by Louise Voss
I heard someone come home at about 6.30 this evening. I didn’t really feel like seeing anyone; I just wanted to sit in my room and think about Siobhan and what the hell I was going to do next. Siobhan’s letter – her invoice, I suppose you’d call it, with the amounts I’d spent on her card neatly totalled – lay on my desk. I had read it over twenty times, trying to take it in, desperately attempting to come up with a solution. How could I turn things around with Siobhan? By getting the money. How could I get the money? By getting a job. But how could I get a job when I felt like this?
I was fretting and re-reading the letter when I heard a cry come from the living room: a high-pitched yelp followed by a gasp. I stood up. Were Natalie and Simon having sex in there? No, I had only heard one person come in and this hadn’t sounded like a cry of ecstasy.
I ran out of my bedroom and into the living room.
Natalie was sitting on the sofa, leaning forward, her head between her knees. She was panting.
‘Natalie?’
She looked up. Her face was awash with sweat, her eyes narrowed as if I was a brilliant light. She said something in French.
That’s when I saw the blood – a trickle running down the inside of her leg, creeping down from beneath her short skirt towards her trainers.
‘Fuck.’
I swivelled and grabbed the phone, pressing 999. I told the operator I needed an ambulance. They asked me questions: What’s the problem? My friend’s bleeding. Is it an emergency? Yes, of course it fucking is. Calm down, sir.
They told me the ambulance would be with us soon. I dropped the receiver and went over to Natalie, leaning down and touching her on the shoulder. ‘It hurts,’ she said. Her voice was like a little girl’s.
I grabbed the phone again, punching in the number of a local taxi company. ‘I need a taxi now. To the hospital. Please.’
The woman on the other end was kind, concerned. She promised a cab would be with us within two minutes. I went and sat beside Natalie, putting my arm around her, telling her that it would be okay, that a taxi was on its way. She nodded, sweat dripping from her nose and chin. She looked like she was giving birth or something, and as I thought that, I realised what was happening.
I heard the taxi pull up outside, and ran to the front door, showing the taxi driver that we knew he was there. Next, I ran to the bathroom and grabbed a towel. Then I helped Natalie up off the sofa, not knowing if this was the right thing to do, just knowing that I had to get her to the hospital, all these horror stories about hour-long waits for ambulances floating through my head. I helped her to the taxi and put the towel on the back seat, worrying that the cab driver wouldn’t let us in if he thought we were going to get blood on his upholstery. I was trying to think of everything.
The taxi sped us to the hospital. As it turned out of our street I heard the wail of an ambulance behind us. Holding Natalie’s hand, I thought about Siobhan, about how proud of me she’d be if she saw me now, helping my friend out. She had spoken to me as if I was a monster… a stalker, for fuck’s sake. But I was just a boy in love, following a long tradition of people gripped by love, by the madness and passion invoked by that emotion, obsessed – I admit it – but dangerous?
I turned to Natalie, whispered, ‘Hang on, hang on, it’s going to be okay. Hold on, Siobhan…’
She leaned against me. She was warm, and I closed my eyes and imagined that this was a normal taxi ride home, that the girl leaning against me was in love with me, that we were going back to her room where she would undress and wrap herself around me, soothe me with kisses, her body a balm for my wounds.
‘We’re here,’ the taxi driver said, and I was startled from my reverie, remembering where I was, who I was with, what I was doing. The taxi driver and I helped Natalie to the entrance of Accident and Emergency.
I grabbed a nurse and said, ‘She’s having a miscarriage.’ And then she was swept away, down a corridor that stank of medicine and death and blood and life. They would make her better now. Make it all better.
I looked up and realised the cabbie was still standing there.
‘Oh.’ I reached into my pocket and pulled out all the money I had. £2.37. And a couple of furry bits of chewing gum.
The taxi driver tutted and shook his head. ‘Forget it,’ he said, and walked away.
I hung around in the waiting room for a long time, watching the weak and the wounded trail past, each begging in turn for help, the meek and the belligerent, the accident-prone and, being stretchered past, the just plain prone. I was amazed how many drunks there were milling around, demanding attention, breathing foul fumes over the other patients, considering it was only early evening. I wanted to go home, back to my cave to mope and think, but I couldn’t leave Natalie. I hadn’t even known she was pregnant. Maybe she and Simon hadn’t known… Suddenly, I realised I hadn’t called him. Shit. The doctors might have called him, but Natalie hadn’t been in a lucid enough condition to tell them his number, and they probably assumed I was her boyfriend.
I waited for a Scottish drunk to stop shouting at his wife on the only visible pay phone (he and I must have been the only people there without mobiles) then called Simon. The phone’s mouthpiece stank of stale whiskey. It made me want to puke, but at the same time made me think how nice it would be to have a drink. God, I could taste it – bottled oblivion, calling my name.
Simon arrived within 15 minutes, his face as pale as a hospital sheet, and he immediately spoke to the receptionist and disappeared up one of the corridors.
I waited a while longer, really craving that drink now, thinking that maybe I’d end up here again later, another ranting drunk who lost a fight with his dignity. Then Simon came out and found me. His eyes were pink and moist, and he put his hand on my shoulder.
‘Thank you for getting her here,’ he said.
I nodded. ‘Was it . . ?’
‘A miscarriage. There was some medical term they used but,’ he touched his head, ‘I’m finding it hard to retain information right now. I was only just starting to get used to the fact she was pregnant. We were going to tell everyone about it this weekend.’ He blinked at me. ‘They said she was in danger… and that it was lucky she got here when she did. So, thank you.’
I thought he was going to hug me, but he just squeezed my shoulder again, his eyes shining.
‘Do you want me to hang around for a while?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘No, it’s fine. You can get going, if you like.’
‘Okay.’
I turned to go, and he said, ‘Alex.’
I looked at him.
‘Thanks, mate.’
I nodded. ‘No problem.’
I walked home, feeling strange and lightheaded, the adrenaline settling in my system. I wondered if there was some protocol I should be following right now. A card? Flowers? I decided to leave it. Cards and flowers usually got me into trouble.
I reached the flat and watched TV for a while. At about eight, Simon rang.
‘How is she?’ I asked.
‘They’re going to keep her in overnight, so I’m going to stay here for a while, until they chuck me out. Look, I called to ask if you could do us a favour. Nat was supposed to be going out with Emily tonight and I don’t have her number on my phone. Can you find it for me? It’s pinned up on the notice board.’
‘Sure.’
I went into the kitchen and located the scrap of paper that showed Emily’s number. I took it down, went back into the living room and read out the digits.
‘That’s great.’ He paused. ‘Actually, you should give her a call yourself.’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think? Emily.’
‘Sorry? Why?’
‘Because she likes you, brains. Listen, do you want me to send her round?’
‘What? Now?’
He made an exasperated sound. ‘Of course now.’
‘No, no, it’s fine. I…’
‘Alex, I’ve got to go. I need to call Emily then get back
to Nat. If you want to act on the info I’ve just given you, call her later. I can guarantee she won’t say no.’ He hung up.
Emily. Emily. I hadn’t really thought about her much since meeting her; I had been too consumed by Siobhan. I didn’t really know whether I liked Emily or not – I was just so surprised that she liked me. Shocked and flattered and excited and scared. And confused. I stared at the scrap of paper, where her name and number were written in blue biro. I ran the tip of my finger over the numbers. This girl liked me. Fancied me. I should ring her and then we could meet up and go for a drink, maybe go on a second date, do all those things that Siobhan was talking about when I was sitting on her sofa, all those things that lead to love.
But this isn’t Siobhan. This isn’t the woman I want to be with. Oh Emily, why is your timing so bad? – I’m already in love with somebody else. If I call you now, I’ll be betraying the woman I love. It will be like being unfaithful.
But Siobhan doesn’t love you, whispered a voice in my head, a voice that sounded very much like Mum’s. She thinks you’re a stalker. She doesn’t want you.
I was so confused. But staring at Emily’s number, all I could see was Siobhan’s face. Hardly realising I was doing it, I screwed the piece of paper into a ball. I walked into the kitchen and dropped it into the bin, looking up and seeing my reflection in the window, bright against the outside world, glowing like a ghost of myself in the dark.
I’d like to be able to say that the telephone rang at that precise moment – it would appeal to my literary sensibilities – but it didn’t. I wandered around, ate a sandwich, drank a can of beer that had been lurking at the back of the fridge since the summer. I went to the toilet and then watched some more TV. I was feeling numb, and so worn out that I didn’t have the energy to worry any more. I knew the anxiety would return tomorrow, or maybe in the middle of the night; I knew the yearning would come back. Maybe I would go to see Siobhan again. Try to persuade her to give me a chance. To try to get it through to her: we are meant to be together. Tell her about love and pain.
And then the telephone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Um…hi. Is that Alex? This is Emily, Natalie’s friend.’
‘Emily.’
‘Yes. Simon just called and told me what happened. Poor, poor Nat.’
‘I know.’
Neither of us really knew what to say. Then Emily said, ‘Alex… um, I was wondering if… well… God, actually I worry that this is in really bad taste, thinking about myself when my friend’s just lost a baby… but Simon told me how you rushed Nat to hospital and how grateful he was and it made me start thinking about you and I couldn’t resist calling…’ She was really babbling; she sounded even more nervous than I felt.
She said, ‘Would you like to meet up?’
There are times in our life when it seems easier to say no. Refusal is the easy option, even though you want to say yes. Sometimes, you know that agreeing will involve more effort, a risk.
But there are other times when you can’t say no. When you can’t think of an excuse. And maybe that’s because you know there aren’t really any excuses, not good ones, anyway.
I don’t really know why I said yes when Emily asked me out. Maybe it was something about the way she asked me: she sounded so nervous, so sweet. And maybe, for a second, I forgot all about Siobhan. Whatever, I found myself saying, ‘Okay.’
And Emily sounded so happy to hear me say that word that I said it again: Okay. Yes. Yes.
We’re meeting tomorrow. I have a date. And, despite everything, I can’t help but feel really fucking excited!
Later: 4am
Just woke up from a dream and can’t get back to sleep. In the dream, I was in bed with Emily, but I knew somebody was watching us. I could feel their presence behind the curtain, even though we were on the second floor. I pulled back the curtain and there was Kathy, floating outside the window like the vampire in Salem’s Lot. She grinned at me, and then floated through the window, her arms outstretched, waiting to take me in her corpse’s embrace…
Chapter 17
Siobhan
Sunday
I need to find myself another tennis partner. I don’t want to play with Dennis anymore, with his big grunty serves and quotes from the Bible. Not to mention his pursed lips whenever I swear. And his legs make me feel queasy, they’re so hairless.
I can’t get over what he said to me today. We were only chatting, as we always do in between sets, and I was just telling him about Alex poisoning Biggles, and how he still hadn’t paid me my 300 quid, and that I was really worried that everything going so quiet was a bad sign, that I’d come home one night and there Alex would be, with a carving knife and a roll of duct tape…and Dennis blurted out:
‘Can’t we talk about something else?’
I mean, what is his problem?
‘That’s not very Christian of you, is it, Dennis?’ I said. ‘Here am I having a major crisis, with this total nutter stalking me, and you want me to change the subject? Well I’m awfully sorry if I’m boring you.’
I thought that would shut him up, and he did say sorry too, but he sort of muttered it, and then got up and slammed half a dozen supersonic serves past me. Then he stopped and marched back up to me. He looked quite angry, it was weird. His eyebrows went almost white, and his face was brick-red, with a little ticking muscle in his cheek.
I frowned at him. ‘What?’
‘Siobhan,’ he said. ‘You have to stop talking about this guy. You had a shock, but that was over a fortnight ago. He’s left you alone since then. You’ve got no evidence that it was him who poisoned your cat. I mean, I’m not sticking up for him or anything, what he did was awful – but you’ve got to move on. You can’t let it mess up your life like this.’
The cheek of him! I couldn’t believe it. I grabbed my racquet cover and bag, and headed for the gate, then and there, after we’d only been playing for half an hour. I hate not getting my money’s worth on those courts, they aren’t cheap, but I had no intention of letting that sanctimonious little prick talk to me like that.
‘You men,’ I said over my shoulder. ‘You’re all the bloody same. You make me sick – I thought you were my friend!’
‘I am your friend,’ he shouted, as I marched back to my car. I ignored him. Loser.
So I wasn’t in the greatest of moods after that. Maybe it’s my hormones. I’m due on any day now. I tried to ring Jess, and Paula, for a moan, but they were both out, so I left them long messages (which I did feel slightly guilty about. I hate it when people burble for ages on my answer machine, but it’s just so tempting to pour your heart out on someone else’s).
It was a beautiful sunny Autumn day, so I decided to walk down to Angelo’s and see if I could get a table outside for lunch, doing my usual trick of pretending to be waiting for a friend who doesn’t show up (so much less embarrassing than admitting you’re lunching alone). I took a notepad and pen, and thought it would be a good opportunity to eavesdrop and make a few character sketches for the novel. Not to mention eyeing up any cute men who might be out and about; maybe a nice rich divorcee taking his little daughter out for lunch – that’s what I need. A new boyfriend, to take my mind off Alex.
Anyway, I got a perfect table, on the edge of the verandah, and sat there waiting for my Greek salad (I’d told the waiter that I’d go ahead and order, because my ‘friend’ was always late). There were indeed quite a few tasty men around, including said waiter. Not my usual type, really short and losing his hair, but flirtatious enough to cheer me up. I tried to make eye contact with two guys at a nearby table, but they weren’t having any of it. Gay, probably.
So, my salad arrived, and I’d had one forkful of feta when suddenly my already bad day got a whole lot worse: I spotted Phil and a girl, presumably Lynn. Phil-lynn. Sounds like something you have done at the dentist. And it was like having teeth pulled, seeing the two of them together. I clocked them from right down the street, arm in arm, nauseat
ingly lovey-dovey. She was even walking with her head leaning on his shoulder – I hope she got a stiff neck. I quickly put on my shades, and gave my salad some intense scrutiny, but to my horror they stopped. How dare he bring her here? This is where we used to have lunch together! And with me sitting there like Billy No-Mates. It was too humiliating.
They sat down two tables away from me, and instantly clasped hands with each other across the table as if they’d been parted for months. I noticed that he was growing a ridiculous little beardette thing, like a joke beard, or else something that he’d drawn on with a black felt tip. Prat. I leaned my elbow on the table and hid the side of my face nearest to them in my hand, but it was too late. I saw her look at me, then lean across and say something to him. He jerked his head up and towards me, with a look of such panic in his eyes that I was seriously offended – I mean, for God’s sake, is seeing me really so terrifying?
‘Siobhan,’ he said in my direction, rather croakily, half standing up and then changing his mind and sitting down again. Lynn pressed her lips together in what I assume was intended to be a smile, but it was about as friendly as a tank full of piranhas.
Another couple came and sat at the table between us, but I thought, he’s not getting away so easily, so I stood up instead and went over to them. Might as well brazen it out, I thought.
‘Hi!’ I said, holding out my hand to Lynn. ‘I’m Siobhan.’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I know. We met before, remember, at Phil’s office.’
I didn’t remember, but whatever. She was eminently forgettable – mousy hair, watery eyes, skinny and weak-looking. Even I, with my not-very-robust sense of self-esteem, thought I’m much prettier than her. Then I found myself thinking I could take her out, any day. I must really have PMT.
‘So, how are you? Did you have a nice time in Portugal?’ I chirped through gritted teeth.
‘Lovely thanks,’ said Phil.
‘Really lovely,’ added Lynn. Rub it in, why don’t you.
Phil craned around me to look at the place laid opposite mine. ‘Are you…with anyone?’ he asked. He seemed really ill at ease. I was glad that I still had an effect on him; glad that he was jealous I’d found a new boyfriend. I temporarily forgot that in fact I hadn’t found a new boyfriend at all.
