Come Again

by Emlyn Rees

  ‘There’s no need to get so upset,’ says Susie. ‘I think it’s funny. We can all have a laugh together.’

  ‘Is Jack all right?’ asks Amy.

  I turn on her. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? You told Jack where we were going?’

  Amy looks mortified. ‘I didn’t,’ she blunders. ‘I didn’t, H. Honestly.’

  Matt comes forward and touches my arm, but I shake him off.

  ‘Listen,’ he says, totally calmly. ‘There’s obviously been some kind of mistake.’

  ‘Mistake? You bet your arse there’s been a mistake.’

  ‘Let’s just all calm down and work this out,’ he continues, glancing at my swimming costume.

  ‘There is nothing to work out,’ I hiss through clenched teeth, backing away from him. ‘You’re a liar.’

  Matt puts his hands up defensively. ‘That’s really out of order, H. This isn’t fair.’

  ‘Where’s Jack?’ bleats Amy.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ I blaze, before turning on my heel and storming out.

  Matt

  Saturday, 13.20

  As I watch H marching towards the changing rooms, the same thought occurs to me as when I saw her walking out into the rain after the test lunch round at Stringer’s work: she’s magnificent. Everything about her is magnificent, from the way she tosses her hair to the way her bum cheeks flex inside her swimsuit to the shape of her bare legs beneath. And I want her. I want her even more now (if it’s possible) than I did in the minutes of silence I sweated through after she left my house. It’s the sheer perfection of her. Even her anger. It’s so out there. Nothing weak. Nothing half-hearted. Pure spirit. Magnificent . . . the stuff of dreams . . .

  But then it hits me. Hard. Like a punch in the gut.

  This isn’t a dream. It’s not even a nightmare, because if this were a nightmare, then this would be the precise moment when my brain would trigger whatever defence mechanism it is that’s responsible for snapping me back in to consciousness and the safety of my bed. I’d sit up – sweating and panicked – but otherwise unharmed. And, gradually, I’d relax, realizing that I wasn’t actually in peril at all, but had merely been the victim of my own imagination, and perhaps a wedge too much cheese before bedtime. But there’s no easy escape clause here. Because this is infinitely worse than a nightmare. Because this is reality.

  And Amy drags me firmly back into it. ‘H!’ she shouts. ‘Don’t—’

  I watch Susie placing a restraining hand on Amy’s wrist, preventing her from giving chase. ‘Leave her,’ Susie says softly. ‘Give her a few minutes on her own.’

  Amy looks horrified. ‘But—’

  ‘Just a few minutes,’ Susie stresses. ‘She’ll calm down. You mark my words.’

  I feel nauseated. Head-spinningly sick. This isn’t how it was meant to be. What’s gone wrong? Sure, I expected surprise. I was counting on it. I wanted H to have that thump in her heart, the same as I did when I saw her just now when Susie called to her over by the steam room. I wanted her to feel that rush of blood on first sight. And anger. Yes, even a little anger. But only temporarily. Only until she realized that it was me she was angry with. Only until she realized that because it was me, it didn’t matter, because I’d never have meant her any harm. And then . . . then I thought she’d laugh and throw herself in to it, just like I would have done if our roles had been reversed. Because that’s what this is about, isn’t it? Her being my missing half? Her being the one person I’ll always be able to laugh with?

  I feel the eyes of the assembled group slowly focusing in on me – like a jury turning to deliver a guilty verdict. Susie’s still prattling on, chilling Amy out. Think, Davies! Think! Think strategy. It’s still not too late. So H is angry with you. She’s angry with you because she thinks your motivation for doing this is part of some lads’ stunt to trash the hen weekend she’s so carefully organized. This leaves you with two courses of action. Firstly, you can own up to the whole thing and tell her why you really did it. If you do that, then, yeah, she might forgive you, but on the other hand, she might be so pissed off that she’ll never want to speak to you again. Add to that the possibility that she might tell the boys that they’ve been taken for a ride as well, and it’s a pretty dud proposition. So take the second course of action: stick to the lie about it being a coincidence. Glue tight. Then maybe there’s a chance that she’ll believe you and let this weekend go back to what I planned it as – a reunion and not a divorce. But believe in it. Believe in it to your core, or no one’s going to believe in you. Now’s your chance. Method acting. Enter Matt ‘Brando’ Davies, the finest actor of his generation. I concentrate on this metamorphosis and look around the group once more. And this time, the looks on their faces are no longer ones of condemnation. They’re looking to me to sort this one out. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  ‘Matt,’ Amy’s saying. ‘Matt. Tell me. What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Christ knows,’ I lie, ‘I’m as confused as you.’

  A rapid group Q&A ensues:

  Amy: Where’s Jack?

  Me: Back at the apartment. Still in bed.

  Amy: Why’s he in bed? Is he all right?

  Me: He’s fine. Just hungover.

  Sam: I told you, Susie. Didn’t I tell you?

  Susie: You sure did.

  Amy: You sure did what?

  Sam: The geezer from last night who said he’d meet us here. The Adon . . . the Welcoming Committee. This is him.

  Amy: Eh?

  Susie: Stringer. It was Stringer who Sam met last night.

  Amy: You mean you’re . . . What number apartment are you in?

  Stringer: Three two seven. The one next to yours, it appears . . .

  Susie: What time did you all get here?

  Stringer: Late last night. We broke down.

  Damien: Who are you?

  Stringer: This is Susie.

  Damien: The one Matt mentioned in Chick-O-Lix?

  Stringer: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Sam: Who are you?

  Amy: I want to see Jack.

  Me: Do you want me to come with you?

  Amy: Yes.

  Me: Now?

  Amy: Yes. But . . .

  Stringer: Matt?

  Me: Hold on a minute, mate.

  Amy: . . . I need to check on H. Can you give me a few minutes?

  Me: Sure. I’ll meet you outside in five.

  Amy: Will you two be OK?

  Susie: Of course we will. We’ve got Stringer and Damien to keep us entertained.

  Me: Did you want something, Stringer?

  Stringer: Yes, I need a word.

  Me: What about?

  Stringer: In private. I need a word in private.

  Me: Can’t it wait?

  Stringer: No. There’s something I’ve got to tell you, something about H . . .

  Amy: Come on, Matt. Are you going to go and get changed?

  Me: Yeah, I’m on my way.

  And then I’m out of there, running for the changing rooms. Whatever it is that Stringer’s got to tell me about H is going to have to wait, because right now my own concerns about her far outweigh his.

  Susie

  Saturday, 13.30

  Why didn’t I get a new bikini? That’s what I want to know. I feel so revolting all of a sudden. My hair is plastered to my skull in rats’ tails, perfectly showing off my roots. And worse, I’m sitting on my oldest, nastiest, bedroom mop-up towel, but it’s still not stopping my thighs bulging between the slatted bench in the sauna. Damien pours more water on the rocks, but I’m boiling up already. Stringer is opposite and I’m trying not to notice the beads of sweat trickling down between the muscles of his chest. I’m going to faint if I don’t stop holding my tummy in.

  Sam rakes her fingers through her hair and continues laughing. She’s been a complete pain since we got in here.

  ‘So tell me, Stringer, are all your muscles that big?’ she flirts.

 
How obvious can she be? Why can’t she shut up and leave him alone?

  Tart.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, reaching out to grab his biceps. ‘Flex them.’

  Stringer removes her hand and shakes his head. ‘No, I’d rather not,’ he says politely, but very firmly.

  Sam recoils from him, obviously annoyed that he’s not flirting.

  ‘Suit yourself, touchy,’ she shrugs.

  Stringer glances up at me and I smile. It’s supposed to be sympathetic, but inside I just feel triumphant. I sit on my hands and swing my feet.

  ‘Haven’t you got a sunbed booked, Sam?’ I ask

  ‘Oh shit, yes,’ she says and gets up to leave. She straightens out her bikini and gives both me and Stringer an exasperated look, before saying, ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Was I rude?’ asks Stringer after she’s closed the door behind her.

  ‘She deserved it,’ I laugh. ‘Take no notice of her.’

  ‘Isn’t she your type?’ asks Damien.

  ‘No. I don’t really have a type, so to speak’

  ‘So, what about you?’ I say, turning to Damien and keeping the conversation friendly. I’m not brave enough to ask Stringer about his choice of women. Especially in this bikini.

  ‘She’s pregnant.’

  ‘Ahhh,’ I smile.

  ‘Two months to go,’ he says wearily.

  ‘So are you all set?’

  ‘No. Of course I’m not. I’ll have to give up my life of hanging round saunas with beautiful women of a Saturday afternoon. It’s a complete disaster.’

  Stringer and I laugh.

  Bless him.

  ‘I should go and call her, actually,’ he says, getting up. ‘I can’t wait to tell her about you lot being here. Make her really jealous.’

  ‘Jealous of us? She should feel sorry for us!’ I tease.

  Damien rubs his hairy thighs and gets up and Stringer and I are alone. There’s a pause.

  ‘So,’ I say. Stupidly. Pointlessly.

  ‘So?’

  ‘How have you been?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh you know . . . busy.’

  ‘Hmm. Me too.’

  ‘Sorry about the meeting up for a drink thing,’ he says.

  I wave my hand. ‘Oh forget it. It doesn’t matter.’

  The door opens and three rowdy blokes come in. Stringer pulls a face at me. ‘Shall we?’ he asks, pointing to the door.

  When we get outside, the pool is heaving with bodies. Stringer shivers.

  ‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ he says.

  ‘Good idea. Shall we go somewhere? I mean, I don’t want to go back to the apartment.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Well, what should we do?’ I blather. ‘I mean, are we supposed to be all separated now, or what? Only we could go and explore,’ I suggest. ‘Lie low until everything has calmed down. I don’t know what there is to do here, but it doesn’t have to be too crazy. We could go for a ride on the bikes and explore or something . . . ?’

  Stringer laughs to shut me up. ‘That’s seems like a safe plan,’ he says.

  Safe for whom, I wonder?

  H

  Saturday, 13.40

  Be in. Please be in, I pray, holding the receiver for the third time. I punch in Laurent’s number, my pound coins at the ready, but there’s still no reply.

  I fall out of the phone box and slump on to the concrete wall. I can’t believe he’s not there. All I want is to hear his voice. It’s the only thing that’s going to make all this better. I feel so sordid having told Amy about him. It’s made Paris seem so far away. I don’t want those memories soiled by bringing them in to this ghastly nightmare.

  I curl up in a ball and rest my head on my arms. I want everything to go away. This weekend. Everyone here. This place. I can’t handle it any more. I want my reality back. I want Laurent back. I want to be back in Paris. I want it to be last week again.

  Except that I don’t want to have slept with Matt.

  Why? Why did I sleep with him?

  What was I thinking of?

  I take a cigarette out of the packet and my hands are shaking. Everything is ruined. Amy is going to be with Jack and I’m going to have to spend the rest of the weekend with Matt.

  What does he think? That I’ll jump into bed with him again? If I hadn’t met Laurent, then I suppose it might not be so bad, just vaguely embarrassing. But as it is, I can’t even face looking at him.

  ‘Sorry, you can’t smoke here.’ I look up and see a green-uniformed Park attendant.

  Another one.

  ‘What?’ I spit.

  ‘This is the health spa area.’

  I take a deep breath and grit my teeth.

  ‘You’ll have to go over there,’ he says, pointing towards the lake.

  That’s it.

  Matt

  Saturday, 14.00

  ‘Oh, my God . . .’

  Amy cups her hands over her face. I pat her on the back and she looks up at me. I take her hand and squeeze it and, together, we look through the doorway into Apartment 327.

  On the grounds of self-preservation, looking wasn’t something I considered a wise move this morning. Consequently, I restricted my vision to the bare necessities needed to navigate my way around the apartment. It was a case of eyes straight ahead. Straight to the bathroom. Straight over Billy. Straight back to the bedroom. Then straight out of the front door.

  And looking into the living-room now, I can understand why. It looks like a bomb’s gone off in there. A random sample of some of the visual information immediately available includes: half-eaten pizza slices, upset ashtrays, Jimmy, spilt beer cans, empty spirit bottles, gnawed Chick-O-Lix bones, and Ug. But worse than any of this is what hits my nostrils. If a bomb has gone off in there, then I can only assume that, rather than being packed with TNT, its payload consisted of a combination of offal and dung. I hurriedly add smell to my list of non-recommended sensory data and, taking a tip from Amy, hold my nose accordingly.

  ‘Are you sure you still want to go through with this?’ I whine. ‘Only,’ – I briefly scan the room again – ‘it’s not going to be pretty in there, and I’d fully understand if—’

  But John Wayne had nothing on the true grit Amy’s currently displaying. ‘Just take me to him,’ is all she says.

  I do as requested.

  On our route to the bedroom Jack was meant to be crashing in, we encounter a barely human creature slumped against the corridor wall. It gibbers. It goggles .. It grips a coffee mug in its hand. A closer inspection reveals it to be none other than Billy, Jack’s previously deceased brother. On seeing us, his hand tremors, and coffee patters down on to the carpet. More remarkable than this Lazarus-like resuscitation, however, is Billy’s recovery of the power of speech, a faculty I know for certain that he hasn’t utilized since early yesterday evening.

  ‘Amy,’ he grunts, ‘whu—’

  But Amy’s now beyond even this sophisticated level of interrogation. Instead, she steps over him and in to Jack’s room.

  ‘Baby!’ she gasps.

  And, as she rushes forward to Jack’s bed, this simple description proves a highly accurate assessment of his state of wellbeing. He’s unable to support himself and his efforts at sitting fail miserably. His hand–eye co-ordination is similarly impaired, witnessed by his attempt to stroke Amy’s face resulting in poking her in the eye. Unlike his sibling, Jack’s speech is limited to mumbling. This he does into Amy’s ear, as she cuddles his huddled form. I catch a couple of words – ‘death’ and ‘enema’ – but these aside, I content myself with slipping out to fix us some coffee.

  ‘How could you?’ Amy hisses at me when I return. ‘You promised.’

  Somewhat harsh, considering. I mean, I hardly force-fed the liquor down Jack’s throat last night. Still, I can’t avoid the truth that I am responsible. For everything. After all, it was me and me alone who instigated the train of events that brought us here. And it’s therefore – yeah, she’s rig
ht – me and me alone who must accept responsibility for the passengers.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it appears,’ I say. I kneel down next to Amy. ‘Trust me on this one,’ I ask her, putting my hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ve seen him a lot worse. He’s got incredible powers of recovery. He will be OK’.

  ‘Stop doing that,’ she warns me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Looking so pathetic. It’s not fair. How am I meant to be angry with you when you look like that?’

  I wasn’t even aware I was looking pathetic, but now that I think about it, it’s hardly surprising: that is how I feel. I’m becoming uncomfortably aware that with every passing minute my chances of patching things up with H are getting slimmer. I notice Amy still looking down at me and, even though the last thing I’m in the mood for is joking around, I pull one of my worst faces for Amy in an attempt to cheer her up. ‘Is that better?’ I ask.

  ‘Much,’ she says, a smile breaking through at long last.

  Jack’s first coherent sentence is: ‘Dumb question, but will one of you tell me how come’ – he looks at Amy – ‘you’re here?’ He frowns and kisses her gently on the cheek. ‘Not that I’m not glad to see you, you understand . . .’

  They talk. I listen. The morning’s events are covered. There’s a big question mark left on Jack’s face at the end of her account of the remarkable coincidence that’s led both parties to be here at the same time. In adjacent apartments. Jack makes his opinion on the matter pretty clear.

  ‘I’ve never heard such a bunch of toilet in my life,’ he says, leaning forward and pointing his finger at me. ‘This devious little sod . . . or H – or, more likely, the pair of them, considering what they got up to – have cooked this up between them. If this is a coincidence,’ he concludes, ‘then I’m a Dutchman’s uncle, whatever the hell that’s meant to be.’

  ‘No, really,’ Amy starts to react. Only then something strikes her. Hard. And squarely between the eyes. ‘What do you mean, considering what they got up to?’

  Jack doesn’t reply, looks down.