His 'n' Hers

by Mike Gayle

  Once we’re out of earshot the truth comes out.

  ‘That was too vile for words,’ says Jim.

  ‘I felt soiled just standing in that room,’ I reply.

  Needless to say we don’t ring Mr Mebus that night.

  7.56 p.m.

  Or Mrs Rawsthorne of 23a Rickman Road (dump).

  8.23 p.m.

  Or Mr Shaukat of Flat D, 453 Lake Road (even dumpier).

  Tuesday, 10 October 1995

  6.45 p.m.

  Or Mr Dixon of Flat 2, 11th floor, Abingdon House (too depressing).

  7.33 p.m.

  Or Mr and Mrs Cimoszewicz of Flat 4, Howard Street (a wood-chip-wallpapered death-trap).

  7.58 p.m.

  Or Mr Potts of Flat A, Duke Street (landlord looked too much like a serial killer and mentioned several times how he had keys to all the flats).

  Friday, 20 October 1995

  6.22 p.m.

  Or Mr Dixon (again) of Flat 5, 13th floor, Warwick House (mouse droppings on the kitchen floor!).

  6.49 p.m.

  Or the Ruddard brothers of 345c Warwick Crescent (previous occupant had disappeared mysteriously leaving all his belongings).

  7.47 p.m.

  Or Mr Ho of Flat 1, Able Row (smelt strongly of Ajax and desperation).

  Monday, 13 November 1995

  8.38 p.m.

  We’re in my bedroom, watching TV on the portable having had one of our most depressing flat-hunting experiences so far. Tonight we saw a one-bedroom flat on the top floor of a large house on Valentine Road in Kings Heath. It had mould growing from a crack in the kitchen ceiling and when I pointed it out to the letting agent he just laughed and said he wouldn’t charge us extra for keeping pets.

  ‘I feel like this is never going to work,’ I say to Jim, who’s lying on the bed half-watching EastEnders.

  ‘Do you think this is some sort of sign that we shouldn’t move in together?’

  ‘I think it’s just a sign that we don’t really know how much anything costs in the real world.’

  There’s a pause as we watch Pat Butcher on the TV have a shouty, earring-jangling row with Ian Beale.

  ‘So, what are we going to do?’ I ask, still looking at the TV. ‘Do we just stay as we are? Or . . . I’ve got it!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You could just move in with me and the girls . . . or I could move in with you and the boys across the road.’

  Jim pulls a face. ‘I don’t know about that. Some people don’t like living with a couple, do they?’

  ‘So we’ll ask them right now,’ I say positively. ‘The worst they can say is no.’

  10.13 p.m.

  Alison’s just called me to compare reactions.

  ‘So what did they say your end?’ she asks.

  ‘Nick’s fine with you moving in,’ I tell her. ‘But don’t get too excited. He does have some reservations.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘You’re not allowed to start moaning at him to keep the place tidy. Basically I think if you live here you’re going to have to lower your standards . . . a lot.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Oh, and Nick says he’d prefer it if you didn’t bring any pot-pourri into the house because, and I quote, “Dead flower petals in a bowl is the biggest scam ever.”’

  ‘Why does he think I’m going to bring pot-pourri with me?’

  ‘I have no idea. He only has the vaguest concept of women at the best of times. Anyway, what did the girls say?’

  ‘They were a bit reserved to begin with. I think they think it will mean that they won’t be able to walk about naked any more.’

  I laugh. ‘Tell them I only have eyes for you and that they can feel free to walk around naked. In fact, I’ll encourage it.’

  ‘I bet you will. The other thing they mentioned is that they don’t want us having rows in any public area of the house.’

  ‘We don’t row much anyway. Except for the occasional sulk – like last week when we were play-fighting and I dropped you on your head – we’re very good at being nice to each other.’

  ‘I know, but they did say it.’

  ‘Fine. We can agree to that. What else is there?’

  ‘That’s it. The bottom line is that they think it will be nice to have a man around the place to kill spiders, take out the bin-bags on rubbish day and programme the video. Having said that, I don’t think they were being entirely serious about that last bit.’

  ‘So, that’s that, then,’ I say finally. ‘They’ve both said yes . . . Which room do we go for? Yours or mine?’

  ‘Well, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way but I’d rather you moved into mine. My house is nicer. Do you mind?’

  ‘I do, actually. The telly at yours is tiny.’

  ‘And that’s your only reason?’

  ‘What can I say? I hate tiny TVs.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  I reach into my pocket and take out a fifty-pence piece. ‘Heads we’ll live at mine, tails we’ll live at yours.’

  I toss the coin into the air and catch it in the palm of my hand.

  ‘What is it?’ asks Alison.

  Tilting my hand I look at the coin and can clearly see the Queen’s head. I’ve won. But suddenly I realise I don’t want to win. Alison’s right. Her house is a million times nicer than mine, plus Disco will like living at her house more than mine. And I want Alison to be happy.

  ‘It’s tails,’ I lie. ‘We’re moving into yours.’

  Wednesday, 15 November 1995

  9.02 a.m.

  It’s the morning of the move and we’ve both got the day off work. Last night I made space in my wardrobe for Jim. I emptied out two drawers in my room and I even cleared a space for his records. I was absolutely ready to go. Now it’s twelve hours later and I’m standing in what’s become our joint bedroom surrounded by all of Jim’s worldly goods: several hundred records, two black bin-bags of clothes, several shoeboxes of tapes, a guitar, four crisps boxes of books, two carrier-bags of shoes and trainers, and a TV. I don’t think either of us can believe how much stuff he has. The funny thing is, instead of sorting it all out we decide to tackle the bigger, more exciting and far more adult question.

  ‘Which side of the bed do you want?’ I ask, as Jim sits down on a bin-bag of his clothes and surveys the room.

  He points to the one furthest away from the door. ‘I’ll have that side.’

  ‘Just out of curiosity, why?’

  ‘It’s like this,’ he explains. ‘If a mad axe murderer broke into the house wanting to kill all the inhabitants who’s he going to try and kill first?’

  ‘The person nearest the doorway . . . Which is me! I can’t believe that!’ I say, laughing. I grab a pillow and attack him with it. Jim grabs the other and a huge pillow fight ensues. Using his brute strength he manages to wrestle mine off me and pins me down – apparently in the same manner he used with his sister when they were kids.

  ‘If you’d just let me finish,’ he says, as I struggle underneath him trying to bite his wrists, ‘I would have explained my reasoning.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Well, if you get attacked first by the mad axe murderer that will give me time to get out of bed and save what’s left of you. We could do it the other way round, if you like, but I don’t think you’d be much cop at stopping mad axe murderers.’

  ‘You’re my knight in tarnished armour,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Now get off me and let me kiss you properly.’

  Jim releases his grip on my wrists and we’re about to kiss when the phone rings.

  ‘I’d better get that.’

  ‘Leave it,’ says Jim. ‘Let the answerphone get it.’

  ‘It might be my mum, though. She called last night and I forgot to call her back because I was so busy getting things ready for you to move in. I won’t be a second, I promise, and then we’ll pick up exactly where we left off.’

  9.43 a.m.

  Alison’s been on the p
hone so long that I’ve turned on the TV and I’m watching one of those terrible daytime chat shows. Today’s debate is entitled: ‘Should We Bring Back the Death Penalty?’

  I’m engrossed in it when the bedroom door opens and Alison returns. I can tell straight away that her whole mood has changed. ‘What’s up?’ I ask. ‘Is your mum all right?’

  ‘It was the woman who interviewed me at Cooper and Lawton. Apparently they’ve got a vacancy for a junior in their publicity department and because I interviewed so well they want to know if I’m interested in filling the position.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to work in editorial?’

  ‘I can’t afford to be choosy. I really want to work in publishing so I’ve got to take anything I can get.’

  ‘You’re definitely going to take it, then?’

  There’s a long silence, which I assume is my answer.

  ‘When would the job start?’ I ask her.

  ‘After Christmas.’ There’s a long pause, then she adds, ‘You could come too. You could apply to firms in London. I’m sure there’ll be loads of opportunities for you there . . . It’s nothing to do with you . . . or us . . . or anything like that. We’re really good together. I just want more than I’ve got here.’

  ‘But I don’t want to move,’ I tell her. ‘I’m happy here. All my friends are here. I don’t want to give up all that. And I can’t do the long-distance thing. I just can’t. I thought asking you to move in with me would be a way of keeping us together. But it’s clear we’re going in different directions. Maybe we should just split up now so that we can stay friends.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think I can stay friends with you,’ Alison replies sadly. ‘I think it will hurt too much. So maybe you better just go.’

  10.01 a.m.

  Jim tells me he’s going back to Nick’s and as he leaves he slams the door in the process. Seconds later the letterbox creaks open and he drops his house keys through it. I pick them up and stare at them. Then Disco wanders in from the living room and starts purring loudly because she’s hungry. And with her pawing at my feet I start sobbing so hard I think I’ll never stop.

  Saturday, 23 December 1995

  6.47 p.m.

  The doorbell has just rung. I answer it, and standing on the step in front of me is Alison carrying Disco. A few weeks ago she’d called me to ask if I’d consider looking after the cat until she gets settled in London. She’s brought over a carrier-bag full of Whiskas tins, some packets of dried food, all her toys and a little card with the vet’s address on and the date of her next set of injections. Disco seems pleased to see me, which is more than I can say for Alison. She doesn’t say much at all and she barely looks at me. I can’t understand why she won’t see things from my point of view.

  My girlfriend is leaving to go and live in another city.

  Long-distance relationships never work.

  These are the facts and none of them is my fault.

  ‘What time are you leaving tomorrow?’ I ask, as she gets ready to leave.

  ‘Dad came up and took most of the big items from my room last weekend,’ she replies. ‘I don’t know. Early, probably, because the trains will be packed with everyone going home for Christmas. What about you?’

  ‘I’ll get the train home some time in the afternoon.’

  She nods, and there’s an awkward silence.

  ‘Well, I suppose I’d better go, then,’ she says, and stoops to stroke Disco who is scratching at the carrier-bags by our feet. ‘Me and the girls are going to the Jug for a farewell drink if you fancy coming?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ I say, ‘but I’ve got too much work to do.’

  ‘Okay, well, have a great Christmas, won’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You too.’

  Sunday, 24 December 1995

  8.55 a.m.

  It’s Christmas Eve.

  More importantly, it’s the day that Alison’s leaving Birmingham for good. Which is why I’m banging on her front door. I don’t want her to go. I don’t want us to split up. And I have to tell her now.

  ‘Who is it?’ says Jane, behind the closed front door.

  ‘Quick, Jane, it’s me,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to speak to Alison before she goes.’

  Jane opens the door and looks at me. ‘You’re a bit late for that.’

  ‘Don’t tell me she’s gone.’

  ‘Of course she’s gone,’ says Jane, firmly. ‘Why would she hang about here waiting for you to come to your senses?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts, Jim. No buts at all. Alison loves you. And the fact is, you’ve let her down.’

  Even with no idea of what time train she’s getting I convince myself that I’m still in with a chance of seeing her before she leaves Birmingham. I race to the bus stop on the high street just as the number fifty pulls up. Jostling a number of pensioners and their shopping trolleys, I fight my way on and will the driver to put his foot down. He obviously isn’t picking up on my psychic messages because he drives so slowly that, as we reach the city centre, I decide it will be faster under my own steam. I persuade him to let me off by Digbeth coach station, then run like my life depends on it – which, in a lot of ways, it does. I run from the coach station, up through to the markets, past St Martin’s and into the station.

  I’m assuming that Alison’s going home to Norwich so I check all the timetables located on the walls. Once I’ve worked out the relevant information (i.e. that it’s not a Saturday in March) I discover that the next train to Norwich is leaving from platform eleven in five minutes. I run through the ticket barrier and down the escalators to the platform, which is when I realise the fatal design flaw in my plan – looking for someone on a packed train is not the easiest thing in the world to do. Especially when this particular train seems to be packed full of contestants for the 1995 Alison Smith Lookalike Championship. There are fat-looking Alisons, short-looking Alisons, Alisons who look like Alison from behind and nothing like Alison from the front, Alisons who have Alison’s hair but nothing else, Alisons who have Alison’s body and non-Alison hair (there is, believe it or not, a Chinese Alison, who has every single Alison attribute with the exception of Alison’s lack of Chineseness). So here I am searching for her, finding all these non-Alisons, and all the time the clock is ticking. Finally I reach carriage F and there she is, reading a magazine. I bang on the window and she looks round with a jolt. I wait patiently for her to appear at the carriage door, which, thankfully, she does, and she lowers the window just as the guard blows his whistle.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I yell, over the deep growl of the train’s diesel engine. ‘I don’t want us to split up.’

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ she yells back.

  ‘I think we can make this work,’ I say, jogging along the platform next to the train, ‘and I don’t care what you say, I won’t take no for an answer.’

  1996

  Friday, 9 February 1996

  7.33 a.m.

  I’m in my room in Highbury, checking that I’ve packed all the things I’ll need for the weekend in Birmingham into my rucksack. ‘Pants, four pairs,’ I read aloud from my Things For A Weekend Away list. All there.

  ‘Two bras (at least one matching pants).’

  All present and correct.

  ‘Makeup bag and emergency tampons.’

  Yes.

  ‘One full pack Marlboro Lights.’

  Yes.

  ‘Three pairs of tights (one pair at least sixty denier).’

  No.

  I check in my chest of drawers for my tights and then realise that they are all in the dirty-laundry basket waiting to be washed.

  I grab a pen from the desk in my room and scrawl, ‘BUY TIGHTS LUNCHTIME!’ across the back of my hand.

  6.45 p.m.

  I’ve just reached Victoria by tube and now I’m facing a ten-minute walk to the coach station. I hate getting the coach. It’s a four-hour trip on National Express, stopping at Oxford, Coventry, Birmingham International and Bir
mingham Digbeth. In a car, it takes roughly two hours to get to Birmingham – on a coach it takes absolutely for ever. I hate it more than any other form of transport known to man.

  It’s raining when I step outside. Suddenly my rucksack feels like it weighs a tonne, my arms feel like they’re about to snap off and I remember I forgot to buy new tights at lunchtime. As I walk along Wilton Street I keep looking at my watch, thinking, Can’t miss the coach! Not another one for three hours! I’m tempted to crumple on to the ground in exhaustion and give up.

  11.09 p.m.

  The coach is just pulling into Digbeth coach station in Birmingham and everyone is getting ready to disembark. I’m looking through the window for Jim but I can’t see him. He always comes to pick me up. I get off the coach and wait for the driver to unload my bag. Then I spot him sitting on a bench reading a newspaper. He looks up and sees me, and his whole face lights up. We almost do that cheesy run-and-throw-your-arms-around-the-one-you-love move, but we possess just enough self-restraint not to. Instead we walk quickly towards each other, throw our arms around each other and squeeze tightly. We don’t let go for a very long time.

  11.35 p.m.

  ‘Jim?’ I say, as we climb into his single bed with its Ikea faded-green checked duvet case, ‘this is ridiculous. One person trying to get a decent night’s sleep in a bed the width of a razor blade is difficult enough, but two is just plain madness.’

  For about a month Jim has been living in a new house-share in Moseley. The worst thing about it is that it’s kitted out with basic landlord standard-issue horrible fittings and fixtures, including a single bed in every one of the three bedrooms. Jim’s is particularly uncomfortable and has springs poking out in all directions and they’re so rusty and ancient that if I make the slightest movement the creaks and squeaks make it sound like we’re having a four-person orgy. It really gets me down.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the bed,’ says Jim. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Of course it’s not fine,’ I reply. ‘Look at us. You’re having to sleep on your left side with your arm underneath me and your back resting half on the bed and half on the wall and I’m having to spoon into whatever space is left over. We virtually have to synchronise our breathing in case I end up on the floor. I think you need to get a double bed.’