Our Story

by Miranda Dickinson

  Half an hour later more of the Perry Cricket Posse arrive: two of her former colleagues from the bike-repair shop Mike owns (Jarvis and Steve – I learned their names at least), and her auntie-who-isn’t-really-an-auntie Sheila, who fusses around Otty like she’s a puppy. It’s loud and bustling and very Brummie – and I don’t know how you’d ever find stillness or calm in the middle of it all. But I like their energy. At the centre of the commotion, Otty shines.

  ‘So you’re the guy our Otts is shacked up with,’ Jarvis says. It’s a statement, not a question, and I’m not sure what he thinks of me.

  ‘We’re housemates. And we write together.’

  ‘So you say.’

  Otty rolls her eyes. ‘Jarv…’

  Beside him, Steve glowers. ‘He’d better be a gentleman, Otts…’

  ‘Pay no attention to them, both of you,’ Sheila says. She seems lovely, one of life’s true sweethearts. But the glare she gives Jarvis and Steve could cut steel. ‘It’s about time Otty had a good friend.’ She smiles at me.

  Otty shifts a little beside me and I wonder if this is the usual level of scrutiny applied to her life, or just for my benefit.

  ‘Button it, boys,’ Mike barks, and I’m convinced all the cricketers far below our stand jump as we do. ‘I’ve had a chat with Joe and he’s a good lad. Now simmer down and watch the match.’

  And just like that, I’m in.

  I grin at Otty and she winks back. Test passed. Death-stares avoided.

  And then it’s late afternoon and the match ends to good-natured applause. We rise and walk as a group towards the exit. At the top of the stairs to the ground floor, Sheila suddenly starts to wave.

  ‘Over here!’

  She’s facing the steps, her back to us. Beside me, Otty tenses.

  And then I see why.

  Creepy Chris emerges from the departing crowd. Otty looks at me and is about to say something when Sheila and Chris come back towards us. So they know each other? Odd…

  ‘Better late than never,’ Sheila says, linking her arm with The Creepmeister’s. But he isn’t looking at her. I hear Otty swear under her breath as he makes a beeline for her.

  ‘Hi, Otty. I didn’t know you were coming.’

  ‘Dad invited us.’ Her voice sounds strained.

  If her dad weren’t next to me I would repeat my super-smooth arm-around-the-shoulder move and send Chris packing again. But I can’t. All I can do is flash a comradely smile at Otty so she knows she’s not alone.

  ‘I see you brought the new boyfriend,’ Chris says.

  Jarvis snorts. ‘Too late, mate, we already tried that one.’

  Chris frowns. ‘But – he is. She told me…’

  ‘When?’ Mike is death-staring right at me.

  ‘Week or so ago? I met them in town. Couldn’t keep their hands off each other.’

  I hear a tiny noise like air escaping from the neck of a balloon and realise it’s coming from my housemate.

  And then, everything shifts into slow motion. Mike’s expression thunderous, Jarvis and Steve’s open-mouthed delight, Sheila reaching for a tissue from her sleeve, her eyes reddening, Creepy Chris looking from Otty to me and back to Otty, as if he’s watching a tennis champion flounder at match point.

  And my wonderful friend, crumpling slowly in the middle of it all.

  I can’t let this happen to her.

  Not considering the ramifications, or trying to work out exactly what’s going on, all I can think of is getting Otty out of there.

  I can’t remember what I say – something vaguely unoriginal along the lines of, Goodness, is that the time? We must be going – and then I grab Otty’s hand and guide her through the crowd up to the stand entrance and down the stairs to the main exit.

  I don’t head for the bus stop, instead leading her across the busy road outside Edgbaston Cricket Ground to the lush greenness of Cannon Hill Park. We weave in and out of the departing crowd, skirting the ice-cream vans and a troupe of circus performers entertaining a gaggle of kids, and keep walking until we clear the main drag. We don’t speak as I guide Otty up the grass bank past ripening cherry trees, softly bowing green willows and russet-leaved maples, towards the old bandstand I used to go and sit in when university hangovers were crushing my brain.

  I allow myself a moment to breathe when I see it’s empty. Gently, I lead Otty up the steps and over to the wooden bench that runs around its circumference. We sit, side by side, almost together but not quite.

  Otty is breathing hard, but I don’t think the walk here is responsible. I wait for her to speak – but she hangs her head and says nothing.

  We are two people who write words for a living. So why can neither of us find the right ones now?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  OTTY

  It’s a disaster.

  Dad thinks I lied to him. Steve and Jarvis, too. They think I’m with Joe. Sheila looked like I’d punched her in the heart. And if Chris has half a brain cell he’ll work out that the lie was to him, not to everyone else. Today was supposed to be me proving to them I was right, to show them the life I fought to live on my own terms is pretty bloody perfect. Now I just look like a liar.

  ‘Otts?’

  I can’t look at Joe yet. I can’t. I just used his kindness to kick my family. Some friend I am.

  ‘Otty – look at me.’

  Stupid tears! Don’t turn up now! I try to shove the emotion away, which only makes it surge back stronger.

  Joe’s voice is soft as the autumn breeze, warm and low near my ear. ‘I’m just going to guess-talk this, okay? See if I’ve got it right. So… Creepy Chris is Sheila’s son?’

  I nod. A tear escapes and runs down my nose. It leaves an almost perfect circle when it drops on the knee of my jeans.

  ‘And the long-term relationship you left, that was something your family wanted to happen?’

  My head bows lower.

  ‘O-kay.’

  I sniff. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘Kind of an important plot point, that.’ A glimmer of humour plays in his voice.

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘The reviewers on Rotten Tomatoes would not be impressed.’

  When I dare to glance at him, one side of his mouth lifts in a half grin.

  ‘5/10 – disappointing,’ I say, mimicking a disgruntled cinemagoer.

  ‘3.75/10 – Oh-Em-Gee why didn’t they tell us?’

  More tears chase the first escapee when I laugh. I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my denim jacket. Joe’s attempt at a Californian accent is worse than his acting ability in the coffee shop, but I love that he’s even trying to make me feel better.

  ‘We got together so young,’ I say. ‘Looking back, the hints were always there with our families, you know? Sheila was Mum’s best friend – they grew up next door to each other. When Mum left, Sheila stepped into the breach. I think her and Dad saw Chris and me as the next generation of their friendship.’

  ‘Like they planned you both into it?’

  I stare at him. I’ve never thought of it in those terms, but it’s exactly what it felt like. ‘It’s all the unspoken stuff, over the years. It builds into something insurmountable. The expectation. And the implied threat it carries: like stepping off that path would mortally wound them. Like you’d betray them if you didn’t do it. Especially once Mum wasn’t on the scene. We were the great hope for the Perrys and Wrights. So I went along with it for years because I wanted to make everyone happy. But it was suffocating – and as soon as Chris proposed, it got worse.’

  My heart contracts and I have to wait until the pain subsides enough to breathe again. In the moment when Chris asked me to marry him, it seemed right to accept. But I still remember the panic when Sheila appeared at my family home the next day carrying an armful of bridal magazines – the paralysing horror of watching my father and future mother-in-law planning me into a day, a marriage, a life I didn’t want.

  ‘You did the right thing, though. Call
ing it off.’

  ‘It didn’t feel like that when I did it. It felt like I’d detonated a bomb beneath my family.’

  There’s a long pause then. A pattering of birdsong, and the distant hum of cars on the main road beyond the park, rush in to surround us. I’m suddenly aware of Joe’s breathing.

  Then his hand closes over mine on the weathered wood between us. ‘What we need,’ he says, the hint of conspiracy dancing in his tone, ‘is wine. Lots of it.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He smiles. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go home.’

  I have never been happier to hear those words…

  When we get back, the house is filled with the warm spiciness of the beef and ginger stew we prepared for the slow cooker this morning softly bubbling away. Bless Joe Carver and his large shiny kitchen gadgets. I’ve ribbed him before about the kitchen resembling a QVC cooking-appliance segment – all chrome shininess and dubious necessity – but this evening the slow cooker is our saviour.

  I’m not hungry, but I intend on consuming a considerable amount of wine tonight and I need something to line my stomach first. And actually, when we’re tucking into bowls of very spicy stew in the living room, sitting side by side on the sofa in our comfy clothes, it’s the perfect meal.

  ‘How much ginger did you put in this?’ Joe asks, his cheeks flushed.

  ‘Quite a bit. With allspice and cardamom.’

  ‘It’s good,’ Joe says, but I can see beads of sweat glisten along his brow. ‘I might have chucked in a handful of chilli flakes, too.’

  That explains the heat. ‘I don’t think we’ll get colds for the foreseeable.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Joe squeaks as he coughs, sending us both giggling. He wipes his eyes on his sleeve. ‘It may be painful but at least we’re in this together.’

  When he looks at me I’m suddenly not sure if he’s still talking about the stew. I stuff the question away. Right now I just need to have fun.

  We eat for a while without talking, Film4 playing an indie movie we missed the start of, so that it appears we’re casually spying on someone else’s life from the comfort of our sofa.

  If someone were watching Joe and me, what would they see?

  I’m still shaken by what happened this afternoon, as much by Joe’s response to it as by the whole boyfriendgate situation with everybody else. He properly rescued me. Taking my hand like that and spiriting me away. I don’t think I’ve been rescued before – usually it’s me saving everyone else. I’ve always thought the whole bloke-rescuing-a-woman thing was a bit of macho positioning, as if every woman is expected to automatically reset to ‘helpless’ whenever a man decides to take over. But it wasn’t like that with Joe. I don’t think he even thought about it before he moved. The spontaneity surprised me. I think it surprised him as well.

  Of course, the mess hasn’t gone away: it will still be waiting for me. I’ll have to work out how to deal with it soon. But not tonight. I don’t want to think about it tonight.

  ‘You are not drinking fast enough, Ms Perry,’ Joe says when he leans over to refill my wine glass and finds it still half-full. ‘Pathetic effort.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I reach over and down the remaining wine in one swallow, holding the empty glass out to my startled housemate. ‘There you go.’

  ‘That’s one way to do it…’

  We watch new red wine tumble from bottle into glass as Joe pours it. The moment is inexplicably, remarkably intimate. He swaps the bottle for his own glass and clinks it against mine.

  ‘To forgetting,’ he says.

  ‘To forgetting.’

  We drink.

  And I wonder. What does Joe really think? Is he embarrassed? Amused? Does he regret his part in it? I want to know, but I can’t bring myself to ask. And the whole ‘I’m Otty’s boyfriend’ thing: did he do that because he felt sorry for me? Is he wishing he hadn’t bothered now?

  Another bottle soon sits empty on the coffee table. Joe shuffles into the kitchen to find more. I rest my head back against the sofa cushions and close my eyes. I can hear my housemate crashing about, banging cupboard doors and voraciously singing out of tune. My mind swims in today’s tide: cricket and family and Chris and Sheila and tears in the Cannon Hill bandstand, all swirling in the alcoholic blur, carrying me far out…

  ‘Crisps!’ Joe yells triumphantly and I open my dizzy eyes to see him plonk three large bags of them on the table, followed by two wine bottles from under his arm.

  ‘Result!’ I yell back, the room spinning a little now.

  He flops down beside me, bag of crisps in hand, and rests his head on my shoulder. ‘You’re ace, you are.’

  I snigger. ‘Ace? What decade did you just drop in from?’

  ‘Ace… Groovy… Fab… Splendid… Top notch… Spiffing… Look at me, Otts, I’m going back in time in superlatives!’ His voice trails away and he waves his hands above his head as if falling through time and space.

  ‘Nutter.’

  ‘You called?’ He sits up and rips open the packet, sending a shower of artisan potato crisps across us both. Breathless with laughter, we wipe them away. As we do, our hands brush against each other’s – and in the tipsy clumsiness there’s endearing warmth.

  There’s something I should say now – I feel it teetering on my tongue. I take a breath…

  Then Joe stuffs his mouth with crisps and starts doing a Don Corleone impression from The Godfather, causing a fit of helpless laughter. It steals the words from me and the moment to say them is gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  JOE

  A university mate once told me there are seven stages you pass through on a drunken night out. He called them The Seven Dwarves of Drunkenness:

  Happy

  Tipsy

  Rowdy

  Forgetful

  Hilarious

  Maudlin

  and Comatose.

  I thought he was kidding, until I encountered each and every one of them during my three-year degree. Some lasted as long as a single round, others arrived together, but all of the blighters showed up eventually.

  Otty and I are currently entertaining Hilarious, although I fear Maudlin might be waiting in the wings. I’ve lost count of the glasses of wine we’ve drunk. Two of the three bags of crisps are empty save for crumbs and salt dust. I don’t even know what time it is – I don’t have my watch on and it’s hours since I last looked at my phone. Several films have passed by on television and because neither of us has been paying attention they’ve merged into one strange, multi-genre, incomprehensible screenplay.

  But right now, everything is funny.

  At one point Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves came on and I did my best Bryan Adams impression singing ‘(Everything I Do) I Do It For You’. Otty laughed so hard she fell off the sofa and cracked her head on the edge of the coffee table. I rushed over to her but by the time I got there she’d passed through shock and was laughing at the pain. Then she started quoting lines from the Mel Brooks’ spoof, Robin Hood: Men in Tights – which, once you watch it, will guarantee you can never take the Kevin Costner film seriously ever again – and it sent us both gasping for air somewhere between the floor and the sofa.

  The urge to laugh still clings to everything we say, but I can feel its grip loosening a little. We’re back in a sensible seating position now and I’ve fetched us two pint glasses of water in a vain attempt to lessen what are bound to be kamikaze hangovers in the morning.

  We needed this after the events at Edgbaston. I’m not sure we’ve fully addressed what happened but tonight I don’t care. It’s been a hell of a couple of weeks and this is the blowout we deserve.

  I look at Otty now, sleepily content amid the cushions, the rise and fall of her breath soft and every line of worry smoothed from her skin, and I’m in awe. I can’t imagine the years she endured, trapped between her family’s expectations and the pull of her own heart. I don’t know how she found strength to leave Chris. Knowing what it would do to the pe
ople she loved most. And then having to work with them all for a year, their pain and disapproval at close quarters.

  She’s braver than me. And even more remarkable than I thought.

  I always wanted to write, so I did. The only barriers I faced in chasing my dream profession were my own doubt and fear. My family wouldn’t have cared what I did or whom I was with: that’s not a bad thing, either. They would have been okay with whatever decision I made. It’s only now I see what an easy ride that gave me.

  The empty wine glass in Otty’s hand is beginning to tip, so I reach out to rescue it. As her fingers let go of its stem, she wakes, turning her head to look at me.

  ‘Hi, Joe.’

  ‘Hi. You were dropping off then. Want to go to bed?’

  A sleepy smile spreads across her face. ‘I don’t think my dad would be happy with that.’

  A wine-soaked blush stings my face. ‘I didn’t mean…’

  ‘Joe, don’t panic! I was joking.’

  I know she was – of course I do – but laughter suddenly seems harder to summon.

  Otty struggles upright and takes the pint glass from the table. I watch her drink, a cool stillness settling inside me. Hilarious gently slips out of the room. When Otty looks back at me, I sense Maudlin slither in.

  ‘My dad won’t be happy unless I’m with Chris,’ she says. ‘Or alone.’

  ‘You don’t know that. Your dad’s a good man, Otts. He cares about you. He might come round.’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘He might.’

  ‘It was always Chris. That was the deal. Dad and Sheila wanted…’

  ‘What about what you want?’

  ‘What about it?’

  I’m tired now. I can feel its weight pulling my shoulders, my head too heavy for my neck. I want to close my eyes and sleep, but I can’t leave Otty hosting Maudlin alone. We started this together: I’m determined to see it through to the end.