Wrong Room, Right Guy

by Liam Livings

  'No, it's a letter. If you could make sure, Darren gets it please.' I heard some Michael Bublé music floating from the house.

  'What's wrong with the post? Why you come round to deliver it?'

  'It's not far. So, if you could make sure he gets it, please.' I continued walking to my car.

  She shouted. 'Thought you might see him, eh? Is that why you come round?' She lit a cigarette and started smoking it at the door.

  'Bye then. Thanks.' I got into my car.

  She tapped on my window.

  I wound it down, my engine now running, eager to leave.

  'You must be Simon.'

  I nodded slowly.

  'He's inside as it goes. Told me, if you come round to tell you to bugger off. When he said what you'd done, I didn't believe it. I thought no one would do that, not to another person. But he said you had, that you'd lied to him all along. And now here you are, in your fancy car, with your posh letter and your nice envelope. You think that's gonna get him back. Well, it's gonna take a lot more than a nice letter for him to forgive you. He's not worked in weeks. Can't stop crying. I've never seen him like this. He don't cry easy, see? He's not one of them who cries at a film and stuff. He keeps his tears for real life. And I tell you, he's cried a lot, all over you.'

  I looked through the gap in the window. 'I know I can't turn back time, and not do what I did do, but I just want him to understand why I originally did what I did. And that even though that part was a lie, all the rest was true. I did, I do, really love him. And I know I'm an idiot, but I had to tell him how much of an idiot I'd been, throwing it all away when we were just getting comfortable with each other, just getting to the good bit of being together.'

  'Yeah, he said he was playing hard to get with you, because of the group, see. He wanted to keep it special, not just jump in bed with you. He'd done that after he finished with that Chris. He said he thought with you it was different.' She flicked ash from her cigarette and some came in through the window and landed on my lap.

  'If you could at least see he gets the letter, please?' I smiled weakly.

  She flicked the cigarette ash again. 'Maybe I will, maybe I won't. We'll see.' Her pear shaped bottom, covered in grey tracksuit material swung side to side as she walked back to the house. She picked up my letter from the welcome mat in the hallway. She closed the door behind her. And she was gone.

  Chapter 23

  I proudly told the writers group that I'd not only written the piece on lies in a relationship for 'a women's magazine', but that I'd also finished the letter to Darren and taken it to his house.

  Olive put down her notepad. 'So you wrote the letter by hand, then typed it and drove it round?'

  'Yep. I re-wrote it a few times too.'

  She nodded and wrote something on her pad.

  Clara-Bell took a deep breath and removed her reading glasses. They swung around her neck on a silvery chain. 'I didn't mean for you to send him the letter, darling. It was just a technique for writing, to get you writing again, after you said you were blocked. It was never to be sent anywhere. It was just for you, darling.'

  'Really?' I stared at her open mouthed. 'You never said that to me. Write a letter to Darren, you said.'

  'Yes, but it was in the context of getting you to do things, back on track, back to writing. Not as a way of getting you back together with ... '

  'Darren?'

  'Yes, him. I mean, don't ask me about relationships. I was married for forty years. Before that only a few men held my hand and pecked my cheek. So what do I know?'

  'But you said, there's nothing that can't be solved by a bit of food or a good,' I looked around the room and lowered my voice, 'fuck.' 'And I do still stand by all that. But darling, what do I really know when we come down to it? That's things I've read in magazines, women's magazines, or seen on those magazine TV programmes on during the day where they flit from an in depth look at depression for three minutes, then how to get a party dress for under twenty pounds. Those shows, that's all they ever talk about.'

  'I thought you wrote during the day.'

  'I do, darling, but sometimes I just take a little peek at what's on. I am retired you know, it is my own time.'

  What solid gold twattery was this, once again? What an unutterable mess I'd made of a situation which was already pretty messy. How on earth was I supposed to sort this out, now I'd poured my heart to Darren in a letter which, apparently, was never really meant for him. Now Clara-Bell explained it, it did make sense. Once I'd started writing the letter, which had come to me quite easily, I was able to write other things, little scenes, little bits of dialogue here and there.

  Olive put her hand in the air. 'Can't you use the stories or people you met at the drugs group in your writing? Change their names about a bit. Mix up who did what, that sort of thing?'

  'No. I promised Darren I wouldn't. I told him I'd never do that in the letter I sent him.' I caught Clara-Bell's eye.

  'That's a shame. It looks like it's all been a bit of a waste of time.' Olive folded her arms across her notepad.

  Clara-Bell nodded and shuffled her papers. 'Yes, it does rather, doesn't it?'

  'I think it's best if I go.' I stood, gathered my notebook and papers, not making eye contact with anyone else. I saw an arm reach towards me, in solidarity, to tell me to not be so silly and sit again and rejoin the group.

  But no, just to reach for a cup of tea. And say nothing.

  I left the room, with its mugs of orange squash, tea and instant coffee, all I heard was a collective shuffling of papers and a few clanking mugs.

  Chapter 24

  The following month I went back to the village hall, clean-shaven, and contact lenses in, but this time I went right at the entrance hall, not left. I couldn't face that lot of women again, not this soon, not after what they'd said to me last time. Clara-Bell had left a few messages on my phone, imploring me to call her, explaining she hadn't meant to be so brusque but she'd simply not expected me to go ahead and post it. She had assumed I knew letter writing was a classic exercise to overcome writer's block.

  Only I hadn't. I hadn't the slightest idea about writers' exercises, writer's block. In fact most days recently, I couldn't tell the difference between a their, there, and they're. So I knew I wasn't right. I knew there was something playing on my mind I needed to resolve. And the only way I could resolve it was to return to the village hall and sit in a room with the recovering cocaine addicts and come clean, just like they had all done about their addiction, to come clean about my big whopper of an ongoing lie which had started out small, but had grown so large it had squashed everything around it, including my and Darren's relationship.

  I shook hands with a few of the men, exchanged pleasantries. I said I'd been away, so couldn't come, when they asked where I'd been. No sign of Darren. Which I took as a good omen. I had already confessed to him, I now needed to do it to the other men I'd lied to over the weeks and months.

  We were going around the circle, as Jay asked us to share something with the group about our addiction. There were a few new faces including a man who couldn't have been more than eighteen or nineteen. He started hanging around one of the pubs in the large council estate on the other side of the town, and 'it' had been everywhere - coke - people doing it in the toilets like it was a cheeky cigarette. And soon he'd found himself coming back for more and more, until he dropped out of college and his parents had told him he needed to do something, or they wouldn't let him stay there rent free. And that's when he'd come to the group for help, for guidance, for a plan. He looked around the room looking for validation, for something, as he finished his confession.

  We clapped, following Jay's lead as usual. 'Who's next?' Jay caught my eye.

  I stood. I noticed Darren walking into the hall and taking a seat in his usual place, opposite me in the circle of chairs. Too late to think of another lie to tell instead of my confession, because Darren was there too, I thought I might as well confess to them al
l, including Darren. I looked at Jay, then the floor. 'I have a confession.' I took a breath and someone patted my back in a gesture of solidarity which made my eyes prickle with tears as I revealed how I'd lied to them all. 'I'm not a cocaine addict.'

  Someone shouted neither was he, and we'll all be strong together.

  'I never was a cocaine addict. I was here, at the village hall for the writers group, which meets in the little room, opposite. Only, the first time I came, I walked into this room, the wrong room, and saw some of you. Course, once I was back in the right room, I thought it looked much more interesting in here, especially since some of you lot were a bit easier on the eye than the middle aged women in the other room.'

  I heard someone say 'I knew he was' and another person handing over money, laughing.

  I explained about what the writers group had told me, and that my plan was to only come to the Cocaine Anonymous group once, 'To get a few ideas for stories' but that since meeting one of the group I had to come back to see if he might be interested in me.

  That generated some debate in the room as everyone looked to either side and discussed who that could have been. Jay hushed everyone and said 'I did a talk about that, a few months ago. About my girlfriend I met in rehab, and how we made a terrible couple once we were out. Awful we were.'

  I nodded. 'I did know that. But because I'm not an addict, not really, I thought it'd all be okay in the end.'

  'Who is it? Is he here now?' someone shouted.

  Darren stood and walked towards me, stopping a few feet away. 'I can't believe you've come here. You've got some front, haven't you? More front than Southend, that's what Mum'd say.'

  'I didn't know you'd be here. When I saw you weren't here tonight, I thought it'd be better to tell the others, since you already know.'

  'Sorry, my deepest apologies for coming to my support group. I thought you already had your little group, your little group of writers talking about whose real life you can steal and put into a book for your fun. But this is my book, this is my manor, these are my people. Sorry we don't talk about apostrophes, and passive sentences. It's a bit more real than that here, I'm afraid. But then again you'd know that seeing as you've been coming here, taking notes on all our lives, for your little stories.'

  'Come on, calm down. I just want to tell them what I've done, and apologise.'

  He was shouting into my face now. 'I'll tell you what, why don't you just fuck off. Fuck off with your posh university accent, your expensive shoes, and your fancying a bit of rough in tracksuits. Fuck off out of here. Oh, and by the way, you know your letter? I binned it. Mum handed it to me and I said you'd know where you could stick it. I said you'd probably enjoy it. Fuck's sake.' He ran out of the hall, his hands balled into fists and his face red and sweaty.

  I started to run after him but Jay stopped me. 'Best leave him I'd say. Let's all calm down, if you're here to apologise and explain, then we're here to listen ain't we lads?' Nods all around the room, with a couple of comments about Darren being a poof, but a being a nice poof though. 'Let's all get ourselves a nice hot drink and we can hear Simon out.'

  'I never meant to hurt anyone. I thought I'd only come here once, but when I saw him, I had to come back, to see if he was … I'm a crap writer anyway, can't seem to write anything, or nothing that anyone's meant to see anyway.' I laughed nervously. The room was silent except for one person's trainers squeaking on the floor. I reassured them I wouldn't be using any of their stories in anything I was writing, apologised again, thanked them for their time and left, handing a copy of my letter for Darren to Jay who smiled weakly at me and shrugged.

  Jay nodded towards the door and I sensed a few of the others shifting in their seats, keen to move on, but not keen to talk to me any more. Jay looked at me, still smiling. 'As you know, this is a closed group, so those who aren't recovering from addiction to cocaine, aren't allowed to attend, so ... ' He nodded to the door.

  No questions, that was a rarity, normally after a member shared there were a few questions from the others, to get a bit more information, find out why. Not this time. Complete silence all round.

  Jay walked to the blackboard and pointed to one of the twelve steps, 'This week we're talking about those we've lied to and harmed.' He coughed and read from the board: 'We will list those we lied to or harmed and become willing to make amends to them all.' He paused before asking the group what that made them think about as the door clicked behind me.

  I walked past the right room, the room with Clara-Bell, Olive and Shirley, discussing how to punctuate dialogue, or how to plan a story, or whatever it was this month, and sat in my car, staring at the corner of the car park where Darren's funny green and vinyl car from the seventies was usually parked. I closed my eyes and leant my head on the steering wheel, willing the feeling, the experience I was going through at that point, to go away.

  Chapter 25

  'Come on, put some clothes on!' Lucy's voice filled my head as I turned over in bed one morning.

  'I'm sleeping. Leave me alone.'

  'I'm stood outside. Answer the door.'

  'It's Monday, why aren't you at school?'

  'Half term. Have you forgotten that already. My my, how quickly you forget.' She tutted when I walked to the door and let her in. 'Just as I suspected. You look like a tramp. Get in the shower, have a shave, put on some clothes which don't have an elasticated waist, and a shirt would be nice too.'

  'You can't say that. People don't say that now. It's not PC.'

  'Elasticated waist; don't make me check in your wash basket for what you've been living in for the past month. I'll bet you've not put on outdoor clothes since that trip up town with your Clara-Bell.'

  I scratched my chin and thought. Nothing. 'No, I meant tramp. You can't say that. It's homeless man now. People don't say tramp. It's not right.'

  She shooed me into the bathroom. 'I'll give you not right in a minute.'

  I appeared dressed and primped as instructed and like a sulky child asked where we were meant to be going, and did we really have to? 'What's the point? I've lost him. I can't even go to the group to ogle those fit and weather worn men. I have nothing to write about, because I can't betray any confidences, as I've promised. So I'm sat here, writing stuff for the school - which feels like I'm back at the school actually, I can hear the Head's voice in his e-mails - and these endless letters for the magazine. What about my writing, when am I meant to do that? I don't have time to shave and dress, I need to write, I need to create.'

  'You really are in a bit of a 'poor me' mood today aren't you? Think back to how you felt when you were at the school. This has got to be better, no? No pupils to bother with, just you and your e-mails from Mr Farnham. Sounds pretty ideal to me. You're like a woman walking down the road with a huge ham under each arm, crying because she hasn't got any bread.'

  'I don't eat bread.' I smiled.

  'I will not tolerate this. Not today. We have things to buy, people to see. Primping to be done. I have a list. We're going to Westfield. Put your shoes on.'

  Westfield - a word which would normally have filled me with joy. But in my not having left the house, losing the love of my life, missing out on the fitties from the Cocaine Anonymous group, not having any bread state, I couldn't think of anywhere I'd less have liked to go. It was an enormous out of town shopping mall, half an hour on the Tube into London's newly regenerated, post-Olympics-it's-all-going-to-be-wonderful, East End.

  The shopping mall stood like an enormous bejewelled finger, draping across a market stall of vacuum cleaner bags and packs of birthday cards in bundles of ten. I thought of Clara-Bell.

  In the shiny Westfield mall, I left the West End-priced hairdressers, fifty pounds lighter, arms full of essential grooming products Lucy had insisted I invest in, and a cold breeze whistling around my ears. 'That's the most expensive haircut I've ever had. I feel like I should call the police. I feel as if I've been mugged.'

  'Cost per wear it'll be nothing. You'll ha
ve it for two months - every day, that's pence. Besides, I could hardly see the real, Simon beneath that shaggy mop and beardy frontage. It's like anything, maintenance is little and often, and not something you can leave for weeks, or months.'

  We visited a few more shops, and each time Lucy explained I needed a look for meeting agents, for going to publishing houses, something which said creative, yet businesslike. 'Not homeless vagrant. That is definitely not the look we're going for.'

  'What about all my teacher's clothes? I could use them?' I offered, hopefully.

  'Have you worn them since you left?'

  I shook my head, aware of where this was probably going.

  'And why's that?'

  'Because I'm not a teacher any more. I don't need to wear those suits and ties, so I don't. Never really liked them anyway. It always felt like I was on my way to a wedding.'

  'I'll never forget your speech in the staffroom about why do men have to wear ties in summer and women can get away with blouses, or less.'

  'Why do men have to start the day by putting their necks in a noose, but women get away without.' That had gone down well with the mainly female staff. Mr Farnham had reminded me of the need to mirror the students' clothing and of the importance of wearing a tie, at all times.

  'Ready to get some clothes for Michael Mountsford?' Her eyes sparkled and we were off, diving in to the clothes shops and trying on appropriate things for my new life.

  Turned out, Michael Mountsford's wardrobe was basically Simon Payne's without the stuffiness, without the corporate greyness, the terminal meetings seeping among its fabrics. Four pairs of smart jeans, of various cuts, not really skinny 'I think you're past that stage, now, dear' Lucy had said. A trio of jackets from H&M in bright red, grey and light blue. The day was rounded off by half a dozen flowery, paisley-patterned shirts. The cashier smiled as he folded the third one and said that you had to be a certain person to carry shirts like those off. 'And I think I am that person.' I smiled, and he nodded, taking my bank card.