by Mike Gayle
I turned to Ginny and smiled. ‘This is weird, isn’t it?’ She half smiled. ‘You and me, sitting here in your mum’s old house, on the doorstep. How many times have we done this in the past?’
‘Who knows,’ said Ginny. She set her wine-glass on the ground next to her feet and shifted her gaze towards the end of the garden. ‘I miss my mum, you know,’ she said, after a few moments of silence.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It’s only natural.’
‘Yeah, I know. It’s just that, well, I’m not even sure “miss” is the right word, Matt. Without her I feel like something’s missing. That part of me has gone.’ She picked up her glass again. ‘I try to talk to her sometimes. I know it’s only in my head but even that’s better than nothing. I imagine us sitting at the kitchen table and me telling her about what’s going on in my life – about school, about Ian, about how I feel about the world, and she listens. And just the thought of her listening makes me feel better. It’s strange, that, isn’t it? How just being listened to can make you feel better. Mum was a really good listener. No matter what I was rambling on about, she’d always make me feel like it was the most important thing in the world. And now she’s gone I feel like all the good she worked in my life has gone too.’ She sighed. ‘Sorry,’ she said, turning to me. ‘I’m getting a bit depressing, aren’t I?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Far from it. I’m just glad you can talk about it with me, that’s all.’
Ginny smiled. ‘Of course I can talk about it with you.’ She looked at me curiously. ‘I can see you want to ask me something. Go ahead.’
I laughed. ‘You’re right. It’s not so much a question as . . . I don’t know. It’s just that, until this week, no one I’ve known – at least, been really close to – has died. My grandparents died when I was really young and that’s just about it, apart from the odd distant family member. When I saw you in the Kings Arms that night, and you told me your mum had died, I had no idea what you must have been through.’
‘I know what you mean. Before Mum became ill I would’ve had no concept of it either. For my entire life it’s just been me and her. I’ve never met my dad and never wanted to either. So, you know, it was just me and Mum against the world, and that would never end – how could it? To me Mum was indestructible, she’d be around for ever – we’d be with each other for ever. So when she told me she was ill, it was a huge shock. At the age of twenty-eight I found out that Mum wasn’t indestructible, after all, that the two of us weren’t going to go on for ever . . .’ Ginny stopped as her voice broke.
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Look, I don’t want you to get upset.’
‘No,’ said Ginny, breathing deeply. ‘It’s okay, Matt.’ She smiled. ‘You shouldn’t be afraid of people getting upset. It’s natural. You can’t run away or not do something just because it makes you upset.’ She laughed. ‘You always used to hate it when I cried on you, didn’t you?’
‘Just a little bit,’ I replied quietly. ‘Only because I didn’t know what to do to make it stop.’
‘That’s the thing,’ she replied. ‘Sometimes you just don’t want it to stop. Sometimes all you want in the world is someone to share it with.’
‘I don’t know what I’d do if either of my parents died,’ I said. ‘I know I go on about them being annoying, the bane of my life and all that, but if they weren’t around I’d miss them for the rest of my life.’
‘You should tell them that,’ said Ginny. ‘It’s one of the few good things that came out of this thing with Mum – the fact that I could tell her how much I loved her, and that I knew when the time came that she would know how much she meant to me.’
‘I’ve thought about this, y’know,’ I began. ‘You might not think so but I have. I’ve tried to imagine telling my parents that I love them and all that but I dunno . . . I don’t think they’d understand. I think it’s great that you had that with your mum but my folks haven’t got the faintest clue what to do with emotions. Yeah, we love each other and all that, but would we ever say it? I don’t know . . . I think that at least for us there’s a certain security to be had in the things that aren’t said. I mean, if you’re that kind of person it’s cool, but if you’re not then it’s . . .’
Ginny smiled. ‘I know what you’re saying. You can’t just magic up that kind of communication out of nowhere and I suppose with it always being just me and Mum we were a lot closer than many mothers and daughters.’
‘There are times when I think that I’ve not had a real conversation with Dad since I was small. At least, at that age I remember wanting to talk, and when he wasn’t busy at work or in the garden we would talk. But mostly what I remember are the companionable silences, where he’d walk with his usual long strides and I would try desperately to keep up with him. Even though it used to wear me out I could see in his eyes that he was pleased I tried.’
‘Your dad loves you, you know,’ said Ginny.
I nodded.
‘And your mum,’ she added.
I nodded again.
‘You’re trying to work out why I’m telling you all this.’ I nodded yet again. ‘I’m telling you this for one reason and one reason only: no matter how sure you are of someone’s love, it’s always nice to hear it.’
We stopped talking for a while, enjoying the confined space of the doorstep together. I wondered for the first time what it would be like to kiss Ginny again. I thought about Elliot and how I still couldn’t comprehend quite what his death meant. And, finally, I thought about my mum and dad and tried to imagine life without them. A lot of what Ginny had said to me made sense. There is a great deal of comfort to be taken from imagining that your parents are a permanent fixture in your life who will be there for ever. Maybe, I thought, I should look at the world as it is, rather than how I want it to be. But no matter how hard I tried to imagine it without them, no matter how I tried to guess what it would feel like to have a parent-shaped hole in my life, I couldn’t imagine a world without my mum and dad.
It was ten past eight when I eventually announced to Ginny that it was time I went home. I helped her clear away the plates, dishes and the rest of the mess I’d made while cooking then made my way to the hall to collect my jacket. ‘Right, then,’ I said, opening the front door. ‘I’d better be off.’
‘Okay,’ said Ginny. She stepped forward and kissed my cheek. ‘Thanks for today, Matt. It was a weird reason for us to get together again but nice all the same.’
I smiled and stepped outside, then headed down the short path to the front gate. When I reached the gate, though, I stopped, turned round and walked back to Ginny.
‘I was hoping you’d do that,’ she said.
‘Then why didn’t you say anything?’ I asked.
‘Insecurity, fear, a smidgen of self-loathing – the usual suspects. I felt it the last time we said goodbye. I should’ve said something then, but you know how it is. You just don’t want to look stupid, do you? But shall I say it now and save you the trouble?’ I laughed. ‘Matt, I would love it if, for however long you’re back home, you consider our friendship resurrected. Feel free to call me for a drink, a moan or just to hang out.’
‘Of course I’d be pleased for us to be friends again.’
‘I’m not just saying this, Matt,’ said Ginny, a distinct edge of seriousness entering her voice. ‘I mean it. Proper mates. And not just you, but Gershwin as well.’ She put her arms around me and gave me a hug. ‘We all should’ve known better than to just drift apart.’ Her voice was unsteady.’We should’ve known better.’
forty-six
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
How are things?
Dear Matt
This is just a quick note to find out how you’re keeping. I’ve been really worried about you since your news. I know you don’t like me worrying but I can’t help it. I just want to know that you’re okay. News this side of t
he pond is pretty mundane. Work is a bit of a bind (but, hey, when isn’t it?). Sara is still sleeping on the Sofa from Hell (incidentally she hasn’t mentioned how uncomfortable it is, which either means that she’s being really polite or has a spine made of steel), and my parents are talking about coming to see me. I broke the news to them that we’d split up and my dad was so happy he was like a game-show contestant. Did I ever tell you the reason why my dad never liked you? It was because you’re English. My dad never has anything good to say about the English. He says, and I quote, ‘They all act like they’ve got flagpoles shoved up their butts.’ Truth is, he’s never liked any of my boyfriends. That’s what dads do best, I guess – hate their daughters’ boyfriends. Well, gotta go and do some work now (or at least pretend to).
take it easy
love always
Elaine xxx
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
me
Dear Elaine
Glad to hear you’re okay, dudette, and that the Sofa from Hell hasn’t crippled Sara and that your dad still hates me. All that aside, thanks for the rest of the contents of your last e-mail and for the phone call the other day. I’m honestly okay. Really I am. Gershwin, Ginny and I went to see where Elliot was buried today, which was strange and not in the least bit comforting. I have no idea what we thought we’d achieve by doing it. It’s weird how in times of crisis when you’re not sure how to act the most natural thing to do is to act like you’re in a TV drama! Fortunately we snapped out of it pretty quickly and ended up retiring to the local pub. I feel like today has been a turning-point for the three of us. I think we’re going to be proper mates again and this makes me feel good. Anyway, you take it easy yourself and try not to get too stressed when your folks come to stay.
Love
Matt xxx
forty-seven
True to our word, Ginny and I kept in touch. It started out with the odd trip down to the Kings Arms in time for last orders, with Gershwin tagging along whenever he could make it, progressed to trips to the cinema and mid-week meals out before finally moving on to that special point in friendship: the dropping round to each other’s house for no reason other than the desire for company, coffee and the occasional cigarette. Sometimes Ian came out with us, sometimes Zoë came too, but for the most part it was just the three of us and, while I hesitate to say it, it really was just like old times.
On the Tuesday evening, nearly three weeks into our newly reinstated friendship, the three of us were in the lounge of the Kings Arms, spending some quality time together (well, actually, I was moaning about living with my parents, Ginny was moaning about work, and Gershwin was moaning about life and work) when they announced that ‘Rock Around the Pop’ – the Kings Arms’ regular Tuesday night quiz – was about to begin. This was the second week in a row that we’d been and we loved every second of it. There’s something wonderfully comforting about the Great British Pub Pop Quiz. It was cool to be vindicated: to know that there was indeed a point in knowing which year the Sex Pistols had signed their deal with EMI, and a good reason to be able to name all five members of Musical Youth; it was fantastic to have Ginny and Gershwin look at me in awe in the what-lyric-comes-next round when I could recite not just a line but all of Wham!’s ‘Club Tropicana’. It was a real bonding moment for us. My speciality was hits of the eighties, Ginny was spot on almost every time on current music and Gershwin excelled at everything else. We were like a well-oiled pop-music-trivia machine.
Half-way through the quiz, when Gershwin and I were hunched over Ginny’s shoulders watching her scribble down the answers in her role as holder of the pencil, Ian turned up unexpectedly. I suddenly felt guilty. From the moment that I’d thought about kissing her on the day when we’d sat on her doorstep, it had become harder and harder to stop thinking about Ginny in ‘that way’. This disappointed me because, at the age of nearly thirty, I was hoping that I’d somehow gained control of my ‘dark’ side, and the thought of being obsessed with another man’s girlfriend depressed me. Worse still, I liked the idea that, after all this time, Ginny and I could just be friends without leaping all over each other. Having a platonic friendship with an ex-girlfriend/not girlfriend just seemed the sort of thing a nearly thirty-year-old man should be able to do. It didn’t help knowing that it was only me who was battling with temptation either. Although affectionate, Ginny hadn’t given me the slightest indication that she wanted anything to happen. And why would she? Unlike me, Ginny was in possession of the turning-thirty Holy Grails: a decent job, her own home and a relationship that had a future.
‘Hi,’ said Ginny, standing up to kiss him. ‘This is a nice surprise.’
‘Good,’ he said, returning her kiss. He turned and looked at me and Gershwin. ‘All right, lads?’
‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ asked Ginny, pulling up a chair for Ian.
‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ he said, sitting down.
Ginny tutted loudly. It was odd seeing her go into girlfriend mode like that. As she’d always been more friend than girlfriend when I’d been involved with her I’d never had to suffer that with her, and judging by the grim look on her face she did it very well.
‘I’m off to the bar,’ said Gershwin, as he and I exchanged schoolboy smirks of the I-wouldn’t-like-to-be-him-right-now variety. ‘Can I get you a drink, Ian?’ he asked, as he stood up.
‘I’d love one,’ said Ian, ‘but I can’t stay out long – too much work to finish off.’
‘Oh, great,’ snapped Ginny.
‘Look, I’m sorry, babe,’ said Ian. ‘I’ll make it up to you soon.’
‘You haven’t even told me what the bad news is yet,’ said Ginny.
‘Er . . .’ interrupted Gershwin, embarrassed. ‘Same again, Ginny?’
‘No, thanks. I’ll have a double vodka and tonic, if that’s okay.’
She’d been nursing half a cider all night.
‘No problem,’ replied Gershwin, exiting rapidly.
I stood up and gabbled, ‘Better go give the old man a hand with the drinks, eh?’ in Ginny’s direction, waved at Ian and disappeared after Gershwin.
‘What do you think that was about?’ I asked my companion, as we reached the safety of the bar.
‘Dunno, mate, but whatever it is he’s definitely in trouble.’
By the time we returned Ian had gone and Ginny was fuming in a way that only a woman wronged by her boyfriend can.
‘Where’s Ian?’ I asked. ‘He can’t have gone already?’
‘He’s gone all right.’
‘Lovers’ tiff?’ asked Gershwin.
‘You could say that,’ said Ginny tersely. ‘Every year my old college friend Adele throws a birthday party in her flat in Belsize Park. It’s always really fabulous and everyone who went to college with us turns up.’
‘So?’ I asked.
‘So,’ began Ginny, throwing a hard stare in my direction, ‘every year I go just to meet up with everybody and every year I feel like crap because they’ve all got these fabulous lives. Adele works in an art gallery and has this semi-delinquent toff boyfriend who’s loaded. Her best friend number one, Liz, is an art director at some swanky advertising agency in Soho, has got a boyfriend who’s a TV presenter and drives a big black sporty-type car—’
‘Ferrari or Porsche?’ asked Gershwin, unwisely.
‘I don’t know!’ snapped Ginny. ‘That’s hardly the point, is it?’ She exhaled deeply. ‘Sorry, Gershwin. Where was I? Oh, that’s it – and then there’s Adele’s best friend number two, Penny, who’s married to a banker, has two gorgeous kids, a house in West London and a cottage in Cornwall, and on top of all that she had a show of her paintings at the Serpentine last summer. Finally there’s me.’
‘Do you actually like these people?’ I asked.
‘Can’t stand them. Couldn’t stand them at university either.’
‘So
why are you going?’
‘Because if I don’t it would be like admitting defeat. They’re all so bloody patronising. It’s like, “Oh, poor Ginny!” and I just want to shove their sympathy right up their—’
‘Now, now,’ interrupted Gershwin, adopting a vicarly tone. ‘That won’t do at all.’
‘This year was going to be different. For one, I was going to tell them all what I thought of them, and for the other I was going to take my very handsome boyfriend with me to show off. I asked him about this ages ago and he’s been promising me that he’d come and then I get his excuses and I have to go on my own.’
‘Well, if Ian’s got to work, he’s got to work, hasn’t he?’ I said, attempting to be the voice of reason.
Ginny wasn’t in the mood for reason and glared at me.
‘It’s only an idea,’ began Gershwin, ‘but we could come with you. Y’know, be your escorts for the evening. Matt could pretend to be a mega-famous music producer and could spend the evening name-dropping superstars.’
I interrupted, ‘And Gershwin could be an airline pilot.’
Ginny attempted to stifle a smirk but failed miserably. ‘I’ve always quite fancied the idea of a pilot. They’re quite sexy, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, indeedy,’ said Gershwin. ‘And not only have I always wanted to be sexy but I’ve always wanted to fly a plane. I could make out that I’ve done a long haul from Singapore just to attend this party with you.’
‘Who would I get to be?’ asked Ginny, getting into the mood of our new fantasy-career game. ‘I’m still only a teacher.’
‘That’s the beauty of these lies,’ I replied sympathetically. ‘You don’t get to be anyone but yourself. Gershwin and I are two potential suitors who met you on holiday in Barbados and are vying for your love. It’ll be a great laugh. Adele and her trendy mates will be so jealous you’ve managed to hook up with two eligible young studs like us that she’ll hopefully choke with jealousy and die.’
