by Anne Brooke
For another moment, Robert stared at me and then the frown disappeared. “All right. Just don’t be late again tomorrow, will you? It’s going to be a busy few days.”
I nodded, and he left me to my own devices. He was right about the busyness though. I didn’t have time to think and only barely managed to fit in that promised shave before six p.m. came ’round. Which was probably a good thing, as I didn’t have time to worry about Jake. Or Marty. Though twice, in between potential client phone calls, last-minute event changes and the sudden disappearance of the previous week’s hen party file (we found it eventually, between the radiator and the furthest filing cabinet, God knows why), my fingers itched to dial Jake on the mobile, just to hear his voice. But he’d be busy, and that wasn’t our way. We rarely chatted whilst at work, not unless it was something urgent. If I rang he’d think something was wrong. Hell, he’d be right too.
Marty hadn’t rung me back either. I began to wish I hadn’t left that message on his voice mail. Maybe that had been stupid. Tidying my desk at the end of the day—Robert always insisted on a clear desk policy—I couldn’t seem to get my notes into any sort of order. Or at least none that made sense. My skin felt as if I’d been running, and my brain was firing in all directions. I could have done with a smoke, of any kind, but I knew that was impossible.
Swearing softly under my breath, I was about to go through the whole damn pile again when a hand was laid on my shoulder and the sound of a soft cough reached my ear.
It was Robert. He smiled, but the frown was back on his forehead.
“Don’t sweat it, Danny,” he said. “You’ve worked like a demon today. God alone knows how you do it, but thank you. Why don’t you sod off home now?”
“But—”
“Just do it. That’s an order.”
I blinked. “Okay. Thanks.”
At the door, Robert spoke again. “Danny?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever it is that’s been bugging you all day, get it sorted, will you? For your own sake, let alone mine.”
I nodded, tried for half a smile, and left. Would to God it might be that easy, I thought.
All the way home, my mind was racing, going through all the possibilities that might happen, over and over again, and some that probably wouldn’t. By the time I arrived, I was desperate for a smoke, but I had to discount it. Jake would be able to tell if I was spaced, and he hated that kind of stuff. It was part of the reason I loved him.
It took me a while to open the front door. I couldn’t seem to get the key in the right place. Sometimes it warped slightly during the winter, but if you jiggled it around in the lock, it could come free easily enough. Jake must have heard me, but when I finally made it into the hall, he was nowhere in sight, though I could hear movement from the kitchen and the sound of the kettle boiling. Around me, the decorations he’d already put up for the holidays glittered like an accusation. My throat suddenly felt dry and I blinked. I think I knew then that my stupid game was over.
Every step I took toward the kitchen felt as if my feet were weighed down with rock. I was sweating and couldn’t catch my breath. In the kitchen, Jake was facing away from me, leaning on the marble-effect work surface. The kettle clicked off. He didn’t turn round. His mobile phone was on the floor, as if he’d flung it away in frustration. Or anger. Or something else. I looked at the way his hair curled against the smooth skin of his neck, knew how much I wanted to touch him. And then I spoke.
“Jake?”
He made a sudden movement with his right hand, and I shut up. It looked like an order. I wanted to say I was sorry, but I didn’t dare speak. Instead I edged into the room and stood in the corner so he could turn and see me if he wanted to. The cupboard carved its shape into my back. I waited.
When Jake spoke, it was quickly and almost a whisper, so I had to lean forward in order to hear him at all. And he still wouldn’t face me.
“People said you’d be trouble when I met you,” he said. “My friends told me you had a reputation. They said you were just out for some fun, and they warned me about the drugs too. Is that what made you do it, Danny? Was it the drugs? No, don’t answer that. I haven’t finished. It’s my fault, isn’t it? Because I knew what you were like when we started, but I wanted to be with you. More than anything I’d ever wanted before. And then I thought you were different from how everyone said you were. I believed you at first when you said you were off the drugs, and I thought you weren’t sleeping around. Is this the first time, Danny? Is it? Really? You’ve got to answer me that.”
He turned round then, brushing his hair away from his face. I could smell the faint echoes of his aftershave. Armani’s Code Homme. I could almost taste its lemon sharpness on my tongue. He was frowning and his skin looked pale.
“Answer me,” he said again.
I swallowed. “Yes. It’s the first time. Please, you’ve got to believe me—I’m so sorry. I was drunk and I just lost it. I’m sorry. Did Marty tell you? Is that how you know?”
“Yes. Your easy screw texted me on my mobile and then rang me and told me all about it,” he said. “Talked about a letter, but I didn’t understand him. I didn’t get any letter. And I didn’t believe him initially either. I thought he was just jealous. But then it all made sense, the way you looked when you came home on Thursday. The way you acted. Were you drugged? Had you taken anything? Was that why you fucked with him?”
Slowly, I sank to the floor. The metal handle of the floor cupboard felt cold against my head.
“I don’t know why I did it,” I whispered, refusing to look at Jake but feeling his anger rolling around us both. “I was drunk, I told you. And yeah, I had some skunk too, but it was a club. That’s what happens. But it didn’t mean anything. It’s not like you and me.”
He laughed, but the laughter ended with a gulp. “Not like you and me? Bloody hell, at least you admit there might be a ‘you and me’. I suppose that’s something. I should be grateful. I should be, but I’m not. I’ve always been faithful to my boyfriends. That may be old-fashioned, though God knows in this day and age, that’s surely no bad thing. You knew what I was like, how I felt about things like that, when you moved in. You told me it would be fine. You said you wouldn’t do drugs any more or any of the other stuff. You promised me. So how can I believe you now?”
Then he couldn’t speak any more. Again I wanted to touch him but thought it would be unwelcome. Why would he want me here anyway? I’d let him down, big time. When we started living together, he’d talked about his family life and his parents’ drawn-out breakup. I knew perfectly well about his father and how much he’d messed Jake’s mother around, how there’d always been his father’s other women throughout Jake’s teenage years. The rows, his mother’s tears, the difficult court case. Oh yes, I knew how he felt about monogamy, how important it was to him. And I’d taken that knowledge and put the knife in with it. What sort of a boyfriend did I think I was? Still, I thought he was wrong about the drugs. Wasn’t he? Yes, I knew I hadn’t given them up as I’d promised him I would. Not entirely. But my encounter with Marty hadn’t been to do with any of that. It had been something else—the way the evening had shaped up; that feeling of being a little out of control but not dangerously so; the fact that I’d just wanted to have sex and hadn’t much minded who with. It was nothing to do with the drugs.
Or was it? Maybe I was simply fooling myself. Maybe I’d had too many after all, breaking yet another promise to Jake, and I’d been nothing more or less than an accident waiting to happen.
“I’m sorry,” I said. And I meant it too. “I’m sorry in a way you can’t possibly believe. Bloody hell, Jake, I wish so much I could go back to last week and put it all right again. I wish I could, but I can’t.”
I didn’t know what else to say. It felt as if whatever I said or did would never make it right. This time I made a move to touch him, but he shook his head, veered away from me.
“You know… you know what the really funny t
hing is about all this,” he whispered.
I didn’t think anything about this was funny, though I knew what he meant, so I simply waited.
“I was going to ask you. It’s Christmas, so I was going to do it.”
I stared at him. “Do what? Ask me what?”
He took a deep breath. Turned to look at me. His eyes were red and his face crumpled.
“I was going to ask you to be my partner,” he said. “I’d had it planned for tonight. It’s our nine-month anniversary of getting together. And, as I said, it’s nearly Christmas. I wanted… I thought I wanted to be with you forever. I didn’t mind about the drugs—because yes, I do know you still do them sometimes. I’m not a fool, Danny. I just thought we should be together. But now, well, now I’m not so sure.”
I didn’t know what to say. I could feel my face growing hot, then cold. And hot again. I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth, found I was shaking.
Outside the window, snow began to fall.
Neither of us spoke for a while. Finally, Jake got to his feet. Walked over to the kettle and reached up to the cupboard for a mug. Just the one, I noticed. Just the one.
“Do you want me to go?” I whispered, not able to look at him.
He made a sound, halfway between a groan and a sob. “Yes. Maybe that would be best right now.”
I didn’t remember leaving. Not really. I couldn’t catch my breath properly. All I remember is walking for a long, long time and how very cold I was. The London streets, the houses, the people, the Christmas lights, and the clubs were nothing but blurs at the edge of my vision. All I could hear was the sound of my own breath, all I could feel was the beating of my heart against my chest. Somewhere during that time, I rang Marty.
He didn’t answer. I left a message.
“All right,” I said, my voice not sounding like my own, but like someone far older. “All right, you’ve won. I’ve messed up, and I’m the bastard you said I was after all. I’m sorry I hurt you before, and I’m sorry I’ve made you so angry because of what happened last week. You’re right and I’m wrong. Jake’s thrown me out. He knows everything. I’m not sure there’s anything else you can do, but whatever you want to do, that’s fine. You’re entitled. Whatever. The only thing I want to say is I’m sorry. And it’s over, Marty. Really over.”
I cut the call, switched off my mobile and kept on walking. And walking. One or two people jostled me—hookers maybe—but I didn’t pay them any attention. Just kept my head down and plowed on through.
Eventually, somewhere between midnight and one a.m., I found myself on familiar territory. Outside the office, shivering with the cold, I found the key in my pocket, opened the door, switched the alarm off, and walked in.
At night, the office seemed completely different than it was during the day. Everything was as it should be for the morning, but it didn’t feel like a working space. The desk looked menacing, and the computers seemed to be alien creatures waiting to be called back to their own world. I shook my head. God, I was sounding crazy. Even to myself. I desperately needed some sleep. It might clear my head. Maybe things would look better in the morning. They had to. I didn’t want to think it might be otherwise.
As quickly as I could, I locked the door, grabbed a handful of clean towels from the bathroom, and made a makeshift bed behind my desk where people couldn’t see me. I didn’t want to be arrested for breaking and entering my own office.
The last thing I remembered was wondering if I’d be able to get to sleep at all.
The next thing I knew after that was that someone was shining a vast light in my face and my shoulders hurt.
“What the hell are you doing?”
It was Robert. Who else? I blinked at him until my eyes focused and then glanced at my watch. It was 7:15 a.m.
“Are you drunk?” My boss stepped back from me, wrinkling his nose. “Honestly, Danny, you smell. What the hell have you been up to? Why aren’t you with Jake?”
I swallowed. The whole damn mess I’d made of things came flooding back. Right now, I was totally fed up with myself—with my thoughtlessness, with my ability to kick the man I loved in the gut, with my attempts to cover it up. It was all my fault, each and every sordid detail of it. Maybe then it was time to face up to the fact that I wasn’t really one of the good guys.
So, with that in mind, what came out of my mouth in response to Robert’s perfectly reasonable question wasn’t what I expected.
“I’m not with Jake because I’m an idiot,” I said, raising my head and staring right at him. “I fucked up. I slept with an old boyfriend last week, someone I’d already pissed off big time when I left him for Jake. I was drunk and… and high when I did it, but I know that’s no excuse. It’s my fault. He said he’d tell Jake and split us up. He wrote to him, to Jake’s office. I took the letter, tried to cover it up, but he told Jake about it anyway. Rang him. Of course. God knows why I bothered trying to lie. So. Last night, I told Jake I was sorry, but it wasn’t enough. He’d been going to ask me to be his partner. Some sort of romantic Christmas he’d got planned, but I’ve kicked him in the teeth with my own bastard decisions, and he asked me to leave. God knows but I can’t blame him. Why would he want me to stay? I walked for a long time, and then I came here. I know you’ll probably tell me to get lost—well, now that you know I do drugs, you will—but I didn’t know where else to go. I’m sorry.”
For a long moment, Robert did and said nothing. I held his gaze. Then he turned on his heel and walked away. Into his office. Slowly I got to my feet. My mouth tasted of dead cat and my legs felt weak. This was it then. This was the day I lost both my boyfriend and my job. Great, Danny, good work.
Robert came back in. He was holding something which he offered me. I took it and found I was clutching a few pages of A4 paper stapled together. There was a picture of a narrow brick house on the front.
“What’s this?”
My boss sighed, sat down, and waved his hand for me to do the same. I drew up a chair.
“You’re a good worker,” Robert said. “But I know you’ve got issues. As well as being a total and utter wanker of course. Now I’m not saying you have to be perfect—God knows, I’m far from that—and I know you don’t do hard drugs. But the soft stuff can be deadly too. So, a while ago, I printed out the brochure of the Drugs and Alcohol Foundation in case you should ever think you need it. They’re in London, not far from St James’ Park. Easy to get to. And maybe now’s the time to think seriously about it, eh? That is, if you want your boyfriend back and you want to keep your job.”
I looked up at him. Saw he was serious. Knew then what I’d have to do.
* * *
It took me a year. It started with another difficult scene with Jake. Between that first Christmas and New Year when he found out what a shit I was, I stood in front of his house until he allowed me to speak to him. It took a couple of hours, and he was shaking when he finally opened the door. I think he’d been crying too, though he wasn’t the only one.
I didn’t come in. Not then, though later the two of us had to endure me clearing his house of the stuff I’d left there. Then, I simply stood at his doorstep and said what I needed to say.
“I’m not here to annoy you, Jake, and I’m not here to ask you to do anything you don’t want to do. I wanted to say I’m sorry. And you’re right about me, and I’m so very wrong. I’m staying at a hostel at the moment, and Robert’s giving me some help. I’m starting counseling sessions in January. To do with the drugs and other things. I don’t know if it might sort my head out, God knows if anything will do that, but I’ll try. I wanted you to know that and that I love you. That’s… that’s it really.”
I stood there for a moment, staring at his face, wanting to fix it on my mind so I wouldn’t ever forget it. He looked like he needed to speak, he might even have started to reach out for me before changing his mind and letting his hand drop. But I couldn’t see for sure. I was so caught by his eyes.
Then I tur
ned and walked away.
Of course, I wondered if he’d follow me, ask me to come back, but life wasn’t like the films. Not ever. So I kept on walking, and blinking hard to keep the tears at bay. I kept on walking right into the most difficult year I’ve ever known.
Being me, you see, I thought it might be simple. I thought I’d stop smoking the weed, cut down on the drinking, binge or otherwise, go easy on the sex, and then after a couple of months or so I could go to Jake, beg him to take me back, and we could start all over again.
As if.
My counselor, Adrian, didn’t let me get away with a thing. Ever. I found myself, over the weeks and months I spent with him and in the groups he suggested I join, talking about a personal history I hadn’t thought of in any real sense for years: my father and the family I never talked to now, how sex made me feel, what the drink and the cannabis really did for me. He let me talk about Jake too, and what I’d done with Marty and why that might be.
It helped a lot. Keeping the job with Robert helped, too, gave me a focus and stopped me thinking all the time about Jake and how difficult it was being sober. And clean. I found I enjoyed the job more; I even managed to sweet-talk a couple of new clients onto our lists. After a while, sometime during the summer, Robert began to mention taking on more staff, maybe putting me into a managerial role one day. It made me feel nervous. Excited too.
During that year, I met Jake three times. The first time, I bumped into him in Sainsbury’s, of all places. He was with some slim dark-haired guy. We both said hello, shook hands even. I said it was good to see him and he smiled. He introduced me to the new bloke, but I forgot his name at once. That night I rang Adrian when the wanting to drink myself to oblivion got too much, and it was okay. In the end.
The second time, it was at a London Pride event. I couldn’t believe it—in the middle of so many people, someone patted me on the shoulder, I turned ’round, and it was Jake. The sight of him set my mind buzzing, and I couldn’t think of what to say. But it didn’t matter. We walked along, not really looking at the people or the stalls, and we chatted.
