Almost Perfect t-9

by James Goss

  Up close, Patrick smelt of fresh hot oil and vinegar. Ianto realised he was breathing quickly. ‘Er,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’ Patrick smiled, really amused.

  ‘Everything been all right? In the shop, and all?’ Oh god, I’m babbling, thought Ianto.

  ‘Yes. Fine. Couple of boys decided to kick off tonight, but I soon cleared them out. I’m so glad I played a lot of rugby at school.’

  ‘Yeah, always comes in handy,’ said Ianto. ‘Um. Girl’s rugby. Obviously.’

  ‘Obviously, yeah,’ Patrick smirked, and started to undo his apron strings. ‘So, is that it?’

  Ianto nodded, eagerly. ‘Honestly, genuinely, just checking up on you. You’re alive, tick, good. Carry on.’

  ‘And?’ Patrick leaned back against the wall, smirking.

  Ianto looked round, and slumped with defeat. ‘Oh all right, but just a quick snog.’

  GWEN HAS HAD BETTER NIGHTS

  Gwen sat down and scowled at the man opposite her.

  ‘Hello, I’m Gwen,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Hello, ugly, I’m Rhys,’ the man said back to her. He was grinning like a smug cat.

  ‘And what do you do for a living?’

  ‘Aw, I break hearts, I do, darling. How about you?’

  Gwen shrugged. ‘I work for a top-secret organisation that protects Cardiff from alien invasion. I like to think I’m bloody good at it. What about you? Moved any vans around in a timely fashion recently?’

  Rhys grinned broadly. ‘Oh, a few. So. Single are you?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ nodded Gwen. ‘Well, more widowed, really.’

  ‘Is that so? Tragic.’ Rhys tutted. ‘What killed him? Was it your cooking?’

  ‘Noooo,’ Gwen assured him, brightly. ‘One day, he spent so much time on the sofa that it ate him.’ She swilled down the dregs of the third complimentary Bellini she’d managed to grab from the bar. She was getting a bit giggly. Probably from all the small talk.

  ‘You know,’ said Rhys, smiling back at her, ‘you remind me of my last girlfriend. Only she had less split ends, you know.’

  ‘When this is over…’

  ‘We’re getting chips?’

  Gwen shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not. I’m being unpredictable. I’ve heard it adds spice to a relationship. Now – seen any psychos?’

  Rhys shook his head. ‘Apart from my wife, no. Everyone’s been very sweet, actually. You?’

  Gwen shook her head. ‘Let’s just say I’ve discovered I could do worse.’

  ‘That’s charming, that is,’ said Rhys.

  ‘Do you want chips on the way home or not?’

  Helena tinkled a little bell, signalling time to change partners. ‘Aw, and I was having such a laugh,’ Rhys stood up. ‘So do you want to see me again?’

  ‘Not as long as I live,’ said Gwen.

  Rhys left Gwen, grinning. It hadn’t, to be truthful, been a great night for the Williams ego. Not that he’d let Gwen know. No, as far as she was concerned, it had been all honey and roses. But it had also been a nasty reminder of what the world outside his little nest was like.

  True, there were times when all he remembered was the fun of being single, that mad prehistoric time before he met Gwen. Those rare golden nights when it was way past booze o’clock, somewhere in between kebab and the last pint sinking like lead… that lovely, carefree moment when a girl would look at you across the Walkabout and her eyes would stay on you for a bit long, and Lottery Clive would nudge you on the shoulder and say ‘Wahey – you’re in there.’ And you’d pretend not to notice, but you’d look back, and she’d look back, and then…

  Oh, the fun of it all.

  As far as he could remember.

  Compared to all those evenings in, waiting for Gwen not to turn up. Feeling a bit like his mum, waiting up for his dad to get back from a late shift, and trying not to flinch when he breathed beer over her while she laid out the tea things and straightened down the tablecloth.

  Or those cold evenings alone in the flat, when Daveo was out, and Banana Boat was off on one of his Grail quests, and it was just Rhys and the TV guide, suddenly it all felt a bit wrong. So empty. So lonely. And then, eventually, normally a bottle of beer too late, the key would turn in the lock, and there would be Gwen, all big smiles and hurried apologies and bright, bright enthusiasm for whatever he could salvage from the risotto. And it would be like they were on stage, in a play. The Gwen and Rhys Show. Was it a comedy, or a tragedy?

  And they’d lie in bed together later, and he’d notice that she no longer clung to him while she slept, and he’d kiss her sleeping shoulder gently and he’d think, ‘Is this as good as it’s ever going to get?’

  And, now, here he was, discovering that for all those quiet nights in and all those times when they talked at each other – what they had was better. What they had was so much better.

  Rhys stared down at the table for just a second before looking into the eyes of Date #12. He didn’t want to see the expression. He just didn’t. He’d seen four different versions of naked, fearful desperation. He’d heard six different nervous, self-deprecating laughs. One girl whose first word had been sorry. Then a woman who’d not even blinked, but just spoken in a dull, weary tone – not just bored, but despairing – both of Rhys and herself – without hope. And three women who gave it the full ’tude – all Valley pouts and aye-aye body language and bosoms which heaved above their dresses like whales on an ice floe.

  After a tide of all it – all of that like me, hate me, ignore me but please want me, Rhys just felt psychologically battered. No one, not even Gwen, would have rushed to describe Rhys as sensitive, but if asked to point out the serial killer among the women, his response would have been ‘narrow it down, love.’

  Frankly, though, what he’d seen of the men had dispirited him. There were a few nice, normal blokes. Bit on the sweaty side, mind, but tidy enough. A couple of nice chaps who were a bit pie-friendly, sure, and one guy who looked lost away from his computer (ponytail and a mobile phone on a hip holster. Nice). And then, frankly, it all got a bit oh dear. Rhys gazed into the bottom of the barrel, and the bottom of the barrel gazed back at him. Nylon shirts, Simpsons ties, comb-overs, dandruff and Simon Cowell trousers. It was all here and it was all mad. No wonder someone out there was wiping out the single men of Cardiff. They were probably mercy killings.

  And so, with that peace made, Rhys stepped forward and sat down.

  ‘Oh. Hi, I’m Rhys,’ he said, trying not to boggle.

  ‘And I’m Emma,’ said the woman of his dreams.

  Rhys didn’t know what to say next, but she leant over. He could smell her perfume, which was subtle and expensive. He loved how she was dressed – classy dress without being showy, sexy without being revealing. Great hair, a lovely smile, and just the sense that she’d stepped off a movie set. That smile – and the laugh in her eyes. It put him at ease, made him want her to like him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, like she was letting him in on the joke. ‘No one knows what to say at these things.’

  He shrugged. ‘“Hi, I’m Rhys. I work in haulage.” That usually about does it for me,’ Rhys admitted.

  Oddly, she didn’t seem to be listening for a moment – but then her eyes lit up. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I got distracted by the music they play in here. I swear it’s the Top Gun soundtrack.’

  Rhys paused, impressed. ‘Good call. You’re right.’

  ‘Musical genius, me,’ she admitted. ‘I can name that crap in three notes or less.’

  ‘That’s quite a skill,’

  ‘Yeah – utterly useless, but it impresses the boys.’

  ‘It certainly does.’ Rhys suddenly, genuinely liked her. She seemed relaxed about the whole thing. She was dating and flirting and didn’t remind him at all of a slightly dusty Garfield clinging to a rear windscreen.

  ‘So what’s on your iPod?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, that’s not fair.’ Rhys was stumped. ‘You know I’m going to try and
give you a cool answer.’

  She shook her head. ‘Absolutely not. I want to know what you listened to when you came here through the rain. I bet you nodded your head.’

  ‘Actually, er…’ Oh, I’d make such a bad spy. ‘Well, I walked.’

  ‘And didn’t listen to any music?’

  ‘Yes, well, er, that is…’ Now Rhys, don’t start this with a lie.

  ‘Well, actually, I walked down with someone.’

  ‘Someone?’ Emma, amused, held up her hands and made quote marks.

  ‘My ex, Gwen. She’s not very happy about me moving on.’

  She stroked his hand, just slightly, and Rhys suddenly felt like he’d discovered a new flavour of ice cream. ‘I’m sorry about that, Rhys,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, it’s not so bad, really. She just can’t accept that it’s over. I’m trying to be gentle, but we weren’t working. It was her job – she saw more of it than she did me, and one day I just got tired of waiting for her to come home.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said. ‘Work’s just work, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rhys, warming to the subject, ‘but she didn’t get that – not until I’d moved out. And now she wants me back. But I am saying no.’

  ‘Good for you.’ Again, a light touch, just a little bit higher up his arm.

  ‘Thing is, she says she’ll change. Says she’ll be different, you know, just to please me. And that’s not what I want. I’m just me. And work is part of what she is. She shouldn’t try and be what she’s not just to make me happy. I never will.’

  The bell rang. Rhys’s face crumpled. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  And Emma laughed. ‘Rhys, love. Just a tip – next time, say Simon and Garfunkel.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you’re asked what you were listening to just say Simon and Garfunkel. They’re safe, make you seem sensitive, and if you’re challenged you can shrug and say it was on shuffle and that you’ve got tickets to the Ting Tings next month. But whatever you do, don’t talk about your ex!’

  Rhys spread out his hands, aghast. ‘I am so, so sorry… That is so tragic.’

  Emma shook her head. ‘It’s OK. You’ll know for next time.’ And she smiled with all her teeth.

  Next time? Rhys walked away, just a little bit of a spring in his step.

  ‘You were bloody all over her,’ spat Gwen as they stormed down Chippie Alley.

  ‘Was not.’ Rhys tried lingering meaningfully outside his favourite kebabery, but Gwen was having none of it and didn’t even break her stride.

  ‘You practically licked the air she breathed.’

  ‘She was well put-together, I’ll give her that.’

  ‘You could have been a bit more subtle. I thought you were supposed to be playing it cool?’

  ‘Heart on my sleeve, me. Always been my trouble. Salt of the earth.’

  ‘Well, she’s instantly suspect number one.’

  ‘You’re jealous! Just cos something wonderful steps into my world, you want to taser her and stick her in a cell next to a Weevil.’

  ‘Next to? She can bloody share a cell.’

  ‘Gwen, love?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re bloody magnificent when you’re jealous.’

  ‘Thank you. Is there any of that lasagne left in the fridge?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Then you are my perfect man.’

  ‘I still bet I get more calls than you do.’

  EMMA WEBSTER IS A MARKED WOMAN

  Gwen waited until Rhys was asleep, and then slipped out of bed and drove to the Hub. She loved the furtive feeling of wandering across the empty plaza, stepping up to the fountain, and then the click and the cold rush of night air as the invisible lift carried her down.

  Sensing her presence, lights flickered gently into action, lighting up each of the storeys that the lift carried her through. Little pathways across the Hub’s floor lit up, and she stepped over to her desk, switched her computer on, then went over to put the kettle on. Ianto wasn’t around, so she figured she could make a cup of instant without getting into trouble. She guiltily kept a tiny jar hidden in her workstation. She’d tried telling him once that instant wasn’t so bad, really, but he’d just stared at her, like she was giving the ‘Rivers of Blood’ speech.

  Once into the system, she uploaded the digital pictures she’d taken of the room, along with details of the people on the register. She watched as the complicated alien machinery at the heart of Torchwood’s computer reached out into the internet, cross-matching faces and names and pulling in information – phone numbers, more photos, blog posts, one small criminal record, a wish list from Amazon, a history of dodgy dealings on eBay, some ill-advised beach photos from Facebook, a video of a restored car from YouTube, and proof that Gavin was quite the best player of Warcraft in Cardiff. But there was one name and face that Gwen homed in on. She clicked her mouse, and watched as Emma Webster floated forward, gradually filling the screen. Another click, a slight fumble, a small curse, two right clicks, and more images of her from over the years popped up on several other monitors that flickered into life.

  ‘She is gorgeous.’

  Gwen screamed and jumped.

  Bugger.

  There, holding out a cup of freshly brewed coffee, was Ianto. He looked a million dollars in a neat little dress with kicky heels, like he’d been to a board meeting, followed swiftly by a cocktail party and an awards ceremony.

  Gwen sat there, guilty and dishevelled, in the old sweatpants she sometimes slept in and a baggy T-shirt, her hand still clasped in shock to her breast, waiting for her breath to come back.

  ‘Ianto! Don’t do that!’ She was furious with herself for being scared.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I thought you’d like some coffee. I really didn’t mean to scare you.’

  ‘And what are you doing looking like Grace Kelly?’

  Ianto looked a bit blank. ‘Like what?’ He glanced down.

  ‘Oh this? Oh, it’s nothing, really. Just something I found in the Archive. Turns out there’s tonnes down there. Sometimes it’s nice to wear really good clothes. I’ve always felt comfortable in smart clothes – you know how it is, stick with what makes you feel comfy.’ He glanced at Gwen, and smiled.

  Gwen felt herself curling up. Especially when she realised there were still bits of lasagne stuck to her T-shirt.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said slowly.

  Ianto stepped forward and settled the cup down. ‘Truthfully, I didn’t feel much like going to sleep. I’ve not been sleeping well. Nothing really planned. Did a bit of tidying in the vaults.’

  ‘No Jack?’

  Ianto shrugged. ‘Still out trying to track down the cause of his static cloud. You know how he is. So what’s all this, then?’

  Reluctantly, Gwen turned her attention back to the screen. ‘Well, Rhys and I went to that speed-dating thing.’

  Ianto smiled. ‘Taking your husband speed-dating is so modern.’

  ‘Yeah. He turned out to be quite useful, actually. More useful than Jack would have been.’

  ‘I’m always useful!’ Jack strode in from nowhere, flinging his coat onto the sofa. He adopted his big beam. ‘Twenty strangers, some alcohol, and a chance to make small talk? Thirty minutes and we’d all have been in a big naked heap.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Gwen. ‘Lovely fun for you, I’m sure, Jack, but we wouldn’t have learnt anything. Whereas Rhys and I-’

  ‘I think it’s sweet,’ put in Ianto.

  ‘We learned a lot. I think. I had a hunch about one of the women there. It turns out she’s one of the women missing from Tombola’s. And that’s not all.’

  Jack looked at the screens, filled with pictures of Emma Webster. ‘Her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Quite the babe. I would. I definitely would. Wouldn’t you, Ianto?’

  ‘If you promised not to film it, Jack, then yes.’

  My eyes, thought Gwen. ‘Anyway – Emma Webster. Here’s th
e youngest picture we’ve got.’ A school photo flashed up. It showed Emma in her late teens, a bit sullen, a bit spotty, still a bit of puppyfat. Surrounded by her classmates, she just looked cold and unhappy.

  Jack leaned in closely, smiling fondly. ‘You know, I’m in one of my school photos three times. The Time Agency gave me a medal and a small fine.’

  Gwen pressed on. ‘Look – here she is at her thirtieth birthday party. A couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Yeah. Better. She’s grown up well.’

  ‘Yeah – but… she’s not… jaw-dropping. She either’s really made an effort for speed-dating, or something… different’s going on here. I mean look – here she is last night.’

  They looked. They saw what she meant.

  ‘It’s not like she’s had work done, it’s just like she’s… better.’

  ‘Emma 2.0,’ said Ianto.

  Jack nodded. ‘Now she’s… stunning. She’s perfect.’

  Perfect. They both looked at Ianto.

  He coughed. ‘I’ll go and make some more coffee, shall I?’

  Two sets of eyes watched him go.

  EMMA WEBSTER IS ABOUT TO BE OFF THE MARKET AGAIN

  He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not.

  Who am I kidding?

  He loves me.

  RHYS WILLIAMS IS A CHANGED MAN

  After his first decent night’s sleep in days, Rhys woke up and lumbered out of bed, neatly ignoring Gwen’s stabbing foot and her murmur of ‘tea… tea… tea…’

  He switched on the shower, started cleaning his teeth and hunting out some clothes for the day – all without a single thought in his head. And, when he did have a thought, it was to glimpse his reflection in the mirror and think, ‘Looking good, boy.’

  He got out of the shower, marvelling at how that new shower gel really did leave him feeling tingling and refreshed. Gwen pottered into the bathroom, started cleaning her teeth and then stopped, brush motionless, foam flecking her mouth. ‘Mmmkhing hell!’ she managed, paste dribbling onto the floor.