Come Again

by Emlyn Rees

  ‘Get in here,’ I said, through gritted teeth, flinging open my door and glaring at him.

  ‘Please,’ he muttered.

  ‘Now!’ I snapped, twirling round and storming back in to my office.

  A minute later Brat came sloping in and I turned on him.

  ‘These are a disgrace,’ I said, flinging the script revisions at him and feeling myself losing it, as the papers cascaded to the floor.

  Brat looked down at them, but didn’t move.

  ‘Jesus. Take it easy,’ he said.

  ‘Take it easy! Take it easy!’ I spat. ‘No, I won’t take it easy. You’ve done nothing since I came back. Nothing. And I’m sick to death of your excuses. I asked you this morning for these and you’ve only just done them and they’re so bad that I’ll have to start all over again. Which means I’ll be here until midnight. Again. Thanks to you.’

  ‘Don’t shout.’

  I pointed my quivering finger at him, but he was looking at the papers on the floor, his body rigid.

  ‘Yes, I will shout at you. Because you deserve it. You’re hopeless. Do you hear me?’ I yelled, flinging my arms up as I ranted round the office. ‘All you do is smoke and chat to your mates . . .’

  ‘Well, have you ever wondered why?’ Brat snapped, cutting me off.

  ‘Go ahead. Enlighten me,’ I said, sarcastically, putting my hands on my hips.

  ‘Because you’re a bitch to work for, that’s why I don’t make any effort. Because I’ve given up. Because you want me to do all your dirty work, yet everything I do, you criticize, which is rich, considering you can’t take any criticism yourself.’

  ‘How dare you!’ I yelled.

  ‘Shut up!’ he shouted back. ‘I haven’t finished.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ I said, pointing to the door, my whole body shaking with fury.

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ he said menacingly, tapping the side of his head. ‘You’re not getting rid of me. Because I’m going. I’m not going to put up with your histrionics any more. I’ve had enough. I won’t put up with it. Just like Gav or any other bloke in their right mind won’t put up with you.’

  ‘You can’t speak to me like that!’ I choked.

  ‘Yes I can. You’re just a miserable, single cliché and the saddest thing is that you can’t even see what you’ve become.’

  ‘Brat!’

  ‘And another thing. My name is Ben. Not Brat. The only brat round here is you,’ he said, before walking out and slamming the door.

  Ten out of ten for staff management.

  There’s a silhouette behind the glass as the hall light is snapped on and a moment later, the door opens a crack and I catch a glimpse of Ben. His hair is wet and he’s got a threadbare towel wrapped round his waist. He groans and disappears, so I push the door open a little. He’s standing with his back against the hall wall, his eyes closed.

  ‘Ben?’ I say, trying to sound friendly.

  ‘What do you want?’ he says, with forced patience. His eyes are open now and they look bloodshot.

  I pull his letter out of my pocket. ‘I came about this,’ I say.

  ‘It’s not up for discussion,’ he says, wrapping one arm protectively around his chest and reaching for the door latch with the other.

  I put my hand on my side of the door to stop him closing it.

  ‘Please,’ I implore. ‘Can I just talk to you for a minute?’

  ‘What’s your problem?’ he says, flicking his head at me. ‘Can’t face telling Eddie that I walked out on you?’

  I press my lips together, feeling the sting in his words.

  ‘No, it’s not that. He knows already,’ I say, but my voice is husky.

  Ben looks at me, silenced for a moment.

  ‘Can I come in?’ I ask, looking up at him, but he folds his arms like a bouncer and the answer is obviously no.

  ‘Look. I know you’re very angry,’ I begin.

  ‘You don’t even know the half of it,’ he snaps.

  I’m obviously not doing very well, so I might as well get straight to the point.

  ‘I came to apologize,’ I say emphatically, watching the toe of my shoe on the doorstep, the gesture reminding me of Matt at Leisure Heaven.

  I look up at Ben, biting my lip and he stands for a moment before opening the door.

  ‘In that case, you’d better come in,’ he says, ‘I’d like to hear this.’

  Ben’s flat is small and extremely untidy. The curtains are drawn and the air is thick with the smell of old socks and cigarettes. I perch on the arm of a brown corduroy sofa in the living-room, whilst he disappears into the bedroom to get dressed.

  I’m tempted to do a runner, but I force myself to stay. Instead, I look around the room. On the wall opposite, there are two white rectangles surrounded by a smudged tan line and next to the window, a case of bookshelves with half a dozen books haphazardly thrown on the shelves. On the floor underneath them, there’s a round stain on the carpet, surrounded by soil. Either Ben’s just moved in, or he’s in the process of moving out.

  It dawns on me that over the past few months I’ve spent more time with Ben than I’ve spent with almost anyone else. And in all that time, I’ve hardly learnt anything about his life. Until now, seeing his home, which is distinctly Ben-like, I couldn’t have imagined him existing in a world other than the office. I hadn’t thought about him moving house, or travelling by tube, or sleeping, reading, watching movies or any of the stuff that makes him a normal human – just like me. I guess that’s why I’ve landed up here.

  ‘So?’ he says, reappearing in jeans and an old jumper and I spring up guiltily.

  He pulls open the long brown curtains to reveal another long line of plant-pot marks, scattered leaves and soil. Then he turns to face me and I know it’s now or never.

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude like this,’ I say, playing uselessly with my hands. ‘But I had to talk to you.’

  Ben puts his hands on his hips and stares at me. His face is set and stern and I look down at his bare feet, feeling nervous.’

  ‘I’ve been feeling terrible about what happened yesterday,’ I start. ‘And I don’t blame you for handing in your notice. I’d have done exactly the same thing if it was me. But the thing is . . . I was completely out of order and I didn’t mean half the things I said.’

  There’s a long pause as I look imploringly across the room at him.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t entirely complimentary either,’ says Ben, quietly.

  ‘The thing is . . . you’re great at your job, which is why I came. I don’t want you to quit over me. You’ve got a good career ahead of you and I talked to Eddie this morning and he’ll give you a pay rise . . .’

  Ben picks up a cigarette from a packet on the seventies coffee table and lights it.

  ‘So you’re trying to bribe me to come back?’ he asks, cynically.

  I run my hands through my hair and look up at the ceiling. ‘Oh shit, Ben, I’m making a real mess of this, aren’t I?’

  He doesn’t say anything, but rubs his toe on the carpet.

  ‘Look If you came back, you’d be working in a different capacity, more as an assistant and not just a secretary. I’d want you to be involved with everything so that you got to know my job. I did that when I was doing your job and I’m not going to stay there for ever and they’ll need someone to take over from me . . .’

  But Ben smokes, looking down at the carpet and I don’t know if he’s taking it in. He’s certainly not responding. I look at him, feeling my throat constricting, wishing that I wasn’t in this situation. Wishing I could take everything back

  ‘All I’m saying is that you don’t have to have your life messed up just because I’m an emotional wreck.’ I cough to clear my throat. ‘That’s all I came to say. I’m really sorry. I just wanted you to know.’

  But I can’t say any more, because I’ve failed him and I can’t bear how sad that makes me feel. I turn to leave, but I’m nearly at the door, when he stops me. />
  ‘H?’

  I turn round, hastily wiping my nose.

  ‘Thanks for apologizing.’

  I nod, trying to stop my chin quivering. ‘Will you come back?’ I beg. My voice sounds husky. ‘Please?’

  Ben breathes in and puts his hand on his hip. ‘I don’t think I can. It’s . . . it’s not the money.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘I can’t do the job.’ He looks up at me.

  ‘You can,’ I take a step back towards him.

  He shakes his head. ‘It’s never going to work . . . between you and me. I can’t work for someone like you, H.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your job is the most important thing to you. It’s your life and that’s the way you want it and that’s fine. But it’s not my life, too. Sure, it’s important, but it’s not the be all and end all. You take it all so . . . so seriously. As far as you’re concerned, if other people don’t feel the same way as you, then they’re rubbish.’

  I feel breath rush out of my lungs. ‘I don’t . . . I . . .’

  ‘You do, H. You criticize everything I do. I meant what I said yesterday. I didn’t mean to sound quite so rude, but I lost my temper. The thing is, you haven’t once given me the chance or the time to succeed in anything. It’s like you want me to fail.’

  ‘I don’t . . . I . . .’

  ‘You expect me to go at your speed all the time, but I’m not you. I can’t carryon knowing that every day you think I’m not good enough. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.’

  ‘Am I really that bad?’ I groan, realizing that all the time he’s been talking, I’ve been holding my breath.

  Ben nods. ‘I know you don’t mean to be, but . . .’

  ‘Oh God. I’m so sorry.’

  I bite my lip and stare at Ben, seeing him clearly for the first time.

  I don’t know where we go from here.

  ‘All that stuff about Gav . . .’ he says eventually.

  I wave my hand and try to smile. ‘Don’t worry about it. I probably deserved it.’

  ‘No. It was out of order.’ He gestures to the room. ‘My girlfriend left me, as you can see. That’s what all the phone calls were about. I’m not so far off an emotional wreck myself.’

  I feel terrible. I hadn’t realized he had a girlfriend. Let alone one he lived with.

  ‘You poor thing.’

  Ben blows his cheeks out as he shrugs, but his eyes are smiling.

  ‘Shit happens, I guess,’ he says.

  ‘It must be something in the air,’ I say. ‘If it’s any consolation, I got ditched too, yesterday.’

  ‘Ditched? Who by?’ he asks, looking confused.

  ‘Laurent. You know . . . Laurent from Paris.’

  Ben’s eyes widen. ‘You didn’t!’

  I nod, smiling at his mirth.

  ‘But he’s married! With kids,’ he exclaims.

  ‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘As I found out yesterday, from Will.’

  ‘I knew all along,’ he says, smugly.

  ‘Well, you could have told me,’ I scold, jokingly.

  ‘And you could have told me what to do about Liz,’ he scolds back, but we’re both smiling.

  ‘Shall we start again?’ I ask.

  He blows out his cheeks and looks down at his hands. ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.’

  I nod. ‘I understand.’

  ‘But you could buy me lunch?’ he suggests, and there it is – his old cheeky grin.

  ‘You’re on,’ I smile.

  Matt

  Thursday, 13.50

  ‘I’m just popping over the road,’ Philip says, getting to his feet. ‘Anything you need?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply, folding up the advert I’ve just drafted for a new lodger. I seal the envelope and hand it over to him. ‘Can you bung this in the post for me on your way out?’

  ‘Of course,’ Philip says, taking the envelope and slipping it in to his pocket, before turning and walking across the room.

  There’s nothing quite like an adjournment for concentrating the mind. The other side’s barrister was granted one two hours ago and there’s still an hour of it left to run. I’m sitting at one of the tables in the Bear Garden, which unsurprisingly, for somewhere as riddled with quirks as the Royal Courts of Justice, isn’t a garden at all. It’s a red-carpeted, high-vaulted room with a gallery running round its top. An assortment of other solicitors, barristers and clients are scattered around the tables, shuffling through various briefs and folders, reading newspapers, or simply smoking and gazing idly about. I glance down at Tia Maria Tel’s case folder on the table before me. It’s as thick as my thigh. Then I sit back in my chair and, guiltily avoiding the stares of the oil-painted judges on the walls, yawn.

  I suppose I should get a buzz from just being here. After all, in my line of work, it doesn’t get much better than having a case in the High Court. It’s the kind of thing I dreamed about when I was a student, the reason I bookwormed my way through all those exams. And I do appreciate it, I really do. This morning, watching the war being waged in Court Room 22 has given me a thrill. I’ve done my stuff and Philip, our side’s barrister, has been well-fuelled with information from the start. A job well done, I think, and I’m pretty confident that Tia Maria Tel’s going to get his damages and apology. I should be feeling ecstatic. I should be feeling wired. But sitting here, waiting for it all to kick off again, I don’t feel remotely connected to what’s going on.

  I can’t blame my hangover any more for the intense sensation of alienation that’s dogging me. Monday, Tuesday, sure. My skin still reeked of alcohol then, so it wasn’t too hard to put my state of mind down to a bad case of session-induced paranoia. Yesterday and today, though, with my bloodstream cleared of booze, all I’ve been left with is the facts of how I behaved at the weekend and the problem of how the hell I’m going to face up to the consequences. And consequences there’ll be. Soon. Nine days, to be precise. In nine days’ time, I’ll be standing beside Jack before the altar of Barking Parish Church. Next to him will be Amy, and next to Amy, her father. Somewhere just behind will be H.

  Of course, I tried hating her. I tried telling myself on the walk hack from Stringer’s flat on Sunday afternoon that she was a bitch. She’d shagged me, bagged me and tagged me, and then jumped into bed with the next bloke who’d come along, without giving so much as one thought to the way I might have actually felt about her and what had happened between us. And as an excuse, this line of reasoning sufficed for a while. It worked until at least four in the morning, when I woke in a cold sweat and clawed the sheets from my skin and stared up at my bedroom ceiling, a shivering groan issuing from my throat. Shutting my eyes didn’t work. When I opened them, nothing had gone away.

  In hindsight, I wish I’d handled it differently. I wish I’d taken Stringer’s news about Laurent on the chin and put my one-night stand with H down to experience. I wish I’d acted with civility and dignity when she came round to visit me and not tried to pip her to the post by lying about the way I felt about her. But that wasn’t how it was. I acted like a ten year old, and an extremely immature ten year old at that. If I wasn’t going to see H again, then maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. And again, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t still care about her. But I am, and I do.

  So what am I left with? There’s the nagging doubt that if I’d told H the truth – that what had happened between us meant more to me than just drunken sex – then perhaps she might have looked on me with different eyes (an unlikely scenario, I admit). And then there’s the imminent bout of excruciating embarrassment I’m going to suffer in her presence at the wedding.

  Any solutions to the above? Short of failing to turn up for the wedding, I don’t think there are. I can only hope. I can only hope that H will put my behaviour down to being drunk. And I can only hope that some time soon I’ll get over her in the same way she’s already got over me.

  What I shouldn’t hope, but what I still
do, is that she’ll get over getting over me and want me back.

  Stringer

  Saturday, 15.25

  ‘Thank you so much for your help, Gregory,’ Amy’s mother, Sandy, says, kissing me goodbye.

  ‘No problem,’ I say with a dismissive shrug, trying to hide the fact that I’m pleased as punch inside. ‘They were simply trying it on. All venues do.’ I can’t help smiling. I know what I’ve just done is only a small thing, but it’s my thing and I managed it like a pro. I’ve proved something to myself today – that I can do it – and I feel chuffed to bits.

  ‘All the same,’ Amy’s father, Hugh, interrupts, ‘you were very good in there, and you’ve saved us a lot of money and we’re extremely grateful to you.’ He’s a quiet, suited man and, as far as I can remember, this is the first definite opinion he’s cast today. He must mean what he’s just said.

  ‘Yeah, nice one, Horse,’ adds Jack, patting my shoulder, before slipping his hand back into Amy’s. ‘You knocked the wind right out of their sails.’

  We’re standing outside The Manor, near Barking. It’s a mock-Tudor building, designed specifically for wedding receptions and business conferences. We’ve just concluded a meeting with Christine Wilcox, the Event Planner who’s handling Jack and Amy’s wedding reception. I’m here in response to a panicked phone call from Sandy yesterday. She and Hugh took a van over to Calais last weekend to pick up a load of cheap champagne and wine for the reception, only to discover on their return that The Manor intended to charge them extortionate corkage fees for every bottle opened on the premises.

  In the car on the way back to London, with Jack and Amy in the front, and me wedged in the back, I gaze out of the window and run the conversation with Christine Wilcox back through my mind.

  We were sitting at a table in one of the small meeting rooms on the first floor and, with the finer details of the wedding reception (the length of the tenancy, set-up and break-down times for my staff) out of the way, Jack broached the subject of corkage, the real reason we were here.