by Chris Binchy
“You could if you wanted.”
“I don’t think so. Not like that.” I knew he was waiting for me to ask him something more so he could spill it out. He wanted to tell me. But I just looked at him and didn’t say anything else.
“Nothing’s going on,” he said after a minute. “I met her doing an ad a while ago and just got talking to her. She’s fun. She asked me along to this thing tonight. That’s all.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“That’s all?”
“Yeah.”
“Not my business, I suppose,” I said.
“No. That’s not what I’m saying. Just nothing’s happening.”
“Right.”
We stood there, looking at each other. I was drunk and only realized a second before he spoke that he was raging.
“For fuck’s sake,” he said. “You have no idea what’s been going on. You can’t just turn up out of nowhere and judge me with that stupid expression on your face.”
He was pulling me into it. Even if I left now, it was too late.
“What’s the problem?” I said. “Decide if you’re going to break up with Camille. Once you do that, you’re free to do whatever you want. One thing finishes, another starts. It’s your life.”
“I’m not even contemplating that. There’s no point in talking to you about this anymore.”
“Probably not,” I said.
In the mirror I watched Rebecca at the bar, talking with her friends. There was an exuberance about them, talking their way from one big laugh to the next. It was the end of their night, and things had obviously gone well. You could see their relief in every movement. They were happy.
“But if you see Camille, can you not tell her about this? If you’re talking to her.”
“Jesus, Alex.”
“What?”
“What are you doing? I’m not your conscience, you can do what you want. But don’t make me lie for you. Don’t make me promise to do something like that.”
“I’m not asking you to lie. I’m not asking you to do anything. I’m asking you to do nothing. That’s not the same. It doesn’t have to be a big issue. None of my other friends would be bothered. You wouldn’t have been bothered before now.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “But this is different. Camille is a friend. We hang around together. Remember? The three of us?”
“Of course I remember.”
“So I don’t want to be scheming against her.”
“That’s not what it is,” he said. “All I’m asking is that you don’t say anything to her about this. I’ll sort it out myself. But it’s a complicated situation.”
“I never understand why you say that. Every time, it’s complicated—but I don’t think it is.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been around for the last hundred girls, don’t forget, and it’s always the same. The fuzzy little overlap phase where nothing’s really clear and nobody knows what’s going on. By the time it’s all resolved, you’re on to the next one. So don’t pretend that you’re not completely certain about what’s happening. Because you always know. It’s not complicated at all.”
“What is wrong with you?” he said.
“I’m pissed off.”
“It’s not your business. You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”
“That’s not true. Do you remember—” I stopped. Despite how wound up I was getting, I hesitated before saying more. “When you and Camille started going out, you told me that this was different. You said you’d never met a girl like her, you talked about connections and love, and I believed you. I had to believe you because otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to forget about what you did.”
“And what did I do exactly? Something that you would never have done. That’s all. You can tell yourself that you were on the verge of grabbing her and making some passionate declaration of love, but if we’re going to be honest with each other, then you’ll know that I’m right. It wasn’t going to happen. You can blame me for how things ended up if you want, but that won’t change anything. And whatever you may think you know, I can tell you that you’ve no idea what it’s like between us when you’re not around. Are you suggesting that I should stay with her forever because you feel I owe you one?”
“No, that’s not what it’s about.”
“Then what the fuck is it about?”
“If she was just another girl to you, I don’t know why you bothered. You could have left it. Why didn’t you?”
“Because there was no point. You could relive that evening fifty times, and still you’d never make a move. That’s not my fault. It’s just the reality of the situation.” I looked at him. His face was the same, he was still the same person, even if what he said made him seem different. There was truth there, but stating it meant that the possibility that we would ever get back to normal was threatened. He obviously felt that too. “What happened here?” he said. “This was a lot easier before she was around. We never argued then. Never. I’ve known you for twenty years, and as soon as she arrived on the scene, the whole thing started to fall apart. Are we really going to fight over a girl? It’s just stupid. Can we not go back to how we were before?”
“How happy was I then?” I asked.
He looked at me, thrown for a second.
“I don’t know. You seemed all right to me.”
“No. I was never all right. Hanging around in your shadow all the time.”
“That’s bollocks. It wasn’t like that.”
“It felt that way to me.”
“So this is better now, is it?” he said then.
“Not really,” I said. “But we can’t go back.”
“No, I don’t think we can.”
We stood there looking at each other for a second, and then I just walked away.
Chapter Sixteen
I was woken by a text from Frank at twelve the next day to see if I wanted to go for lunch. We wouldn’t normally meet at the weekend, but his girlfriend was in England for the weekend. I was feeling miserable, hungover, and sore and wanted to get out of the house. We met at a place he suggested, somewhere new and wholesome. He was sitting outside wearing sunglasses and drinking coffee when I arrived.
“How are you feeling?” he asked when I sat down.
“Not too bad. You?”
He shook his head.
“Wretched. How bad was I?”
“You seemed fine.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Better than the rest of them.”
“I don’t remember much. I keep getting flashes, and I don’t know what’s real and what my imagination is filling in to punish me. Some of the things I’ve seen in my head make me want to go and bury myself.”
“It’s just the hangover. There was no drama. Nothing happened.”
“Thank you for saying that. Let’s eat something.”
We looked at a menu, and I went in and ordered. I watched Frank through the window as he sat slumped in his chair outside, out of place among all the washed couples and shiny young families. A little puddle of darkness.
“Were you in the last place? The one with all the stairs?” he asked when I came back out.
“I was, yeah. You bought a round of shots when we arrived.”
“I remember that,” he said. “And you were there. When did you go?”
“Not long after. I didn’t say good-bye to you.”
“I wouldn’t have noticed.” He was turning in on himself. “I don’t know how I got home. I don’t know when. Who knows what I did in between? I never drink like that. I could have done anything.”
“But you probably didn’t.”
“How did I get back?”
“I would guess you just went outside and got
a taxi home. Where else would you have gone?”
“Back to the lap-dancing place?” I looked at him, trying to give him the space to keep talking if there was something there, but it was nothing.
“No,” I said. “You woke up at home. You don’t remember being anywhere else, so you weren’t. That’s it. I’d say some sort of homing instinct kicked in.”
He seemed to brighten.
“Yeah,” he said. “Like a pigeon. You’re probably right.” The food arrived, and we ate. Pancakes and bacon and juice and more coffee.
“I feel better after this conversation,” he said afterward. “Exorcised a few demons. Do you get this way after drinking? This fucking endless guilt?”
“Not really.”
“You’re younger. It’ll come in time. You look crap, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“Why was that?”
“Do you want me to tell you? It’s all about personal stuff and arguments and shit like that.” I would have been happy to talk to anyone, just to get it out.
“Maybe not,” Frank said. “I don’t think I’m up to it. Sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
When we were going, he asked if I wanted to do something for the afternoon. Go to a film or something. I think he was afraid of being on his own. I told him that I needed to sleep, and I left him.
Camille rang when I was on my way home. I looked at the phone buzzing in my hand, thought about letting the call go to message, but then answered.
“Were you asleep?” she asked.
“No, I’m up. It is two o’clock.”
“Yeah, I suppose. Okay. Good. How are things?”
“Fine. How are you?”
“I’m all right. Look, I’m sorry to be ringing you, but you don’t know where Alex is, do you?”
“No, I don’t. He’s not at home?”
“No.”
“Working, maybe?”
“He’s not supposed to be. But I can’t get him. His mobile is off.”
“Maybe he got called in.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Not really,” she said. “We said earlier in the week that we’d meet on Friday, and then he never called. I left him messages, and he hasn’t got back to me. I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Are you in town?” I asked.
“I am, yeah.”
“I’ll meet you.”
“What for?”
“It’s just easier than talking on the phone. Are you free?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
Fifteen minutes later I met her outside a café. She was warm when she arrived, hugging me close and smiling, but I could see she wasn’t all right. We talked about nothing for a while, and then she asked about Alex again.
“You’re not worried about him, are you? You don’t think something’s wrong.”
I didn’t know when I arranged to meet her that I was going to tell her everything, but with her there beside me I had no option. Fuck him. Why should I lie? Why should I let her suffer?
“He’s fine,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with him.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw him last night.”
“Where?”
“In some late-night shithole in town.”
“When was this?”
“At about three in the morning.”
“Was he all right? He’s not sick or having a breakdown or anything?”
“He’s fine. Nothing like that.”
She processed this for a moment.
“What was he doing? Who was he with?”
“I don’t know what he was doing. Drinking, I think. And he was with some crowd of actors or a theater group or something. People he knows through work.”
She shook her head and looked off in the other direction.
“What is he doing? I know he’s your friend and everything, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but why is he being such a shit? If he wants to go out with friends, that’s fine, but why wouldn’t he let me know what’s happening? Answer the phone or return my messages? Does he think I’ve nothing better to be doing than hanging around waiting for him to get in touch? Has he just given up?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know what he’s at. He’s being an idiot.”
“Were you talking to him?”
“I was, yeah.”
“And what was he saying?”
“Nothing. He didn’t mention you. Just said he was out with this crowd who had finished doing a play.”
“That’s all.”
I shrugged.
“Pretty much.” I nearly spoke, then stopped. It was harder than I’d expected.
“What?” she said. “Go on, David. Tell me.”
“I’m only saying this because . . .” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“What?” she said again.
“No, just he was there with some girl, you know? I don’t understand what he’s doing.”
“With a girl?” she said. “What do you mean ‘with a girl’?”
“Nothing. Just that. He was there, and there was a girl with him.”
“Who was she?”
“I don’t know.”
“So was she just one of the crowd?”
“Camille . . . ,” I said.
“What? What? Just tell me what you mean. I have no idea what to think. Why are you telling me he was with a girl? Do you think he’s sleeping with her? Is that it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” I said.
“Really,” she said, and then went quiet.
I breathed in deep.
“Listen, I met him and he was with this girl and they looked pretty close. I asked him what was going on, and he said it was nothing, and I’m only telling you because I think he’s being an arsehole and that you should know.”
“Okay,” she said.
“He’s not a reliable person,” I said. “He’s great and he’s fun and he can be very kind and generous and everything. He’s my oldest friend, and I love him. But things don’t last with him. He just loses interest or loses his way or whatever. I don’t know why. I’ve seen this kind of thing twenty times before. But I thought it would be different with you.”
“I don’t know anything about that. I never thought he’d cheat on me. Never,” she said.
“I’m not saying that he did. I’m just letting you know what I saw because I care for you, and I think it’s wrong of him to treat you like this.”
“But you think he’s up to something? You think he’s fucking somebody else?” She was staring at me now, and I could see she was close to crying. There was nowhere for me to go.
“Yes, I do,” I said and I held her gaze.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thanks for telling me.”
“I’m on your side,” I said. I reached over and held her hand. She didn’t pull away, but it felt like the wrong thing to have done. She looked at me, smiled a very unhappy smile, then stood up.
“I’ll go on,” she said.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll call over to his flat and see if he’s there.”
“Okay.” I stood. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“All right.” I hugged her. “You’re so lovely,” I said into her hair. “I’m sorry to have to tell you all this. He’s just such a fucking idiot.”
“Thanks,” she said, and then she was gone.
Everything I had told her was true. It had to be done. When I realized the night before that for Alex this was j
ust the latest complicated disengagement he would have to endure, my loyalty switched, and once that happened, I had to let her know. She would go to his house now, and if the Rebecca girl was there, Camille might not even need to talk to him. She could just walk away, and that would be the end of it. She would be free of it all. It was beginning to diminish her. I’d seen that since coming back. It was there in her voice and the way she carried herself. Not beaten yet but fading.
But I could admit that I wanted him to be caught as well. I wanted her to see what he was doing and for him to have to respond. Let him tell her that it was complicated. Let him know that I was on her side and that he was on his own, because what he did was wrong. Let that idea sink into his head and wake him up to what was going on.
I walked home though the Saturday-afternoon shoppers in town. At some point, I thought, my phone would ring again that day. She would call to tell me what had happened, or he would ring, outraged and demanding to know why I had betrayed him. I was ready for either scenario. Camille would be arriving at his place in the next ten minutes. I could picture it. I knew the sound that the buzzer would make and the crackle when somebody picked up inside. I wondered if she would give up if there was no response and hoped that she would stand there and ring again and again until before he knew what he was doing he would buzz her in. I waited for the pulse of the phone in my hand to tell me that something had happened, but that afternoon it never came.
Chapter Seventeen
The doorbell rang at close to midnight. I was at home, dozing in front of the television. Alex, I thought, this is going to be a fight. But when I went to the intercom it was Camille. I buzzed her in and waited at the door until she came into the landing.
“Is it too late?” she said.
“For what?”
“You’re still up, I mean.”
“I am, yeah. Come in.”
She sat on the couch, and I opened a bottle of wine.
“So?” I said as I sat beside her. “Did you see him?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And was it all right?”
“No. Not really. Have you talked to him?”
“No. Why?”
She laughed.
“You’ll be hearing from him, I think. He’s definitely not happy with you.”
