Love Lives

by Emlyn Rees

  ‘Ah, nothing,’ Scott said with a sigh, ‘just that Cheryl Driver’s apparently got some all-singing all-dancing daughter and Cheryl reckons she’d be perfect for us. For playing the Victorian girl who died. Now her I can’t wait to meet. Chip off the old block, I should imagine.’

  Jimmy looked down at his boots. Possibilities flooded his mind. He saw Scott, Ellen and him on a shoot, and there beside him, he saw Verity too … But then he remembered Verity’s date with Denny and wondered if she’d be turning up to tomorrow’s auditions at all.

  ‘But back to business,’ Scott hurried on. ‘The thing is, Jimmy, we’re on a crappy budget. No full-time sound man … no production assistant at all. Even me and Ellen are only working down here part-time. We’re going to be working in tandem, news team-style, you know?’ Scott glanced across at Jimmy.

  ‘Sure,’ Jimmy bluffed, not really knowing at all.

  ‘And what we’re gonna need is someone who’ll be able to muck in on an ad hoc basis, if you catch my drift, to get on and do the camera marking for editing, that kind of thing,’ he went on, his breath becoming laboured as they approached the top of the street. ‘A bit of techie stuff, then, but you’ll pick it up quick enough, no worries. And then there’s general runner stuff. Gofer work: me and Ellen shout for something and you go find it.’

  ‘And that’s all?’ Jimmy asked, as they finally drew level with the High Street.

  Scott laughed. ‘If you call that all, then you really have got a whole stack to learn before going off to film college.’

  Scott put his bucket down on the pavement and turned to face Jimmy. He cleared his throat. ‘There’s something Ellen wanted me to ask you,’ he said, putting his hands on his hips. ‘Only I want you to know that it’s got nothing to do with me offering you the work. Because you can take my word for it: it hasn’t.’

  ‘What?’ Jimmy asked.

  ‘This kid they’re doing the benefit for: the one who was messed up on drugs and committed suicide in the stolen car,’ Scott began.

  ‘Ryan,’ Jimmy said.

  The name sounded like a bell tolling in Jimmy’s mind. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d said it aloud. None of Jimmy’s friends talked about Ryan any more. And Jimmy knew he was no better. He hadn’t even been to see Ryan’s parents since the funeral, in spite of his promises to Ryan’s mum and sister at the time, and in spite of the fact that they only lived on the other side of town. But he hadn’t known what to say to them. What did you say to someone about their dead son?

  ‘Ryan,’ Jimmy repeated, almost as a penance. ‘His name was Ryan.’

  ‘He was a mate of yours, then?’

  Jimmy had walked past there once, past Ryan’s parents’ short-fronted stone-clad terraced house, a month after the funeral. But he hadn’t gone in. All he’d been able to do had been to picture them the way they’d been that day at the Stanfield Crematorium. Jimmy would never forget the lack of comprehension he’d witnessed in their eyes, or their blank stares as they’d moved – drifted, it had seemed – up the aisle to their seats in the front pew. Sleepwalkers, Jimmy had thought at the time, like none of this had been real; not for any of them.

  ‘He was my best friend,’ Jimmy told Scott.

  After the funeral, at the Church Hall on St Mary’s Street, as Ryan’s friends and family had nibbled at biscuits and curling sandwiches, and sipped at cups of weak tea, Jimmy had seen the change that had overtaken Ryan’s father. And it was that – the fire behind his weeping eyes – that had stayed with Jimmy most of all. Because Jimmy had known with absolute certainty what it had meant. It hadn’t been anger. It hadn’t been sorrow. It had been shame that had started Ryan’s father’s tears and shame that hadn’t let them stop. He’d been ashamed of what his son had done and he’d been ashamed that he hadn’t been able to stop him from doing it.

  That was when Jimmy had got up and slipped out of the Church Hall and into the street. That was when he’d started running. And that was when he hadn’t stopped running till he’d reached the Wreck and had huddled up in a corner and dragged a blanket round his heaving shoulders.

  But mainly that was when he hadn’t stayed to stop Ryan’s father’s tears, even though he’d known something that could have made a difference, something he hadn’t had the courage to say then; and didn’t have the courage to say now.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jimmy heard Scott telling him. ‘About what happened to him. There’s nothing worse than losing someone you care about. Sounds lame, I know, but I mean it.’

  Jimmy felt his face tightening, like it was a mask he’d worn too long and was starting to crack. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. He felt the same shame as Ryan’s father’s bearing down on him. He could have stopped Ryan. He knew he could have. If he’d acted differently towards him … if he’d only stood up to him and saved him from himself … then Ryan might still be alive.

  ‘The reason I brought it up. Ryan,’ Scott swiftly corrected himself. ‘The reason I brought Ryan up is that Ellen wanted me to ask you about him. Because you’re the same age and she guessed – rightly, as it turns out – that you might have known him and therefore might know what made him do it.’

  ‘Something nice and juicy for your story,’ Jimmy said, bitterness rising in his throat.

  ‘No, Jimmy. Not because of that. Because Ellen wants what we do here to be accurate. Because we are going to be making enquiries about people who’ve committed suicide up there and because we don’t want to end up saying things about them that aren’t true.’

  Jimmy covered his eyes with his hand as a vision zoomed into focus: the night-time sea as seen from Lost Soul’s Point, slithering hungrily over the rocks below, as black and as viscous as oil. It was the same vision that filled his nightmares: the great black mouth of the sea opening up to swallow him whole, the waves striking out for him like cold wet fingers and tongues, stretching up to tear him down. His breath came shallow in his ears.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he heard Scott ask.

  Jimmy blinked heavily and when he opened his eyes the vision had receded. ‘They got it wrong,’ he said simply; he’d said it before he could stop himself. ‘About what happened to Ryan …’

  ‘How?’ Scott asked. ‘That he wasn’t a drug addict?’

  Jimmy looked down at the gutter. ‘He wasn’t depressed,’ he said. ‘He wasn’t depressed because he was on drugs. That wasn’t why he died.’

  ‘Then why did he do it?’ Scott asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Nobody does. That’s why what everyone’s been saying about him is such shit.’

  Jimmy leant forward and picked up the bucket Scott had been carrying. He knew there was nothing more to talk about and that the interview was at an end. He’d messed it up good and proper. He hadn’t given Scott anything useful and the Aussie probably couldn’t wait to see the back of him after the way he’d just been about Ryan. Still, he thought, at least he wouldn’t have to talk to Scott or Ellen about Ryan again.

  But Scott hadn’t finished yet. ‘In which case’, Scott said, ‘there’s no need to say any more about it, is there? I’ll tell Ellen what you’ve told me. And that’s what we’ll use: that it’s a mystery as to why Ryan did it, and all that we do know is that he did.’

  Jimmy shook his head. ‘I’d best be off,’ he said, taking a step forward.

  ‘And the work?’ Scott asked.

  Jimmy stopped. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Are you still up for it?’

  Jimmy tried to read Scott’s face, to see if he was joking. ‘Are you serious?’ he finally asked.

  ‘So long as you are,’ Scott answered.

  It was back again: the Butch and Sundance look: that connection again between Scott and Ryan.

  ‘And it would be good to have your decision soon, so as you can tag along at the auditions tomorrow and get a better idea of what we’re going to be up to.’

  Jimmy stared down at the lobsters trapped in their buckets, knowing that in his heart the decision ha
d already been made.

  Chapter IX

  ‘SHE’S A BEAUTY!’ Russell Driver exclaimed, holding up one of the large lobsters that Jimmy had delivered to the kitchen earlier, as Verity pushed through the back door of the hotel, laden with packages.

  Verity’s Friday post-school shopping spree with Treza had been an exercise in spending most of her savings account in order to find the outfit that would impress Denny tomorrow. Thanks to Treza, she had several bulging carrier bags which now cut into her fingers.

  ‘Looks like someone’s got a hot date,’ her father commented, manipulating the lobster in a tasteless attempt at ventriloquism. Rudi, the chef and Goran, the other kitchen porter, neither of whom spoke a word of English, chuckled loudly.

  ‘Stop it, Russell!’ Cheryl reprimanded with a sideways scowl, as if teasing Verity were cruel.

  Verity put down her bags and looked between her parents, feeling a foreboding sense of embarrassment. How was she ever going to be able to introduce her parents to Denny? He’d think they were awful. And he’d be right.

  Ever since she’d seen him the day before yesterday, thoughts like these had been keeping Verity awake at night. What if she just wasn’t good enough for Denny? What if she couldn’t match up to his expectations. Already, things seemed to be going so fast.

  She’d been outside the chemist on Wednesday afternoon, on her way to her piano teacher’s house, when she’d seen Denny whizz past on his motorbike. She’d waved and called out his name, but still she’d hardly been able to believe it when he’d done an abrupt U-turn in the street, brought the bike to a stop next to where she was standing and quickly eased off his helmet.

  He hadn’t even said hello, before he’d reached out and pulled her towards him. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven on Saturday,’ he’d said huskily, kissing her cheek, as if they’d been going out together for ages. ‘Dress up, if you want. I’ve got somewhere special lined up.’

  She’d been so shocked that she’d only been able to nod, touching her face where he’d kissed her. ‘I can’t wait,’ she’d managed.

  ‘Me neither.’ Then he’d winked and smiled, and she’d felt as if she’d been lit up inside. ‘See you soon, beautiful,’ he’d said.

  Then he’d replaced his helmet and driven off again, holding up one hand as he’d sped away from her. Verity had looked around her, stunned that everyone was behaving normally, as if nothing amazing had just happened.

  And, at that moment, she’d started to believe what her heart had only dared to hope: that Denny Shapland was going to be her first true love.

  Now, she looked at her parents with despair as her father carried on pretending to converse with the lobster, while her mother hovered uncomfortably at the counter, where she was hastily finishing a bowl of pasta and salad, eating unnaturally loudly.

  Verity hadn’t said anything about Denny before, but now she decided this might as well be the moment to break the news. ‘Actually, I am going on a date,’ she said.

  The corners of Russell’s mouth turned down in an impressed look at Cheryl, who in turn dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin.

  ‘Tomorrow night. Just so you know.’

  Not waiting for an answer, she picked up her bags and made for the stairs.

  ‘Stop right there,’ Cheryl said and Verity froze, her hackles rising along the back of her neck. She was all too familiar with this particular note of disapproval in her mother’s voice. What was it going to be this time? A Spanish inquisition about the suitability of her date? Her mother had done exactly that when Verity had first gone out with Stephen Blacks when she was sixteen.

  Not content with quizzing Verity, she’d bombarded Verity’s first boyfriend with a firing line of questions. As a result, Verity had been dumped and Stephen had spread it about in school that Verity’s mother was worse than the Gestapo and any right-minded boy should avoid going out with Verity at all costs.

  Well, that was never going to happen again. Especially not with Denny.

  Slowly, Verity turned.

  ‘You can’t go on a date,’ Cheryl said, folding her napkin and flattening her hand on top of it decisively. ‘You’re going to the auditions for the benefit concert.’

  ‘What?’

  Cheryl hooked a finger into her mouth and dislodged some food from her back teeth. ‘I’ve already told Clive you’ll be there.’

  ‘Clive? You hate Clive.’

  ‘No I don’t,’ Cheryl said, standing up and putting on her blazer which was hanging over the corner of an open cupboard. ‘He’s very community-spirited. He agrees that it will be a perfect showcase for you.’

  Verity couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Mum,’ she said incredulously. ‘Please tell me you’re not serious.’

  ‘Of course I’m serious. It’s important that you represent the town,’ said Cheryl, straightening out her blazer.

  ‘But you said that the benefit concert was a waste of time,’ Verity argued, aghast at her mother’s double standards. ‘You said that no amount of free table tennis would stop junkies like Ryan from killing themselves.’

  ‘Yes, well that was before it was going to be on television. I happen to know that Ellen Morris is filming it,’ Cheryl countered smugly. ‘And she’ll be choosing people to appear in her documentary tomorrow night. If you’re not there, she won’t choose you.’

  ‘What makes you think I want to be chosen?’

  ‘Don’t take that tone with me. It would be a travesty for anyone else to do it. After all your father and I have given up so that you can do your music and drama, and here’s a free ticket on to national television and you’re taking that tone.’

  Verity could feel the anger bubbling up in her. It was the sheer level of her mother’s presumptuousness that got her. ‘You’re such a hypocrite,’ she said, hating the fact that her voice was catching in her throat. She was determined not to cry in front of her mother. If she showed any emotion her mother would have won. ‘You hated Ryan and everything he stood for. You were glad when he died. You even said he deserved it.’

  Cheryl gasped and Verity saw that she’d scored a bull’s-eye.

  ‘I did not,’ Cheryl said in her most outraged voice, but her cheeks were red. Verity stared at her mother and raised her eyebrows in a challenge, but Cheryl pointed her index finger defiantly at her daughter. ‘Verity Driver, you are going to do this concert,’ she continued. ‘You are going to represent this family and this town, and show just how we feel about that poor boy –’

  ‘You’re so full of –’ Verity sneered.

  ‘What?’ her mother interrupted. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You can’t make me,’ Verity said, snatching up her bags.

  ‘Ladies, ladies,’ Russell interjected, waving the lobster like a red card between his wife and his daughter.

  ‘Shut up, Russell!’ Cheryl snarled, her head twitching with such a force of suppressed anger that Verity took a step backwards, just in case her mother finally snapped and lashed out. ‘While you live under this roof, I can make you and I will,’ she said, glaring at Verity with icy control. ‘You will do this concert whether you like it or not. Because if you don’t do it …’ Cheryl thrust her hand in front of Verity’s face and, with the other, pointed to her fingers as she spoke. ‘There will be no driving lessons, no allowance and you can forget going on any more dates, now or in the future. Is that understood?’

  Upstairs, in her room, Verity flung her bags into the corner and threw herself like a skydiver on to her king-sized bed. Burying her face in the mound of pale-blue checked pillows and soft toys, she screamed until her lungs were burning for air.

  Then, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, her cheeks as sore as if she had blown up a hundred balloons, she pointed the remote control at the music system, holding her finger down on the volume button until the windows shook with her favourite song on the CD Jimmy had given her. Ever since Treza had made a copy, declaring it to be a neat mix and given the CD back, Ve
rity had listened to it non-stop. Jimmy might be a weirdo, but at least he was a weirdo with good taste.

  She sat on the edge of her bed, her hands tucked under her thighs, and glared at the oblivious seagulls sitting on the window ledge, their feathers ruffling in the wind. She knew she was being childish, but she didn’t care. She knew that with the music on this loud, it was only a matter of minutes before someone came up and told her to turn it down. But until then, she wanted to shut everything out.

  How could this have happened? Of all the things to scupper her date, the stupid benefit concert was the last thing she’d ever have expected. But she already knew that there was no point in trying to defy her mother. She had past experience of just how unpleasant Cheryl could be when she didn’t get her way.

  But how was she going to tell Denny? How was she going to blow out their first date together, without him thinking she was a total baby? She closed her eyes, feeling hatred for her mother wash over her like a giant wave.

  There was no solution. If she told the truth, Denny would think she was pathetic. If she lied, she was bound to get found out. Someone would tell Denny that she’d been at the audition and she’d look even more of a fool.

  Slowly, she walked into the bathroom, shut the door and slumped on to the window seat, pulling the blanket round her. Outside, it was getting dark and over on the high cliff she could see the shape of the fluorescent green kite she’d often seen before. She let her eyes follow it, finding herself mesmerised as it dipped and curved in the wind above the cliff. She wondered who it was who flew it there. The view from up there must be spectacular. Perhaps she should go up there herself, she thought, and let the wind clear her head. That’s what she’d do: she’d walk up there right now.

  When she opened the bathroom door, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Her father filled her vision. ‘I knocked, but you didn’t hear,’ he shouted.

  Verity furiously pushed past him and picked up the remote, zapping the sound system into silence. How dare he invade her space like this.

  ‘You OK?’ her father asked.