The Butterfly Effect

by Julie McLaren

“Yeah, I guess.”

  “He’s a good-looking guy. No spark there?”

  “Maybe,” I said. There hadn’t been a spark, not really, but I’d agreed to meet him now. I would see what happened on Wednesday and take it from there. Everyone told me I gave up too easily on relationships, dismissed people before I’d had a chance to really know them, so this would be a chance to prove them wrong.

  The weekend passed in a blur. I cleaned the flat, washed clothes, planned lessons; I did all the normal things that had to be concertinaed into a weekend and had a night out on Saturday, but all these familiar tasks were completed in a new, unfamiliar context that was me as a singer. It sounds completely ridiculous as I think about it now, but I felt like a different person. I had to keep looking at myself in mirrors as I sorted clothes or tidied up the week’s debris. Who was this person looking back at me?

  And the flat, my precious flat. That thought has made me remember it so clearly. It was hardly a flat at all really, just two rooms and a bathroom, but it was the first place I’d lived in completely alone and I loved it. It was my little haven, away from the chaos of student life and the unending misery of my parents’ house. The day I left it, the day I picked up the last box and loaded it into the back of Richie’s car, I almost cried, even though I was deliriously happy to be moving in with him.

  But that is jumping on too far, too fast. The weekend passed, and then it was back to school. There, I would still be the same Miss Barker as I’d been when I drove out of the gates on Friday. No amount of praise for my singing would provoke the Year 7 class into showing a glimmer of interest in Romeo and Juliet unless I taught it well and instilled something of my love of the language into my teaching. I had to put these silly, vain thoughts to one side and concentrate on my job. I was not going to be a famous singer – most probably not any kind of singer at all – but I did want to be a good teacher. This is what I told myself as I drove to work that morning, along with some other stuff about trying to avoid Richie McCowan. It wasn’t that I cared, it was simply that it might be embarrassing.

  I sorted out the materials for my first lesson, checked the smartboard was working, checked it again, then headed off to the staffroom for a quick coffee. Clearly my body was paying absolutely no attention to what I had told it in the car, as my pulse was racing even before the shot of caffeine, and I knew what that was all about. Would Richie be there and what would happen if he was? I refused to exclude myself from the staffroom on his account, but really. Why did I feel so anxious?

  A surreptitious glance around the staffroom told me I was safe, so I made myself a coffee and sat down at the end of one of the rows of metal-framed upholstered seats. There was the usual hum of conversation, people coming and going with piles of books and laptops under their arms; the usual moans and groans of a Monday morning. Nobody bothered me, and I drank my coffee and pretended to look at my phone whilst the clock inched towards 8.30am and registration. I was just about to get up and rinse my cup when I looked up and saw Richie. He had seen me and was walking directly towards me. There was no escape.

  “Amy, I’m so sorry about Friday! Did it go well?”

  I shrugged and leaned forward to gather my things from the low, wooden table in front of me. This meant I could avoid looking at him without blanking him altogether.

  “Yeah, it was fine thanks.”

  “Look, I’m really sorry. I wanted to let you know, but I don’t have your number, or any way of contacting you. My dad was taken into hospital and I had to take my mum up there – she was in such a state she couldn’t drive – and it was all a bit hectic. I’m really sorry.”

  What could I say? There was no reason to disbelieve him, so I said not to worry and I hoped his father was OK, but it was all very cool and stilted. The staffroom was emptying as everyone went off to registration, so we parted then, with formal thin-lipped smiles that were imbued with finality. Whatever there had been, it was gone now, if it had ever existed and even if it wasn’t his fault, I was meeting someone else on Wednesday so it was too late anyway. That’s what I thought as I hurried off to my tutor group, although if the way my heart was pounding was any indication, I didn’t seem to be entirely convinced.

  ***

  I have to stop this now or the tears will exhaust me. Those precious days. Sometimes there is comfort in them, but not now. I have to do something, as the light is fading outside and then he will come, I know that. He is so clever, he will have gone to work as usual, acted normally, done his job with no hint of what is in his mind, but he will be secretly relishing the thought that now he has me. And then I will hear the lock turn and he will be there. Will he smile as if I have come willingly to this place, as if this is some hotel room assignation he has dreamed of? Or will he be angry that I have resisted him for so long, thwarted all his attempts to win me with love, made him resort to force?

  I can’t bear it, I have to make some sort of stand, so I get to my feet and work my way round the room again. There must be something I can drag across to the door. A barricade, that’s it. It won’t be a long-term solution, as I can’t get out if he can’t get in, but it will keep me safe until the police find me. It won’t be long before Nat comes to the flat, and he’ll be anxious enough, knowing what I was going to do today, so maybe he will be earlier than usual. But even if it’s early evening, when he rings the bell and I don’t answer, and then when he lets himself in and I’m not there, then it will all start. The police will be round at Greg’s house in a flash, and, even if he’s out, if he’s here, trying to get in, it won’t matter. They’ll be going through his stuff, confiscating his computer, grilling his parents. Something will give it away.

  So, what I’m doing is buying time. I have to remain calm, I have to be practical. I have to believe that they will find me before too long and all I have to do is stay safe in the meantime, so I put my back against each piece of furniture to see if it will shift. I don’t really have much hope for the wardrobe, it’s huge and does not budge an inch, but the fridge-freezer seems like a good proposition until I see that it is fixed to the floor with two strong metal clamps, one on each side. The bedside table can be moved, but it is flimsy and light, so that only leaves the single dining room chair, the desk and the bed. I take the chair across to the door, but it is too short to fit under the handle in the way that I have seen people do in films, so I take it back and sit down. Would the bed be heavy enough to withstand someone pushing hard from the other side of the door? It’s only a single bed, and it looks new. If only it were a great, big antique thing like the wardrobe, but it’s pine, probably a self-assembly kit, with a tiny headboard.

  I get up and try to drag it across the floor. Maybe, if I put the desk and chair on top of it, it would buy me half an hour or so. But it’s no good, he has obviously thought of that, as now I see that each leg is attached to the floor with a metal bracket – those right-angled steel ones, with a total of six screws to each – so that’s another option gone. That just leaves the desk then. What can I do with that? It doesn’t appear to be fixed to the floor, so I drag it across to the door and push it up close, as close as I can. Then I bring the chair and put it on top, hoping to wedge it under the handle, but the desk is too tall really, and I can see the slightest movement will dislodge it.

  I stand back and try to imagine the door opening. None of this is going to stop anyone for any time, but what if there could be something under the door, something wedge-shaped, that would prevent the door opening suddenly and pushing my barricade to one side? In my mind, I can see what I’m looking for, the kind of wooden or plastic wedge that people use to keep doors open, but there won’t be one in here so I will have to improvise.

  I’m off on my travels around the room again, like a bloodhound on all fours, seeking out the means of my salvation. Of course there is no ready-made wedge, but what about the plates? They are made of hard plastic, and that doesn’t break easily, so I try forcing one under the door but I can’t see it working; it is too f
lat, and it will slide across the carpeted floor if any force is exerted. I turn to the wardrobe. This is one area I have yet to examine in any detail, as the sight of all those nearly-familiar clothes gives me the creeps, but I go through each drawer in turn. Maybe there will be a nice leather belt that I can fold up and push into the space under the door, maybe, maybe …

  There is nothing. Just clothes. Nice clothes, new clothes, clothes that I could have chosen myself, and hangers that are fixed to the rail, like they have in hotel rooms, so you can’t steal them. It’s hopeless, there is nothing here, nothing in the bathroom either, so I am going to have to hope that the police pull him in before he has a chance to get here. I will sit on the bed and wait for him, that’s what I’ll do, and if he breaks down my barricade I will talk to him, tell him it won’t be so bad for him if he does not hurt me. I will tell him that I won’t press charges, that it has all been a big mistake; a misunderstanding. I will try to buy time that way, but the thought of him trying to kiss me, to hold me, will not go away, and I sit up against the headboard, my arms around my knees, staring at the door and thinking about how different it could all have been if only I had never agreed to meet him for that drink.

  ***

  Looking back, it was clear from the start that it was never going to happen – me and Greg – but I was not in the mood to accept that then. There were so many reasons why I wanted it to work, for him to be the one who would help me to move on. There was all the history of the past few years, Arif, any number of one night stands and a few that had lasted a matter of weeks – Liam, Jon and others I didn’t even care to name. There was Richie, with whom I still felt angry for no apparent reason, Olga, who wanted so badly for me to be happy and Mum, who had taken to asking me oblique and loaded questions about my social life whenever we spoke. It would be such a nuisance if Greg turned out to be just another name in my ever-lengthening list of failed relationships. I had to give it a chance. I had to give it enough air to breathe.

  He was already there when I arrived at The Saracen’s Head in town. It was 5.30pm and there were a few people in the lounge bar but not many. Not enough that I had to spend any time scanning the room anyway, for there he was, at a table for two in one of the little alcoves. He jumped up with a huge smile when he saw me, then bounded across the room and led me across to the table, as if he were the lord mayor of some little place in the middle of nowhere and I was a visiting dignitary from a much bigger and more prestigious twinned town.

  He hurried away to get me a drink, and I noticed with a slightly uneasy feeling that there was a single rose, wrapped in cellophane, on the bench seat where he had been sitting, but I pretended not to have seen it when he returned and handed it to me. I could have sworn he even made a little bow.

  “Something beautiful and precious for someone beautiful and precious,” he said, and I almost laughed until I saw that he was deadly serious.

  “How lovely,” I said, berating myself for my mean-spirited thoughts. Any other girl would think it was sweet; a kind and thoughtful gesture. Why did I have to think it was creepy? It was no wonder none of my relationships worked when I was so jaded and cynical.

  But, to be fair to him, that was the low point of the evening and Greg did not continue to make me feel uncomfortable. We chatted quite easily about music and books, finding that our tastes overlapped in many ways, and I told him about teaching. He was a good listener. He laughed when I described the many mistakes I had made on various placements the year before, sympathised when I told him about the never-ending lesson observations that blighted my life and asked sensible and thoughtful questions about working with challenging children. Before I knew it, a couple of hours had passed, but when he picked up our glasses to return to the bar for the third time I decided enough was enough, even though I had only been drinking soft drinks.

  “Greg, it’s been a lovely evening, but I have lessons to prepare before tomorrow and I really should get back,” I said.

  I bent down to pick up my handbag and, as I straightened up again, our eyes met and there was that sadness again. This guy really likes me, I thought, and that was something that hadn’t happened for such a long time that it gave me a twinge of pleasure – that and the soulful grey eyes with the blue and green flecks. They really were beautiful eyes. That’s probably why I agreed to see him again at the weekend, and as I had already arranged to see a film with Olga on Saturday, we decided he would pick me up from The White Horse after band practice on Sunday and we’d have a roast.

  “Leave it to me, I’ll sort it out,” he said, so that was that. It seemed harmless enough, and I was actually thinking of all the positives and half-persuading myself that there was something there after all as I drove home. If only I’d known.

  By the time Sunday came, I was less enthusiastic. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something about Greg, something indefinable, that didn’t work for me. He was good-looking, clean, totally polite, interested in everything I had to say and a non-smoker. He liked many of the same things I liked, but I had no feelings of pleasurable anticipation in the days leading up to our next date, and that wasn’t good. I’d have been counting the days, even the hours, if he was going to mean anything to me, I knew that. But I had no method of contacting him and I wasn’t going to miss band practice, so I told myself it wouldn’t do any harm to see him. I would have dinner with him, insist on paying for myself, then make it clear it wasn’t going any further. I had never given him any reason to think otherwise, and although it would be awkward, it could hardly break his heart. After all, we hadn’t even kissed.

  Although I’d seen Olga a couple of times, it was the first time I’d seen the band since the gig, and they were all there, already set up and jamming when I arrived, fifteen minutes late. It had taken me ages to choose what to wear, something that would be suitable for what I assumed would be a decent pub or even a restaurant, but wouldn’t look as if I was dressing to please him or appear remotely sexy. In the end I’d chosen a really dull dress, black tights and flat shoes and I could feel the surprise in the room as I took off my coat. I looked as if I was going to visit a very strict and old-fashioned aunt.

  “I know, don’t say anything,” I said. “It’s a long story. Another episode in the very dull and sad history of my love life, I’m afraid.”

  Olga laughed and jumped off the stage to hug me.

  “So you were right after all. He’s a non-starter?”

  “I think so. I’m going to have this meal then tell him – unless I feel differently by the end of it.”

  “Well, there’s no telling what a nice piece of rare beef can do,” said Olga, which made me laugh, and then she pulled me up on stage. “Come on, that’s enough talking. We’ve got a new song for you.”

  The rest of the afternoon passed in a flash. Obviously I wasn’t up there on the stage all the time, as they had to practise their standard numbers and a couple of new ones in preparation for Christmas, but it was clear that my inclusion wasn’t short-term. They talked about future gigs and how my songs could fit in as if it had already been decided. I was part of the band – a small part, admittedly – but, it seemed, I could fill a gap that they hadn’t really known existed. That was assuming I was happy to continue?

  Of course I was more than happy, and I told them that. I suspect my face had given it away before I had a chance to say anything, and I smiled so much that afternoon that my cheeks were hurting by the time we finished. I had barely given Greg a minute’s thought the whole time, but as we packed away the equipment and I looked at my watch, I realised that I really didn’t want to see him at all. I wanted to finish off here, go for a drink with Olga and the others and return to my flat, even if that meant some kind of makeshift meal rather than a nice Sunday roast. I was trying to think of an excuse that would not sound completely lame and unconvincing when a head popped round the open door that led out to the car park.

  “Hello, can I steal your singer?”

  I hadn’t
had the opportunity to say anything to Olga, let alone the others, so they all said yes of course they would finish off the packing up without me, yes of course I should go now, they would manage perfectly well without me. So all my excuses disappeared before my eyes, burst like iridescent bubbles in the air, and I found myself following him out to the street.

  “My car’s just down here,” he said.

  I told him I had driven here, said that I would follow him, but he insisted on driving me, saying he wanted me to relax and that he would drop me back here afterwards. It was silly, but I just didn’t have it in me to argue the point, knowing what I was going to do later. If it came to it, if he took it badly, I could get a taxi from wherever we were going back to The White Horse and I would never need to speak to him again. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that, as he was a perfectly nice guy, but this was definitely the last time, however amiable he was and however attractive his eyes were. That is what I was telling myself as we drove through town and out into Merrifield, about three miles away.

  “Are we going to The George?” I asked when it became clear where we were heading, but he smiled and shook his head.

  “No, not The George.”

  I couldn’t think of any other food pubs in the area, certainly not any that would still be serving by this time on a Sunday, and a little worried feeling appeared in my stomach.

  “It’s just … Look, I’m sorry Greg, I should have said before, but I can’t be out too late tonight as I’ve still got a heap of work to do. I meant to do it this morning but I slept in. Are we going far?”

  Still the enigmatic smile.

  “No, don’t worry, we’re nearly there,” he said, taking a sharp left down a small side road. Was there a pub down here? Maybe he knew of some little hidden gem, a locals’ pub that served a good, hearty and traditional roast, so I relaxed a little as he manoeuvred his way between the many parked cars and finally pulled into a space near the end. I couldn’t see anything even vaguely resembling a pub, but I assumed it must be reached via some little alley or lane and I picked up my bag in anticipation.