LOVE'S GHOST (a romance)

by Ellis, T. S.

  He didn’t say anything immediately. What would he say, if he were really here? Would he flat out deny it? Even if it were true? Or would he come clean? That’s assuming that he was seeing somebody else and wasn’t just busy at work.

  It’s funny how you can be with somebody for seven years and think you know them. But when you break up, you suddenly realise how little you did know them. I should know how he’d deal with this situation, I told myself, but I don’t.

  I wanted him to speak. So he spoke. “I don’t think I’m seeing anybody.”

  I scowled. “You don’t think you’re seeing anybody? What does that mean?”

  “It means I don’t think I am.”

  This was a stupid game I was playing with myself. It was torture. But I couldn’t stop. It was the next best thing to having the real Russell here. It was a nonsensical conversation to have with the imaginary version of my ex. But somehow, as well as torture, it was comforting. I still had a good idea of the tone of his voice in my head even if my memory of the exact shade of his hair was a little fuzzy.

  I took the empty chocolate pudding container back into the kitchen and tossed it into the bin.

  “We can talk anytime. Just like this,” Russell said.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Anytime you want. Night or day.”

  I went back to the sofa, curled up in a corner, and hugged a cushion. I stretched my arms right around it and held it close, as if it were a person, somebody special.

  One of the dancing couples on Strictly finished their routine and received their marks. They weren’t good, a combination of threes and fours. That seemed sad, too. I started crying again.

  9. Spotted

  SUNDAY MORNING AND I should have been lying in bed, listening to birds chirping at each other. But I was out on the roads, pounding the pavement, jogging.

  I have to keep fit. Not just to keep the weight off. My mind gets sluggish if I don’t, and I do less. If it wasn’t for the endorphins produced by exercise there would be a real danger that pottering around the house would become a full-time occupation.

  Luckily, the bank of the Thames is not far away, so I jog along there, to Kingston and back. Sometimes a little further if I’m feeling masochistic. I’ve never enjoyed jogging. I have to listen to music or a talking book. If I don’t do either of these, I listen to my breathing, which sounds like I’m dying.

  It was a beautiful morning, the early morning mist rising off the river. Dog walkers passed me by, and the funny little coot birds swam back and forth with twigs in their mouth, busying themselves building their nests next to the boat jetties.

  I was listening to Coldplay at the time. I’d been jogging for about half an hour. I’d reached, and gone beyond, Kingston Bridge, and was level with the tennis courts.

  That’s when my phone rang.

  I love the modern world and hate it at the same time. I use my phone as an audio player when jogging. If the phone rings, I can push a button on my headphones to answer it. But I have to answer it without knowing who it is. I don’t like doing that. I just don’t like going into a conversation blind. It throws me. Caller ID on phones is such a blessing but I can’t read the caller ID if I’m jogging.

  And if I stop jogging to look, I have to untuck the phone from my jogging tights. It’s a pain to extricate it, and dogs start barking when I do. Anyway, by the time I’ve hit the answer button doing it that way, it’s usually switched to voicemail. And that’s another thing I hate — missing calls.

  So the choice is this: hit the button and answer the unknown caller, or let it go to voicemail and worry that I’ve missed somebody important. I know, it’s difficult being me.

  But who calls on a Sunday morning? It might be my mother. But she’s more of a Saturday morning person. And Dad would be playing golf. It wouldn’t be Emily checking on me, would it?

  As much as it pained me, I decided not to answer the call and left it to go to voicemail. Oh, I hate that. I missed out on a job once because of stupid voicemail.

  My irritation extended to the track that was playing. I wanted to move on from Coldplay’s UFO to their Princess of China. I pressed the button on my headphones to move the track along.

  “Hello?”

  That wasn’t the sound of Chris Martin singing in my ear.

  “Hello? Fay?”

  It was Carl. Damn it, the call hadn’t been disconnected.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Did I interrupt something?”

  “I’m out jogging.”

  “Good. Hey, listen. I was wondering if you wanted to meet up for lunch this afternoon.” Then, referring to Emily’s remark of yesterday, he joked, “Because I know you hate Sundays.”

  I smiled, but realised he couldn’t see my smile on the other end of a phone line, so there would just be silence at his end. The obvious way to fill this silence was to laugh at his joke. So I did, a little. But it was so delayed that it probably sounded sarcastic.

  “About one o’clock?”

  “Okay. Yes. Thank you.”

  I said it before I’d thought about it. When my thoughts finally caught up with my mouth, I regretted speaking. I didn’t want to go on a date. I know not all meetings between men and women are dates. But unless this guy had a morbid anthropological interest in the romantically distressed, this was a date.

  “No,” I said. “No thanks.” Contradicting my first answer.

  There was silence at the other end of the line. Then he said, “Some people say that in 1962 the world avoided nuclear annihilation because President Kennedy acted on the first communique from First Secretary Krushchev and ignored the second. I’m going to take his lead and ignore your second answer.”

  I’d never had somebody use the Cuban missile crisis when asking me out before. It was a novelty. But the thought of going on a date still filled me with fear. I should be honest with him, I thought. Give him the cold shower of my current position.

  “Look, Carl, it’s very kind of you, but I’m on a break with my boyfriend. So I’m not in the mood for dating.”

  There was another pause at the other end of the line.

  “Fay.”

  “Yes?”

  “What else will you do today? Be honest with me.”

  I couldn’t be honest with him. If I told him the truth, the list of things would be so mundane he would scoff at his own pursuit of me. I couldn’t tell him that I would go home, make a cheese sandwich for lunch, clean the bathroom, and watch the most mindless movie in my collection.

  So I said, “Oh, just stuff.”

  “Stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  “We spend a lot of time dead, Fay. I don’t know your emotional state. You might be grieving for your man, you might just be confused. All I’m offering you is lunch. The chance to meet and talk to somebody you haven’t met before — isn’t that one of the wonderful things we can do while alive? Meet new people? See this strange world through somebody else’s eyes? I won’t try and kiss you. I won’t even bring flowers. I won’t compliment you. We can talk about your boyfriend if you like. But however well we get on, or not, it’s got to be better than cleaning the house, hasn’t it?”

  How did he know I’d be cleaning the house? Good guess I suppose. It’s what a lot of people do, putting it off until just before they have to go back to work. I didn’t want to agree with him about lunch with whoever being a better option, but he had a point.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “You know you don’t want to clean that toilet.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But can we make it not too far away? I’m a little busy. Kingston?”

  “Yes, Kingston will be fine. How about two o’clock at Café Amélie?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “I’ll see you there.” The line went dead.

  I had three hours to get home, cool down and prepare for the date that wasn’t a date. But it was. Who was I kidding? If I hadn’t fancied the guy, would I have agreed to this
lunch? Well, it would do me good, I decided. And Emily would be proud. Not that I would tell her.

  I resumed jogging, dialling up some Lady Gaga music to help me run faster. By the time I reached the flat, I was exhausted. More tired than I’d ever been. The app on my phone told me I’d also run quicker than I’d run before. I’d burned hundreds of calories which meant I could eat whatever I liked at lunch. Perhaps I should really stuff my face. That would put him off. There’s nothing more off-putting than a woman with half her lunch on her chin.

  After I showered, I set about selecting an outfit for my date that wasn’t a date. The main dilemma was choosing between a dress and jeans. It was spring, just about warm enough for a dress.

  “Why would you wear a dress? Are you trying to tell him you’re up for it? That you’re oh-so-available?” It was Russell, standing by my side.

  “How very Victorian of you,” I retorted.

  “Not at all. Clothes send out messages. You know that. Why else would you spend so much time deciding on an outfit?”

  This annoyed me. He was right, of course. I would wear jeans with a simple long-sleeved t-shirt and cardigan. It was supposed to be a casual lunch. Casual clothes for a casual lunch.

  “That t-shirt is fitted. Haven’t you got something looser? Baggy even?”

  I ignored him. He wasn’t here. Why should I let him take up residence in my head? But I did want to make a point.

  “Why shouldn’t I go out for lunch? It’s been six months now. And you haven’t been in touch at all for weeks.”

  “Like I said, you can always get in touch with me. It’s allowed, once or twice. Perhaps that’s what I’m doing. Perhaps I’m waiting for you to get in touch with me. It’s a little test.”

  “Well, are you?”

  But naturally, the Russell in my head couldn’t answer that. So he didn’t. There was just an empty space in the “conversation”. It wasn’t for long. I couldn’t resist asking the question again.

  “Or perhaps you’ve found somebody else,” I said.

  “Perhaps.”

  I put on my jeans and t-shirt, then stared at the perfumes. Daytime or evening?

  “Daytime.”

  “Shut up, Russell.”

  I chose Coco Madamoiselle, but made sure that I didn’t overdo it, just a couple of dabs. Then I panicked that I hadn’t used enough. It wasn’t wrong to want to smell nice. Another couple of dabs would do it. Was that too much? I tried smelling myself, tilting my nose down towards my neck. I looked like somebody with a very stiff neck, somebody who had been sniffing her armpits and had been caught out by the wind changing direction. And anyway, it was impossible to be objective. I was so nervous.

  But I didn’t know just how nervous until I stepped outside. As I double locked the front door, a chill wind swept up through St Andrew’s Square. My light raincoat’s collar flapped up into my face.

  When I walked down the steps to the street, my legs went all wobbly. I hoped it was the effect of my super fast jogging time, and not because I was nervous. But I was nervous. My heart fluttered and I could feel the goosebumps rise up on my skin.

  I shrugged it off and walked down to the river with what I hoped was purpose. I could have chosen to drive into Kingston, but I chose to walk, even though I’d already had my quota of exercise. I thought it would steady my nerves.

  What was I doing? I didn’t want to do this and yet I did. Oh, crap. I’d really fallen for his line about meeting new people being interesting. Yes, it’s true, it can be stimulating to meet new people. But it can also be stressful and boring.

  The wind had enlisted the river as an accomplice. Being next to water always made the temperature seem a couple of degrees cooler than it was. Most of the time I stared down at the ground as I walked, to keep the wind out of my face.

  The closer I got to Kingston, the more nervous I became. I had to keep my hands in my pockets to stop them shaking. Was it worth putting myself through this? I wasn’t ready. I should turn around. But then I would have to explain to Carl why I’d done that. And I would have to explain. I couldn’t be rude and not call him.

  I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. I passed Russell, the imaginary Russell, on the way, sitting on one of the benches lining the path. He didn’t say anything and nor did I. We exchanged uncomfortable glances. I returned to looking down at the path.

  One minute the café seemed miles away, the next its sign was in right front of me, bringing my walk to a sudden halt. I peered in through the windows. I couldn’t see Carl inside. Not a sign of him. I was both relieved and disappointed. Looking at my watch, it was two o’clock. My wobbly legs had done well to get me here on time.

  I decided to go in anyway and sat at one of the tables. When a waitress dressed in a traditional apron asked me what I wanted, I didn’t say I was waiting for someone. I just said I hadn’t made my mind up. She said she’d come back in a couple of minutes.

  I sat there trying to make up my mind.

  10. A date of sorts

  I HADN’T PUT his name in my phone’s address book, so his name didn’t come up on the caller ID. But I recognised his number when my phone began ringing.

  “Fay, I’m sorry, I’m going to be ten minutes late. I got held up.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll see you in ten.”

  I put the phone away.

  It’s funny. When you have a limited amount of information about someone you don’t know what kind of importance to attach to it. He was late. Did this mean he was always late? I’m not a fan of people who are late. It’s discourteous. But it seems to be a disease with some people. They have no sense of time. Was this what he was like?

  The waitress returned to my table. This time I told her I was waiting for someone. She asked me if I wanted a drink in the meantime. I didn’t know what to say. If I ordered a drink I’d have to stay at least for a while. I couldn’t bolt.

  “Yes, please. I’ll have a coffee.”

  I like being alone in cafés. I like watching people as they talk to each other, trying to work out their histories, imagining what is going on in their lives.

  Café Amélie is a large café set up more for eating than drinking, but they serve you even if you just want a coffee. It’s decorated in a typical French style, with traditional, almost rustic, furniture.

  My eye wandered around the patrons. There was a couple who couldn’t take their eyes off each other. The woman lifted her cup of coffee with both hands. But she didn’t take a sip. She stared at her companion. Her eyes were smiling. She looked so happy.

  I looked in another corner. A couple of guys were taking their seats. One of them looked just like Russell.

  It was Russell.

  It definitely was Russell. Not the one I kept talking to in my head, not my imaginary one, but the real one. It was him.

  For a while I was transfixed. I watched him take a seat. He sat with his back to me, so I had little chance of being spotted. And his friend wasn't somebody I recognised. I didn't want to attract his friend's attention by staring, in case he thought I fancied him and brought my behaviour to Russell’s attention.

  So I kept looking away.

  Only to return to that back, Russell’s back with the straight posture. He was wearing a short jacket I hadn't seen before. It must be new. Did he pick it out himself? It was dark brown. He never used to buy brown, hated the colour. I didn't realise how strange it would be to see him in a piece of clothing that I hadn't seen in his wardrobe. Though we hadn't lived together for six months and counting, and he had every right to buy new clothes, it was odd to see this new jacket.

  I don't how long I kept returning to look at him, despite the fact that I could only see his back. But my fascination lasted at least two or three minutes. They were deep in conversation. I wondered what they were talking about. Generally men talk about women and sport when they get together. There are other variations, but eventually the conversation winds its way back to those subjects. It was odd —
I didn't want to know what they were talking about, but at the same time, I did. I found myself trying to block out the other sounds in the café, even though they were too far away for me to hear.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to leave.

  I stood up as discreetly as I could, turning to face the wall. If Russell’s friend had noticed me get to my feet, I didn't want him to see my face, in case he recognised it from a picture Russell might have shown him.

  I put my raincoat back on and planned the quickest route out, one that would allow me to stay as close to the wall as possible.

  I started walking.

  A couple of children were running around and nearly bashed into my legs. One of them, couldn't have been more than three years old, took a shine to me and grabbed onto my leg. Her mother called her over and after a couple of seconds she let go.

  "Excuse me, madamoiselle."

  It was another voice. Not the mother's.

  "Your coffee."

  It was the waitress. But I didn't want to stop and explain. I quickened my step, so I was out of the café before she called to me a second time, even louder.

  I didn't look back. I kept walking as fast as I could, soon losing myself in the crowd walking along the river. Shoppers taking a break for lunch, others just ambling nowhere on a Sunday afternoon walk.

  I mustn't cry, I told myself. My breath shortened and became staccato, like a violinist attacking a particularly uptempo part of The Rites Of Spring. I laid a hand on my chest, a pathetic attempt at trying to calm my breathing.

  People crossed my path, but I couldn't stop. I took little stuttering step to go round them. I didn't mind slowing down, but I couldn't stop. Not until I was far enough away from the restaurant. How far that was I didn't know. I daren't look back, I daren't even look up. I kept my head down and tried to avoid stumbling on any uneven paving.