Happy Endings

by Jon Rance

  By nine o’clock the basement of the pub was heaving. Admittedly, it wasn’t a very big space, but there must have been at least fifty people crammed inside. A decent turnout and I was impressed. I definitely didn’t know fifty people, or at least fifty people I’d actually want to invite to my leaving party. Kate was off dancing with Emma, while Jack and I loitered around the bar getting slowly hammered. I’d been drinking heavily, trying to settle my nerves. The ring box was snuggled inside my jacket pocket; I kept touching it to make sure it was still there. I was terrified, but not because I thought I’d lose the ring, but in case Kate said no. In my head she always said yes. Of course she’d say yes, but there was a tiny amount of doubt. The faintest hint of what if she said no. What then?

  ‘How’re you doing?’ said Jack.

  ‘I’ve been better.’

  ‘I bet. So how’s it going to work then?’

  ‘Honestly, I have no idea.’

  ‘Any plans to meet her somewhere for a holiday?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘She mentioned that maybe I could meet her in Sydney, but it’s her time to do what she needs. I don’t want to get in the way.’

  ‘Aren’t you a bit worried though? I’d be terrified of letting Emma waltz off by herself around the world. You know what backpackers do all day?’

  ‘Not really. Read books, watch crap TV and get pissed on cheap alcohol probably. Sort of like the first year of university without the lectures.’

  ‘And what else did you do a lot of during your first year at university?’

  I knew where he was going and, of course, I’d thought about it. I looked across at Kate and she looked more beautiful than ever. Her long dark hair was flowing out behind her as she moved effortlessly around the dance floor. She was wearing a red dress that hung low over her shoulders, perfectly accentuated her breasts and ended just above the knee, showing off her long, slim legs. She was gorgeous, but I trusted her and that was the key. I trusted that, no matter what, she’d do the right thing.

  ‘Study?’ I said with a wry grin.

  The music suddenly changed from the Britpop classics the DJ had been playing for the last hour to something a bit slower and romantic. Kate and Emma came stumbling over, giggling and looking for drinks.

  ‘I’m knackered,’ said Kate, falling into me and putting her arm around my neck.

  ‘My round,’ said Jack, trying to get the attention of the barman.

  It was my time. My heart was beating nineteen to the dozen and I felt nauseous. It was my moment to ask her to be my wife, till death do us part, in sickness and in health and all the rest of it. I’d spent a great deal of time since I bought the ring working out how and where I should do it, but something about her leaving party resonated with me. It felt right. It wasn’t going to be the perfect proposal, but at the end of the day, surely the gesture was the most important thing.

  ‘Just give us a moment,’ I said, standing up and grabbing Kate by the hand.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Kate with an uncertain smile. She probably thought I had a surprise arranged for her, but when I walked her past the DJ and upstairs, she started to look confused. It was also January and quite chilly outside. ‘What’s going on?’

  I’d rehearsed the speech in my head a hundred times, but standing there in front of her my mind went completely blank. I had nothing.

  ‘Ed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you drag me up here in the freezing bloody cold?’

  People walked past, hugging themselves and each other. A few cars drove by in slow motion. I couldn’t believe how afraid I was. I just had to do it. I took out the ring box, got down on one knee and looked up at Kate.

  ‘Kate, I love you so much and this probably isn’t how you thought I’d propose and maybe the timing isn’t the best, but would you do me the honour of being my wife?’

  I couldn’t make out the expression on her face. She hadn’t gushed with happiness and screamed ‘Yes!’, which was what I was hoping for, obviously, but she hadn’t run away either. She stood there speechless. Had I made a huge mistake? The threatening cold had dissipated too and all that was left was Kate and me. The rest of the world seemed to evaporate, as if we’d been cut and pasted onto a blank piece of paper. After what seemed like an age, and just as my knees were really beginning to hurt, Kate said, ‘Oh, Ed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why are you doing this now? Of all nights, why tonight?’

  I had to get up. The moment had come and gone. I’d thrown my heart into the ring and it had been returned slightly battered and a bit bruised.

  ‘I thought it would be . . .’

  ‘Romantic?’

  ‘Yes, sort of.’

  ‘Well it isn’t, Ed, it’s just . . . I can’t believe you sometimes.’

  ‘What? What have I done?’

  I was completely flabbergasted. I was hoping to get engaged and in my head I imagined an emphatic ‘yes!’ or at the very least a ‘maybe we should wait until I get back’, but I definitely didn’t anticipate anger. ‘It’s emotional blackmail. Get a ring on my finger and I won’t be able to leave on my stupid trip. Was that your big plan?’

  ‘No, Kate, of course not. I didn’t want you to leave without knowing how I felt.’

  ‘But why now and why here? It just doesn’t make sense.’

  It felt at that moment like nothing really made sense any more. The girl I loved was taking off for six months on a trip that didn’t make any sense. We were standing outside in the freezing cold arguing over a marriage proposal that perhaps didn’t make any sense. I was twenty-nine, almost thirty, and for the first time in as long as I could remember, my life didn’t make any sense.

  ‘I’m sorry, just forget it,’ I said and I walked back inside.

  Jack

  Dad died of a heart attack when I was fifteen. Up until that point in his life he’d been healthy, but one day, while Mum and I were out shopping, he had a massive heart attack and that was it. He was gone.

  I loved and admired my father. He was a brilliant dad and an amazing man. In his younger days he had excelled at sport and played cricket for his state. In his twenties he started a thriving real estate business and we lived in a large house in Sydney and had everything we wanted. I idolised him. I wanted to be just like him and thought he’d always be there to set the example for me to follow. That was before his heart stopped, and after that I knew better. That’s the trouble when you lose someone at such an early age, it destroys the notion that people are around forever. I’d barely touched adulthood and already I was one parent down. It didn’t seem fair.

  It crushed Mum and she returned with me to England soon after. She’d grown up there and only moved to Australia in her thirties when she met Dad. I loved living in Australia, it was my home and all I ever knew, but without Dad it was too much for her to handle. Every street corner held too many memories. Mum still had family in England and she thought a fresh start would be best for the both of us. At first I resisted and in some ways resented her. I didn’t want to leave Sydney and especially for cold, wet England, but in time and once I realised the anger wasn’t aimed at her, but really at Dad for dying, we made our peace.

  Most Sunday mornings Emma and I would visit Mum. Sometimes it was a bit of a chore, but it was Mum. We were all she had.

  ‘You can’t make it?’

  Emma was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, going through the script. I was waiting for my toast to pop and for my tea to stew.

  ‘I need to go through these new notes and I’m meeting Rhys for lunch.’

  Mum adored Emma because I think she’d always wanted a daughter. My parents met later in life and Mum was in her late thirties when she had me. In those days having babies beyond that age just wasn’t the done thing – I was their one shot at a proper family.

  I was trying to be understanding about the film, but it was becoming harder and harder with every passing day. Emma and I already didn’t see ea
ch other as often as we liked and so Sunday had always been the one day when we were always together. The day when everything else played second fiddle to us. If we weren’t off to see Mum or to the pub with Ed and Kate, then we’d take a stroll, go shopping, pop to an art gallery or museum, or sometimes we’d just stay in, get under a blanket and watch films. But whatever we did, we always did it together.

  ‘You can’t come for a bit? Mum would love to see you.’

  ‘I really need to do this,’ she said, taking a sip of coffee and not even looking up from the script.

  I’d been trying not to say anything, but suddenly anger rose up inside of me. I’d had enough of not saying anything, of hiding my feelings and not telling her what was on my mind. This always seemed to happen to me. I bottled things up and then unleashed them without warning. I suppose it didn’t just happen. I didn’t like talking about feelings, thoughts and issues – not because I was afraid of them, but afraid of what it would change. If I kept everything in, made it seem like I was fine, then Emma wouldn’t have an excuse to leave me and I was more afraid of that than anything else. Just don’t upset the apple cart.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Em. Sunday’s our one day together and you can’t take a day off from the film for me? For Mum?’

  Emma looked across at me, perplexed. She closed the script and stared at me coldly.

  ‘So it is about the film.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You being all angry and morose for the past week. You’re annoyed about the film.’

  ‘No, Em. I’m annoyed the film takes precedence over everything else.’

  ‘But this is what I’ve been working towards my whole life, Jack. Surely, you of all people can understand that?’

  ‘I can. You know I’m happy for you . . .’

  ‘Do I?’ she snapped.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Oh come on, Jack. Ever since I got the part you’ve been in a shitty mood about it. You can’t stand the fact that I’ve finally made it, can you?’

  ‘What?! Seriously?! That’s what you think? It isn’t about the film, Em. Maybe it’s about the fact you’re doing nude sex scenes with Rhys Connelly and didn’t think to mention it to me. Maybe I’m pissed off about that.’

  Emma looked at me for a moment with a sort of ashamed confusion. She’d been caught out and was trying to work out how I knew.

  ‘You’re jealous?’

  ‘No, not jealous . . .’

  ‘It sounds like jealousy.’

  ‘I’m annoyed you didn’t tell me and I had to find out from him.’

  ‘I was just waiting for the right time.’

  ‘And when was that? When Rhys had his dirty Welsh hands all over your tits or when he had his tongue down your throat?’ As soon as I’d said it, I knew I’d crossed a line. I’d gone too far. Emma looked at me in disgust. I would have to apologise. She looked hurt, sad and angry, a whole cacophony of emotions – all I felt was overwhelming guilt. I was an idiot. ‘I’m sorry, Em. I didn’t mean that. You know I’m not that shallow.’

  Emma looked at me for a moment and I couldn’t make out her expression, but one thing was quite obvious, she did think I was that shallow. The truth wasn’t that simple. I was over the moon for her and I wanted her to be successful and, honestly, I didn’t mind about the nudity and sex because it came with the territory, but I was afraid she would fall in love with Rhys. I looked at her sitting there, so beautiful and wonderful, and I wanted to hug her, kiss her and hold her. She was enough for me. Suddenly, however, and maybe because of the film, I didn’t feel like I was enough for her.

  ‘Just go, Jack,’ Emma said tersely, and so I walked away, my toast suddenly popping up to let me know it was done.

  ‘Mum,’ I said, walking in through the side gate of her house. She didn’t hear me at first and continued on with the garden. ‘Mum,’ I said again a bit louder. Finally she looked up and a smile spread across her face.

  ‘Oh, hello, Jack,’ she said. ‘Emma with you?’

  ‘Not today. Tea?’ I said and we headed indoors.

  Mum got on with the tea while I settled myself into the living room. I liked coming home because it kept me in touch with my old self. In London, among the great unwashed masses and the hectic life that carried me along at its own pace, I felt lost at times. But there at Mum’s house on the quiet tree-lined street with the back garden and my old bedroom, I felt completely at ease. It was like going back in time. Back to when I was a teenager, still full of hopes and dreams of being a published author. Back to when I knew I was definitely going to be a writer, before the rejection letters had piled up and my dreams felt impossible.

  ‘Here you go,’ said Mum, putting the tray down on the coffee table.

  A tray with tea, biscuits and two slices of homemade fruit cake. Mum sat down opposite and I took a moment to really look at her. She was in her sixties now and her hair was full of grey. Her face, once so beautiful, was now full of wrinkles and her skin was like old leaves and sallow. Her body, which had always been full and plump, was skinnier because without me she lived on a diet of tea, biscuits and toast. She was starting to look old. In her fifties she still had that glow of beauty, but now it was hidden behind the weary lines of a life slowing down.

  ‘Good cuppa, Mum.’

  ‘Where’s Emma then?’ she said, ignoring my comment and getting straight into the cold, hard facts. Mum was never one to beat around the bush.

  ‘She couldn’t make it.’

  ‘Did you have a fight?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Jack, dear, when it comes to relationships, there’s no such thing as sort of. You may think it was sort of an argument, but I can guarantee if I asked Emma, she’d say you had a fight.’

  ‘Fine, we had a fight.’

  ‘And are you going to tell me what it was about?’

  ‘It’s stupid really.’

  ‘Most arguments are.’

  We settled into drinking our tea and eating biscuits and cake, and I explained how I felt about the film. How I was sure her success would mean the end of our relationship and Emma tucked up in bed with Rhys Connelly. Mum listened carefully without interrupting before she gave me her advice and, as usual, it was spot on.

  ‘Jack, I love you, but I think you know you’re in the wrong. You know it’s foolish to try and hold her back and stop her from being what she’s always wanted to be. Imagine if it was the other way around and it was you who’d achieved their dream first; how would you feel if she resented you for it?’

  ‘But that’s different because if I get published, I won’t suddenly be recognised in the street. I’ll be signing books at the Waterstones in Bracknell, not doing sex scenes with the best-looking bloke in Britain.’

  ‘So this is about your insecurities and not her success?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘The thing is, Jack, at the moment she loves you. You’re engaged to be married regardless of her success, but if you keep pushing her away because you’re afraid of what might happen, then you’ll lose her. It’s ironic, but the fear of failure is often its catalyst.’

  ‘How did you become so wise?’

  Mum looked at me with a smile, a smile that for an instant made her look young again. Her face lit up, her eyes sparkled and the wrinkles seemed to vanish just for a second and there on the sofa was my mum. The mum I’d known growing up. She looked beautiful, like an old film star from the fifties.

  ‘It isn’t wisdom, Jack, it’s age. When we’re young we often can’t see what’s right in front of us, but with age comes perspective. You know your dad once said something that’s always stayed with me.’

  I sat forward on the sofa at the mere mention of my father. I looked up briefly at the old black-and-white photo of him and Mum on their wedding day that had pride of place above the fireplace.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I was having a bad day and having a go at him about something trivial and he said, “We shou
ld love blindly without question, without regret and selflessly.” ’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I said I was sorry, but then he said, and typical of your father, “But right now, love, you’re being a right pain in my arse, so I’m off to the pub.” ’

  Mum and I laughed, but we were both lost in our own worlds. Mum was, I’m sure, thinking about Dad, while I was thinking about Emma. Mum was right: I would lose her if I didn’t support her and I couldn’t let my fears get in the way of our happiness. I was going to go home, apologise and let her know how proud I was of her and how much I loved her. Before it was too late.

  Emma

  As soon as I walked into the small and upmarket café in Swiss Cottage, I saw Rhys and my heart dropped. He was reading a book at a table in the corner and looking every inch the archetypal film star. I forgot I was soon to be acting opposite him and I became a silly teenager again. He was wearing a blue cable-knit jumper and a pair of faded jeans, his hair was its usual beautiful mess and he had a few days’ stubble hanging around his chin. There was no getting away from the fact that he was drop-dead gorgeous and every young girl’s dream. I, of course, was almost thirty and should know much better.

  I was still pissed off after the argument with Jack. I couldn’t believe how callous he was being about the film. I’d been waiting for this moment my whole life and the one person who should have been supporting me was the one person who was acting like a complete and utter dickhead. I didn’t want Rhys to know anything about it and so I put on a smile, threw my shoulders back, took a deep breath and made my way over to his table.

  ‘Em,’ said Rhys as soon as he saw me. He got up and gave me a theatrical kiss on each cheek and a warm hug, as if we’d been friends for years. He smelt fantastic and I could feel the taut muscles beneath his jumper. I noticed people at nearby tables were furtively watching us. They’d obviously spotted Rhys and were probably trying to work out if I was famous too. To be honest, I felt a little bit out of my depth. For Rhys this was just another lunch and just another co-star, but for me it was the beginning of everything. ‘How are you?’