It's Not You It's Me

by Allison Rushby

  I pause for a moment, thinking sharing a room with strangers wouldn’t exactly be my idea of fun. Who knows what kind of axe murderer you’d end up sleeping with? I wave my hand to get Jas’s attention and he asks the woman on the other end of the line to give him a second. ‘Don’t do that. Just ask if I can get a twin instead of a double. We could share then, rather than putting you with someone you don’t know.’

  He frowns. ‘No. It’s OK, I’ll…’

  ‘Have I ever been polite to you?’ I ask him for the second time today. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course we can share.’

  ‘Really? You’re not just saying that?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘It’s not like we haven’t shared before.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He raises the phone again and asks the woman if we can change my room to a twin. We can. And that’s it. All set. Details finalised. Jas turns the phone off again.

  ‘So, roomie, what were you going to do with the rest of today?’ I ask Jas.

  ‘Er, probably a movie and peanuts and vodka from the mini-bar.’ He looks ashamed of himself, but then perks up. ‘But Oktoberfest! This is going to be great. Can even pick up where we left off.’

  I freeze, remembering the last time we shared a room. ‘What?’

  ‘With the beer coaching.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I breathe a sigh of relief, realising what he’s on about. ‘OK. I’m game. Good old number three.’ I hold three fingers up. ‘How could I forget?’ Back in the old days, Jas had coached me in three things:

  Olives

  Anchovies

  Beer

  They were his specialties—he practically existed on beer and pizza back then. I’d never liked any of them, but in just a few short months after he’d moved in Jas had had me eating big fat olives stuffed with feta and pesto straight from the fridge and ordering extra anchovies on my pizza and Caesar salads. Beer, number three, had proved a little more elusive. He’d taken me as far as liking the smell, but not the taste.

  ‘Have you drinking the stuff yet,’ he adds.

  I nod.

  Silence.

  ‘So now what?’ Jas breaks the conversation drought.

  Now what? I don’t know. We’re in London. The possibilities are endless. I give him the eye. ‘Were you really going to shut yourself up in a hotel room and scarf down the mini-bar?’

  ‘I might have ordered room service…’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘You’re in London for the night and you’d stay in and order room service?’

  ‘I said I’d watch a movie. If I watch a movie, then it counts as doing something.’

  ‘Not in London it doesn’t.’

  ‘People live here, you know. Spend nights at home on the couch watching TV, go to bed at nine-thirty and then get up and head to work in the morning.’

  ‘But not me. And not you. You’re supposed to be on holiday, remember?’

  Jas watches the luggage carousel go round for a moment before he turns back to me. ‘Let’s go. Cab it in?’

  I remember something then. ‘Oh. Where are you going to stay?’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘Some divey 18-35 semi-hostel thing. It came cheap with the tour. Believe me, you won’t want to stay there.’

  ‘And you do?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t mind. It’s just a bed.’

  It’s right about now that Jas gets that evil plotting expression that I haven’t seen for years. ‘Oh, no,’ I say. ‘What’re you up to?’

  He sticks both hands out in front of me, fists closed. ‘Pick one.’

  I give him a dubious look. ‘Why? Which one sells Zamiel my soul?’

  ‘Funny. Pick one.’

  I reach out and touch his left hand, our eyes locked. Jas winks at me. ‘Exquisite choice, madam,’ he says, using his best English accent—which is just plain bad.

  ‘And what did I just choose so exquisitely?’ I sound a little more than doubtful.

  ‘You chose Brown’s Hotel.’

  ‘Are you going to stay there?’

  ‘We’re going to stay there.’

  I take a step back. ‘We’re going to stay there?’ My voice rises a tad.

  ‘My treat.’ Jas nods.

  ‘Is that right?’ I shake my head, furious. People are staring at us now, realising we’re arguing. I don’t care. Who does he think he is? ‘Look, if you’re going to come on this trip with me, you’re not going to play the rock star and pay for everything.’

  ‘Ah, come on.’ Jas steps forward, closer to me. ‘I’m not trying to pay for everything. Only want to make it up to you. Just this once. Least I can do. I’m going to be butting in on your holiday, sponging off your room on the tour. I owe you.’

  Yeah, right. This still smacks of rock star to me. But then I see his expression—it’s convincing. I exhale. ‘It’s just that I want to do this how I’m supposed to do it. This trip was a present and I’m not going to have you making fun of it.’

  ‘I’m not making fun of it, Charlie. All I want is to show you a good time. Thanks for letting me come. That such a bad thing?’

  I take another look at him. Still convincing. ‘Well, no. It’s just that I want to do everything properly. If you’re going to come with me on this thing, you come as you. Not as some flashy person who can buy his way in and out of anything and everything.’

  ‘Have I acted like that so far?’

  I pause.

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘No,’ is my grudging reply. ‘Not yet, anyway. But I’m just making sure you don’t start.’

  ‘Don’t think I’m going to be able to start anything with you around. Sounds like you’re going to keep me firmly anchored to earth.’

  ‘I have to be sure, that’s all.’ At least everyone’s stopped staring at us now.

  ‘Didn’t sound like you were too sure about the 18-35 hostel.’

  I finally uncross my arms. ‘I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, really…it’s fine. I understand you’re just trying to be nice. We’ll stay at the Brown place, whatever it’s called.’

  Jas’s makes a noise, disgusted. ‘The Brown place? You’d think the oldest five-star hotel in London would deserve maybe a little more respect.’

  I point at him. ‘Rock star?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He grins.

  We spend the next five minutes arguing on a new topic—whether we should take the Tube or cab it into the city. I try to win him over on the less expensive option, but don’t have the energy for victory. We make our way out to the cab rank and wait.

  ‘So what was the other hand?’ I ask while we’re standing in line.

  ‘The other end of the spectrum. The Sanderson. Modern. Very.’

  ‘And Brown’s isn’t?’

  ‘Nope. All wood panelling and buttered crumpets for the genteel.’

  ‘Sounds pretty good. But I’m going to insist on buying dinner.’ I point a finger at me.

  ‘Done. I’m a rock star, remember? Can’t buy my own dinner.’

  I’m too tired to give anything but a withering look in return.

  Chapter Eight

  I crash and burn about three seconds after sitting down in the cab. As big and as comfy as those first class seats are, it’s still hard to sleep on a plane. Especially when you’re busy gas-bagging with your lost ex-flatmate. I try desperately not to do that nodding off thing. You know—the embarrassing nodding off, hearing a noise and jerking awake thing? Even worse, Jas notices, and starts poking me each time my head lolls forward, warning me that I really need to stay awake until at least early evening if we want the sleeping thing to pan out properly.

  Somewhere between the fourth and fifth poke, however, he must give up, because the next thing I know we’re parked in front of Brown’s and I sit up to see our luggage already on the way inside.

  ‘You can always sleep here.’ Jas grins at me, leaning his hands on top of the cab and bending his head down between them to watch me. I sit up, suddenly very awake, and bring one han
d to my face. ‘It’s OK,’ he adds. ‘You didn’t dribble. This time.’

  Inside, Jas tries to edge me over to one side of the counter while he discusses the rooms the hotel has available. When I hear them, the rates make me choke. I take him aside and we have another ‘discussion’ and ‘agree’ on a twin room rather than two singles. We check out the room itself—which I, mocking Jas’s bad accent, declare ‘luvverly’. There are more phone calls—to the travel agency, so they know to pick us up from here tomorrow rather than the hostel. And to Kath and Mark, so they know where I am—Kath makes me put Jas on the phone to prove that he’s not really a Zamiel kind of guy all the time.

  Business out of the way, we throw down a pick-me-up coffee or two, or three, and set out. I’ve decided a brisk walk through Mayfair and over to Hyde Park is the go, and Jas agrees. By the time we’ve crossed half of Hyde Park we’re tired already. In the end we stroll the rest of the way over to Rotten Row and collapse on the grass for a minute or two to watch the horses trot by—if there are any.

  Jas leans back on his elbows and starts plucking stray bits of grass out of the ground with his fingers. We both watch in silence as a couple walk past, arms intertwined.

  ‘Get down to the juicy stuff, Charles. Tell me all about your love life,’ he says when they’re out of earshot.

  ‘Ha! What love life?’

  ‘Haven’t been seeing anyone?’ He turns his head to look at me.

  ‘Seeing anyone? No, not really.’ I sigh. ‘I’ve done a few of the first date things. First in Byron, and then Kath and Mark set me up with absolutely anyone single they knew.’

  ‘No good?’

  I roll over onto my stomach. ‘Don’t let me fall asleep, OK?’

  Jas nods. ‘Not a pretty sight anyway…’

  I ignore him. ‘As I was saying—no, they weren’t much chop. And it was so painful.’

  ‘What? Painful?’

  ‘Not in the physical sense of the word. I mean mentally painful. There’s just so much effort involved, isn’t there? First there’s the finding out as much about them as you can from other people thing, the getting ready for the date thing, the thinking of things to say so the conversation doesn’t dry out thing, and the kiss or not to kiss thing when the date’s over…’

  ‘Know what you mean.’

  I snort. ‘Sure you do. I’m sure dating is a real problem when you’re world-famous. People wouldn’t be interested in you at all. And you’d have to go to such boring, inexpensive places. Like Paris for lunch.’

  Jas snorts back. ‘Thought we’d been through all that? Worked out that maybe all those things you’ve heard about me aren’t exactly true? That my life isn’t quite as glamorous as it…’

  ‘So it’s harder for you, is it? Harder than it is for everyone else?’ I cut Jas off at the pass.

  He plucks a few more blades of grass out of the ground and brings them up to his face to inspect them more closely. ‘Yeah. In some ways.’ His eyes flick to me for only a second. ‘Ha!’

  ‘No. Reckon I’m being fair. I’ve been on both sides of the fame fence. This side’s harder. That so difficult for you to believe?’

  ‘Gee, I don’t know. Maybe they should start making a new TV show—When Stars Whinge.’

  ‘OK, OK. Get your point. I don’t mean harder, exactly. Just different. It has its own added set of problems.’

  ‘Like?’

  Jas thinks about this a bit before answering. ‘It’s the media’s fault, mainly. People get these ideas about you. Think they already know you from what they’ve read around the place when really they know nothing about you at all.’

  ‘Mmmm?’

  He eyes me. ‘You believed it all, didn’t you? Lived with me for almost a year, day in, day out, and you still believed it.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like what’s-his-face having his tongue stuck down my throat.’

  ‘Well, he did. I saw it with my own eyes.’

  ‘You know what I mean. You believed there was something going on between us.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Guilty as charged. I smile. ‘I didn’t believe all of it…’

  ‘Sure. OK, then. How about the other pig thing? The real pig thing. That’s a good example. The bestiality thing. Nice, huh? Pigs, apparently. I have a penchant for pigs. Great conversation starter on first dates, that one.’

  I turn fully, surprised. ‘Actually, I hadn’t heard that one. Maybe you should check what people know first before you go blurting it all out. I can just see it on a dating agency form: “Jas, twenty-nine, six foot four, enjoys romantic walks on the beach, lazy Sundays in bed. And pigs. The bigger and pinker the better.” Come on, Jas. You’ve got to leave some mystery for the second date.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘At least it’s not all your fault. It sounds like it’s Zamiel who’s letting you down on the dating front.’ I laugh. ‘Maybe you should just comfort yourself with the fact that at least he’s getting some. Even if it is with a pig.’

  ‘It’d be funny if it weren’t almost true.’ Jas pauses then, thinking. ‘You know, it’s strange—the sex thing with Zamiel. He’s supposed to be quite androgynous. Wasn’t meant to have sex at all. Not supposed to need to. If anything, I think he’d bud—you know? He’d grow another little Zamiel off his arm or something. That’s my theory, anyway.’

  ‘Great. Thanks for that.’

  ‘Yeah. I was joking. About the budding thing.’

  ‘Right. I just didn’t know there was a whole psychological profile going on behind the scenes. Anyway, you were saying there’s been no one?’

  I think it takes him a second to realise I’m talking about dating again. ‘Like you said, first date here, first date there, piggy in the middle. No, really, even if the first date’s OK, I never get a second one. Always in the wrong state, or the wrong country or something.’

  I yawn, not being able to help myself. ‘You sound like me—dating’s been thrown into the too-hard basket. I’ve decided I’m going with fate now. It’s easier. I’ve become a big believer in fate lately. If it’s meant to happen, it’s meant to happen, and that’s that.’

  Jas rolls over onto his stomach now too, crossing his arms out in front of him. He puts his head on the side so he can see me.

  ‘What?’ I say eventually.

  ‘You’re different.’

  I sit up a bit. ‘What do you mean, different?’

  ‘You’ve changed.’

  ‘What? How?’ What does he mean?

  Jas frowns. ‘Before you were always doing, doing, doing. Like you never took a breath. You never would have said that before. The thing about fate. You would’ve talked about making things happen.’

  I’m surprised at his comment. ‘Really?’

  He nods.

  Uneasy, I laugh. ‘It must be old age that’s changed me. I’m slowing down.’ I glance around me. ‘Hey, aren’t there shops around here?’ I say, changing the subject. ‘Harvey Nichols? Harrods?’

  ‘You should know. You used to live here.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Only until I was five!’ Jas is right, though. I was born in London and lived here with my mother and, for a few years, my father, who died when I was three. I haven’t been back since I was a child, but before I left I wasn’t exactly of Harvey Nichols/Harrods shopping type age.

  ‘I don’t think there’s any shops around here…’ Jas says, then starts whistling guiltily.

  ‘Nice try, buddy.’ I haul myself up and then give him my hand.

  ‘Worth a shot.’ He grins.

  For the next hour or so I drag Jas around Knightsbridge, shopping. Then, energy levels almost non-existent, we head back to Mayfair with my booty. Sinking onto our respective beds, we both decide we’re too tired to go out for dinner and order up some room service instead. I make Jas promise I can take him out for a slap-up dinner in Germany, telling him, if he’s lucky, he might even get two sausages with his sauerkraut.

  By six-thirty the food’s all gone and we can
barely keep our eyes open. Wearily, we both crawl into our beds. I turn my bedside light out first, while Jas takes in the delights of a little more local television. I’m just dozing off when he turns the TV and his own light out and I wake up a little. I stare at the opposite wall and realise I can hear him breathing. Awake now, I think about how strange it is that we’ve met up again like this. All because of a videotape falling onto my unsuspecting noggin.

  I really didn’t think I’d ever see Jas again, and now here he is, breathing beside me. And he’s the same. Almost exactly the same. I mean, he obviously has more money, and he does seem a little more sure of himself—the way he walks and speaks to people—but other than that he’s the same old Jas. The guy I used to share a flat with what feels like a million years ago. Still staring at the wall, I remember what he told me in the park. That I’ve changed. I’m different. Am I? Well, I guess I am. Facing death does that to you, I guess. Whether it’s your own or somebody else’s.

  Things are different between the two of us, that’s for sure. And I just wish I could feel like I used to. That I could tell Jas anything. I spotted him looking at me questioningly a couple of times today and it made me feel terrible to hold things back. Like when he asked me about uni. How slack did I seem there? It was a fair call on his part—you’d think someone could finish off one subject in two years. And I’m quite aware that I haven’t told Jas much about what I’ve been doing since I saw him last and that he’s probably noticed. But it’s difficult. Complicated. And if we’re going to be busy on the tour, and then he’s going to go back to work, to his new life, what’s the point of telling him everything I’ve been doing over the last few years? I don’t want to go into it. Mum. Me. It’s easier for both of us just to have a good time. Not to worry about the past. To start afresh and simply enjoy the short time we have together.

  I hear Jas roll over to face me and my body stiffens involuntarily. I can feel his eyes on the back of my head and instantly I know what he’s going to say.

  ‘Charlie,’ he says. ‘We need to talk.’

  I think about pretending I’m asleep, but then the words begin tumbling out. ‘You know, we don’t,’ I say with a small shake of my head. ‘Really. It’s OK. It’s just…all that…I’m over it. I don’t feel that way any more. About you, I mean. It’s all in the past.’