‘We all feel like that sometimes, Reuben.’
‘I just feel a bit . . . lost. Like I’ve spent all these years defining myself by being what other people don’t want me to be. My parents. School. And now . . . well, now it’s getting to the point where no one cares what I am any more.’
He took another swig out of the wine bottle.
‘Oh, Reuben. How long have you been sat indoors drinking your dad’s hugely expensive wine and watching westerns and forgetting to change your pants? Days? Weeks?’
He shrugged. ‘Sometimes I play on the X-Box.’
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ I said, taking his hand and pulling him up off the sofa. ‘I want to build a sandcastle. You’ve got a bucket and spade, right?’
He brightened.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Somewhere. Left over from when I was a kid.’
‘We could take a picnic.’
The picnic turned out to be another bottle of Reuben’s dad’s wine, a box of Pop-Tarts that went off in December the year before last, and a multipack of Frazzles.
It was hot on the beach, even though was late afternoon. We scrambled barefoot up the rough grass of the dunes and down onto the soft sand, the sea spread before us. We built a sandcastle, with towers and turrets and we decorated it with shells and we filled the moat with seawater. We swam, the water biting and cold for the first breathless seconds, then cool and refreshing and perfect.
Then we lay on sandy towels, passing the bottle of wine between us, our skin hot and tight with drying salt, drinking straight from the bottle. I read and then dozed and then I sat and buried my feet in the warm sand and Reuben sat next to me and we drank some more.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
I looked up at him, surprised. Gratitude isn’t generally one of Reuben’s strong points.
‘Write that down for me, will you?’ I said, shielding my eyes from the sun to look at him. ‘No wait, I’ll do it. Fetch my diary. The day Reuben said thank you. We can celebrate it every year with some kind of official ceremony. Perhaps we could erect a small memorial, right here. What are you thanking me for, by the way?’
‘Oh, you know. Just . . . everything.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Not sure I can really take credit for absolutely everything. Happy to humour you, though, but on the basis that you quite often don’t thank me for things you should I’m happy to let you over-thank me this time.’
I went back to reading my book, but out of the corner of my eye I could see Reuben watching me. In the end it was so distracting that I had to put the book down.
‘Why are you looking at me like that, Reuben?’ I said.
‘Like what?’
‘Like that. Stop it. You’re freaking me out. Go and have a swim or find a dog to play with or something.’
I squinted along the beach to where a damp, black Labrador was nosing around in the sand dunes. There were families packing up to go home, games of football and badminton being called to a halt, and toddlers smeared in sunscreen tottering along after their parents. Everyone had that thrill of disbelieving joy about them that only comes from having spent a hot day on a beach in the UK.
‘What would I do without you?’ Reuben said.
‘I dunno,’ I said. ‘Probably pine completely away. That’s my guess. You’d weep uncontrollably most of the time due to the sheer pointlessness of existence without me. You’d gnash your teeth and rip your hair out and rend your clothing, all that kind of stuff. Maybe write some really bad poetry or learn to play guitar and sing terrible croony ballads. And then eventually you’d just lie down in a darkened room and say, “If this is life, I don’t want any part in the meaningless drudgery of it” and then you’d just expire, like this.’
I flopped backwards onto the sand and let out a sad, whispery dying breath and closed my eyes.
Then I looked up at him, shielding my eyes from the orange-pink glow of the setting sun.
‘I expect that’s how it would be, don’t you? Or alternatively you might just do exactly what you do now, except with no one to laugh at your appalling jokes. Pass the wine, will you?’
But he didn’t. Instead he leant over and kissed me on the lips. Gently but purposefully, lingering slightly. I felt my eyes open wide in surprise. I looked at him, his face still close to mine as he watched me. His skin was pinky-brown across his nose and cheeks, his hair long and still a bit wet from the sea.
‘What was that for?’ I said.
He didn’t reply, just reached out and pushed a stray strand of hair back from my face. Then he kissed me again, and this time it was different. It wasn’t a friends-who-have-drunk-a-bit-too-much-wine-and-are-feeling-very-happy kind of kiss. It was an I-really-want-to-kiss-you kind of kiss. He tasted of wine and salt and cigarettes and something sweet. He tasted familiar and new and right. And I pulled my body towards his until we were intertwined and hot and breathless.
‘Let’s go home,’ he said. ‘There are too many people here.’
All the time we were walking I was aware only of the place where our bodies touched, where our fingers intertwined. I was dizzy with the wine and with elation and desire and nervousness and disbelief. I didn’t let myself think about it. I couldn’t think about anything except the taste of him, the feel of his skin beneath my fingers. The walk was longer than on the way there. I could hardly breathe with the thought of getting home and of his tongue touching mine, the heat of our bodies.
When we got back to the house he led me to his bedroom. We didn’t speak. We both knew what was going to happen and we both knew it was what we wanted and what the other wanted. It wasn’t what I expected but felt right. The feel of his skin under my fingers, the smell of him, the taste of him. No, I remember thinking in the blur of wine and sun and desire. Nothing could be more right than this. My whole body shaking as he fiddled with the catch of my bikini top and pushed me gently down onto the bed as I pulled him down towards me.
I woke up during the night parched and already feeling the start of tomorrow’s hangover. Reuben was lying next to me in the dark and I could see that his eyes were open.
‘Have you been watching me sleep?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘That’s a bit weird.’
‘No it’s not.’
‘Was I snoring?’
‘No. You were beautiful.’
‘Reuben,’ I croak. ‘Go to sleep.’
‘You’re not like anyone else,’ he said.
‘Mmm. Go to sleep.’
‘I feel different when I’m with you from how I feel with anyone else. No, I am different. You make me different. You make me feel like it’s okay to be me. I don’t have to pretend to be someone else.’
‘It is okay to be you, Reuben. You should try it with more people. That way less of them might think you’re a wanker. Possibly.’
‘You understand me.’
‘I really don’t, Reuben.’
‘Yes, you do.’
I groped around for the bottle of water that was on the floor somewhere by the bed.
‘You’re a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, disguised as an evil genius playing the part of a total bloody idiot. You’re a cryptic crossword clue that even you don’t know the answer to.’
I took a swig of water and then collapsed back down on the bed.
‘And the dangerous lunatic who wrote the crossword is dead.’
‘See,’ he said, smiling as he pulled me towards him again. ‘You do understand me.’
The next time I woke up, bright sunlight was coming in through the window. Reuben was gone. My head was throbbing and my throat sore and dry. I lay there thinking about it all, feeling happy and nervous and wondering where Reuben was. I got up, embarrassed by my nakedness despite the fact that there was no one to see it, quickly pulling clean clothes out of my bag and pulling them on. I went through to the bathroom and brushed my teeth, trying to get rid of the stale morning smell, avoiding my own reflection.
&n
bsp; Reuben. I had sex with Reuben. Reuben had sex with me.
I looked at myself at last, and couldn’t help noticing that I’d caught the sun on my face, and also that I was smiling.
I took a deep breath and went downstairs.
Reuben wasn’t anywhere. I was disappointed and a bit confused. Where could he have gone? Why hadn’t he left a note?
There was nothing to eat for breakfast except the remains of the stale Pop-Tarts and Frazzles, which I couldn’t really face, so I made myself some tea and hunted for some paracetamol in my bag before taking a shower.
Reuben got back about an hour later. He didn’t quite meet my eye.
‘Morning,’ he said, a bit too brightly. ‘Just been to the supermarket to stock up. I’ve got a load of people arriving today.’
‘What?’ I said. ‘Who?’
‘Oh, just friends from my old school. No one you know. Bit of a party. Should be good.’
‘Right. You didn’t mention this yesterday.’
He shrugged. ‘You didn’t ask.’
I stared at him.
‘It’s not a problem,’ he said, not meeting my eye. ‘There’s plenty of space for everyone to doss down. You’ll like them.’
I didn’t like them, as it turned out. They were loud and arrogant. The girls were too thin and too busy being beautiful to smile much. The boys all seemed to have necks that were too wide for their heads and were soon very, very drunk. They got cigarette burns in the Persian carpets and laughed when they smashed an old photo of Reuben and his parents in a frame on the mantelpiece. I didn’t feel like drinking. By the end of the night there were people noisily making use of all the beds. I presumed Reuben was one of them.
If I could have done I’d have left right then. I would have, but all my things were in Reuben’s room and there was no way I was going in to get them. In any case, I didn’t fancy the walk back across the fields to the village in the dark, and it would be hours before a bus came. I didn’t have a taxi number and I couldn’t get a signal on my mobile. But I had to get out of the house, at least. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and dope and pretty much everyone who was still conscious was either talking loudly and slurrily about how the death penalty should be brought back in or trying to sing along to terrible music or having sex or vomiting or some unimaginably awful combination of all the above.
I knew there’d be no one else outside – it was cold and there had been a heavy shower earlier. The rain had stopped now, but the ground was still wet, and the air smelt of damp grass and lavender in the darkness. The cool air on my face made me feel calmer. I walked down through the garden, picking my way through shadowy shrubs and spongy lawns towards the tennis courts, wet leaves brushing against my legs, cold drops landing on my face and neck from the trees above as the wind blew them. Eventually I came to a damp, decrepit wooden bench. I sat on it, hugging my knees and shivering as hot tears slipped down my face.
Should I feel angry with Reuben? We hadn’t promised anything to each other. It wasn’t even like I wanted to go out with him. Not really. I knew that would never work. But it wasn’t just about sex. It was about intimacy. People use ‘intimacy’ as a euphemism for sex, but sex can be less intimate than shaking hands. (I should know, I shagged William, for God’s sake.)
I’d felt closer to Reuben that night than ever before. He had finally been the person I’d always known was there, that I’d seen glimpses of, the reason I put up with him when he was a pain in the arse, the Reuben he probably wanted to be more of the time. But today that person was gone again. Not only had he chosen his awful friends over me; he’d chosen the Reuben everyone thought he was over the Reuben he really was.
I’d been stupid. I shouldn’t have slept with him. We were friends, that was how it had always been and that was how it should have stayed. I’d wanted our relationship to be special and this would ruin everything. It would reduce us to sex and jealousy and sneaking around and lying to each other and not trusting each other. The thing that was special about our relationship was honesty. We had admitted things to each other that we couldn’t to anyone else. I could always tell Reuben what I thought of him in a way that no one else could, and he would listen to it without resentment or feeling like I was getting at him or trying to change him. All of that would be lost now.
So . . .
So the best thing was to pretend it hadn’t happened. It had just been one of those things, we’d had too much to drink and . . . well, these things happen. We could be grown-up about it, couldn’t we?
And yet still the tears came. I dashed them angrily away. I was just tired. That was all. I had a thumping headache from Reuben’s bloody friends and all their loud braying and waheying and guffawing and terrible music.
I rested my head on my knees and wondered if I could just fall asleep here for a while. Then once everyone was up tomorrow I could sneak in, get my stuff and go. I heard rustling leaves and footsteps on the grass behind me. Great. The last thing I needed was for Reuben’s friends to find me out here crying. I sat perfectly still, hoping they wouldn’t notice me. The footsteps got closer.
‘There you are!’ It was Reuben’s voice. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. It’s carnage in there. Bodies everywhere.’
‘I know. That’s why I’m out here.’
He sat down next to me and got out a packet of cigarettes.
‘Did you enjoy the party?’
I watched him as he lit up. He didn’t meet my eye.
‘No, Reuben, I didn’t enjoy the party.’
‘Oh.’
He looked at me then. ‘You’re crying,’ he said, reaching up to wipe away a tear. I flinched away at his touch.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘You are. Hattie—’
‘Can you go and get my stuff for me? It’s in your room and I don’t want to go back in.’
He stared.
‘What stuff?’
‘My rucksack. I’m going home.’
‘What? No! You can’t.’
‘Yes, I can.’
I shivered. The cool air that had seemed so welcoming when I first came out was now starting to nip.
‘It’s the middle of the night,’ Reuben said.
‘I know what time it is, Reuben.’
‘But there won’t be a bus for ages.’
‘I’ll wait. I’d rather be on my own at the bus stop than here.’
‘Why? You don’t need to go, Hats.’ He put his hand on my arm. ‘Just stay. We can all have breakfast and maybe we’ll all go to the beach later—’
‘I don’t want to. I came to see you, not your friends.’
‘Well, then I’ll tell them to go.’ He stood up as if about to go and do it right then and there. I didn’t fancy his chances. ‘I don’t care about them. They’re all wankers anyway.’
I half smiled. ‘No kidding.’
‘I care about you. I want you to stay.’
‘Why?’
He sat back down. ‘Is this about . . . about what happened?’
‘Not like you think. It’s just . . .’ I had to say it. ‘Was it all an act? All that stuff about me understanding you? Are you like that with every girl you sleep with? Do you convince everyone they understand you like no one else does? Or do you actually mean it?’
He looked away from me and took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘Look, Hats,’ he said. ‘The thing is—’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘That answers my question.’
Once he realized I wasn’t going to change my mind about leaving he went in and got my stuff, carrying it down through the garden to the road for me.
‘Bye then,’ I said. The sky was starting to get lighter and all I wanted was to be away from there, away from Reuben. He stood there in the half-light, looking dejected and uncertain.
‘Hattie, about . . . everything—’
‘Let’s just pretend it never happened, okay?’
He looke
d surprised.
‘Is that really what you want?’ he said.
‘Yes. It really is.’ I forced a smile. ‘We’re friends, right? Nothing’s going to mess that up.’
Then I walked out into the fresh early-morning air and walked away from the house as fast as I could, desperate to leave it behind me.
I’d expected him to call me the next day, but he didn’t. I waited a couple of days, then gave in and phoned him, only to be greeted by a chirpy answerphone message of Reuben putting on a fake French accent, saying he was off to St Tropez and leaving his phone behind. He’d taken up his dad’s offer and gone without saying a word.
Once Gloria has finished jotting in her red book, she looks up at me. ‘If you don’t mind me saying,’ Gloria says, in a voice that I know means she actually couldn’t care less whether I mind or not, ‘your Reuben sounds like a bit of an arse.’
I think about this. I want to protest. I want to say she’s wrong, that she doesn’t understand. Reuben’s screwed up and he acts the part but I know inside there’s a good person trying to get out. And he’s funny. And sometimes he’s unexpectedly kind, like when he used his Ransomes staff discount to get some special pens for Ollie, and when he decked the bloke who called me and Kat ugly lesbians at school (well, okay, that wasn’t kind exactly, but we appreciated the thought) and the time I was ill and he brought me round a load of magazines and made hot lemon and ginger for me. And how he understands how I feel about Dad in a way that nobody else does because he’s one of the only people I can open up to. But I can’t say it. Because however true all of that is, Gloria does understand.
‘You’re wrong,’ I say at last. ‘He’s not “my Reuben”.’
Gloria heads up to bed soon after.
‘So,’ I say, trying to sound casual. ‘What are we doing tomorrow? Boat trip?’
‘I’d like to go St Monica’s.’
I wake up early the next morning, my mind full of the day ahead, of St Monica’s and what it will be like for Gloria to go back there. It’s where she had her baby, where she spent the only few weeks of her life she shared with them. What will it feel like to go back there? It’s also where she gave her baby up. Even if she didn’t want to keep it that can’t have been easy, especially knowing she didn’t have any choice in the matter. Does she know what happened to him afterwards?
How Not to Disappear Page 20
