If I Can't Have You

by Charlotte Levin

  The nearest man elbowed his friend, then turned to me, smiling, twenty-pound note in hand. ‘Can I get that for you, sweetheart?’

  I paid the bartender. ‘It’s OK, thanks . . . I’m meeting someone.’

  ‘Not a John, by any chance?’ They both laughed as if it was the funniest thing in the world, but I didn’t understand and had no idea who John was.

  Drink in hand, I couldn’t get away quickly enough and headed over to the large table on the raised section towards the back, in order to get a clear view of the main door.

  Sat, waiting, heart near exploding, barely able to control the glass enough to direct the liquid into my mouth, the reality of what I was doing hit me. How insane it suddenly felt. But I reasoned with myself and reapplied my lipstick. Because ultimately, Samuel, you gave me no choice.

  The place soon filled up, obscuring more and more of my vision. The atmosphere hummed with enjoyment, laughter. Heads back, arm slapping. People with their friends. People had friends.

  I forced myself to restrict my sips, knowing that being drunk wouldn’t help me. But I was finding it difficult and would have happily been on my third.

  Then I waited.

  And waited.

  Seven arrived and left without any sign of you.

  But at seven twenty came a stroke of luck.

  A group of dolled-up young women, carrying a variety of glittery gift bags and gaudy parcels, approached the table. They infiltrated the area, claimed the seats. I was about to make some sarcastic ‘Sure, no one’s sitting there’ comment when the long-haired brunette in the blood-flow-restricting dress picked up a previously unnoticed plastic ‘reserved’ sign between her gem-encrusted talons and said, ‘Well, it must be this one . . . She did say at the back.’

  Realizing my mistake, I stood and was about to apologize when a woman with envy-inducing candyfloss-pink hair asked if I was there for Jen’s birthday.

  ‘No. I . . . I’m sorry. I’ll get out of your way.’

  She smiled through her annoyance at my accidental gatecrashing, so I embellished as I climbed over a chair to escape: ‘I’m sorry . . . I didn’t realize it was reserved. I was meeting a date, but I think I’ve been stood up.’

  Her expression changed. ‘You’re joking.’ She turned to the brunette. ‘Did you hear that, Kate? She’s been stood up by her date.’

  ‘Oh what? That’s awful . . . I’m so sorry, darling.’

  ‘Don’t get Kate started,’ said Pink Girl.

  ‘No, don’t get me started . . . They’re all arseholes. Fucking hate the lot of ’em. What’s your name, hon?’

  ‘Constance.’

  ‘Hey, everyone, shush a minute . . . This is Connie. Some arsehole’s gone and stood her up.’ The gang mumbled their condolences.

  My eyes filled. The earlier realization reinforced. I wanted to go home. Remove my facade.

  ‘Hey, don’t you be crying over the wankers, Connie . . . You stick with us for the night, darling . . . Jen won’t mind, will she, Kate? If Connie joins us? We can’t let a bloke just leave her hanging like that.’

  ‘No, you stay with us, Connie. Was it Tinder?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, he’d be twenty stone heavier, ten years older and have commitment issues, so you stick with us – you’ll have a much better time.’

  Ordinarily, I would have bolted. I wasn’t part of their world. Had nothing to say to them, no common ground apart from my dress, which wasn’t even mine. But it was the perfect scenario for being there. I was out with my friends. Like a normal person. So I took it as a divine sign. Approval.

  Before long I’d been invited to other events: Shelly’s barbecue and a shopping trip followed by tapas. All lovely gatherings I definitely wouldn’t attend. Even the birthday girl welcomed me in, once she arrived. I endeared myself to her by buying her a pina colada, complete with umbrella and sparkler. It was all quite touching, really. I was unused to being around women in this way, but it was nice. Though I didn’t see that at the time. I was only concerned with you.

  It was nearly nine. The place was heaving. A myriad of people, none of them you. I’d made attempts to search, but you were nowhere, and each time the girls pulled me back to sink more Jägerbombs and sing songs from Frozen.

  There was talk about going on to a club. The effects of the alcohol had mutated from fun to maudlin. The disappointment overwhelming. Barely able to focus, I broke free to stagger to the bathroom.

  Waiting in the queue, I caught myself in the mirror. A stranger. A black-eyed, smeared-lipped stranger. I left the line and went over to the sink, yanked a wad of paper towels from the dispenser and wet them under the tap. Wiping my stupid face clean of the futile attempts at desirability, I realized it was her. Mum. Looking back at me. The mess in the dress. Lava rose inside and I threw the sodden ball of paper at her image, gripped the sides of the sink, dropped my head and shouted, ‘Fuck,’ into the plughole. When I turned around, I was faced with a wall of staring women.

  ‘I’ve been stood up, OK? And it’s my birthday.’

  ‘Purple Rain’ played as I dug around the work clothes stuffed in my bag in search of my fags and battled back through the fun and frolics.

  Pack in hand, I looked up towards my goal, the exit. Then I blinked, long, hard. The song slowed. I thought I was so intoxicated I’d imagined it.

  You.

  Leaning casually against the wall of an alcove. Your shirt half untucked. Swaying. Eyelids drooping. Talking, laughing with your two friends, who looked like they’d just stepped out of a Tory conference.

  Someone jostled me from behind. Squeezed past, carrying drinks over my head. Sticky liquid dripped onto my deflating hair. I remained rooted, unsure of what I should do. Unsure of what I wanted to do. But soon the choice was taken from my hands.

  You’d put your empty pint glass down on a shelf and headed towards the direction of the bar. My direction. Slow motion. And as you neared, your eyes widened, your head jerked back in shock. Then there you were, standing right in front of me.

  ‘Hey . . . Constance . . . What are you doing here?’

  I smiled, my lips snagging on my teeth as my mouth drained of saliva. People pushed past, but we defied the current. You’d raised your voice above the music, but I didn’t reply.

  Presuming I hadn’t heard, you dropped your head, placed your warm mouth against my ear. ‘I said, what are you doing here?’

  I closed my eyes, inhaled the alcohol on your breath. Wanting to turn and kiss you. The tingles when your words brushed my flesh had been born of something mutual. I knew they were. I felt it. The electricity running two ways.

  Now my turn to speak, you dipped your ear towards my lips.

  ‘I’m just here with friends,’ I said, pointing towards the real people I didn’t even have to make up. ‘What about you? What are you doing here?’

  You held both arms out in an exaggerated shrug. ‘Fuck knows.’ You laughed at yourself for a moment, then said, ‘You look nice.’

  I needed to hear the words again. ‘What? Sorry? What did you say?’ I bent my neck further, not just to listen but to expose more flesh. More of my scent.

  ‘I said, you look really nice. Very sexy.’

  We swapped again, like Europeans kissing cheeks. ‘Oh . . . Oh right . . . Thank you.’

  I noticed your eyes linger on my chest. Then you closed them for a few seconds, bit your lip.

  Neither of us spoke for a moment. I wanted to stay there forever, but my purpose was complete. You’d seen me again. Differently. Always leave them wanting more, Mum would say, after she’d already given too much.

  ‘Well, it’s good to see you, Dr Stevens . . . I’d better get back to my friends now.’ Bravely, I stepped away, then felt a clamp around my wrist.

  ‘Hey . . . come on. Don’t “Dr Stevens” me . . . Stay, talk to me.’ As if you’d forgotten what you’d done. How you’d not responded to my calls. Yet I allowed you to walk me, hand in hand, to another alcove by the fru
it machines.

  It was happening. What I’d dreamt of, prayed for. We were standing so close. You, holding my hand, inspecting it like a precious gem.

  ‘Hey, I’m . . . I’m sorry I’ve not called you back . . . Arghhh, you look so hot tonight . . . When did you get so hot? I’m . . . I’m a fuck-up, Constance . . . you know . . .’

  Is it possible to be equally thrilled and offended? Because I was. I should have told you I needed to get back to my friends. Made you work harder. But you leant in, your nose nuzzling into my neck, and it felt so much better than all the pain.

  Beyond your shoulder, I could see your mates looking over, pointing, laughing. You placed your lips onto mine. We were back together, kissing. As natural and right as it always was. And it all seemed so silly then. The tears, the hurt, the distress.

  You led me outside. Aside from the clutch of people standing around smoking, it was cool and still, in contrast to the rowdiness indoors. My hand gripped yours.

  ‘Let’s share a fag,’ you said.

  Adrenaline was sobering me up, but I couldn’t suppress my smiles, the happiness that emanated from me.

  The music and laughter from inside were muffled and distant. My ears rang with the quiet. I lit a cigarette and handed it to you. After your first drag, you coughed.

  ‘You really shouldn’t smoke, you know,’ I said.

  You laughed and tried again. ‘It’s your fault – you’re a bad influence on me.’

  As the smoke bellowed from your lips, you threw me a sideways look.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  You handed back the ciggie. ‘Nothing. Just I’ve missed you.’

  I’ve. Missed. You.

  I wanted to scream to the sky I’d missed you too, but I smiled and said, ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘Fucking hell, you’re right . . . You’re always right, Constance, you know that? I am drunk . . . but you know what they say? Many a true word . . . Shit . . . That’s jest . . . But I have – I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I . . . I’ve missed you too,’ I dared.

  The pub doors flew open. A group of revellers spilt out. Their unwanted, noisy world infiltrating ours. I looked down at my aching over-arched feet as we stopped talking, waiting for them to disappear. Defended our bubble.

  Then you said, ‘Come here . . . I want to show you something.’

  With your arm draping my shoulders, you walked me down the side of the building. It was difficult for me to keep up in her shoes. The heel tips were wearing down, uneven, and I nearly went over on my ankle.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘Shhh.’ You placed your finger over your mouth.

  We turned a corner. It was devoid of light. Some kind of alleyway. I giggled, but it was almost pitch-black and I became disorientated.

  ‘What? What are you showing me? I can’t see a thing.’

  Your hands slid around my waist, and you pushed me against the cold brick wall, your mouth hovering over mine.

  ‘You really like me, don’t you, Constance?’

  I nodded, then realized you couldn’t see me. ‘Yes . . . I do.’

  You wrapped your arms around me, hugged me tight. We swayed, my head nestling into your chest. Lack of vision accentuated your smell, the usual citrus mixed with booze and tobacco.

  ‘But why? Why do you like me so much?’ you whispered.

  I released my arms and copied your earlier exaggerated shrug. ‘Fuck knows.’ I laughed, but you didn’t join in, and the silence told me you were seeking a genuine answer. I returned my arms to your body. ‘Well . . . you’re handsome . . . and funny—’

  ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘I said, you’re handsome and funny, and we have things in common, and . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we have a connection.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘And . . . I don’t know . . . Being with you just . . . It makes me happy.’

  We stayed there. Locked together in silence. Consumed in the strangeness, I wanted the embrace to last an eternity.

  But that wasn’t what happened, was it?

  ‘What about me? What do you like about me?’ I asked.

  No words came. Only the sharpness of the wall against my back as you kissed me. Harder than before. Harder than ever before. When you gripped my hair, your nails dug into my scalp. Do you even remember? Do you remember what happened when you were pressing up against me? I wanted it to happen. I think. But I was also scared. In the dark. You were pulling up my dress. It was tight and difficult, and I had to help you. I heard the rustling of a condom packet being torn open. You were carrying a condom. You didn’t know I’d be there, but you were carrying a condom. The bricks grazed my flesh as you pulled my knickers aside and pushed inside me. I couldn’t look in your eyes, connect, because I couldn’t see your eyes. But I kept saying to myself, It’s OK. He wants you again . . . He wants you.

  It didn’t last long.

  There was the sound of you removing the condom and pulling up your zip. Your shoes clacked against the concrete as you took a few steps away from me. Then there was the noise of you heaving, followed by the splash of the contents against the floor.

  ‘Sorry . . . sorry, Constance . . . Hey, we’ve gone full circle. You now have to ask me if I’m pregnant.’ You laughed.

  I tugged down my dress. My finger got caught in a tear at the seam.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. Yes, sorry . . . I’m a bit trashed. We should go . . . You ready?’

  You escorted me out of the alley. As the world became lighter, I felt exposed, but you were kind and put your arm around me as we walked back towards the pub. I could now see the tear, so removed my bag from my shoulder and held it against my hip to cover it.

  As we approached the entrance, your two friends were there, shoulders lifted, jigging as if cold.

  One of them saw us approaching and pointed. ‘Oy-oy, Sam,’ he shouted over.

  I smiled, nervous about meeting them. Then, when we were about twenty feet away, you stopped.

  ‘Look . . . I’m going to have to go.’

  I was confused at first, thought you were replying to your mate but hadn’t said it loud enough. My teeth chattered. ‘Oh, I . . . Can I come with? I think my friends will have left now.’

  ‘I wish you could, but it’s boys’ night . . . They’d go ape-shit. You know how it is.’

  I nodded. Smiled. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know at all.

  ‘Here . . . take this and get a cab home.’ You handed me thirty quid. I accepted it like a hooker.

  ‘Samuel, you bastard,’ shouted your other friend.

  ‘It was good to see you, Constance. Really. I’ll see you Monday.’ You appeared suddenly quite sober. As was I.

  You walked away. Then your steps turned into a sprint, which ended with you jumping onto the back of one of the Tories, like a good old boys’ rugger scrummage. I stayed rooted. Cold and aching. Watching as you were being piggybacked down the road. The same road from which I’d earlier observed the pub with so much hope.

  I watched a documentary last night. I do things like that now. It was about the rivers in India that are so polluted they both give life and take it away.

  You were my toxic river.

  I hadn’t seen Dale all weekend. Then on the Sunday evening I received a text saying he was staying with his parents for a couple of weeks. I tried not to let it ruin everything, scare me. Told myself that he’d return as if nothing had happened, loving me as my friend. Wanting it to all go back. I decided to enjoy the freedom of thought his absence brought. The joy of starting things up with you once again.

  When Monday finally came, I sat at my desk, clean and prettied up. You arrived late, unshaven with bloodshot eyes. Stomping through reception, you brought with you an atmosphere that put me on edge. Seeing me didn’t soften you at all.

  ‘Sorry I’m late . . . Constance, could you bring me a strong coffee, please?’

 
; You disappeared without waiting for my reply. It was a demand, not a request. And something defiant inside prevented me from jumping up to fulfil your wishes. I continued to type a letter for Dr Harris, and as I was finishing it, my rebellion was encouraged to last longer by him bringing me another.

  ‘Girls, can I speak to you all a moment?’

  We stopped what we were doing to give him the attention he required.

  ‘You’ll probably be surprised to know . . . that I’ll be turning fifty in a couple of weeks.’

  I wasn’t surprised; I was astonished. I’d had him down as being at least sixty.

  ‘Mrs Harris is insisting that we have a bash to commemorate the milestone, and I’d very much like to invite you to join us. It’s only at our house, nothing fancy. That’s in Chelsea, so not far . . . next Saturday, the seventeenth. I’ll send over the address to the reception email. OK . . . well, I don’t wish to keep you.’

  Linda and Alison excelled with their sycophancy. ‘Oh, that’s marvellous, Dr Harris . . . Thank you, Dr Harris . . . Let me crawl up your arse and live there, Dr Harris.’

  Then I realized you’d be going too, so joined in. ‘That sounds lovely, Dr Harris.’

  My spirits raised, I decided it was now time to make your coffee.

  ‘Thank you, Constance. You couldn’t just pop it there, could you?’ You gestured to a space on the desk, beyond your diary, and sat back to watch me walk, place it carefully. ‘And then can you shut the door.’

  I did as I was told, excited for the return of our clandestine interactions, whispered secrets.

  ‘It was good to see you the other night,’ you said.

  ‘Yes . . . yes, you too.’

  You puffed your cheeks and blew like you were slowly extinguishing birthday candles. ‘What a crazy night . . . I’m still suffering.’ You took a sip of the coffee and pulled the same unimpressed face you did on that first day.

  ‘Sorry . . . You said strong, so I put a bit more—’

  ‘No . . . no, it’s fine . . . thank you.’ You smiled, but I didn’t believe it. ‘Listen, Constance . . . I’d have liked to have been able to chat longer, but you took your time, and now Mrs Rose is due any second. I just wanted to say . . . Well, I . . . I was pretty wasted on Friday . . . as I think you were too . . . and I . . . Well, I can’t remember much of what happened . . . and . . . Wow, this is embarrassing, but . . . we . . . we didn’t kiss, did we?’