The Art of Keeping Faith

by Anna Bloom

  Much better.

  Right then. Study …

  So there were once two Popes …

  “There you are, I knew I would find you sleeping up here.”

  I look up at Meredith who is bounding toward me with a determined zeal.

  “I am not sleeping, I’m studying.”

  ”Come on. Let’s do something.” She starts to shut the books I opened for no reason other than to look busy.

  “Like what?” I eye her cautiously. She is looking alarmingly happy and hyper.

  “Tristan is here!” She squeals like she may explode at any moment due to extreme happiness. “He came to surprise me after class.”

  “Really?” I can’t keep my own surprise out of my voice.

  She picks up on it, “I know. It’s great, isn’t it? Maybe he isn’t such a grumpy pants after all?”

  I don’t want to burst her bubble and tell her that he more than likely is. So I just humour her and nod my head instead, starting to pack up my belongings.

  What’s one drink going to do in the grand scheme of things? I am sure I can maintain my mature dignity and not throw my name away again.

  Also I really want to see what Tristan the Arse is up to.

  8th November

  7.00 a.m.

  Urgh. God. My head.

  That wine could not have been right? When will I learn that the Student Union Bar is not a good place to buy a decent glass of vino? Bloody old plonk.

  It’s not just my head that hurts it’s my entire face.

  Actually, I ache all over.

  What on earth was I doing?

  My phone vibrates before I can contemplate the situation any further.

  Richard: I’m gonna be five mins late. My head hurts. Meet you by the petrol station.

  Oh shit, jogging.

  More to the point, why do my legs feel like I have already jogged about five miles.

  My phone again.

  Richard: It was dancing.

  That explains it.

  Well it would half explain it. It explains the ache, but it does not tell me why I was dancing in the Student Bar on a Thursday night.

  Only one way to find out.

  I’m going to have to go jogging.

  8.30 a.m.

  So kill me now.

  My efforts to maintain my mature dignity involved the following:

  Five glasses of Old Plonk with five Sambuca shots.

  Tripping and spilling an entire pint of beer down Richard who then spent the rest of the night in a wet, rank smelling shirt.

  Tripping and landing on my face right in front of the bar and bruising my right knee (this partially explains the aching this morning).

  Having another dance-off. This time with Barbie. (This explains the rest of the aches this morning).

  I nearly fell over again when Richard told me mid-jog.

  ”Please tell me the lights were dimmed?”

  “Nah, sorry it was like broad daylight in there.”

  Crap.

  What is wrong with me? Seriously! There is no way I am going on campus today.

  9th November

  It’s been one year. One year since I did that super-duper brave (although slightly delayed) act of breaking up with John so that I could be with Ben.

  Obviously it did not quite go to plan.

  For some reason that I still can’t explain three hundred and sixty-five days later, I decided not to use the groundbreaking development in modern technology called a mobile phone, and call Ben to tell him how successful my evening had been.

  I passed out and awoke hours later to find Ben in bed with a partially dressed Barbie.

  And that was the undoing of everything. The position that I find myself in now, with the whole weird long-distance relationship and living with Meredith and Tristan (who are having sex very loudly again by the way), has all derived from that one night a year ago.

  It’s really bloody annoying thinking back on it now. If I had known John was making moves on Annabelle I wouldn’t have fannied about for weeks building up the courage to dump him. I would have done it on the second day of Uni when I realised I had a major thing for the boy in the room next door.

  Or, I would have done it after that first night at Fez Club when I realised I wanted to have sex with the boy in the room next door, quite badly.

  Or, I would have done it after our first date when I realised that I was in fact in love with the boy in the room next door and probably always would be.

  Instead, I waited and waited like the scaredy pants chicken that I am. Instead of living happily forever after, I am living this: A long distance relationship conducted over a telephone with me being the single parent of a crazy cat who has shredded every item of soft furnishing we own while his “dad” has his picture taken with near naked girls on a regular basis.

  It’s a pile of shit. That’s what it is.

  I may have to have a vodka to celebrate just how incredibly shit and ironic my entire existence is.

  I am sure Baz will be happy with me celebrating the irony of life in the shop. What else is an alcoholic Saturday girl supposed to do?

  Work

  By the time I get to the shop I am running late and it is fair to say I am in a foul mood. My shower and morning routine (all five minutes of it) has been dominated by one repetitive thought. I AM A DICK and if I had not been such a dick a year ago then I would not be having conversations like this with myself.

  Taylor Swift is belting “Stay Stay Stay.” And I am only too aware that for all the four letters words I like to use, stay, has never been one I have utilised enough.

  The shop is in complete darkness and for a brief moment I have one of those euphoric moments where you think you are going to get an unexpected day off.

  This is closely followed by the depressing thought that even if I did have the day off I would have nothing to do with it apart from mooch about at home feeling sorry for myself.

  Then I have a moment of panic where I realise that I should probably open up the shop but cannot remember the last time I used my keys.

  One of the pluses of always getting to work late is that I never have to worry about being the one to open up the doors.

  I give a little air punch when I find them wedged in the corner of my bag. Although I do need to make a mental note to clean out my bag at some point, it seems I have an entire universe stashed in there.

  One red lipstick—I don’t think I have ever worn red lipstick in my life.

  One box of Band Aids—clearly in preparation for my relationship counselling role or for when I fall down drunk.

  An entire handful of dried leaves which at first I think may be a stash of weed, (not that I smoke the stuff, but you never know, desperate times and all that) but then realise with intense disappointment that it is just a split herbal tea bag.

  My tweezers—I have been looking for these for about six weeks, my eyebrows are taking over my face as a result.

  Eight tampons, all unused but in various conditions and levels of being unwrapped.

  A pair of knickers—Yes that is right. I have a pair of knickers in my bag that I have no recollection of putting there. Even I am a little shocked by this. Thankfully, they were clean.

  Finally after twenty minutes of emptying my life onto the pavement I manage to get through the door to the shop. When I do I stop on the spot and then I have to check that I am in the right place because this looks more like a florist than a music shop.

  I am not talking about a few paltry bunches dotted here or there. I am talking jam packed to the rafters with roses.

  “What the fuck?”

  I edge my way over the till and put my bag down on the counter and find a litre bottle of my favourite vodka with a gift card tied around the neck with bow.

  “What the fuck?” I ask the bottle of vodka.

  The card says: Happy first year anniversary—I know it’s not official but I am claiming it anyway. It’s mine and always will be
, like u. B. x

  The card is written in Ben’s hand, I have no idea how he has arranged this but it truly is a surprise.

  A surprise that makes me cry like a big baby.

  I stop my tears to send Ben a text: I love you.

  Simple, but very true. I know he won’t wake up for hours but at least it will be there when he does.

  What did I do to celebrate our first ‘could have been together’ anniversary?

  I sulked and stropped about what could have been.

  Well done, Delilah.

  Fifteen minutes later

  “Oh just call me an old romantic,” Baz announces with a resounding boom as he enters the shop and starts to negotiate a path through the cream coloured roses to the counter.

  “Did you put all these in here?”

  Baz gives a shrug. “Well I opened the door so the flower lady could get in. I think that counts for something doesn’t it.”

  I lean over and give him a tight squeeze.

  “Yes, it does.”

  “I’ve got something else too,” he smirks.

  “There is no room left, so I am guessing it’s small?”

  “Maybe?” he teases, but he does not leave me hanging long.

  I think he might actually be more excited than I am. He leans down and presses play on the stereo under the counter and I recognise the sound coming through the speakers straight away. Ben. Ben and the Gibson.

  I start to cry but also laugh at the same time which results in a bit of an odd donkey noise but I ignore it and listen to the song Ben has sent for me.

  It is just my Ben and his guitar and it is frickin’ perfect.

  ”Are you going to cry all day?” Baz asks after a good ten minutes. Luckily we don’t have any customers for me to scare off with my crazy mascara.

  “No.”

  Maybe.

  “Thank fuck for that, I was about to crack open the vodka myself.”

  Ooh, vodka.

  “Fancy one?” I ask. “It would be rude not to. It is National Lilah Vodka Day.”

  He chuckles which makes his huge frame shake. “Yeah, sod it. Why not.”

  “Excellent.”

  2.00 p.m.

  The phone is ringing. Baz just stares at me.

  “What?”

  “Answer the phone, Lilah. Surely I pay you for something!”

  I don’t bother responding. I just pull a face as I walk over to the phone, which is still ringing with an annoying insistence.

  “I saw that,” he tells me.

  I do it again for good measure.

  “Hello, Miserable Musicians R’Us,” I singsong using my most out of tune voice into the handset.

  “Lilah?”

  “Ben?”

  “Has the shop changed its name?”

  “No, but it probably should.”

  He chuckles a little down the line as my brain switches onto the fact that he is calling me long distance at work and I am standing in a room full of flowers he arranged for me after listening to a song he wrote for me.

  “Thank you for my flowers. They’re beautiful,” I whisper, my voice tight in my throat.

  “You’re so welcome. I just didn’t want you to think I had forgotten.”

  I giggle a little. “I’m getting a strong feeling that you have not forgotten.”

  “Never will. I’m still sorry.”

  “Don’t say sorry again.”

  “Well, I always will be.”

  “Thank you for my song.”

  “You are welcome again.” It is his turn to chuckle and I physically ache at the sound. I want him to be here so bad.

  “I wish you were here.”

  “So do I, it’s not long now, just a couple more weeks.”

  “So was that a new Sound Box song?” I ask to change the subject from the heavy ache radiating from my chest and down to my extremities.

  “No that was a new Ben Chambers song, a Ben for Lilah song.”

  “Well I loved it. It’s got number one written all over it.”

  “Well I don’t know about that.”

  “Believe me I am a pro, I work in a music shop.”

  “Sold anything today?”

  “Nah, Baz and I are drinking the vodka.”

  He laughs down the line and I visualise the blues twinkling and the freckles crinkling. My mouth goes very dry, very suddenly.

  “I can’t talk long, Lilah.”

  “I know. Will you be able to call tonight?”

  “You’re busy tonight.”

  I run through my very important agenda of sweet-fuck-all in my head. “Uh, no I don’t think so.”

  “Well you never know. I love you, Lilah, I will speak to you tomorrow okay?”

  “Okay. I love you, have a good gig tonight.”

  “No gig tonight, we are going to do some publicity or something instead.”

  “Sounds very important, have fun.”

  “Will do. Love you.”

  “Bye, Ben.”

  And then he is gone again.

  I put the phone down and look at Baz. “Am I doing something tonight?”

  “I don’t know, are you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Fancy another vodka while you wait to find out?”

  “Oh yes.”

  5.30 p.m.

  We are just tidying up, well we are pretending to. Baz may be a little merry and I am most definitely squiffy when the door chimes. Turning from my flower arranging come dusting, I watch Meredith walk into the shop closely followed by Tristan who is in turn followed by Beth and Jayne.

  “What you guys doing here?”

  “Taking you out for an anniversary dinner,” Meredith tells me as she picks up the bottle of vodka and peers at the bottom, tilting it and checking for remains. There isn’t. Not a drop.

  “Okay,” I say a little unsurely.

  The shop full of flowers was one thing. The song was another. The mid-afternoon phone call was a highlight, but recruiting my friends and family to take me out for dinner so I am not sitting at home like a sad fuck by myself, may be pushing it a little too far.

  “Guys, I’m not completely useless and don’t need babysitting all evening. If I had to be honest I had no idea that Ben was going to make such a fuss of today, it was kind of off my radar.” I give a little shrug along with my lie.

  Saying that, I am rather hungry.

  “Where were you thinking?” I ask.

  It is Tristan who answers. So far he has been skulking around the shop eyeing up the roses. Tristan does not look overly happy with Ben’s romantic notion.

  “Chinese.” Tristan does a double eyebrow wiggle.

  My mouth pops open. “Are we going for a Chinese?” I question my voice a pitch higher with excitement.

  “Oh yes,” confirms Tristan.

  “My favourite Chinese that I haven’t been to for a year?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I get to have Ho Fun again?”

  “Yes, yes. Are we bloody going or what?”

  “Whose idea was that?” I probably don’t need to ask.

  “Ben’s,” everyone groans at once and I start to make donkey noises again.

  It’s official. I have the best boyfriend in the entire world, and if I can’t celebrate that fact by having copious amounts of sex with said boyfriend, then I shall celebrate it with my urban family and support network of friends. Whilst downing countless bottles of Sake and tearing my way through a year’s worth of Ho Fun that I have missed out on.

  10th November

  I have ten take-away cartons of Ho-Fun safely stashed in the freezer! It was the major brain-wave I came up with at about midnight when the five bottles of Sake, two bottles of wine (shared between us all—I am not a complete alco), and two bottles of Chinese beer (these were all mine), mixed with the bottle of vodka I had already put away with Baz.