Weightless

by Michele Gorman

  ‘Ready?’ The piano player asked a little while later as a rowdy group of face-painted businessmen pounded shots beside us. ‘We may as well play some more. It beats sitting here.’

  ‘Maybe music will soothe the savage beast.’

  She looked around. ‘Not these beasts.’

  Mattias called just as I emerged from the Tube near my flat. Juggling my overstuffed bag, my phone, my gloves and my broken umbrella against the blustery wet January night didn’t lighten my mood.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ he said, his smile buoying his voice. ‘How was the gig?’

  ‘Mattias, please, I’ve asked you not to call me that. The gig was exactly like every other corporate gig I’ve done. I don’t know why I keep putting myself through this.’ At least I didn’t have to wear the costume home.

  ‘You do it because you want to be successful. You’ll get there. It just takes time.’

  ‘How much time? Jesus, it’s been almost twenty years. When does it get to be my turn? I’m sorry, ignore me. I’m just tired. How are you?’

  ‘Better for hearing you. I’m actually a bit tired myself. Can I call you tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s fine, you don’t need to call back.’

  ‘It’s just that I’m tired, B.’

  ‘I meant– Okay, call if you like.’

  I opened the front door to find Frederick sitting in his favorite chair, rhythmically flashing his boxer-covered bollocks at me. His devotion to his thigh-master was admirable, if bewildering. ‘I didn’t expect you back so soon,’ he said.

  ‘It’s midnight. And please, must you do that in the living room?’ My flatmate was inappropriate in public. He could be positively feral at home.

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart, must keep fit. My lovers expect coconut-cracking thighs. Here, feel.’

  ‘No, thanks. Why don’t you run or lift weights or something like a regular man? You know that only girls ever use the thigh machine in the gym, right?’

  ‘Untrue. All the men in my gym use it.’

  ‘Your gym is gay, Frederick.’

  ‘Don’t remind me. If only I’d known that when I joined.’ He rolled his eyes like he couldn’t believe his silly old bad luck. His gym was called Paris. As in Gay Payree. ‘Anyway, why back so early, love? I thought the gig would go late into the night.’

  ‘Luckily not. I’m exhausted.’ I flopped on the sofa. ‘I don’t know how much more humiliation I can take.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been that bad.’

  I showed him the photo one of the band members took with my phone.

  ‘Eesh. You look like an apple.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Was the crowd nice at least? Any studs?’

  ‘Did you say duds?’

  ‘You know, B., that acerbic tongue will do you no favors in the romance stakes. A man wants a soft girl, not one dripping with acid.’

  ‘Am I really taking dating advice from you? And I’m not dripping with anything.’

  ‘You may feast at the master’s table. And maybe that’s your problem. No dripping. How long has it been?’

  ‘None of your business.’ Six months and two days, or exactly since Mattias’ and my ten-year anniversary. Given that that was almost three months before we broke up, perhaps alarm bells should have rung a bit sooner.

  ‘I thought so. Speaking of the noble Swede, he called earlier. He wants you to call him.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But you won’t, right? We agreed. It’s not healthy.’

  ‘I know we did, but he’s really having a hard time. There’s nothing going on between us. We just talk.’

  ‘And that’s not healthy! You’ve broken up. You’re not even getting sex out of the deal. You need to move on. At this rate, I fear for you. In fact, just to show how much I care, I’d be willing to help. You say the word, kitten, and I’ll end your dry spell.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, thanks, but I’m not really your type. What with no penis and all.’

  ‘I do wish you’d stop with that. I’m as straight as George Bush.’

  ‘Okay, I believe you.’ He was more like George Michael.

  My remarks might have sounded harsh (or homophobic), but actually Frederick and I got on quite well. In fact, this was me tempering my disbelief that he had any interest in a vagina. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff he came out with. He once walked gingerly into the flat because he’d been waxed – back, sack and crack. He became gayer by the day. I just wished he’d be himself instead of delivering Clint Eastwood’s lines in high camp.

  It was easy to forget that ours was only a months-long friendship. Though thrown together in the great London housing lottery, we were shaping up to be lifetime friends. He was a godsend when I had to find a flat, a real homo with a heart of gold, my fairy godmother.

  After I’d had ‘the talk’ with Mattias, our flat developed a bit of an undertone. Oh, we stayed civil in the weeks it took to finally realize that the patient couldn’t be resuscitated. We even planned dates, something we hadn’t done in a long time. But the fear that the condition was terminal gave those evenings an air of desperation. We tried too hard to be jolly, wanting to believe we’d found a cure. It was no use. We couldn’t resurrect feelings that were never there in the first place. Forcing ourselves to try only widened the chasm between what we felt and what we wanted to feel. Even so, I was completely sick to my stomach when we finally agreed it would be most humane to stop life support. It became real then, when I had to contemplate change-of-address cards.

  Of course I didn’t think that quitting a decade-long relationship would simply mean moving into the second bedroom, splitting the bills and the occasional pizza. By the time we were finished we’d rubbed our conversation raw. It was painful to the touch and I knew I’d have to leave. But I knew it like one knows one’s body will eventually get old. It’s only a theoretical inevitability until the first incontinent sneeze. Then it hits home.

  I was in a bit of a daze when I met Fred to see his flat. As I trailed after him through the rooms, he recited the usual litany of rental requirements. They were the things you didn’t worry about when living with your boyfriend, like sharing fridge shelves and dedicated cupboards, telephone tallies and scheduled morning bathroom time. I was about to relearn how to be a flatmate.

  When he asked me what my situation was I burst into tears. I could have made Mattias move out, but as the instigator of our break up, it seemed unfair to make him homeless as well. Instead I took the high road, and crashed head-on into the barrier when the reality of what I’d done bubbled up as I hyperventilated my ‘situation’. A wild-eyed woman in a trouser suit, I must have scared the hell out of poor Fred. But instead of shuffling me towards the door he strode over, said, ‘You did the right thing, girlfriend’ and squeezed me till I could breathe again. I moved in at the weekend.

  Over the next few weeks I began the painful process of letting all our friends know that we’d pulled the plug. They weren’t initially as unquestioningly supportive as Frederick. Especially Kat. As my steadfastly married friend, she just couldn’t accept that I’d throw away a steady relationship for… what? Well, I guess that was the question. It was one I wasn’t looking forward to answering, again, at lunch on Saturday.

  Chapter 2

  ‘You are late,’ Kat announced. Being Austrian, she was genetically predisposed to feeling grave offence at tardiness.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry,’ I fibbed as I handed the waiter my coat. I couldn’t really be sorry at 1.04 p.m. when we were due to meet at one. It wasn’t worth pointing out, though. For Kat, the watch’s minute hand was there for a reason. And I’d certainly been grateful for her precision when she’d applied it in our work assignments over the years. Now that she wasn’t working, her personal life bore the brunt of her rigor. Sometimes I pitied James and the kids.

  ‘This is beautiful,’ I said, gazing across the restaurant. It may have been overcast twenty-first-century London outside but inside
we could have been in 1920s Vienna. The room buzzed with a mix of working lunches and ladies who lunched. Its vaulted ceiling and soaring arches made a very grand impression, but despite its size it felt cozy, with huge brass chandeliers illuminating golden-hued marble walls and shiny black-and-gold art deco touches. It definitely took the chill out of the January afternoon.

  ‘We need to talk about Mattias,’ Kat said before I’d even had any wine. ‘And then we can have a nice lunch.’ She waited for me to acquiesce. She was forthright but didn’t interfere without provocation. When I nodded she leaned forward. ‘He and James were out the other night and he’s acting like nothing’s wrong. James asked him how things were between you two, and he said they were good. Good, B. What’s going on?’

  I sighed. ‘You know he’s had trouble accepting the situation, but I think he’s coming to terms with things now. He’s getting on with his life.’

  ‘He won’t get on with his life if you talk to him all the time.’

  ‘I don’t talk to him all the time! We talk, sometimes. All right, most days, but only because he calls. What am I supposed to do, hang up on him? You don’t throw away a ten-year friendship because you’re not together any more. Kat, I’m responsible for making him feel awful. This wasn’t his choice. He agreed with it, but I did this to us. I’m going to do everything I can to make it easy for him. I won’t be rude.’

  ‘No, you’re right, Suesse. It would be cruel to cut him out of your life completely. Besides, you are happy in this new relationship with him. Right?’ I nodded, suspecting an ambush. ‘And you were happy together before you broke up. So you should have just stayed together and saved the trauma.’

  Four and a half minutes. A new personal best in Kat’s I-told-you-so Olympics. ‘No, Kat, we weren’t happy together. We just weren’t unhappy together. There’s a huge difference. We’re better off now, apart.’

  ‘But you’re no happier than when you were together and now you’re both alone. How is that better? You are not young, you know.’

  ‘Thirty-eight isn’t old!’ I still had birthday cake in my fridge. Barely thirty-eight.

  ‘You know I don’t mean that you’re old. I’m only saying that you should be more sensible. It’s wonderful to think life is all hearts and roses but there are practicalities too.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, such as weddings. Jill’s is only a few weeks away. I’m not saying that’s a reason to stay together, but you have to admit it would be more fun to go with someone.’

  I’d been dreading our former colleague’s wedding since I got the Plus One invitation. ‘I do have someone to go with. You and James will be there.’

  ‘Of course we will, and we’ll be happy to be your dates. I’m just worried about you, that’s all.’ She took my hand across the table. ‘I love you. And Clare loves you and Faith loves you. You know that. We are your best friends. It’s our duty to point out when you are wrong. And we’re afraid you were wrong to stop your relationship when, you admit yourself, there was nothing wrong with it.’

  Kat liked to use the royal ‘We’ when telling me what she thought. The fact was, Clare had only asked me once if I was sure about the break-up, and she accepted my answer. And Faith, who I’d known even longer than Kat, was possibly the biggest romantic love advocate on the planet. I knew Kat’s words were hers alone.

  Technically she was right. There was nothing wrong with Mattias’ and my relationship. We got along, and generally enjoyed each other. He was a smart, stable man who’d treated me well. So what was wrong with me? Why wasn’t it enough? ‘We loved each other,’ I said for what felt like the hundredth time. ‘But we weren’t in love with each other.’

  ‘Pah. You were together for ten years. No one is in love after that long. You loved each other. That is enough. Stop being so naïve. You read too many romantic books. They’re just fiction. Your trouble is you expect to fall head over feet.’

  ‘I think you mean heels.’

  She wasn’t being unkind, just matter-of-fact. But her facts weren’t mine. How could I make her understand, and accept it? It was hard enough sorting everything out in my own head. It wasn’t like I didn’t wonder if I’d made a mistake every time Mattias called or texted. I had to remind myself that I’d acted on my feelings, and I couldn’t help how I felt. My friends needed reminding about that too. ‘I’ve told you that there weren’t even sparks when we met. We just fell into a relationship. It was easy. Too easy, maybe.’

  ‘But B., most people would die to have an easy relationship. You are lucky. Your best friend was your boyfriend. Don’t be so greedy.’

  ‘I’m not being greedy! I just don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a relationship without being in love. He wasn’t in love with me either. This is best for us both. It’s not enough to get along, or have common interests. We were like friends with benefits. There’s got to be more out there.’

  ‘After so long together you’re lucky you got the benefits.’

  When she smiled I knew that the awkwardness had left the conversation, freeing us to pursue less thorny topics. We were big believers in the band-aid approach. A short, sharp rip at the beginning got us over the pain more quickly. By the time I kissed her goodbye to rush to the office, the sting was fading to a memory. True friendship was like that.

  You’d never know it was a Saturday. It looked like my colleagues were preparing for war when I arrived. Fiona was barking orders at them and one of the newer consultants looked ready to cry.

  ‘B.,’ she said when she spotted me. ‘I tried your mobile but you didn’t pick up.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear it,’ I lied. ‘How’s everything going?’ I only asked to bait her. It was a large part of my job satisfaction. I didn’t exactly dislike my boss. If she fell onto a railroad track, for instance, I’d probably give her a hand up, as long as I hadn’t just had a manicure.

  ‘There’s no way we’ll be ready for Monday. It’s a fucking disaster.’

  It was a meeting that we’d known about for a month, the final presentation of results from the project before we moved on to the next client. The same meeting had ended every single engagement we’d ever had. Yet it came as a surprise, just as every end-of-project meeting seemed to. For change management consultants, we didn’t handle surprises very well. Thankfully, I was a very small cog in that wonky wheel. ‘What can I do to help?’

  ‘You can stop being so fucking cheerful. Nobody appreciates it.’

  Foul Fiona always lived up to her nickname in times of stress. Luckily, she didn’t use the same language in front of clients. ‘Sure thing, Fiona, sorry, I’ll try to be more morose.’ I stuck two fingers up. ‘How’s this?’

  ‘Better. It’s not like our future is riding on this or anything.’

  By ‘our’ future she meant her future. As the project manager who contracted in the consultants, she was tied to the companies she served. That made the rest of us mercenaries, working for anyone who’d pay us. I’d have loved to care more about the meeting but I already had my next assignment with Sprüngli.

  My friend Clare pulled a face at Fiona’s retreating back. ‘Come on, buttercup,’ she said. ‘Fiona wants ten more slides from us.’

  ‘Ten more? It’s already too long. What does she expect us to add?’

  ‘Let’s put one word on each slide–’

  ‘In huge font?’ I proposed.

  ‘In huge font, call it finished, and go get a drink.’

  Of course we wouldn’t do that. After nearly six months on the project, it was a matter of personal pride.

  I’d only meant to work for Fiona until my music career took off. Unfortunately, though my seat belt was securely fastened and my tray table safely stowed, the control tower still hadn’t cleared that runway. As the number of months in London started outpacing the number of gigs I did, I was grateful for the steady income.

  Clare and I lounged in one of the smaller conference rooms away from the others, biscuits filched from the c
lient cupboard strewn across the table. When she got the genius idea to fill the presentation with indecipherable screenshots of our process charts, I knew we’d be okay. Nobody cared about the details of the presentation anyway. The clients just wanted to know whether it was finished, and whether it stayed within budget.

  ‘If anyone questions the slides, which they won’t,’ Clare said, deftly pasting in the screenshots. ‘I’ll say something.’ As the star of our team she got away with more than I’d dare dream. Fiona was occasionally even civil to her. That’s because my friend was a consummate professional to the tips of her manicured fingers. With such a deadly combination of puppy-like cuddliness and fierce intellect, it was no wonder she’d done so well. Not that she’d needed to use either on me; she neatly disarmed me with cake when we first met.

  ‘No fat!’ She’d said, proffering it over the boardroom table. ‘I swear, angel food cake is a baking miracle. I’m emailing the Vatican. Or Sweden. Whoever invented this deserves a Nobel Prize. Here, taste.’ I did. I did again. Death by a thousand slices.

  Later she told me she’d been desperate to make a good impression. It may have been her first job after uni, and her first assignment, but she knew the lay of the land. Newbie consultants were crapped upon as surely as the world mocked Katie Price. Her only hope was to target someone greedy enough to overlook the chance to enslave her own personal assistant. We’d indulged in several thousand fat-free calories by quitting time and our friendship, born of cake, was cemented by nausea. I knew before the crumbs were stale that we were kindred spirits, united in dietary self-delusion.

  She was also a very loyal friend who got my sense of humor. For me, laughter went such a long way in friendship. I tried being friends with very-nice-but-boring girls, but I never enjoyed spending time with them. They were the low-fat milk of social engagement. It was perfectly fine and lots of people drank it, but I was never going to look forward to low-fat milk. I’d never anticipate the next time I’d have it, or smile fondly at its memory. I suspected there was something wrong with me in this regard. Surely nice and worthy should have been enough.