by M. C. Frank
“Another question is: Why comedy?”
“I’m sure you’re expecting a deep answer to that, but it’s not. The answer is: for laughs.” *Laughter* “No, I mean it. That was the whole point. We needed to laugh.”
“You know, this interview isn’t going the way I planned at all. It’s a delight having you in the studio, as always, Mr. Spencer—”
“So I’m mister now? And ‘a delight’? Who talks like that on a live radio show, mate?”
*Laughter* “Hey, don’t tell me how to do my job. Ladies and gentlemen, you’re listening to Art FM with a delightful insight into. . . ”[. . .]
SIXTEEN
Three more days of filming pass by without incident, and without so much as a word from Wes. At least he’s not frowning every time he has to look over to where I’m standing. He even gives me a glimmer of a half-smile once, and I live the rest of the day on it.
I’m over at Rosie’s almost every night. It gets to the point where I’m wondering whether I should check out of my room, but I don’t actually do it.
Tuesday night, I’m in her little brother’s room—and by ‘little’ I mean that he’s seventeen and towering a head and a half over me. We’re playing videogames in his room, cross-legged on the floor, and I happen to be yelling “owned!” at the exact moment that Rosie bursts into the room, whipping the headphones from my ears.
“Why,” she thunders, “aren’t you dressed?”
Liam, her brother, presses pause with a muffled cry, and I turn to look at her in surprise.
“Cause. . . cause Liam doesn’t mind,” I answer. I’m in sweats, as is he, but Rosie is dressed in a saucy little number, her legs stuffed into a pair of red stilettos. “Are you going out?”
She grabs my hand and pulls me up from the floor. She’s really strong for such a small person. “We are going out. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”
“Oh, Zozie!” Liam whines. “Leave her alone, we’re just—”
“Didn’t you agree we’d go with. . . with the others?” Rosie turns on wounded, little-girl eyes on me and I sigh, giving up. “Pub crawl.”
“What on earth is a pub crawl supposed to be?” I ask, as Liam lets out a guffaw.
“It’s what normal people do for fun. Which probably means those posh blokes have never done it in their lives, right?” He laughs. “The Genius will be there,” he adds softly and Rosie punches him in the neck. “Ow! What’d I say? Do you have claws instead of human fingers? What is that?” He’s checking a scratch, trying to turn around and look at the back of his neck.
He’s right. Rosie is wearing fake red nails and everything. Her face is all made up and shiny, and a tiny bit of her boobs is showing.
“All right,” I say, giving up.
Her dad drives us. He’s silent on the way, having been robbed of speech as soon as he saw his daughter’s dress, but I know he’s not really mad at her; just concerned.
Rosie doesn’t have a curfew, but I don’t think she’s ever been out past one, and that’s pushing it. She’s only ever had two boyfriends, both from school, and her boyfriends’ parents had been friends with her parents for ages. She’s what you’d call a good girl.
I’m sensing tonight is some kind of a turning point for her; she’s trying to be someone different, she’s experimenting, getting out of her comfort zone. The only reason I came along is because I know how important this is to her.
It’s snowing heavily. We pass lit up streets lined up with cozy, decorated shops and fogged-up pub windows. Oxford Street looks like something out of a fairytale.
I feel like a kid, being driven to a party by my friend’s dad. I miss my own dad. Christmas school vacation has just started in Greece; he must be lonely. But of course he’ll have a million things to do, helping grandpa with the shop, playing soccer with his buddies. Besides, I’ll be back in a few days.
I miss Katia too. We used to chat almost every night, but neither one of us has time for it these days, it seems. Besides, I need to do this alone, wasn’t that the thought? Well, I’m not really alone, not since Rosie’s family sort of adopted me, but I could be, if I wanted to. Of course, if I was by myself right now, I’d probably be eating crappy take away food, or, let’s be honest, not eating at all. Freaking out about Wes. About my panic attack the other day. About everything.
Finally, we’re there.
The first pub in the ‘pub crawl’—more new words—is a cozy, black building with fogged up windows, tucked away in a street corner in a street behind the Liverpool University. Rosie’s dad starts to ask us to call him when we need a lift back, but Rosie shuts the door on him and grabs my hand, running across the street to the pub.
By the time we get in, our coats are crusted with snowflakes. We shake the snow off our hair as a blast of noise assaults us and a damp, human warmth envelopes us, almost choking us. The inside of the pub is bathed in a soft, bluish light, and it takes a moment for our eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. Soon enough the cooped-up feeling passes and a tall guy waves at us at the back of the room. It’s Theo Vanderau. Rosie walks over to him excitedly, and only I can tell how nervous she is. He says hi to Rosie and me, and grabs us a couple of drinks, which we start sipping while trying to talk loudly enough so that we can hear ourselves speak.
Almost all of the crew is here—except for Pan. Rosie cranes her neck looking for him, and as soon as she realizes he’s not here, her face falls. I don’t see Wes anywhere either, but that can only be a good thing. I watch Rosie’s face fall as she searches every face for Pan’s and my heart constricts. I slide an arm around her waist and she leans against me for protection. I can guess that she suddenly feels exposed and uncomfortable in her dress, so I step in front of her, trying to protect her with my body.
“So, Liam,” I blurt out, trying to take her mind off of Pan’s absence, “um. . . has he got a girlfriend or something?”
“Why? Are you interested?” she asks immediately and we burst out laughing, but it’s forced.
We talk and pretend to laugh for about twenty minutes and then we have to go to the bathroom. There’s a line, of course. She finishes first so I tell her to go back in and I’ll follow. When I come out, a few minutes after, my heart stops.
There’s a guy on her.
And I do mean on her. He’s standing way too close to her for comfort, and he’s got that glazed look in his eye. As I scramble to reach her, I can already see his hairy arm slithering around her waist and his hands splaying across her breasts. She’s trying to push him away, but she looks too terrified to make any real effort to escape.
“Rosie!”
I push and shove people away to get to her, but she’s too damn far away and I won’t be in time. The man presses his lips on hers and she makes a gagging motion. I don’t think she’s faking it, she looks like she’s about to pass out. Then suddenly, everything comes to a screeching halt.
In a split second, a tall form slides in between them, and the next minute the man is lifted off of Rosie, as someone starts punching him in the face.
It’s Theo.
I stop dead on my tracks. Theo is beating the crap out of the guy in slow motion, his knuckles turning red as the blood starts flowing freely from the man’s nose. Meanwhile Theo looks cool as a cucumber, barely breaking a sweat; his face is concentrated but otherwise impassive as he keeps throwing the punches with calculated precision.
“Stop it,” the man slurs, trying to dodge Theo’s hits, his left foot inching towards Theo’s kneecap. “Not my fault this tramp was wearing. . . ”
He doesn’t have time to say anything else. My fist collides with his teeth and he flies backwards, legs in the air. He lands with a thud on the floor. Theo’s lips spread in a huge smile and he gives me a thumbs up before bending down to kick the guy one last time.
As soon as she’s released, Rosie collapses in a heap on the floor and I run and put my arms around her, holding her up as she sobs uncontrollably.
The man picks himself up
and limps towards the door, as a couple of men in black approach us menacingly. Theo walks over, ignoring them.
“Is she okay?” he asks, frowning slightly.
“She needs to get home,” I say and he nods.
“You can take my car, driver is out front,” he says.
I get up, but Rosie sags against me, and Theo quickly bends down and picks her up in his arms, starting for the door.
I want to run after them so badly, but I glance around me and stop. There’s broken glass everywhere. People have taken a step back from us and a few members of the staff are just standing there, staring at us pointedly. I’m guessing they can’t ask us to leave, because of who Theo is, but they don’t look very happy either.
“Crap,” I whisper. “Just go on,” I call to Theo, “I’ll settle here and take a cab.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, thanks.” I’m sorry, but this guy is nothing like the drug-snorting frat boy the tabloids paint him to be. He’s well-trained, plus he’s full of confidence and doesn’t mind carrying a half-drunk girl out of a club. . . I can’t remember the last guy I met who wasn’t obsessed with how he’d look if he did something and people saw.
You should just give room to people to surprise you, I tell myself and turn around to almost collide with someone’s chest. I raise my eyes and meet a pair of brilliant, green ones.
Wes is here. He’s looking down at me with a desperate expression on his face, and his lips move as though he wants to ask me why the hell does disaster follow me around everywhere I go? But he doesn’t say anything.
When did he get here? Why didn’t I see him? Why am I not prepared for this?
I drop my gaze, feeling hot embarrassment burn my cheeks. As I look down, something catches my eye: his fingers are wrapped around another person’s hand. A girl’s hand. The brunette whom he kissed at the concert is draped all around his arm, gently trying to drag him away from me.
“Leave it,” he tells me quietly, untangling his hand from hers to reach his pocket. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay,” I croak out.
I escape to the bathroom to wash my hands again, then I quickly make my way out, trying to keep my eyes on the floor the whole time.
The freezing air hits me with a force that steals my breath. The snowfall has slowed to a powdery sprinkle. The street is quiet and white, everything around me impossibly still. The pavement is deserted.
A car passes in the distance, slowly making its way across the soft sheet of snow. Its wheels make that sloshing sound, as though the ice hasn’t yet solidified on the gravel.
I sit down on the edge of the curb, barely feeling the snow seep into the seat of my jeans. I take a few gulps of air, thinking that I should have put on my jacket first, but I couldn’t stay another minute in that suffocating little room. I left it behind. Good job, Ari, running away again. Well, sometimes you have to cut your losses.
Just as I’m about to give in and go back inside, there are suddenly footsteps crunching in the snow behind me. Next thing I know, someone’s crouching on the street next to me. Black buckle boots, white with ice at the edges, come into my line of vision. I don’t even have to look up to know who it is. I recognize his scent, the very sound of his breathing.
My jacket falls on my shoulders gently and I push my arms through the armholes gratefully.
“You okay?” Wes asks, bending over me. “Did you get hit?”
“Nah,” I answer, still staring straight ahead. “Besides, I didn’t do anything, it was all Theo.”
“You’ll freeze your butt off,” he says.
I shrug.
“That’s mature.” The next minute he’s stepped off the pavement and is folding his long legs to sit next to me. “What’s this?” He points to my hand.
I’m holding a piece of paper. It feels frail as my numb fingers clutch it, protecting it from the wind. I took it out of my pocket a second ago. I’ve sort of gotten used to carrying it around, I guess, without thinking about it too much. It’s still folded, but that’s only because—luckily—I didn’t get to open it before he walked over.
I know what’s written on the paper by heart, but I like to glance over it every now and then, just as a reminder.
I pretend he never spoke. “You should go back inside to. . . ”
“Heather,” he supplies helpfully.
“Heather,” I repeat. “Are you kidding me in there?”
“What?” A hint of defensiveness creeps into his voice.
“Is this how you guys have fun? I mean, you kept looking for a ‘pub’ back in Corfu. . . Yeah, not impressed.”
“We can’t all go out for sou-laki every night, you know.” He eyes me, a mocking grin starting to form across his mouth. “Like you do in Corfu.”
“Not that going to that posh club in Corfu was much fun either,” I say and immediately I’m embarrassed. We went together to that ‘posh club’ in Corfu; that’s where he kissed me for the first time.
Wes’ expression doesn’t change. He remembers, silly. He’s just pretending he doesn’t.
“Did you just say ‘posh’?” he murmurs.
Quick, subject change. The cold is seeping into my skin, but I feel my cheeks flaming.
“It’s just, I was wondering what was up with this thing that you missed so much.”
He shifts his weight. It’s a slight movement, but it means his body is turned away from me. Isn’t it amazing how much a person can say without even speaking? But he speaks, too. He sounds bored, dismissive.
“Oh, I didn’t really want to go to a pub. I just kept saying it because I enjoyed watching you scowl at me. Whenever you were there, your face took on such a disapproving. . . almost disgusted look when I so much as spoke. It was hilarious.”
There’s the old Wes we all know and love. Okay, I need to get out of here.
“You called me a gaffer,” I say, lifting my feet out of a puddle.
“I did, didn’t I?” He laughs, a low, private sound. For the first time I turn to look at him. He may have just arrived as Rosie and I were going to the bathroom, but his cheeks are flushed and I’m not sure it’s from the cold. Has he been drinking?
A snowflake lands on my nose, and I don’t even feel it. I sniffle; I used to love the way your nose gets wet when it’s cold, like a dog’s. Will I now forever associate the sight of snow with this horrible, horrible night? Gosh, I don’t even have the energy to get up.
I shudder and furrow deeper into my leather jacket. I should have brought something even warmer with me. Wes is wearing a tweed long coat with a turned up collar and although it’s not buttoned up he doesn’t look cold.
“Hey, you’re shaking,” he says suddenly. “Are you still cold?” He lets out a low laugh. “Maybe you’re scared of me. Or is it yourself you’re scared of?” His voice is dripping with sarcasm. “Can’t trust yourself around me, huh?”
All right, this is it. I get up.
“What you said the other day. . . ” I swallow past dry lips. “Wes, if you hate me, then tell me so and I’ll leave.”
He’s on his feet before I finish. “I care about you,” he says in a cold, bored voice that belies his words. “I can’t stand to see you hurt, or in danger. Maybe that will never change. But, Ari. . . ” he shuts his eyes tightly. “You—you broke me.”
I’m robbed of speech. I open my mouth, then close it.
“Your silence. . . It broke me.” He turns around in a violent movement and punches a tree full on with his naked fist. “You didn’t even tell me what I did.” His voice has dropped into an intense, angry whisper, that terrifies me. “What did I do wrong? Where did I fu—mess up?”
He’s not looking at me, but I raise my eyebrows. Did he just try not to swear?
“Yeah,” he laughs bitterly. “I gave that up too. Swearing, among other things. I figured, if I’m asking God for favors, I might as well try to live decent. Ironic, isn’t it? I reckon it won’t last much longer.”
At th
e word ‘favors’ I begin to shake. What favors? His note from the hospital flashes before my eyes, and I sway on my feet.
“I, um. . . ” I clear my throat and try again. I can’t feel my fingers and my vision is blurred by tears, but I’m going to do this.
‘Say something.’
I’m doing this.
“Here.” I extend my hand to him, shoving the piece of paper at him. “You didn’t do anything, Wes, not even close. This is my reason. I wrote it down so that I won’t forget when I—when I start missing. . . ”
My voice is all choked up, but I don’t need to say anything else. Wes has already snatched the paper from my fingers and he’s walking away in long steps, his back to me, as he opens it.
He starts reading. I can tell the exact moment he reads the first sentence, because he stops mid stride; his back goes rigid. A string of curses escapes him. So much for not swearing.
He turns back, breaking into a run as he approaches me, furious, his eyes spitting fire. He stops half an inch from my face.
“I asked you,” he whispers in a shaking voice, “I begged you not to read them.”
“It’s not what you think,” I tell him quickly. “This has got nothing to do with the tabloids. And, for the record, I didn’t read or watch one single thing after you asked me not to. This one was posted the week you came to Corfu.”
He doesn’t reply. He just stands right there next to me, spreads out the paper and reads.
And reads.
It takes him forever.
A full minute later, he’s still standing there frozen, immobile, staring at the piece of cheap printer paper in his hand, snowflakes landing on his hair, his cheeks, his fingers.
