespeare play was Don John the sinister half-brother of Don Pedro?

  ‘MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING!’ My finger is on the button before Alex gets a chance.

  ‘Why are you shouting?’

  ‘I DON’T KNOW.’

  ‘Well done on that answer, though.’

  ‘It was easy.’ He does not need to know I only remember that because Keanu Reeves played him in the film.

  ‘So, do you know any Shakespeare characters that weren’t brought to life by Keanu Reeves?’ He gives me a sidelong smile, which I use as an opportunity to hit Entertainment again.

  ‘NOOOOO, you div!’ I slap his arm when he picks Will Young as an X-Factor winner. ‘He was Pop Idol. Well done – game over.’

  ‘Wow, it’s been years since anyone called me a div.’

  ‘Yeah, to your face maybe. Ooh, you should come to the pub quiz opposite my work one Wednesday – we suck at the Art and Literature questions.’

  And the History ones.

  And Sport.

  And Politics.

  ‘Aw thanks, I’d love to. Let’s play again. I’ll get us another drink and we can use the change from that. Same again?’

  I’m about to say yes but then see that the clock above the bar says 10.30 p.m. – I didn’t realize it was that late. It’s going to take fifteen minutes to walk over the heath. If I go now I can be in bed by 11 p.m. I feel surprisingly reluctant to leave and consider relenting to just one more, but if Richard calls when his flight lands I don’t want to have to take the call here.

  ‘I should go. Let’s do this again soon, though – it’s been fun.’

  ‘Definitely,’ he says, a little taken aback.

  ‘It really was fun,’ I say again, squeezing his arm. I mean it – it was the most fun I’ve had in ages. Nothing about the last time we saw each other in Mothston came up – thank God – so it was just like the times we hung out before that. I forgot how effortless I found his company. But work will be busy with Richard being back in the office, and I could do with an e
arly start.

  ‘It’s fine. A hangover on my second day wouldn’t go down well anyway.’

  I don’t think I’ve seen Alex with a hangover. He was a rare sort of teenager who knew when to stop. That was on the few occasions he even started.

  ‘You sure you don’t want to jump in a taxi?’ Alex asks me for the third time as he hugs me outside the pub. I assure him I’ll be fine, and he makes me promise I’ll text him when I get home.

  My feet start to hurt after five minutes, so as soon as I get onto the grassy heath, I take off my shoes and carry them. The stiletto heal will also double up as an excellent weapon should an attacker strike. Bonus.

  I recall Alex telling me off when I took off my shoes to walk home barefoot after a night out in Mothston. He said I might stand on a broken bottle and cut my foot and when I wasn’t worried he said I might stand on a junkie’s dirty needle and get AIDS, and I pretended not to be worried so he took his socks off and made me put them on.

  I’m still smiling at the memory when I stumble through my front door and trip over Harold, who has clearly been clock-watching. When I climb into bed I turn up the volume on my phone in case Richard calls but it’s not long before I’m in a deep, uninterrupted sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  ALEX

  The streets of Greenwich are the colour of Halloween pumpkins as I walk home. Beyond the glow of lampposts is a cloudless night sky, and I recall someone once telling me that most of the stars visible to the human eye don’t exist any more; they’ve burnt out, but because of the time light takes to travel, you can still see them. So really, you never know if you’re witnessing the real thing or not.

  I enter the flat, finding it unlit and silent, but as I hop, skip and jump around piles of books to undress, the sound of a key turning in the lock is accompanied by a female voice. Giggling and clumsy footsteps are interrupted by a sneeze. And another and another. Poor woman. Moments later Carl’s bedroom door creeks shut and that’s the last I hear of them.

  I settle into bed myself but feel restless. It’s not even 11 p.m. when Holly texts to say she is home safe. Still, it was nice seeing her again. It wasn’t awkward and my jaw didn’t lock once. I discovered what she’s been doing since leaving Mothston and heard all about her boyfriend, who wasn’t Max, and who she spoke about with such ardour that I got the impression she was warning me. I knew about your pitiful crush back then, Al; please don’t get any ideas this time. But you know what? That’s all right. It’s different now. She’s different.

  When she walked into the pub my arms opened involuntarily. Blimey, I thought. All this time I’ve carried a Polaroid in my head, a photograph of Holly in her combats and navy-blue vest top. But here she was in ten megapixels: office clothes Photoshopped onto her slimline body, hair digitally enhanced to remove any trace of a curl, freckles vanquished by time or make-up. I instantly wished I’d chosen a smarter pub.

  Don’t get me wrong: she looked great. Just not like the girl in the Polaroid. Isn’t it weird how things turn out? If you’d asked me before tonight what I thought Holly would be doing for a living, PA wouldn’t have been top of the list. It wouldn’t have even been on the list. It would have been on the definitely-not-on-the-list list alongside roofer, M16 spy and Bosnian folk singer. But then my career hardly warrants an episode of This Is Your Life. I was more shocked that she didn’t have any stories of swimming on Bondi Beach or camping on a mountain in Peru. It’s like when you grow up and then one day you visit your primary school, and it seems tiny compared with how you perceived it as a kid. Maybe Holly wasn’t the person I perceived her to be. Maybe she was never the free spirit I thought. The free spirit I loved.

  She is happy, though. Back in the day it was seeing the world and parties that caused her pupils to dilate – these days it’s Richard and work. And I enjoyed hearing about it; enjoyed being with her again; enjoyed looking at her without feeling the swell of any feelings in my stomach. It was quite liberating. And if right now I feel a bit flat, it is only because I allowed my imagination to run away with me a little.

  I’ve got a friend down here. I should be delighted. Now I just need to find some single friends; friends who are around on Saturday nights and other occasions reserved for couples, when having a blank diary feels like watching a play in which everyone else has got a part. Bank Holidays alone are probably my least favourite thing about being single, closely followed by the obligatory conversation with my Auntie Pauline every Christmas:

  AP: Have you met a nice girl yet, Alex?

  Me: Nope, not yet, Auntie Pauline.

  AP: Oh well, you’re no age.

  Dad: He’s almost thirty, Pauline.

  AP: What happened to that girl you were seeing? The tall one?

  Dad: She left him.

  AP: I liked her.

  Dad: We all liked her.

  Me: Me and Charlotte split up almost seven years ago, Auntie Pauline.

  AP: And you haven’t had a girlfriend since then?

  Me: There was Debbie. You met her. She came for Christmas dinner one year, remember?

  AP: What happened to her?

  Dad: She left him.

  Me: She didn’t leave me.

  I feel tired but I cannot seem to drift off. I flip my pillow so it’s cool against my cheek but it doesn’t help. I’ve got too many thoughts going around in my head.

  I pass her on my way to the kitchen. A brunette straight from the pages of a fashion magazine. She’s heading out of the flat and offers a casual, polite smile with glossy lips.

  ‘That your other half?’ I say to Carl, who is leaning against the kitchen sideboard, a plate in one hand and a slice of toast in the other.

  ‘Sophie? God, no.’ He looks genuinely horrified at the thought. ‘We just have an arrangement.’

  Unsure what to say, I nod interestedly.

  ‘I’m not ready for anything heavy,’ he elaborates in between bites of toast. ‘Soph’s the same. It suits us both.’

  Now neither of us can think of anything else to say. Carl stands there munching his breakfast while I construct my packed lunch.

  ‘You get up to much last night, then?’

  I tell him about Holly and deflect his predictable question about whether there is anything between the two of us. I can sense he is sceptical. What is it with people?

  ‘You’re probably right not to commit yourself,’ he says, placing his empty plate on top of a stack of his dirty pots in the sink. ‘I reckon women are a bit like bacteria: once you’ve got one on the go, they start to multiply.’

  I smile and Carl starts to laugh. I think he thinks I’m smiling in admiration for his theory, but it’s not that. I’m just relieved that he knows what bacteria is.

  I once asked Mr Scrafton, chemistry teacher at Mothston Grammar, what caused hangovers, and he explained about chemicals formed during alcohol processing called congeners. It’s these little buggers that make your belly cower, your throat wither and your head gyrate. Dark drinks like brandy, red wine and whisky contain loads of congeners, whereas clear spirits like white rum, vodka and gin don’t, and so cause hangovers less frequently. Mr Scrafton and I concurred that chemistry lessons would be far more useful if information like this was on the syllabus.

  My problem is that I started drinking red wine in my early twenties in the hope that Charlotte McCormack would think I was sophisticated, and I got a taste for it. Hence bringing my year nines to order this morning is even harder than it was yesterday. I struggle to make myself heard over Stacey Bamber, who is telling Bhumi Khan about visiting her cousins in Peckham, where it’s all ‘pow pow’ (she makes a gun with her fingers) apparently.

  ‘Can we settle down, please?’ I say, circulating sheets for a Hamlet-themed spelling test.

  As I navigate the room Gareth Stones draws his iPhone from his trouser pocket and uses its reflection to review a face that’s long and thin and colourless. His deep-sunken eyes are a little too close together, making him resemble a cartoon ghost.


  ‘Oi, Hairy Muff,’ he squalls at Mary Hough. ‘How’s my hair?’

  ‘I swear to God, I’m gonna fuck you up in a second,’ she answers.

  I warn Mary about her language and ask Gareth to put his phone somewhere I can’t see it, then glance hopefully at Ms Pritchard, the teaching assistant, as the test begins. Most of the kids work quietly, though Stacey uses the time to sketch a penis in red ink. The detail is quite impressive, but her scale is way off. At least, I hope it is.

  ‘Laertes sounds like something I’d catch off you, Hairy,’ shouts Gareth, and the silence is broken by a chorus of ‘Ooooh!’.

  Mary gawps at me. ‘How can I not cuss when he’s such a tosser all the time, Mr Tyler?’

  It takes me a few minutes to settle the class but the pattern repeats itself: I’m just getting into something when either Gareth or Stacey misbehaves and I have to start over. It’s like navigating one of those electric buzzer games, and today, because of the congeners, I just can’t keep a steady hand.

  ‘OK, what do we think prompts Hamlet’s outburst at Ophelia’s graveside?’ I venture.

  Silence. Torpid silence.

  ‘How about you, Kenny?’

  Kenny hangs his head low throughout class, and when he does look up his eyes are glassy with disinterest.

  ‘Come on, remember we talked this through yesterday?’

  Gareth commences a low chant of Kenny’s name. Paul Keogh joins in. I shush them.

  ‘Want me to buy you some earplugs?’ says Gareth, but I manage to zone out the laughter that ensues and focus on Kenny.

  I give him one more chance to answer amid the din.

  ‘Look, I don’t fucking know, all right?’

  He shoves his desk forwards with force, instantly hushing the room. He stands and slides a hand down his trouser front menacingly, and I feel panic consume me. I take a tentative step towards him. He eyeballs me. For the first time in six years I feel totally out of my depth in a classroom. Holly wouldn’t be so proud of my teaching career if she was witness to this. Kenny’s arm slowly withdraws up past his belt. Teaching deprived kids to love English – who was I kidding? I’m going to have to restrain him.