2000 - Thirtynothing

by Lisa Jewell

  For the first time since he was a teenager, since that hideous weekend in Manchester, Dig could imagine, without a hint of queasiness or panic, a future life which involved somebody else. He could imagine seeing the same face on the pillow next to him every single morning, and he could imagine saying ‘we’ a lot instead of ‘I’. He could imagine being a provider and taking care of someone. He could envisage the golden world that Nadine had conjured up in the café the other day, the world full of teenage children and mess and noise and joyful rites of passage.

  Dig was ready to open up again. He was ready for anything, including getting hurt.

  He slid into the back seat of his car, thinking briefly what an alien place the back seat of one’s own car was to be, and began stuffing handfuls of rubbish into a carrier bag.

  Him and Delilah.

  Delilah and him.

  It was a distinct possibility.

  He just had to persuade her to stay. He had to convince her that whatever it was she had going on with Alex in Chester was not that special. And let’s face it, this Alex couldn’t be all that, could he, if he didn’t even manage it more than once or twice a year? Not to mention the fact that Delilah had left him in Chester without warning and without involving him in her plans, whatever they were. She couldn’t love him that much, could she, to have left him with a note and an empty bed?

  Alex did, however, have a six-bedroom house in his favour, plus acres of land, horses, cars and enough cash to send Delilah off shopping first-class all over the world whenever she felt like it.

  But Dig took this as a sign—this was another facet of his major revelation—it was time to step his career plans up a gear. He was thirty years old—he was supposed to be the millionaire owner of his own record label by now. He was supposed to be driving a big fuck-off Mercedes and spending half the year abroad in his tax haven in Monaco. He should be up there with Alan McGee in the Times 1000 Richest supplement. He wasn’t ever supposed to have ended up in a poky flat on Camden Road driving a clapped-out old Honda Civic and feeling pleased to be earning £27,000 a year.

  Somewhere between his A levels and his thirtieth birthday, Dig realized, he’d lost his fire. Somewhere along the line he’d become complacent and laissez-faire, happy to get by with the bare minimum. When he’d first started work at Electrogram Records music had been his life. He used to pinch himself in disbelief that he was being paid to go to gigs. He felt privileged to be working in the music industry. What had happened to his ambition, his overpowering need to be a success, leave his mark, make something of himself? Contentment was a dangerous thing.

  There were guys out there, guys still in their twenties, making twice, three times, ten times what he was making. There were guys out there who’d done it, made it, got there, achieved—and they were younger than him.

  He thought about Nick Jeffries—twenty-four, hyperactive, restless and always on the move, always sniffing around, asking questions, pushing, pushing, pushing. He was a pain in the arse but you could bet your bottom dollar that in a year or two he’d be gone from Johnny-Boy Records, gone and on to the next salary increment, the next rung of the ladder. He’d be running his own company by the time he was twenty-eight and rolling in it two years later.

  Nick Jeffries would not be driving a G reg Honda Civic when he was thirty years old.

  This was what Dig had missed most about being in love. This was the effect that being in love had on Dig. It lit a fire in his belly. And now he could feel it returning, like the blood rushing back to an anaemic complexion.

  £27,000 a year wasn’t enough.

  A Honda Civic wasn’t enough.

  Seventeen-year-old students weren’t enough.

  Signing up only one big band in his career wasn’t enough.

  Delilah expected more, and he wanted more.

  He pulled the vacuum nozzle out of its holder and began ferreting around the fluff-laden nooks and crannies of his car, sucking out years’ worth of dust and fag-ash and tiny ribbons of Cellophane unfurled from cigarette packets.

  Pretty phallic places, petrol stations, Dig thought, looking around him. Nozzles, pumps, cars, dipsticks and all those things that were designed to fit into holes and spew forth petrol, air, water and oil. Even this innocent-looking vacuum was behaving like a lascivious old pervert, groping around frantically inside his car’s underwear.

  The first weapon in Dig’s anti-Alex arsenal was his ‘groovy’ London lifestyle. Alex might have cash and assets and a business but he couldn’t excite Delilah the way Dig could, with nights out schmoozing with celebrities, first viewings of hot new bands and cab rides all around London Town with that air that ‘smells of life’ rushing up her nostrils.

  The second weapon was his libido. He had one. Alex didn’t. Full stop.

  And the third weapon was his culinary skills. Dig was very proud of his attention to detail and his eye for aesthetics. Nothing pleased him more than the simplest of high-quality ingredients, plainly cooked and beautifully presented, and it had always saddened him slightly that he had no one special to regale with his lovingly prepared plates of food. It wasn’t the sort of food you would cook for just anyone, for your mates, or your mum, or some girl who you weren’t all that serious about.

  Delilah was giving him the perfect opportunity to show off.

  So—it was all sorted.

  Dig and Delilah’s Big Night Out.

  A gig at the Forum—an all-girl band called Pesky Kids who Dig, personally, couldn’t stand but who Delilah would love, because they were fresh and trendy and poppy and all those things that seemed to appeal to her so much.

  Then on to the after-show party—lots of celebs for Delilah to get her rocks off over. A couple of drinks, a bit of a mingle and then back home, where Dig was going to surprise her with a slap-up midnight feast.

  He’d been to the fishmonger in his lunch hour and bought a pound of absolutely enormous prawns—complete bruisers—plus a great thick wedge of Loch Fyne smoked salmon and a small pot of caviar. He’d bought a packet of blinis and a large pot of smetana from the organic supermarket on Parkway, and he was going to boil up some dinky miniature new potatoes and serve them crushed with melted butter and rock salt. Nice and simple. The sort of stuff he could just whisk out of the fridge at the last minute and have ready with the minimum of preparation and fuss. And very, very classy.

  And during dinner, over the candle-light, he would talk to her, really talk to her, about her plans, her trip to London, about that letter from her shrink, and her mission to ‘uncover the past’. After all, he couldn’t help her if he didn’t know what her secret was.

  Dig sneered a bit as he unpeeled half a Harvest Crunch bar from the floor of his car. This was somewhat confusing, as he’d never in his entire life eaten a Harvest Crunch bar and could only imagine that someone else, someone he’d been kind enough to offer a lift to, had left it there. It was one thing chucking litter about in your own car, but in somebody else’s? Fucking cheek…

  Dig gave his dashboard a last going over with a cloth and clambered from his car to appraise his handiwork. Not bad, not bad at all.

  ‘What d’you think of that then, you little gremlin?’ he said, bending to address Digby, who was now shivering on the forecourt, looking like an abandoned orphan. ‘Pretty good, huh?’ It looked almost like it belonged to someone who actually liked their car.

  He opened the passenger door for Digby and patted the seat. ‘In you get, titch. We’re going home now.’

  Digby sat motionless.

  ‘Come on, mate. Get in.’

  The dog eyed Dig fearfully, and then the passenger seat, and began to quake even more.

  ‘Oh Jesus, what kind of a dog are you? You’re descended from the wolf, for God’s sake. Do you realize that? Come on—show some balls.’

  Digby emitted a small whimper and looked at Dig imploringly.

  ‘You can look at me all you like, and you can make your pathetic little noises, but I’m not going to put
you in the car. We’re going to stay here until you get in on your own.’

  Digby whimpered a bit louder.

  ‘Listen, you raggedy little excuse for a dog, I am not going to help you, OK? You might be used to the life of Riley where you come from—you’ve probably got your very own personal valet, or something, but you’re in Dig country now and you’re going to have to learn to fend for yourself. So get in.’

  He patted the seat once more, and this time Digby seemed to have a change of attitude. He girded his loins and readied himself, an expression of determination on his face, and suddenly launched himself, with a tremendous effort, towards the passenger seat. He looked like he was just about to make it—his little legs gripped for dear life on to the edge of the seat, his eyes bulged with strenuous effort, his claws dug into the beige upholstery, his back legs scrabbled to keep him aloft—and then he fell off, rolling on to his back on the forecourt.

  Dig couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing. The dog threw him an injured look.

  ‘If at first, mate, if at first. Try again.’

  Digby did try again, and again he fell. He tried twice more in fact before finding enough impetus to finally land on the chair.

  ‘Yeah!’ cheered Dig, patting the distinctly triumphant-looking dog on the head. ‘What a geezer! What a dude!’ He picked up Digby’s paw and shook his hand. ‘See—wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  Dig gently closed the door, walked around the car and got into the driver’s seat. He turned to look at the dog, and the dog turned to look at him, and Dig could have sworn he smiled at him.

  ‘OK, boy. Let’s go home and show your mum how much we’ve both changed, eh?’

  He switched on his ignition and pulled out of the garage.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Nadine stopped off at her local corner shop on the way home that Friday evening and bought a fresh loaf of bread and a packet of bacon. She was going to eat lots of bacon sandwiches. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d let herself eat a bacon sandwich, and then a courier had walked into her studio eating one a couple of hours ago and she hadn’t been able to get the smell out of her nostrils or the thought out of her mind since. And besides, she deserved a big fat bacon sandwich after her hugely strenuous work-out with Delilah at the gym this morning—she must have burned off at least twice as many calories as she usually did, when she was on her own.

  She’d spent most of that day and the last thinking about what Delilah had said to her that morning at the gym. It had been a revelation. Delilah had been jealous of her at school. It all made sense now and threw a different complexion on two of the worst years of her life. She felt stupid for all the angst she’d put herself through and she respected Delilah hugely for her honesty. Of course Delilah wasn’t interested in Dig. Why would she want Dig, with his skinny legs and his poky flat when she had a mansion and a handsome husband waiting for her at home? For the first time since she was fourteen years old, Nadine could feel her resentment towards Delilah fading away.

  She’d also been thinking a lot about what had happened between her and Phil on Wednesday night, and shuddering a lot—how could she? how could she? how could she?—but it had been nearly forty-eight hours now and there’d been no word from him, so maybe, just maybe, please God, he was just going to disappear down whatever dark, dank hole he’d emerged from, and she’d never have to see him again.

  She dropped a thick stack of paperwork on the table in her hallway, hung up her coat and kicked off her shoes. She dropped the plug into the bath-tub, flicked on the hot tap, bunged in a huge dollop of marshmallow and rosehip bubbles and padded into her living room.

  As she passed the telephone she noticed the answerphone flashing and did a double take. It was telling her that she had eighteen new messages!

  The display must have malfunctioned. Either that or something bad had happened. Oh God. Maybe her mother. Or…or…maybe it was Dig, trying to make things up with her, maybe he wanted to see her that night. Nadine’s heart began racing as she pressed the Play button.

  ‘Er—hi,’ began the first message, ‘Nadine. It’s me. Phil.’ Nadine’s burgeoning excitement deflated like a punctured tyre. ‘It’s…erm…it’s eight fifteen. On Friday morning. I must have just missed you. Just phoning to say hi and that I hope you have a great time in Barcelona, and I can’t wait till you get back.’

  So much for her theory that he’d forgotten about her, thought Nadine. She tapped her fingers impatiently against the plastic covering of the machine while she waited for the next message, hoping for the sound of Dig’s voice.

  ‘Hi. It’s me again. It’s…eight thirty now. I know you’re not there, but I was just thinking about you. So…I’ll call back. Bye.’

  Oh for God’s sake. Nadine didn’t have time to listen to this crap. She had bacon sandwiches to eat, packing to do, Channel Four comedy shows to watch. A beep heralded the next message.

  ‘Me again. It’s nine thirty now. I was thinking—maybe I could see you off at the airport tomorrow. Maybe. If you like. I just really, really need to see you, Deen. Soon. So give me a call. OK?’

  Oh God. Oh God. Nadine fast-forwarded to the next message.

  ‘Nadine Kite. It’s me again. At…er…ten o’clock. Thinking about you still, about Wednesday night. I’m still just…blown away, by you, by what happened between us.’

  She fast-forwarded again.

  ‘It’s ten thirty. I’ve been thinking about Wednesday night again. I can’t wait to see you, Nadine Kite. I don’t think I can wait till next week, y’know? I think we should meet sooner…I’d really like to see you before you go…Anyway—give me a call.

  ‘Hi. Me again. Ten forty-five. Yeah. Definitely meet up before you go to Barcelona, I think. Let’s talk later.

  ‘Hi. It’s ten fifty. I’ve got to go out now. I’ll…er…I’ll call you later.

  ‘Nadine Kite. I’m back. It’s amazing, everything feels so different. You’ve changed everything. Everything felt so black and so fragile and now I feel like I’m alive again.’

  Oh Jesus. Oh no. Oh no. Nadine began fast-forwarding through the messages faster and faster.

  ‘Hi—it’s me again…

  ‘Nadine—it’s me…

  ‘It’s three fifteen, still thinking about you…

  ‘It’s me. What time do you get home? Shit—I wish I had your work number. I need to talk to you…

  ‘Hi—it’s Phil again…

  ‘It’s five twenty…

  ‘It’s me. It’s five forty-five…

  Nadine heavy-heartedly wound the tape on to the last message.

  ‘You’ll be home any minute. How many messages have I left? Yeah. Too many, probably. Look, I have to see you. Tonight. OK? I’ll call you again. Please, Nadine Kite. I have to see you. Bye.’

  Beep, said the machine, you have no more messages.

  A chill went up and down Nadine’s spine. Oh God.

  She felt herself beginning to panic. The flat felt suddenly oppressive and horribly, horribly empty. The phone sat ominously in its cradle, frighteningly silent but pregnant with the prospect of the next ringing tone and the inevitable sound of Phil’s voice invading her home and her freedom.

  She sat like that for a few minutes, listening to the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears, trying to assimilate the fact that what she’d done on Wednesday night wasn’t over, and was in fact just beginning, until she heard the bath water change its pitch as it reached the top. She got up slowly and shuffled towards the bathroom. As she approached the door the phone finally rang, making her jump in spite of her expectation.

  She turned and watched as the answerphone clicked on.

  ‘Oh. Hi. Thought you’d be back by now. It’s…er…six forty-five. Where are you? Maybe you got stuck at work? I’ll phone you later. Bye.’

  Nadine sighed and turned off the bath taps.

  Oh God, she thought, I can’t handle this.

  I’ve got to get out of here.

  I have got to g
et out of here.

  She picked up her handbag, threw on her coat and left her flat, the door slamming loudly behind her.

  She was going to the place in the world where she felt safest. She was going to Dig’s and she was going to apologize for her hideous behaviour, and by the time she left, everything was going to be back to normal.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Dig’s prawns tasted like unwashed towelling socks.

  His smoked salmon tasted like damp kitchen roll, and the blinis had all the flavour and consistency of old cardboard.

  ‘Mmmmmm,’ he murmured, through a mouthful of mush, ‘these prawns are excellent, aren’t they?’

  Delilah nodded sadly, and sighed.

  She had slipped into a pair of pyjamas, and her hair was hanging limply around her face. Dig had seen her looking better. She hadn’t said a word since they’d sat down to eat a quarter of an hour ago, just nodded and sighed and made the odd grunting noise in response to his questions.

  This evening was not turning out how he’d planned.

  Delilah had claimed to be feeling unwell when she’d finally returned from wherever it was she’d been all day at eight thirty that evening. The Pesky Kids were due on stage at eight so they’d blown that one, and she didn’t want to go out anyway, so she said, fancied a ‘quiet night in’.

  Funny, Dig had thought, how people in bad moods always take precedence over people in good moods.

  Dig had been trying so hard to get her to open up, but it seemed he’d chosen the wrong night. All his questions hit a dead end and were ricocheted back at him. Delilah was quite patently not in the mood for talking. Dig’s heartfelt concern from earlier in the day had dissipated, and now he was just plain irritated.

  He didn’t know what to do. He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to slam his cutlery down on the table and shout at the top of voice, ‘Delilah Lillie, what the fucking hell is the matter with you?!’ But he couldn’t, because this was Delilah, and Delilah didn’t give answers; you weren’t allowed to ask her questions—that was against the rules. So he just had to swallow it and pretend that her deathly silence wasn’t happening, compensating for her cerebral absence from the table by being ludicrously jolly and gratingly convivial.