You Had Me at Hello

by Mhairi McFarlane

  ‘Did you really not know?’ he asked.

  ‘Nope,’ I squeaked.

  ‘Oh God. I always thought you had some clue, even if you didn’t know how much.’

  He tailed off, waited for more, and when I didn’t say anything, continued: ‘Christ, please at least say “Ewww, gross”. The silence is killing me.’

  ‘It’s not gross,’ I said, trying to find words in the psychological tumult.

  Where were the words I needed? Ben’s words had made me to face up to feelings I’d been ignoring, twisting out of shape and denying for the last three years. It was like not giving a plant enough light to grow properly, only very rarely watering it, but the seed in the soil still being there.

  He felt and thought those incredible things about me? ‘Likewise’ ‘Why’ or ‘Good God Merciful Jesus Hooray!’ didn’t do the moment justice.

  Uncharacteristically, I made a snap decision. I pulled my voluminous pyjama top off over my head. I wriggled the trousers down, kicking them off my feet with a swimmer’s paddling motion. I balled up the body-heat-warm nest of fabric and threw it out of the bed. I thought this would be enough to make my intentions clear, but Ben didn’t react at all.

  ‘Ben.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do you want to get into bed?’

  ‘Floor’s not that bad, thanks. And also – no.’

  ‘No. Into bed. With me.’ Then I added, like the silver-tongued, erotic adventuress of the age: ‘I took my pyjamas off.’

  A stunned pause.

  ‘… Are you sure?’ he said, quietly, into the crimson gloom.

  ‘Very sure.’

  This was when the scene should’ve rippled into a woozy sexy slo-mo with a boom-chicka-wah-wah bassy soundtrack. Instead what actually happened is, Ben got caught in the sleeping bag, needing less haste and more speed to achieve a t-shirt-less exit from a well-made camping accessory my dad got from Millets.

  ‘Bollocks,’ he muttered, trying to push it down and getting caught.

  ‘Unzip it,’ I giggled. ‘I’d help you, but I’m nekkid.’

  ‘You don’t need to mention that again, I’m on my way,’ Ben said, and I giggled some more.

  There was something absolutely brilliant about being in this situation and being friends already. Suddenly it wasn’t: how strange to be doing this, it was how strange we’ve never done this before.

  Ben wriggled free, climbed into bed. When we’d successfully grappled with his boxers (Rachel starts, makes a poor effort, Ben takes over, result still delightful) suddenly there was skin on skin, all over the place, all of Ben and all of Rachel pressed against each other. It felt strange, but very-very-good-strange. Rhys was solid but reassuringly soft round the edges, and hairy; Ben was a lean, football-playing, smooth and muscled contrast. I didn’t know bodies could have that little fat on them and still function. I thought a physique like his might make me feel like a chonker but it actually made me feel womanly, even more like myself, somehow.

  We got tangled in the sheet and it was soon thrown aside completely. While admittedly he was seeing me by a light that could’ve probably made the elderly dean of the university look fairly sexy, Ben evidently had no issue with the full unedited version of my appearance. He was confident, and I understood why. It was obvious it wasn’t his first rodeo and I very much hoped I was meeting and/or exceeding expectations – my experience no more than a string of times with a clumsy sixth-form boyfriend, and Rhys.

  Only now I discovered there was a kind of intense desire that bordered on nausea. I finally understood what everyone was going on about. Who knew that the outer frontier of lust was the urge to regurg?

  And although I was outclassed in the company, I didn’t fret it might not be mutual: when I murmured a sweet nothing along those lines, minus any implication I might actually vomit on him, Ben replied forcefully: ‘I’ve never wanted anyone or anything like I want you’, proceeding to kiss me so hard I thought my mouth might suffer minor lacerations. Nnnngggg.

  Then, at the point where it went from something we were about to do to something we were definitely doing, he gasped, buried his face in my neck and said my name. My real, actual name. Another first.

  54

  The first words afterwards, when our breathing returned to something like normal. They mattered. They should come from me.

  ‘I love you,’ I said. I knew this to be fact and yet there it was, a surprise to hear it spoken. The process of falling in love had been gradual but the realisation that’s where I was arrived fully formed. While I was avoiding it, it felt complex. Once confronted, it was extremely simple.

  ‘Do you?’ Ben said, moving onto his side to look at me intently.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘God, I can’t believe it.’

  How can you not believe anyone loving you, I thought. Ben seemed custom-designed to be loved. We were glazed with sweat and I felt almost narcotically elated. The noise of some late-night drunks coming home drifted in through the partially open window. I belatedly remembered Derek, and discovered I didn’t care if he was squatting down there in a tin foil hat, with recording equipment and a broadcasting licence.

  ‘Of course I do,’ I said.

  ‘Uhm, Rachel …’

  ‘Yes?’ It was still so oddly thrilling to hear my name in his mouth. I propped myself up on my elbow and kissed his cheek. He moved my arm and placed it over his bare, taut middle. I lay back down against his shoulder.

  ‘It’s not exactly an of course? I mean, it’s taken us a while to get here.’

  ‘Yeah, it has.’

  ‘Did nothing in my love-struck dipshit devotion find me out, then?’

  I laughed and squeezed him.

  ‘No. Though I was pleased you hit someone for me.’

  ‘Ohhh, don’t mention that …’ Ben put a palm to his forehead.

  ‘Why? It was ace.’

  ‘I felt like I’d tapped a glass with a fork and gone “Excuse me everyone, announcement, I’ve got a thing for this girl the size of Old Trafford. Everyone clear on that? OK, good, carry on with your evenings, and it’s advisable for all patrons not to approach her rack.”’

  ‘I didn’t think that.’

  ‘Well, Emily did. She said, that night: “I’m not finishing with you because you hit someone for her, I’m finishing with you because of the look I caught on your face when she was getting molested.”’

  ‘Really? God. Sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault. I’d have beaten him to the ground if he’d been holding newborn twins. She knew it. I thought everyone knew it. Incredible you didn’t.’

  ‘Hah. I was stood further away. And being molested. Sorry again.’

  He ran his hand up and down my arm.

  ‘I’ve been dreading saying goodbye.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I was going to say something to you tomorrow. At the ball.’

  ‘You were?’ I looked up at him. ‘What were you going to say?’

  ‘Just, this is how I feel, you should know in case it makes any difference. Script by Jack Daniel’s. Shame by Calvin Klein.’

  ‘Shame?’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d be single, did I? The fact you weren’t is all that’s held me back from making a fool of myself for three years. It was my last chance and I was going to make an exception.’

  I squeezed him again.

  ‘I had no idea. Your fantastical carousel of gorgeous girlfriends looked nothing like me. Mostly blondes. Confident blondes at that.’

  ‘Why the hell would I want to be with girls that reminded me of you if I couldn’t have you?’

  He said this so starkly that I got a guilt pang greater than the ego boost. Ennui outside curry houses aside, I hadn’t sensed our relationship causing him any pain.

  ‘Sorry if I’m being a bit full on,’ he said. ‘I’ve been hoping against hope for three years. I don’t quite believe this is real.’

  ‘That felt pretty real to me.’ For once, Ben didn’t
laugh at my flippancy.

  We lay in silence. I wanted to say extravagant things about how great I thought Ben was, how great that was, but while my mind was flooded, it was also blank. I was still busy feeling rather than thinking. Ben loved me. I loved him. We’d made love. Paradigms had shifted and my pyjamas were on the floor.

  ‘What now?’ Ben asked.

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Do you want to keep seeing each other?’

  ‘Are you kidding? Of course I do,’ I said.

  ‘You’re going back to Sheffield to do this journalism course.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I’m out of the country for six months.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You could fly out and meet us? In the holidays or whatever?’ Ben asked.

  ‘That sounds great. My local says they’ll give me the job back though. I kind of need the money.’

  ‘Your local? Rhys’s regular?’

  ‘Yes. But that doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I don’t like the thought of it.’

  Ben frowned. I could virtually hear his brow knit.

  ‘Do you think I’m so easily swayed that if I pull his Stella from time to time, I’ll end up going back out with him?’ I said. ‘Salted, dry roasted, or me?’

  Ben didn’t laugh.

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ I said, mock-offended.

  Joking aside, I felt us running at two different speeds. I was content to lie there in the post-coital haze and enjoy being close. He needed some answers, I hadn’t started thinking about the questions.

  ‘I can’t cancel my travelling. The tickets are booked. I can’t let Mark down, he’d be gutted.’

  ‘I know. And you’ve wanted to go for so long, you have to go. I’m not asking you not to go.’

  ‘I know,’ Ben said, but rather darkly.

  I lay there and tried to work out where we stood. He had a point. The next year or so was going to be tricky to navigate. It didn’t seem as insurmountable to me as it did to him. The main thing was, we both knew how each other felt now. The miracle had happened. The rest was admin.

  Ben reached down and touched my hand.

  ‘Come away with me. Just do it. Delay your place on the course. Book the tickets.’

  ‘I can’t. For one thing, I can’t afford it.’

  ‘I’ll pay. I’ve got savings.’

  ‘I couldn’t let you do that.’

  ‘Yes, you can. What’s mine is yours. A lend, if you’d feel better.’

  ‘I bet Mark would love being gooseberry on his trip of a lifetime!’ I laughed.

  ‘Is that what you’re bothered about? Mark’s feelings? Or is this about yours?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You’re going to be doing lock-ins in the Piss Up & Parrot with Rhys while I’m in Kanchanaburi. When I get back, you’ll be in college in the week and working at the weekends. How are we going to see each other?’

  ‘I know it’s going to be difficult – but we’ll get through it. Even if I had to wait a year to be with you properly, I’d do it.’

  There was a long, long pause where I nearly checked to see he was still alive. I hoped he was absorbing the size of the intended compliment. He sat up.

  ‘A year? You’re honestly saying it’s OK if we don’t see each other much for the next year?’

  ‘I didn’t say it’s OK, I said I’d wait. If that was what it took.’

  ‘Do you really feel the same way about me as I do about you?’

  ‘Yes, I do!’

  ‘I’ve got to be honest, I don’t even think you and Rhys are over. Sounded more like a lovers’ tiff than a break-up.’

  ‘Don’t be crazy, Ben. If I wanted to be with Rhys instead, why am I in bed with you?’

  ‘Were you going to say anything to me, before we left?’

  ‘Uhm.’ No. With huge, huge regret: no. For the first time in my life, I was confronting a character fail, with nowhere to hide. Yes, I was in love with him. No, I wasn’t going to risk telling him, what with my presumption of near-certain failure of reciprocation. I was going to pretend to myself I didn’t and let him go. I couldn’t resolve this contradiction without it saying something about me. That, my friends, is a coward. ‘I didn’t plan anything, but …’

  ‘That’s a no.’

  ‘I didn’t know you felt the same way!’

  ‘How would you know until you ask?’

  ‘I didn’t want to risk losing you as a friend.’

  ‘I think we both know that tomorrow would’ve been the end of things as we know it, either way.’

  This was true, and I had no answer for Ben. How do you explain to someone so many degrees more brave and cool than you that such strength of feeling and total gutlessness can co-exist?

  ‘Do you still love Rhys? You must do. It only ended today.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘You can’t press an off switch. Whatever I feel, it doesn’t mean I’m in love with him and want to be with him.’

  Another long pause, where I worked out what to say next. I felt we’d mounted the kerb and some grabbing of the steering wheel was required to get us back on course. My policy of speaking the first words to come into my head hadn’t been the charm so far.

  ‘Fuck!’ Ben suddenly exclaimed.

  He jumped from the bed as if he’d had a bolt gun to the backside. I experienced a moment’s cognitive dissonance of bad thing happening/good view though. I realised he was looking for his clothes, pulling his underwear on with a snap of elastic, dragging his jeans up his legs.

  ‘What’s going on? Ben?’ I sat up, not so confident in my nakedness now. I grabbed a pillow and held it against myself.

  ‘I’m sorry but I’ve got to go,’ he said, some words muffled as he momentarily disappeared inside the neck of his t-shirt. ‘I shouldn’t have … I couldn’t turn you down. Shit—’

  ‘Don’t go! Ben? I don’t understand! We’ll work this out. I’ll come travelling, if that’s what you want …’

  He stopped, looked at me.

  ‘It’s not about you doing what I want. You’ve got to decide what you want, and not because uni’s over and we’re drunk and we’ve slept together and you’ve had a fight with Rhys. I feel too much for you for that. I have to go.’

  ‘That’s not why this has happened!’

  He bent to pull his shoes on and straightened back up.

  ‘You’ve done me and you’re doing one?’ I said, trying as a last ditch to appeal to the international code of the non-bastard.

  ‘It’s not like that. I can’t make your mind up for you about what happens next. I know that’s what you’re used to.’

  ‘What I want to happen next is for you not to leave.’

  ‘I can’t – it’s not your fault – but I can’t …’ he stopped and cleared his throat. ‘… Be this close with you, thinking it’s a one-off.’

  He grabbed at his wallet and keys on my desk and I watched in disbelief as he charged towards the bedroom door. I grabbed the sheet from the floor, wrapped it around myself like a short-arsed Greek statue and gave chase. The time it took to pick it up lost me the time needed to catch up with him.

  ‘Ben, please! Don’t go!’ I called, barrelling down the stairs.

  He did go and I was left on the threshold of the house, calling his name.

  I heard movement in Derek’s room, and fled back upstairs, hyperventilating, trying to figure out how the hell the best of times became the worst of times.

  55

  I try to force my overloaded mind to take in the complexities of the drugs trial, making copious notes in an attempt to tether my wandering imagination to verifiable facts. When it breaks for a mid-afternoon conference between counsel, I head to the press room, only to have my path blocked by a pinker-round-the-edges-than-usual Gretton.

  ‘Did you see her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Clarke! She’d left a Dictaphone in the press room. Said she had to come and get things from her
flat so she might as well pick it up. Brass balls, I told you.’

  Avoiding me wasn’t worth the cost of a Dictaphone. You’re a class act, Zoe. I whip round and scan the court. The defendant’s friends and family eye me suspiciously in return.

  ‘She was off to Piccadilly,’ Gretton says to me, looking at his watch. ‘I heard her tell someone on the phone that she was on the quarter to train. If you get a move on …’

  I look at Gretton. We both know I’m being shamelessly baited, and that I’m going to take the bait. I check my watch.

  ‘I’ll cover anything in your case if it restarts while you’re away. Scout’s honour.’

  Gretton makes the three-fingers-to-forehead gesture. For once, I believe him.

  I pelt out the door and through town, weaving through the afternoon crowds, climbing the slope to Piccadilly in a running-late-commuter’s half-trot, half-gallop, with small bursts of ungainly sprinting. I get to the station with rasping lungs and a stitch in my side. Oof. This is the kind of unfitness you remember from cross-country at school. Scanning the departures board I see a likely candidate for Zoe’s train. It looks like it’s already in. If she’s passed the ticket inspectors, I’m buggered. I check my watch again. She’s no doubt ensconced in a first-class carriage, enjoying the fruits of her ill-gotten gains. Ah well. At least I tried. For my own self-respect, such as it is.

  I turn back to retrace my steps. With a jolt, I see a head of spirally hair bobbing about, a few yards away by Costa Coffee. Ah hah! I don’t give myself the time to feel nervous.

  ‘Zoe!’ I say, marching up to her.

  She glances at me in surprise, but not shock, or much fear, standing the flowery vinyl trolley case she’s been dragging upright.

  ‘Hi, Rachel.’ A tone of polite but terse resignation, as if I’m a battleaxe from three doors down who’s always buttonholing her about starting a Neighbourhood Watch scheme.

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘One question – how could you?’

  ‘Oh, look, I’m sorry, I really am. The Mail wasn’t going to run it this soon but something else fell through at the last minute and as they had it all ready to go … I did want to warn you.’