If I Can't Have You

by Charlotte Levin

‘Is everything OK, Alison?’ You finally turned your head. Blood surged to your cheeks. ‘Oh, Constance . . . I didn’t . . . I thought you were . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘I wondered if we could talk?’

  You swivelled your chair to face me. Interlaced your fingers and placed the ankle of your right leg onto the knee of your left, revealing the blue polo player of your red Ralph Lauren sock. ‘Of course. What would you like to talk about? Did you take the pill?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you. Well, it was for your sake just as much as mine. So what would you like to talk about?’

  As you sat there, cocked-headed, foot wagging, waiting for me to speak, I felt ridiculous. Smaller than the molecule of crust resting upon your eyelash.

  ‘I . . . well . . . I—’

  ‘I’m quite busy, Constance.’

  ‘I just don’t understand.’ The words were out there. Bouncing pointlessly around the room.

  ‘You don’t understand what?’

  I dropped my head. ‘Why . . . why you’d say those things, then change.’

  ‘What things?’

  My throat clamped. ‘That . . . that we . . .’

  ‘You’re mumbling now.’

  ‘That we were connected and . . . and that it’s a rare thing.’ I looked up. Watched as you dropped your head back, revealing a shaving cut on your throat.

  ‘Why are you bringing this up again?’ you said to the ceiling. Or God. Was it to God?

  ‘I just don’t understand,’ I whispered.

  You took a long intake of breath, then exhaled loudly. ‘OK . . . OK . . . I can’t believe we’re still doing this, but I’ll answer you because I’m a decent guy, and don’t like seeing anyone upset, but I don’t want to have to answer it again, OK?’ You continued as if I’d nodded in agreement. Your face was mapped with red. ‘Good, OK . . . I think you’re a great girl, and we did connect, or get on or whatever . . . We still do. But at any point did I say it was more than just a bit of fun? Look, I’m . . . I’m sorry if you believed otherwise. Honestly . . . I’m a straight-down-the-line guy. If I’d thought for one minute that you did or . . . or had any . . . feelings, I would have nipped it in the bud instantly. OK? Is that fair enough? You really have to let it go now.’

  I looked into your unblinking eyes. ‘So you jeopardized your career, my job, for a bit of fun?’

  Your foot dropped to the floor with a thud and you leant forward, placed your hands together, like you were praying, deep in thought. Then you sat up and said, ‘Is it going to be a problem, Constance? Us working together? I hope not. Because I enjoy working with you. Really, I do.’ You looked at me in a way I’d never known before. Cold.

  ‘No . . . no, of course not . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘Hey, it’s fine. Friends?’ You extended your hand for me to shake.

  I slowly walked towards you and met it with mine.

  ‘Excellent,’ you smiled, gripped. ‘Now . . . you couldn’t get me a coffee before Mrs Charles arrives, could you?’

  It felt as though five o’clock would never come.

  While you consulted in your office, not thinking about me, I could do nothing but obsess over you. I’m sure as far as you were concerned, that should have been it. As a doctor, you may have been knowledgeable about the aorta and the ventricles, but you seemed unaware of the real workings of a heart.

  When home time finally came, I waited for you outside. To walk with you. Attempt to at least articulate myself better.

  As soon as the fresh air hit, I pulled out a fag. Luckily, Linda and Alison didn’t wish to linger, so said their goodbyes and left. I headed down towards my usual corner between the steps and the wall. My hands clammy as I rehearsed what I might say, pulling hard on my cigarette until it depleted, pacing like a deranged tiger in one of those shitty concrete zoos.

  The door opened above. I held my breath. Pressed my back against the wall. The sound of soles against the stone of the steps. A hand on the rail. I exhaled. It wasn’t your hand. I recognized Dr Franco’s gold pinky ring. Once he’d reached the bottom, he walked in the direction of the surgery car park around the side of the building.

  I relaxed. Not completely, but enough to breathe and begin another fag. Although it made me nauseous, I needed the assistance.

  Once again the door opened. I could sense it was you this time, and I was right. I pressed myself back against the wall. Your buffed, unworked fingers slid down the rail. You were talking. No one else was in view, but as you neared, I could see your headphones were in and realized you were on the phone.

  ‘Yep . . . definitely. Not the green one, no, the other one. OK, so the one on the opposite side, then. The big one. The Wheatsheaf, I think it’s called. Yep . . . Friday . . . about seven. OK, Jimbo. Cool . . . See you there, mate . . . You’d better bloody not, you arse . . .’

  Engrossed in your conversation, you hadn’t noticed me at all.

  You were already heading down the road. Unsure of what to do, I set off behind you. Held back, waiting for you to end the call. We hadn’t got far when you pocketed your phone, and I took a huge breath before shouting, ‘Samuel.’ Nothing. ‘Samuel.’

  The white of your headphones still peeked through your hair. You were no longer talking, so it must have been music that filled your ears. I was uncertain what to do. In hindsight, I should have run up and tapped you on the shoulder. But I stayed behind you. Dropped back further. And as we walked together but not together, I felt something in contrast to the diminished husk you’d reduced me to in your office. Close to you without you knowing. Observing your walk. The slight dip when you dropped onto your left foot. The back of your hair floating in the breeze. Your hand reaching into your pocket like it always did. It was strange how it both excited and relaxed me. I was your invisible shadow. And I felt powerful.

  You reached the cemetery. The point at which I should have torn myself away. But I didn’t. It was all so easy to continue on your heels. Until you stopped. And I stopped. Heart thumping, I ducked into a driveway, terrified you’d turn and see me. But you were just pausing to fiddle with your handset, then walked on again. As did I.

  Once on your street, I didn’t cross with you. I made it to Edward’s block and stepped under the canopy. My body flat against the pillar, my head turned towards you. An elderly Hitchcock blonde, with unnecessary sunglasses and headscarf, was being pulled by an overenthusiastic Labrador towards your flats. You reached the door at the same time. The dog sniffing you, tail swishing. You patted its head, made indecipherable small talk with Tippi Hedren before unlocking the door and holding it open for her to enter first. Then it shut. And you were gone.

  I stayed there for some time. Staring up towards the light of your flat. Unable to see you, though comforted by your proximity.

  Yet it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. But then I remembered about Friday. That there was always the Wheatsheaf.

  It had been some time since Dale and I had ventured to Connelly’s, though nothing about it had changed. I don’t think anything about it had changed since the 1990s. We chose the shithole as our local purely due to laziness and economics. It’s hard to say what specifically made it a shithole. Perhaps the strip lighting, or the dated mahogany furniture covered in foam oozing burgundy velour, or the clientele: football supporters and ageing alcoholics, the two interchangeable. Or perhaps it was Gavin, the psycho landlord.

  After an awkward walk from the house, Dale held the door open for me to enter.

  ‘All right, babe?’ Gavin greeted me as we walked towards the bar, his arm draped over the Foster’s pump, exposing his McDonald’s tattoo.

  I smiled sweetly to avoid being put on some kind of hit list and gave Dale a tenner to get the drinks in, the first step in my bridge-building process.

  While heading to our usual spot in the corner beneath the broken wall-mounted TV, I noticed the pool table was free. I’d hoped we’d have a game, break the
ice. Dale loved pool but lacked any skill, so I figured he might hate me less if I let him win. The previous player had possibly attempted the same technique. The reds had been potted; the yellows remained. Or they could have just been crap at it. Like Dale.

  I didn’t think he’d agree to the outing. He’d been avoiding me for days. Staying out late, leaving before I woke. Knowing he was slipping away scared me and I needed his friendship back.

  You’d been at Harley Street since Tuesday. They were down a couple of doctors apparently, so I hadn’t seen you at all. You didn’t answer any of my calls. Never returned them. Not that I’d coherently planned what to say even if you had. Except on the Wednesday when I was eating lunch in the staffroom, zoning out to Alison’s grain-by-grain, fold-by-fold recipe for an eggless chocolate cake and my phone lit up with your name. Elated, I nearly choked on my ploughman’s baguette.

  ‘Hey . . . hi,’ I said, getting up and leaving Alison mid-sentence.

  No words greeted me back. Only strange beeping noises and the mumbling of voices.

  ‘Hello . . . hello.’ Then I realized it was a pocket call and you were at a supermarket self-checkout.

  ‘We should have a game,’ I said as Dale returned with our drinks.

  He dropped the change onto the sticky table and shrugged before sitting and supping his pint. The removal of the glass uncovered a froth moustache in place of his usual sweat one.

  I sipped on my vodka and Coke, ignored the tension, pushed on through. ‘So you’re doing OK, then?’

  ‘Yeah, all right.’ He stared straight ahead. Picked up his beer again.

  ‘So work’s OK?’

  ‘Yes . . . You’ve already asked me that.’

  ‘Sorry. Call of Duty?’

  ‘At the Nazi zombies.’

  ‘Oh good . . . good.’ I gulped half my drink. ‘So, do you fancy a game of pool, then?’

  I could see a minute twitch beneath his eye. He could never turn down a game of anything.

  ‘If we have to,’ he said.

  We transferred the dire atmosphere to the other side of the pub and he racked up the balls. I filled the silence by vigorously chalking my cue.

  ‘You break,’ he said.

  When the white barely disturbed the colours, he didn’t laugh as he ordinarily would, or joke about my comparison to Paul Newman in The Hustler.

  It turned out I didn’t have to let him win. His sheer determination not to engage created such focus that he was thrashing me.

  I was happy to remain in the uncomfortable void, but near the end of the game, I was taking a shot and he said, ‘So tell me, Constance, are we going to talk about the other night or what?’

  I miscued. The white ball bounced into a pocket. ‘Two shots to you,’ I said.

  He didn’t move. Held his cue like a staff.

  ‘I think you should go for that one there, Dale. If you go for the one over the pocket, you’ll pot the black.’

  ‘Yes, but it may bounce off the pocket and then I’ll still— Oh for Christ’s sake, stop talking to me about the game, will you? Did you not hear me?’

  A scolded child, I perched my cue against the wall and followed him with my drink to the tiny table tucked in the corner. We sat on the low stools, positioning ourselves to avoid touching each other’s knees.

  ‘You first,’ he said.

  My legs mirrored what was going on inside. Twisted. Numb. Not wanting to knock him. My only hope being if Gavin flipped out and we’d have to save people’s lives. ‘I . . . I don’t know what to say, though, Dale.’

  ‘Fine . . . I’ll start, then.’ Instead of doing so, he supped his pint.

  I followed suit with my near-empty glass.

  ‘Fuck . . . OK . . . The thing is, Constance . . . we’ve been friends for a little while now—’

  ‘And our friendship is so important to me.’

  ‘Sure, to me too . . . but, well, the fact is . . . I don’t think of you as just a friend anymore.’

  Though hardly a surprise, now the words were projected into the universe, I couldn’t look at him, never mind reply. I tilted my glass in search of vodka. Only ice remained, so I desperately dug some out with my fingers and sucked on it.

  ‘You see . . . you don’t say anything . . . It’s so bloody frustrating and I can’t work out if it’s because you’re shy—’

  ‘I . . . I just—’

  ‘Because there’s no need to be shy.’ He uncurled his fingers from his glass and reached for my hand. Held it. Cold hands, warm heart.

  I dared to look at him, smile.

  ‘So, you are just being shy?’

  ‘No . . . I . . .’ I shook my head. My eyes apologized.

  His hand released mine to grasp his beer once again, which he then gulped until only white froth slid down the sides. This time, there was an unmistakable slam.

  ‘It’s surely been fucking obvious from day one?’

  ‘What has?’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean.’

  ‘I . . . I thought we were friends. That you . . . you were my friend.’

  Elbows now resting on the table, he dropped his head into his hands. ‘I am . . . I . . . like being your friend . . . Actually, no . . . I don’t.’ He let out a strange laugh, looked up at me.

  I crunched down on the ice in my mouth.

  ‘In truth, I fucking hate it. I hate having to pretend. I hate that I want to kiss you . . . touch you.’

  My lips unintentionally contorted as he said the words. His eyes filled with hurt.

  ‘Are you guys playing?’ a man in a Chelsea shirt that barely covered his protruding belly shouted over to us from the pool table.

  ‘We are, yes, sorry,’ I said.

  ‘No, no. We’re done, mate.’ Dale put on his jacket and emptied the last dregs into his mouth.

  ‘What are you doing? Are we going?’

  He did that laugh again. And before I could gather my bag, follow him, the door of the main entrance was banging shut.

  It was thrashing it down.

  I spotted him. Walking, brisk, a way up the road, his jacket now held over his head. Already soaked, I ran to catch up. Each step a jump into a puddle.

  ‘Dale,’ I shouted. ‘Dale, please.’

  A car drove past, drenched me even more. I closed my eyes and caught my breath before gathering myself to belt out the third call: ‘Dale.’

  He stopped, turned and pounded back down the pavement towards me. To an observer, it would have appeared so romantic as we raced towards each other, met in the middle.

  ‘What, Constance? What do you want?’

  Rain trickled inside my mouth. ‘I . . . I want us to be friends.’

  He closed his eyes, sighed. All was still for a moment. Then he pulled me towards him. As we hugged, I felt everything relax. I smiled into his chest, relieved. Exhaled against his wet T-shirt.

  ‘Look, Constance, I’m sorry . . . I think I should leave . . . move out.’

  I removed myself from his embrace. That feeling happened in my stomach. The internal explosion. The panic. My one friend leaving me. Being left.

  ‘What do you mean? You can’t . . . Why? You . . . you said you’d never leave me. You pinky-promised.’ I held up my little finger in the hope he’d hook on to it. But he lifted his palm to his forehead, losing the grip on his jacket, which splashed onto the ground.

  ‘Jesus, Constance. Not everything is about you, you know.’

  I bent down to pick it up, but he pushed my hand away and retrieved the saturated rag, shook it.

  ‘Are you done?’ He looked at me, wanting me to say things I couldn’t say. ‘OK . . . OK, Constance . . . Well, I’m done.’ He turned, shaking the jacket once again, knowing it was futile, a time-filler.

  And all I could do, despite the anxiety rising inside me, as if the rainwater was overtaking my body, covering me, inch by inch, was watch him walk away.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d been to the Wheatsheaf.

  During those few
stifling days in the early summer, Dale and I had wandered in, enticed by the two-for-one Pimm’s offer. But it looked different as I observed it from the opposite side of the road, pulling on my third cigarette in a row, anxious, excited, preparing myself for you.

  I still hadn’t seen you. Nor had we spoken. I’d abandoned any further attempts at calling. Harley Street had claimed you, and my concerns that you’d stay there were growing.

  The one benefit of your absence was that it heightened my confidence in the plan. My presence may surprise you, the coincidence floor you, but any suspicions would be quashed by the fact there was no way I could’ve known you’d be there. To enforce this, I arrived early. So if anything, it would’ve been you who appeared to be following me. The only flaw to all this was that I’d be alone. But I’d decided that good old Mary Feely was supposed to be meeting me. ‘I’m worried about her,’ I’d say. ‘It’s not like her to not show up, and she’s not answering her phone.’ That reminds me. I really must find out if Mary is dead or not.

  I’d already changed from my work clothes in the toilets of another nearby pub. Determined to make an impact, make you see me differently, grown up. Like Laura. This involved wearing Mum’s stuff, not my own. Her pointy black heels, tight red dress. When I came to London, most of the items thrown into my two suitcases belonged to her, not me. I had no choice but to let go of the house contents, but clothes, clothes are different. They’re still the person. Carry their essence. Though some were merely pieces of material, cuts of leather. I left those with ease. But others, it was as though she was still alive. Wearing them, yet invisible. And when I’d pulled up the straps of the dress, positioned my foot into the well of the shoe, she was with me. Or perhaps I became her. All I know is, when I’d stared into the mirror in the toilets of the Rose and Crown – voluminous hair, make-up strong – it wasn’t me.

  Heaving open the door of the Wheatsheaf, I was relieved to find the place was already murmuring with after-work drinkers and was reminded of the abundance of areas and alcoves where I could watch, hide.

  At the bar, I took my position next to two shiny-headed middle-aged men wearing shirts draped with loosened ties and ordered myself a vodka and Coke.