‘Shit!’ I blurt as soon as I walk through the doorway and spot Ian sitting on the sofa in his gym gear with his head bowed, his hands clasped together and raised up to his mouth. He flinches at my reaction.
‘Sorry,’ he says, standing up, his face looking pained. ‘I couldn’t go.’ He seems so nervous I can’t help but feel for him.
‘Why not?’ I ask, hearing a mixture of emotions in my own voice – surprise, fear, concern and anger, it’s all there.
‘You being here while I headed out … it felt cowardly not to be here,’ he says, reaching his arms out towards me.
‘Some would say decent,’ I say, unable to stop myself spitting the words out.
‘Would you?’ he asks, his eyes begging me to be more understanding, or at least willing to listen.
‘Depends what you’re here for,’ I breathe, feeling my jaw tighten.
‘Nothing!’ he says with possibly a bit too much punch than he should’ve done. He’s not about to start begging for me back. Well, there’s a relief …
‘I just want to sort out my things,’ I say, looking around the flat that’s more immaculate than ever.
‘I know …’
He’s here when he said he’d be out. It’s as though he has purposefully trapped me into being here at the same time as him. I should be angrier than I am, but the truth is there’s something strangely comforting about seeing him. When I walked off at the airport (while whispering champagne-fuelled expletives as I went), I was so charged and grief-stricken. It’s sad to think that after ten years of being completely entwined, that was our last moment together. I wasn’t looking for something more meaningful then, I haven’t been looking for more since, but seeing him now and not hating every fibre of his being and recognizing he’s still the man I loved for so long, draws me in. I owe it to the memory of us to round this off in such a way that I can look back at the memories we shared with something other than pain, anger and disappointment. I don’t want to reach indifference, but a fondness would be nice.
‘How have you been?’ I ask.
‘Good. Fine,’ he says with a shrug, the right side of his mouth giving the tiniest of smiles. ‘You?’
‘Great,’ I nod.
‘Oh!’ he says, genuinely shocked that I’m not dwelling or struggling. It occurs to me that he thinks I’m either lying in a bid to do the whole ‘I’m so over you’ thing or that he’s surprised that I’d admit I’m coping in a moment in which we should both seem gravely downtrodden at the way in which we both failed our relationship. ‘Good to know,’ he adds.
‘I’m going travelling,’ I share.
‘You always wanted us to do more of it,’ he remembers, looking impressed.
‘If it weren’t for your work we could’ve done,’ I say, thinking about how much I used to whitter on about different countries for us to explore, only to be reminded about his commitments at work (which always seemed to be less accommodating than my own) and the fact it would be virtually impossible for him to be granted a substantial amount of time off.
‘True,’ he nods.
‘I’ve got a new job too and am moving to London,’ I say with pride while wondering why I’m telling him – but of course, I’m telling him because he knew everything there was to know about me for so long, just as I did about him. It’s the most natural thing in the world to want to share it with him.
‘Right,’ he nods, raising his eyebrows while pursing his lips for several seconds. I guess it is a lot to take in. I’ve completely overhauled my life.
‘You?’ I ask.
‘Same,’ he nods, looking dazed and somewhat hurt. ‘Same as in I’m still living the same life I was. Nothing’s changed.’
‘I’m not in it,’ I argue, stating the obvious. ‘That’s quite a dramatic change right there.’
He looks speechless at my blunt words, his jaw hanging in a dumbfounded manner as he grapples for something to come out of it. Nothing comes. Instead he sadly nods his head as he concedes to my statement. However, proving him wrong on the matter doesn’t make me feel particularly good.
‘How was your holiday?’ I ask, wanting to steer us away from the place it’s clearly so easy for me to go. It’s not how I want this to pan out – not that I’ve had much time to think about what I do want to come from this. Not once have I thought about what I would do if I ever had to see him again. It was something I wanted to avoid at all costs.
‘Fine,’ he tells me, looking bashful about it. ‘I just went to Tenerife with Mum and Dad.’
‘I saw her,’ I say, aware of something in me softening. I don’t know what I thought his holiday would consist of, but it wasn’t sitting with Mummy and Daddy Hall at dinner. But then, it’s Ian. He wasn’t going to be out clubbing with a bunch of eighteen year olds or ending up getting smashed with the lads. I should’ve known that, but then I’m not sure whether any of the things I know about him are accurate any more.
‘She said. Phoned me straight after,’ he says, giving a feeble laugh that’s led more by pain than humour. ‘If she could’ve grounded me for life she would’ve done.’
‘I got that impression.’
‘She liked you,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘Loved you even.’
‘I’m glad someone did,’ I laugh, before an awkward silence lands between us. I hate it being like this. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘Yes!’ he says without a beat being skipped. ‘Crap. I’ve not got anything in,’ he says, genuinely looking crestfallen. Which is a good job as I would’ve taken it as an excuse that he’d rather not.
‘Mum’s car is outside,’ I say, holding the keys out to him. ‘There’s a whole gallon of wine on the back seat.’
‘A gallon?’
‘And it’s white,’ I declare.
‘I don’t mind white,’ he shrugs.
‘Are you joking?’ I laugh incredulously, as though he’s just said the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.
‘What?’ he asks, looking befuddled by my reaction.
‘White wine.’
‘Yeah …’ he says slowly, his voice looping in pitch.
‘You’re a total wine snob,’ I remind him.
His face cracks into a proper smile for the first time since I walked through the door. ‘I can be a bit picky,’ he acknowledges, becoming bashful as he covers his face with his hand.
‘A bit? What happened to drinking only red and organic?’ I say, unable to hide the humour in my voice.
‘That was after we went to Bordeaux for the weekend, remember?’ he asks, although I’m unlikely to forget the trips we took in which I was convinced he was going to propose. We were staying in a remote chateau with an adjoining vineyard for three nights. The whole trip was based around food and wine, and although we’d make sure we’d get in a morning run, the rest of the time we were more relaxed than ever. I was thrilled because we’d managed to accidentally time it to coincide with the family of the house harvesting the grapes and turning it to wine. I assumed Ian knew about it all, to be honest, and expected a big rock to show itself as a flipping toe-ring as I diligently squelched the fruit with my bare feet. ‘Great weekend,’ he recalls. ‘And we never got a hangover no matter how much we drank, remember?’
‘True …’
‘Purely because of the lack of chemicals!’ he reminds me. ‘Seeing as the shop up the road started stocking a few organic wines a little while after, it made sense to go for one of them, right? Drinking it has always made me think of that special weekend.’
‘Really?’ I ask. Wondering how I had not linked these two events. Or maybe I had at the time but not remembered all these years later. It was a sweet gesture, not him being a picky arsehole.
‘Yes,’ he proclaims. ‘Although, fair enough, I do prefer red. It’s more full-bodied and giving. I get a metallic aftertaste with white that stays in my mouth for longer than it should.’
‘Well, in that case, would you like some headache-inducing, aluminium-tasting, selfish wine in the colo
ur you dislike?’
He laughs.
I can still make him laugh.
He takes the keys from my hand and makes his way out of the front door, leaving me standing in the middle of the home we once shared together, with the weird sensation of being comforted by someone I once shared so much with, but have since lost so much because of.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
As lovely as this is, it’s not why I came here.
I go to the cupboard underneath the kitchen sink and pull out a roll of black bin liners, which I carry with me to the bedroom. I open my wardrobe to find everything is neater than it was when I left, with all of my holiday clothes having been washed and put away (although not in their correct places). It looks great, but really the neat piles are home to chaos. PJs mixed in with holiday shorts, or t-shirts mixed in with jumpers. Still, it’s all mine and, thankfully, hardly any of it is black.
I pick up the piles of folded, fresh-smelling clothes, and start gently placing them inside the bags. Unlike last time when I didn’t want to take anything away with me, I load the bags with as much as they can hold before either placing them by the door (they’ll be coming with me tonight) or at the bottom of the cupboard they’ve just come from (they’ll be waiting for Mum or Dad to rescue them). I want it all.
‘Here you go,’ Ian says coming into the room, carrying two glasses filled to the brim with white wine. He holds one of them out to me.
‘Thank you,’ I say, taking it and having a gulp, its sweetness making my eyes water. ‘Eesh, that’s really not the best.’
‘It’s all right,’ he says, although I notice the triangles of his nostrils expand and flare ever so slightly as he takes a mouthful.
‘Not your organic red,’ I muse, putting the glass down on top of our chest of drawers. Opening the drawer beneath it, I find my underwear and swimwear all neatly displayed like everything else. I’m really not going to sort through all of this in front of Ian, even if he was the one who laid out my knickers and bras in this orderly fashion. Instead I just scoop it all into a bag. I’m alarmed to see a few thongs lingering at the very back of it. I can’t remember buying them, if they were ever worn, or Ian’s reaction to them if I had.
Ian scoots past me awkwardly and goes towards the bed.
‘This is weird,’ he sighs, gesturing at bags I’ve managed to surround myself with in the five or so minutes since he’s been gone. ‘Seeing you do this.’
‘Not going to pack itself,’ I shrug. ‘And you’ll be doing the same soon.’
‘Yeah …’
I’m on socks now and although I have no qualms sorting through the hole-ridden material in his company, I’d rather not. Another bag is opened for my possessions to be shovelled into.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he says quietly.
‘That’s inevitable, I’m afraid,’ I joke, managing to laugh while my insides weep.
‘You’re right,’ he says, a sadness in his voice. ‘Although this time apart has made me realize I’ve been missing you for a long time. Not purely since Dubai.’
I look up at him. He’s on his side of the bed with all four of our pillows plumped up behind him. He holds the glass against his chest while his eyes are fixed on the ceiling above him.
‘I thought I hated you, like you said in your message,’ I say, thinking back to the stupidity of my Christmas Day communication and what I woke up to the following day. ‘Although it wasn’t for dumping me.’
‘No?’ he asks, his sorrowful gaze finding my own.
‘Well, maybe. You were waving a diamond ring in my face at the time. It was very confusing and cruel.’
‘Don’t. It’s not even funny,’ Ian says, covering his face in horror, his hand making his voice muffled. ‘I have nightmares about how badly I dealt with the situation. I talk through all the things I should’ve said but didn’t.’
‘Well, I’ve recently discovered hindsight is actually a total bitch so I wouldn’t torment yourself,’ I advise him, almost stumbling on my words while opening the last drawer to find some ‘sexy time’ outfits I’d completely forgotten about.
‘What do you hate me for then?’ Ian asks, clearly not noticing how much I’m blushing. ‘Surely that’s the worst thing I’ve ever done to you.’
‘I said I thought I did …’ I remind him, shutting the drawer and sitting at the end of the bed by his feet. I look up at him, his eyes staring back at me and willing me to continue now I’ve started. ‘I thought I hated you for changing me.’
‘Huh?’ he asks, looking genuinely shocked.
‘Yeah …’ I nod, frowning as I hear it said out loud. ‘But you didn’t. Not intentionally. You were just very clear and direct about your likes and dislikes, whereas I realize I’ve always been too eager to please.’
‘You think I overpowered you?’ he asks.
‘I thought maybe your decisiveness did,’ I shrug, pondering his words. ‘I wanted to please you and you always seemed so sure of what you wanted, so when I started looking back on our time together all I could see were the parts of me I’d compromised on. All the little, tiny bits of me I’d given up in order for you to be happy.’
‘You’re painting yourself to be some weak follower,’ he frowns, sitting upright so that our bodies are much closer. ‘You have never been that.’
‘No. I know I was looking at the whole thing in such a skewed way,’ I admit, speaking more quickly as the realization comes flooding in. ‘I’ve grown up. We grew up together. I was bound to stop doing things I enjoyed when I was younger, and to change my views and tastes.’
‘I’ve changed too,’ Ian exclaims. ‘At least, I should bloody hope I have!’
‘Exactly!’ I say, pleased he’s agreeing with my point. ‘I would’ve always changed in those ten years. It’s an inevitable fact. I’ve been trying to discover who I would’ve been if you weren’t in my life – but that’s an impossible task. There would’ve always been something or someone there to have some sort of an effect.’
‘True,’ Ian nods, taking a sip of his wine.
‘I like the person I am right now, and there’s no denying that I am the person I am this very second because of you,’ I declare with confidence and belief. ‘I don’t regret the person I am. I’m sad she’s been hurting so much, but she’s not a total disaster.’
‘She really isn’t,’ Ian agrees.
‘Exactly!’ I almost shout again. ‘She’s ambitious, brave, funny and kind … and, thanks to you, she also has quite an eclectic taste in music, film and literature,’ I joke.
‘You really are quite a catch,’ Ian smiles, taking my hand and squeezing it tightly.
‘I’m just not your one.’
Ian sighs.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I know you are. And thank you.’
There’s no anger or animosity towards one another, and there’s absolutely no regret that we found each other all those years ago. There’s only gratitude that we’ve reached this point. Now we can say goodbye, knowing we wish each other nothing but happiness and fulfilment.
35
‘My tummy is full of knots!’ Susan whispers to me with a worried look on her face, which probably echoes my own expression.
We’re standing in one of the side rooms of the church along with the rest of the Sing It Proud choir. Some of the audience have been picked up and brought in to sit alongside other members of the community who’ve managed to walk or drive here themselves. Wine, coffee, tea and hot chocolate have been served, and we’re now able to hear their buzz of conversation as they natter amongst themselves, hopefully enjoying being out of the house and having something different to do with their evening.
Now that we’ve juggled logistics and our audience has gathered, it’s time for us to get ready. The fact we’re actually about to put on a show is becoming more real by the second.
It’s comforting to know that Susan is as nervous as I am, although it’s also slightly disconcerting at the same
time, as I assumed she’d have her shit together as a choir veteran and would be taking this in her stride. Learning she’s worried isn’t doing much to calm the bazillion butterflies that are currently flooding through my body at great speed – they’re not even sticking to the usual boundaries of being in my tummy. They’re everywhere, even in my fingertips and toes; my entire being is pumping with pure adrenalin, aware that I’m about to do something I’ve not done in years.
‘Are you still panicking?’ Albie asks his wife, as he takes off his black winter coat and places it over the back of a wooden chair. ‘It’s us lot standing in a church singing a few songs we know inside out to a bunch of people we want to cheer up. It’ll be fun. Let’s give them all we’ve got.’
Susan breathes out a long sigh. ‘You’re right,’ she tuts.
‘Can I have that in writing?’ he chuckles, his hand reaching out to hers.
‘Have you got any family in?’ I ask, the question making my nerves build further as I picture the lot out there, looking aghast at my pitiable attempt at singing, especially poor Mum and Dad. I’m pretty sure they’re expecting me to sing the whole thing solo with these guys only pitching in as my backing vocalists. ‘I couldn’t stop mine. They’re all coming and making a night of it. They’ve been for a curry first.’
‘Sounds great,’ Albie says, looking at Susan with a flicker of concern on his face.
‘We have some friends from the community club coming,’ she nods, smiling brightly, although I can see a watery shine in her eyes. ‘But no family. No. Our son sadly –’
Jodie claps her hands together to get our attention, interrupting whatever it is Susan is about to tell me. I notice Albie put his hand protectively on the small of her back. She dips her head at his touch. It bounces slightly, as though she’s nodding at something he’s said. She takes a breath and pulls her head up. She’s smiling, or at least trying to.
‘How are you all feeling?’ Jodie asks, standing on a chair, so animated that she suddenly seems like she’s a CBeebies presenter.
Some Kind of Wonderful Page 28
