by J. D. Chase
She dashed back into the living room and picked up her phone. The ringtone ceased as soon as she touched it. The screen declared that she had one missed call.
Oh well, at least that rescued me from the likely outcome of being rude to Joshua.
After tossing it back on to the sofa, she'd taken about ten steps when she froze.
It could have been Xander . . .
Crossing the distance at a speed of which Usain Bolt would be proud, she snatched up the phone and unlocked the screen with shaking hands.
She clicked on the missed call notification, her heart thudding in her ears. And then she felt deflated like a popped balloon when she saw that the caller hadn't been Xander, but Jamie.
She slammed the phone back on to the sofa so hard that it bounced and landed on the floor. Letting go of a stream of expletives worthy of any sailor, she snatched it up only to almost drop it again when it rang.
She glared at the display. It was Jamie again.
‘Jamie!’ she exclaimed as she connected the call. ‘What's going on? You do realise your job's on the line if you don't get your arse into work, don't you?’
‘Is that why you called me? To lecture me? Well, I'm sorry, Isla. You'll have to get to the back of the queue.’
Indignation pricked her spine, making her open her mouth to give him what for but something stopped her. It was his tone. He sounded defeated. Weak. Not like Jamie at all. She instinctively knew that something was wrong. Majorly wrong.
‘Everyone is just concerned and we don’t want to stand back while you fuck up your life, Jamie. That's all. People care about you and that's what nice people do. They don't want to stand back and see it unfold before their eyes. They want to help if they can. You shutting people out and not letting anyone know what's going on is the worst thing you can do. And yeah, I'm lecturing you. But only because I want a clear conscience when your professional life falls apart.’
She took a deep breath after her long speech.
‘The one person who can help me? Yeah well, they won't.’ He sounded close to tears.
‘Have you asked them?’
He laughed harshly. ‘I've tried but they won't take my calls.’
Isla thought over his words for a second or two. ‘Jamie, I obviously know nothing of what has happened, but something has. Surely someone else can help. And even if they can't, if you let the company know what's going on, you might just be able to save your job.’
‘Fuck my job,’ he exclaimed carelessly.
Narrowing her eyes suspiciously, Isla began to chew on her lip. Nothing came between Jamie and his job. He wasn't dealing with something major – he was dealing with something that was off the chart. And he was doing it alone.
‘Where are you, Jamie?’
Silence.
‘Jamie, you need help. Either you tell me where you are or I'm calling your mother. Your choice. And don't try to guilt trip me into not worrying your mum. She'd rather know. You have ten seconds to decide.’
Silence.
‘Five seconds, Jamie. And I'm deadly serious.’
Silence.
‘Fine. I'm—’ she began.
‘Wait! I'm at home. But don't you dare tell a soul.’
‘Give me your address.’
‘No way. I've kept to my side of the bargain so don't even think of calling my parents. If I wanted the whole world to know why my life has gone down the shitter, I'd tell people myself. Got it?’
The click of the call being disconnected made Isla want to growl in frustration. She paced up and down her living room before calling Joshua and getting Jamie's address out of him. She didn't let on that she'd spoken to him or that she knew he was at home. Instead, she made out that she'd written Jamie a letter, urging him to make contact with her and that she wanted to post it through his letterbox on the off chance that he returned home soon.
Joshua didn't doubt her word and gave her the address. She scribbled it down, grabbed her handbag and her keys and flew out of the door. She waved down a cab and gave the address before hunting furiously in her purse to make sure she had enough cash to cover the ride. She blew out a long breath when she found a twenty pound note, wrapped up in a collection of tube tickets.
It was only a short ride to Woodford Green. She could scarcely believe that he lived only a relatively short distance from her and she hadn't known. She'd have thought that he would have tried to find a place nearer to his work, especially since he loved the hustle and bustle of the city centre. But then, she reasoned, buying or renting a place alone would be almost impossible there . . . unless that promotion had doubled his salary which she doubted. As they passed the underground station, she noticed that it was on the Central Line so he could get into St. Paul's within minutes. That had probably influenced his decision to live there.
The cab pulled up outside a nondescript house. She paid the cabbie and made her way to the front door. All of the curtains were closed and not a sound could be heard from inside. She put her finger on the doorbell and kept it there whilst she fished her phone out of her bag and managed to unlock it single-handedly. She dialled his number and let it ring out.
‘What now?’ Jamie snapped as he answered the call.
‘Let me in,’ she demanded, keeping her finger on the doorbell.
Seconds later, the door was pulled back a short way. Isla gasped as Jamie came into view. He didn't look anything like Jamie. In fact, she'd swear that she'd walk past him in the street and not recognise him. Apart from being completely dishevelled – crumpled, unwashed clothes hung from his frame – he sported a scruffy beard and lank, greasy hair clung to his head. His eyes were red-ringed slits but they still managed to convey his hostility.
He filled the small space, clearly intending not to allow her entry to his home but she dashed forward without warning, almost knocking him over as she barged past him. She smelled stale beer on him . . . and in the hallway. She’d bet anything that he’d spent his time, since going AWOL, getting pissed.
‘What the?’ he muttered before sighing in defeat and closing the door behind them.
Isla was completely disorientated. Partly because she was in an unknown house but mostly because it was shrouded in darkness. She slid her hand across the wall and managed to locate a light switch. She flicked it on, eliciting a string of curses from Jamie as he hastily covered his eyes.
‘Turn it off, you idiot. If anyone comes looking for me, they’ll know I’m here,’ he growled from behind his hands, still unable to bear the bright light.
Isla looked him up and down, shaking her head at the nerve of him calling her an idiot, given his current behaviour. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that. Unless you can give me a satisfactory explanation for throwing away your career, I’m going to call the office before I leave.’
His hands dropped from his face, just for a second before raised them again. ‘You wouldn’t. You’re a bossy cow sometimes but you’re not an evil bitch. Although . . .’
‘Yes?’ she asked, looking past him and into the doorways off the hall. When she’d determined which led to the kitchen, she walked inside, flicking the light switch as she passed it.
Jamie turned off the hall light before following her into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. He continued to peep around his fingers in order to turn on the soft, under-cupboard lighting before turning off the main light. Then he stood with his eyes scrunched up until they acclimatised to the dim lighting.
Isla located the fridge and opened it. The rank odour of decomposing food almost made her retch before she slammed the door closed. She nearly berated him but she remembered that she’d had the same issue in her own fridge recently. Instead, she proceeded to fill the kettle, allowing the water to run for a while after she noticed the tell-tale metallic odour of water that had been standing in the pipes for too long. She didn’t need to ask him what he’d been drinking; empty lager cans littered the work surface and spilled out of the bin and he smelled like a brewery.
‘What were you going to say? I’m an evil bitch, although?’ she asked, once the kettle was heating up. ‘And where’s the coffee?’
He pointed at one of the wall cupboards. ‘In there. And . . . you know. All the shit that’s been going on. I didn’t think I’d be top of your Christmas card list nowadays.’
Reaching for the jar of coffee, she muttered distractedly, ‘I’ve moved on, Jamie. I’m here aren’t I?’
She turned to find Jamie staring at her in surprise. ‘What?’ she asked as she located the cutlery drawer.
He shrugged. ‘Nothing. I guess I’m surprised that you’re able to move on so quickly, that’s all.’
She laughed. ‘Quickly? Jamie, it’s been months.’
She shook her head at his quizzical expression. ‘Sorry, if it dents your male pride but yes, it took a while but I have most definitely moved on.’
Jamie said nothing as she found a couple of mugs and spooned coffee and sugar into them before pouring hot water over them, once the kettle had boiled. She asked him to clear space at the breakfast bar for them to sit and he duly obeyed, clearing away empty cans and bottles into a bin liner. Noting that there was no evidence of him having eaten anything recently – no discarded packaging from ready meals − although she accepted that the state of the fridge should rule those out, and no evidence of takeaway meals either, she looked at him closely.
His beard did a good job of disguising the gauntness of his face but, when she studied him carefully, she could see he’d lost weight. And the pallor of his skin was awful. The redness around his eyes showed his lack of sleep and his eyes . . . he looked like a man on the edge. She frowned, wondering why he was able to get distracted by their break-up and how long it had taken her to get over him. And yet, he was barely functioning from something that had happened recently, unable to eat or sleep but able to drink himself into oblivion as his career went down the pan. She knew he needed help but she didn’t know whether he’d allow her even to try. Well, she resolved, she was going to do her damnedest and he’d have to like it or lump it.
Placing the drinks on the counter and perching on a stool, she sat back and thought about how to proceed.
‘How can you be so strong?’ he blurted out, suddenly. ‘I admire you, Isla. I really do. The way you take things in your stride and keep your chin up. Nothing gets you down, does it?’
Isla gave a wry smile, thinking if only he’d seen her wallowing in pity just a couple of hours before.
‘Nothing keeps me down, Jamie. There’s a difference,’ she replied with a smile. ‘And you can find the strength inside you to pull through. It may not seem like it but you can.’
He didn’t look convinced. In fact, if anything, his face fell. ‘But how?’ Those two words were barely a whisper and Isla realised that he was fighting back tears.
‘Oh Jamie,’ she whispered back as she leant forward and embraced him.
At first, he remained rigid but eventually he relaxed and wrapped his arms around her. Gentle sobs, almost like hiccups, gradually worsened until he was crying like a baby in Isla’s arms. She rubbed her hand up and down his back as she allowed him to release his unshed tears. His hold on her grew tighter and tighter until she felt he was clinging to her, too afraid to let go. She’d never seen him like this – not at his grandfather’s funeral and certainly not during their break-up. A sense of unease began to take hold of her as her mind attempted unsuccessfully to imagine what had triggered this.
Slowly, the soul-wrenching cries subsided to sobs once more before tailing off to silence. Isla was desperate to know what had happened to him but she sensed that he needed to tell her in his own good time, if he were to tell her at all. Suddenly, he released her and sprang back, turning away from her and grabbing a sheet of kitchen roll. As he mopped up his tears and blew his nose, she realised that he was embarrassed. In all the years she’d known him, this was the closest he’d come to baring his soul.
Isla sat, her fingers clenching and relaxing as she struggled to decide whether to speak or remain silent. She worried that the time had passed for him to open up, that she’d missed her opportunity for helping him. When he sat back on his stool, picked up his coffee and stared into the distance, she half- expected his next words to be her dismissal. She could not have been more wrong. The dismissal came. But not before the bombshell.
Several minutes passed before he spoke. Neither of them moved, except to sip their coffee.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.
‘What for?’ she replied, still on tenterhooks.
‘Everything. It’s all so fucked up. And I fucked it all up. You shouldn’t be here, comforting me. Not after all that I’ve done.’
She smiled reassuringly but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. ‘Like I’ve told you, that’s all in the past. You’ve got to let it go.’
His head swung around to face her and he leaned in close, his hand knocking his mug over, sending coffee all over the worktop. Isla gasped and sat up, turning her face away from his furious expression.
He poked a bony finger into her chest, punctuating his words. ‘Easy for you to say. You’ve only known him a short time. You had a fling with your married fancy man. I loved her. I thought I was a father. And now, they have everything while we . . . we have nothing. Congratulations for being able to move on so quickly. Forgive me for not being able to. My fucking world is falling down around my ears and you . . . you tell me to move on.’
She shook her head, unable to comprehend what he was saying. ‘Jamie, I—’
‘I’ll bet you couldn’t wait to come over here and lord it over me once you’d heard, could you?’ he sneered. ‘Miss Fucking Perfect. Well, come on . . . let’s hear it. Tell me what you really want to say. Don’t let the fact that my life is fucked up stop you. No – I’ll save you the trouble. Yes, it’s my own fucking fault that I’m feeling like this. Yes, I brought it upon myself. And yes, after fucking around with her behind your back, I deserve it all. Every fucking thing. You got your fingers burnt . . . yeah? Well, I’m fucking burning in the flames.’
He lurched off his stool and picked up a bottle of vodka that stood on the tiny table in the centre of the room. The cap was missing so he put the top to his lips and upended the bottle and then, when he realised it was empty, threw it across the room. It hit the tiled splashback and shattered. Isla ducked, putting her hands over her head. When she lowered them again, blood was trickling down the backs of them. She stared in horror at the tiny fragments of glass embedded in her skin.
Jamie was too busy rifling through a cupboard to notice. Eventually, he emerged triumphant – a bottle of port in his hand. Isla looked across as he poured it down his throat and then hissed and shook his head in distaste. She recalled how he hated port but, no matter how many times he told his grandmother, she still sent him a bottle every birthday and Christmas. Whether it was the sight of all the blood on her hands, or that her brain was recalling useless information at a time like this, she couldn’t say but she started to laugh hysterically.
The shrill, maniacal sound echoed around the small kitchen. Jamie looked at her suspiciously, as if trying to figure out whether she was laughing at him. The sight of him, looking like the undead, peering at her with a distrustful gaze after he’d just let loose a barrage of vitriol, none of which made sense, made her laugh even more.
After narrowing his slitty eyes further, Jamie shrugged and went back to downing the port, leaving Isla’s brain to absorb his words. As dots began to join, her laughter grew quieter and quieter until she looked as confused as Jamie.
He thought he was a father . . . now they have everything . . . we have nothing.
A father? Now, he has nothing. We have nothing. They have everything.
Her voice broke the silence as she whispered, ‘Who did you have your affair with? Tell me it wasn’t her.’
But, even without his answer, she knew.
Jamie opened his mouth to reply and then saw her sitting there, her vacant expression,
her skin porcelain white and her hands dripping blood on to her clothes.
‘Fuck!’ he shouted, abandoning the port on the table and grabbing a tea towel. He dashed to her, sliding on to his knees and preparing to wrap the towel around her wrists. When he saw that the blood was coming from the backs of her hands, he didn’t know whether to feel relieved or guilty. Whispering how sorry he was, he urged her to stand and guided her to the sink where he proceeded to pick out all of the tiny shards of glass. Then he held her hands under a stream of cold water for a couple of minutes until they began to turn blue. And still he kept whispering, ‘Sorry.’
He led her into the living room, treating her like a fragile child, and she looked like one. He hastily cleared the sofa of empty cans and bottles and sat her down, gently. He switched on a lamp and then sat next to her, not quite knowing what to say. After watching her open and close her mouth several times, he whispered, ‘I thought you knew.’
He watched her eyes gradually focus on him before she frowned and shook her head.
‘What a mess,’ he whispered. ‘But thank fuck you hadn’t . . . I mean, I thought you’d . . .’
‘What?’ she asked. ‘Tell me, it seems you know everything and I . . . well, I find out second-hand. From you of all people.’
‘Back there . . . in the kitchen . . . I saw blood dripping from your hands and I thought . . . I thought you’d done something stupid.’
Her eyes widened in understanding. ‘No, Jamie. I’m strong, remember. That would be stupid. So Ms Big Tits . . . that’s Xander’s wife. And the baby you thought was yours is his.’
His eyes dropped guiltily down into his lap and he merely nodded.
‘But I don’t understand. You said that it was over . . . last week, when you came to the hotel. You said that she’d dumped you. You also said that you only realised that losing me hurt more than losing her . . . how could that be when you thought she was carrying your baby?’
He shook his head violently. ‘I didn’t know anything about the baby. I didn’t even know she was pregnant, not until Tuesday when she called me out of the blue and told me that I was a father. It was her trying to call me when I was at your hotel on Monday night. I could hardly answer the phone to her when I was with you, could I? I’m not a complete bastard. Then—’
