Come Again

by Emlyn Rees

Amy eyeballs me. ‘Well?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Well . . . we . . . I don’t know . . .’ I fumble. ‘It’s not really my place to . . . I mean, if H hasn’t already—’

  ‘No, she bloody well hasn’t,’ Amy fumes.

  ‘It’s like this,’ I continue. ‘We got a cab back from the Blue Rose and we went to my place and . . .’

  ‘They slept together,’ Jack states. ‘They went back to Matt’s and they slept together. It was really good apparently.’

  Amy stares at her feet. She blinks. She blinks again. ‘I can’t believe H hasn’t told me. She always . . .’

  I clear my throat. ‘She probably didn’t tell you because . . . Forget it. You saw how she reacted when she saw me. She’s not exactly—’

  Amy ignores me. ‘What about you, Jack?’ she asks. ‘What’s your excuse? Honesty. Remember that? No secrets.’

  ‘Now, hang on a minute,’ Jack says, suddenly undergoing exactly the type of miraculous recovery I’d told Amy he was capable of. ‘This is nothing to do with me.’

  ‘I asked him not to,’ I intervene. ‘I didn’t know if it was going to go anywhere. Don’t blame him. If anyone’s at fault, it’s me. I should have kept my mouth shut.’

  ‘So where is H?’ Jack asks.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Amy says. Her voice is small, shocked. ‘She stormed off. I couldn’t find her.’

  ‘And what about you?’ he asks me. ‘You still expect me to believe this is down to chance?’

  ‘It is,’ I tell him.

  He searches my eyes for a couple of seconds, but I don’t flinch. Eventually, he nods his head, not fooled for a second, doing this for Amy’s benefit, or mine. I’m not certain which; just grateful.

  ‘Well, stranger things have happened,’ he concludes. He gives Amy a hug and tells her, ‘Guess you’d better go and find her, then . . . Sort this all out . . .’

  Amy nods and walks past without looking at me.

  I hear the front door slam.

  ‘Sorry,’ I tell Jack. ‘I messed up. I messed up bad.’

  There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. ‘Bad’, he says, blowing the steam from his coffee and taking a sip, ‘doesn’t even come close.’

  Susie

  Saturday, 15.00

  At the top of the hill, Stringer finally stops. I’m puffed as I catch him up.

  ‘Will this do?’ he asks.

  To be honest, I don’t give a monkeys. All I want to do is sit down.

  I nod breathlessly and cock my leg over my bike and follow Stringer as he makes his way into the middle of the grass. Maybe he does the Tour de France every year, because he doesn’t even seem to be sweating.

  I flop down and catch my breath, lying back on the grass with my arms out. Stringer laughs when I sit up.

  ‘It’s nice to be alone at long last. A bit of peace,’ I sigh, stretching my legs and looking up to the sky. I can hear the birds above me. There’s a view down in to the valley and over the trees, the steam rises from the Aqua Spa, but otherwise you wouldn’t be able to tell that we’re in Leisure Heaven from up here, not that anyone ever gets up here. It’s miles away, but it’s perfect. I close one eye against the September sun and squint at Stringer.

  He’s lying on his side and he picks up a blade of grass and sucks it, his forehead crumpled as he squints against the sun.

  And then something happens. Like a penny dropping into a juke box, a memory drops from my head into my tummy and starts to replay.

  This is the place in my vision.

  This was the place, every time I visualized me and Stringer after the CYL course . . .

  It’s here. I’m living out my vision.

  I gulp and sit, up. This was the problem place . . . the place where I thought of him and his big . . .

  I take a breath and try and calm down.

  I can do this. I can relate to Stringer as a non-sexual person, I remind myself. We’re friends. And I’m fine with just being friends. We’re on a friendly picnic. I chuck him one of the packs of sandwiches we bought from the shop at vast expense.

  ‘Odd, don’t you think . . . ?’ I begin, conversationally. Stringer looks up at me and although I’m looking at him directly, I can feel his gaze in my knickers.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking on the way here. Don’t you think H was really out of order back then?’

  Stringer shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’

  I fold my arms across me protectively. I will make conversation.

  ‘She was so nasty to Matt and he didn’t deserve it. I mean, I don’t know how all this started, but it’s not such a problem. We’re all here together and it’s nice.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a sex thing,’ he says.

  I shake my head, alarmed at Stringer just mentioning the word ‘sex’.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, looping a curl behind my ear and trying not to look embarrassed.

  But Stringer isn’t fazed. He sighs and rubs his hand on the grass. ‘I’m not supposed to know this, but they’ve slept together. I guess that’s the real problem.’

  ‘H and Matt?’

  Stringer nods and scratches his head. ‘Jack let slip. It was last week apparently.’

  ‘Never! So . . . what? Matt set this all up, you think?’

  ‘I doubt it. He seemed just as stunned as H.’

  ‘Well I never.’

  I’m truly shocked. I can’t believe she kept that one quiet. I think back to the bridesmaids’ fitting and it all slots in to place. Stringer snorts and laughs at me.

  ‘What?’ I ask, smiling back.

  ‘You look so funny. Like an old gossip, sitting there with your arms folded. I never thought I’d see you speechless. You never usually shut up,’ he teases.

  I can feel myself blushing. I uncross my arms and keep the subject on neutral territory.

  ‘I bet she had a bit of a shocker seeing Matt, then,’ I ponder.

  Stringer picks at the grass and doesn’t say anything. I sneak a look at him, but he’s watching his hand and I find myself watching it too. He’s got such long fingers.

  ‘Sex always mucks everything up, I suppose,’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Between friends, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, oh,’ I blurt, holding up my hand. ‘I quite agree,’ I say, trying to ignore the stab in my gut.

  ‘Do you?’ he asks, looking at me.

  I stare back at him.

  Of course I agree. I want Stringer to be my friend, right? Which means being honest. This has to be the first step in changing my relationships with men.

  Except . . . why couldn’t I have picked an ugly one?

  ‘Yes,’ I nod decisively. ‘Sex between friends is a disaster, it ruins everything. I’ve made that mistake,’ I admit, sounding like a Victorian matron.

  I fiddle with my sandwich packet, but Stringer doesn’t say anything.

  ‘I always used to think that I might as well have sex whenever I got the chance. But it’s too easy. Life isn’t just about having fun.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ he asks, looking up at me.

  ‘No. Well, yes. But sleeping around isn’t that much fun. I want more for myself. Does that sound odd?’

  It does to me . . .

  I take a deep breath. ‘The thing is, I’ve been on this course and half of it is a load of old claptrap, but some of it really makes sense.’

  Stringer reaches into his bag and opens a can of lemonade. He hands it to me. I feel odd talking about the course, but he doesn’t bat an eyelid. So I tell him more. I tell him about being stoned and about creating visions. And he just listens and sips lemonade.

  So eventually I pluck up the courage to tell him about my real vision. About having a platonic relationship with a man and to stop flirting.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t like sex. I do. I love it,’ I say, blushing. ‘I don’t know anyone who doesn’t. The thing is, I’ve been reading up a lot and I’ve decided that I don’t just want to jump into bed
with people . . . men. I want to be able to relate to them in a non-sexual way.’

  I wonder what Stringer thinks of all this, because saying it to him makes it sound ridiculous to me. What can be more odd than telling the most gorgeous man in the world that you’re off sex?

  But Stringer just smiles.

  And it’s not a leery smile, or a knowing smile, or a ‘yeah, right,’ smile. It’s just . . . lovely.

  I smile back and pat the grass. ‘So I’m leaving my past behind,’ I say. ‘My grotty, sordid, past,’ I tease, half-testing him. ‘Well, you would know. You’ve got one too, haven’t you? That’s what I’ve heard anyway . . .’

  Stringer

  Saturday, 15.05

  ‘There’s a lot less to my past than you’d think. All those stories are . . . well . . .’ I falter, ‘. . . they’re not strictly true.’

  Susie doesn’t answer. I think this is because she’s waiting for me to say more. I try holding her eyes on this one, but fail abysmally. The old shame shutters snap down, and I look at my hand instead.

  It’s difficult. It isn’t because it’s Susie I’m talking to. That part is easy. She’s been open with me, comfortably open. She’s simply told me how it is. It came as a surprise when she started. We don’t know each other that welt but that could well be what makes it easy, me being a relative stranger. The circumstances remind me of how matters were between myself and David at Quit4Good. Susie didn’t need to tell me any of this information. I didn’t accuse her of having a messed-up life, or needing to make a fresh start. The thought hadn’t occurred to me (and as it is, I think she’s being unnecessarily analytical).

  My difficulty comes from nothing she’s said, but from everything I haven’t – everything I can’t. I’m not a David. It’s not as if I’m sitting here listening to her in a professional capacity. A sage nod of my head and a ‘How does that make you feel?’ won’t suffice here. It would be unfair, because there has to be an exchange of sorts, doesn’t there? It’s like swapping football cards when you’re a child. You can’t simply take Gary Lineker and give nothing back in return. You’d only be construed as being tight.

  Rather as with KC in the kitchen, however, I have nothing to swap. There are no grubby little sexual secrets inside this head of mine. In their place is a pristine white scoresheet unsullied by a single mark, and guarding it is a lying habit as all-encompassing as my coke habit once was. I’d like to admit to being Susie’s opposite. It would be wonderful for that to form the basis of an unlikely attraction, making this time I’ve spent with her something greater than an interval in my wider life. Fear, however, remains my king. I can see her now, if I choose to spit out the truth: her mouth agape; her assumption that I’m winding her up; her horror and pity on hearing how messed up I am. I can’t go there. I can’t allow myself to be set up and knocked back down in that fashion, particularly by someone I’m now convinced – especially in the light of her new outlook on life – I’ll become firm friends with.

  ‘It’s all role-playing really, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘That’s what it’s like with Matt and Jack and everyone. We’ve all got parts to play. That’s how it works. Jack’s the lad, Matt’s the brains and I’m the . . . stud. That’s how it is and it’s hard, you know? It’s really bloody hard for them to accept you as anything else, and equally as hard to be anyone else when you’re around them.’

  ‘But you are who you are, Stringer. It doesn’t really matter what other people think. It’s your own opinion that counts.’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘People judge you on what other people say. You’re no different. You’ve judged me on what you’ve heard about me.’

  ‘I haven’t judged you at all.’

  ‘The sordid past thing. You asked, didn’t you? You brought it up.’

  ‘OK,’ she concedes, ‘but now you’ve told me different. You’ve told me you’re not a one-man sex machine, and I believe you. So that cancels out what I’ve heard before. Same as me.’

  ‘Same as you how?’

  She snorts. ‘What? You’re telling me that Jack hasn’t gobbed off that I’m a complete slapper?’

  ‘Yes, well, he’s hardly one to talk . . .’

  ‘No, but I bet my bottom bloody dollar he’s said something to you along those lines.’

  ‘Yes,’ I admit, ‘he has.’

  ‘And did you believe him?’

  ‘I didn’t care.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Her eyes flicker. ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ I tell her.

  ‘Like what?’ she asks.

  ‘Care. Saying I didn’t care. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I simply meant . . . What I mean is that it wasn’t something that interested me.’ I sigh. ‘God, this is making it sound worse.’ I notice a trace of a smile on her face and I try again: ‘I meant I wasn’t interested in whether you were a slapper or not because it wasn’t any of my business. It’s the same as it wasn’t any of Jack’s business to be telling me in the first place.’

  Susie looks at me slyly. ‘So what made him tell you in the first place? Did you ask him?’

  ‘No.’ I’m blustering and sounding like an arse. ‘No,’ I repeat. ‘All right, yes, I was asking him about you, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’ she enquires innocently.

  ‘But not because of that. I didn’t exactly come out and say, “Hey, Jack. What about Susie? Is she a bit of a scrubber, or what?” . . .’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ She pushes her hair away from her face, then asks, ‘So what did you say?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Try.’

  I make a show of scrunching up my face. ‘No, I still don’t remember. It came up, that’s all. All right,’ I continue in the face of her raised eyebrows, ‘you came up. In conversation. And Jack told me about you.’

  ‘Same as you came up when I was talking to Amy . . .’

  ‘Precisely.’

  She dips her head down and looks up at me. ‘So where does that leave us?’

  I glance around, at a loss for anything to say. ‘Sitting on a hilt surrounded by trees,’ I suggest.

  She considers this for a moment, then says, ‘Maybe we should find the others . . . Hopefully, they’ll have patched everything up by now . . .’

  I remember what I overheard in the steam room. Poor Matt. ‘Let’s do it,’ I say, suddenly feeling guilty for not having filled him in on what’s going on in H’s head. I stand up. ‘Are you still on for getting everyone down to the swimming-pool later on?’

  ‘Yeah. Let’s go.’

  She holds out her hand and I lean down and take it. It’s cold. I pull her to her feet. When she lets go, part of me wishes that she hadn’t.

  H

  Saturday, 15.10

  I’m just finishing another cigarette and I’m staring blankly at the overfed, over-tame ducks, when I’m aware of a presence behind me. Biting my lips together, I look over my shoulder. Amy stands behind me, her arms folded. She stares down with a haughty expression.

  ‘All right,’ I say, turning back to the lake.

  Great. Just what I need.

  Amy crouches down beside me and then sits on the patchy grass. I’m about to stub out my cigarette, when she takes it off me and takes the last drag herself. She offers the burning end back to me, but I shake my head. I hug my knees in to my chest as she looks up and blows smoke out slowly towards the ducks. Then she grinds the butt under the toe of her new trainer.

  Here we go.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asks, looking out over the lake.

  I don’t say anything. So she thinks this is all my fault, does she? I watch a large bird plunge down into the water and pick up a dirty clump of rubbish in its beak. The fish, like everything else in this place, are long dead.

  I don’t want to talk to Amy. I want her to leave me alone.

  ‘H?’ she presses.

  ‘What?’ I groan impatiently.
/>   Amy takes a deep breath. ‘About Matt? Why didn’t you tell me you’d slept with Matt?’ She turns to face me, but I don’t look at her.

  Typical. I might have known. I might have known that Matt would have been mouthing off.

  ‘So he told you, then?’ I demand.

  ‘No, Jack did. He told me, just now.’

  ‘Do you think anyone else knows?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s possible.’

  I suck in my cheeks. ‘Great.’

  I look at her. She’s hugging her knees too and her brows are drawn together. For the first time, in all the years I’ve known her, I notice that she’s getting wrinkles. I know she’s annoyed that I haven’t told her about Matt and I brace myself ready for the inevitable showdown, but to my surprise, she changes tack.

  ‘I know this isn’t easy for you,’ she begins. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  I have to say I’m surprised at this. ‘What have you got to be sorry about? If anyone’s to blame, it’s Matt,’ I snap. ‘He shouldn’t have told Jack and he certainly shouldn’t be here.’

  She ignores me. ‘No, I’m sorry.’ She puts her hand on her chest. She hasn’t got her engagement ring on. ‘I’m sorry you couldn’t tell me,’ she says before pausing and looking out to the trees. ‘What I’m really saying is that I’m sorry that we’re not as close any more.’

  She says it as a simple fact and I feel the sadness in her voice. But the shock of her saying it registers as a tight feeling in my chest.

  ‘We are close,’ I say, ignoring it.

  ‘Don’t patronize me,’ she flares. ‘I’m being honest.’ She sighs.

  I look away, but Amy carries on. ‘I know that Jack plays a big part in my life now. And that’s my choice,’ she says.

  ‘That’s life,’ I say.

  ‘Yes it is. Life moves on, H. And I’m sorry that I’m not there for you all the time, but you being so angry puts me in such an awkward position. I’m with Jack, but I want you too. Your thoughts and your feelings . . . Because we are friends. And that’s why I’m sorry that you’ve shut me out. If you’d stop being so cross with me, then I might be able to help,’ she says, softly. ‘You’re in a scrape, but you don’t have to deal with it all by yourself. You don’t need to feel lonely.’