The Difference Between You and Me

by Celia Hayes

“That doesn’t work in your favour.”

  For a moment he diverts his attention from the contents of his backpack to give me a sideways glance.

  “What’s that you’ve got there?” I ask.

  “Hold these,” he says, passing me two champagne glasses.

  “Oh, my God… No… Come on, what?!” I stammer, profoundly moved by this gesture. I’d never have thought it possible: Ethan succumbing to the lure of etiquette. Sure, I’d have preferred it if he hadn’t worn those jeans and that ridiculous Metalhead T-shirt, but… But he brought a bottle of champagne! The first step towards civilization. It is an occasion to celebrate.

  I can’t help myself. Touched, I take the glasses and look at him with the first adoring gaze of the evening. He notices and reciprocates with a smile full of meaning and, while I’m gloating, he pulls out a bottle that shatters all my innermost hopes for the evening.

  “Ta-daaah!”

  He waves a bottle of beer under my nose, bursting into laughter.

  “I should have known,” I moan. “How could I have fallen for it—”

  “Double malt beer!” he says cheerfully, filling the glasses.

  “Great,” I say, totally devoid of enthusiasm.

  “Stop sulking!” he yells, taking a glass. I’d happily go on sulking for the rest of my days, but it would be a shame to ruin the moment.

  “I propose a toast,” he whispers, biting his lip and bringing it to mine.

  “Let’s hear it… What shall we drink to?”

  “A new beginning.”

  “I don’t see how that’s feasible.”

  “It never will be if you don’t make it feasible.”

  At his words I scratch my head and slump back on the bench. I can’t believe it. I’m at a standstill. I’ve got no prospects and I’ve lost everything that I’ve worked for in recent years. It’s not a beginning, it’s just purgatory, and I don’t even know if I’ll make it out.

  “Trudy…” he says, stroking my arm with a worried expression and looking for a reaction.

  I lift my eyes towards him and mumble, “Ethan, my life is a disaster.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  He shakes his head without taking his eyes off me.

  “Then why am I depressed?”

  “Because you’re insatiable, a defeatist and perpetually angry with the world.”

  “Which – together with unbearable, hysterical, frustrated and despotic – provides a comprehensive picture of the reasons for my lack of success.”

  “Hey,” he protests, “you forgot unsociable!”

  “You really know how to cheer me up.”

  I raise my flute in a toast. “To me!”

  He reciprocates, knocking down half of the contents in one gulp, and still smiling in amusement.

  “Will you stop it!” I snap, though it’s hard not to laugh.

  “No…”

  “I hate you.”

  “I know.” And this time he doesn’t give me the opportunity to continue. He no longer wants to bicker. He just wants to pull the plug and for a few hours get rid of all the barriers that separate us, already knowing that they will be back soon enough to get in our way. With sparkling eyes, he takes my face in his hands and leans over to kiss me. As always, though, I instinctively try to draw back and prevent him from touching me. I think it’s an unconditional reflex, and the absurd thing is that it only happens with him. Every time he approaches.

  “Ethan…” I try to reason with him.

  “Yes, I’d say it’s about time you started calling me by my name.”

  “Ethan, I’m serious.”

  “Me too. Deadly serious.”

  And my defences give way and I find myself with my lips glued to his. Surrounded by silence, I end up in his arms. He can’t stand the obsessiveness with which I insist on keeping my hair tied up, so he pulls my ribbon and lets it fall down my back while he kisses me with infinite sweetness. In his hands, I lose any ability to resist. It happens every time. Without thinking, I close my eyes and abandon myself to him and from that moment onwards there is nothing but his scent and his caresses which gradually move further and further down my body, searching for me among the folds of my clothes.

  “No…” he groans suddenly, moving away. “I’d promised myself I’d behave.” He takes his hand away from my skirt and holds me tight, pressing my lips against his cheek.

  “Oh…” I whisper, trying to focus on my spatial co-ordinates, only then realizing for the umpteenth time that I’ve let go, and without even realizing it. When did I end up sitting on his knee? And why is my blouse unbuttoned? It’s like a cold shower that brings me back to reality. Every time he kisses me, I turn into a Persian cat all ready to purr. I slide away and turn back into the abominable Snow-woman. I don’t know which of the two versions is less gruesome, but when in doubt, I choose the Arctic climate, due to my marked intolerance for felines.

  “Okay, take me home.”

  “What?” he replies, incredulous. “Why?”

  “You know why,” I say, slipping off the bench and pulling my clothes into place.

  “Hey… Trudy, wait.” He tries to stop me, but this time I have no intention of listening to him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. And it mustn’t happen. We have no future together and I don’t even know whether the reason I’m behaving so recklessly is just a reaction to the trauma of splitting up with Horace. That doesn’t sound like the best foundation for starting any relationship, let alone one that’s destined to end in a month.

  “We talked about this and we decided by mutual agreement that we’re just going to have a normal friendship. Nothing complicated.”

  “I never decided anything.” He lets go of the sleeve of my jacket and slaps his hands on his knees in irritation.

  “Okay,” I rephrase. “I’ve decided that we’re just going to have a normal friendship.”

  “And I have no say in the matter?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Wonderful…” he mutters sarcastically, rubbing his eyes.

  I do my blouse up, smooth down my skirt and tie my hair back in a ponytail. “Okay, I’m ready,” I say. “Shall we?”

  Ethan sits there on the bench looking at me, his jacket abandoned on the wooden planks. He doesn’t want to move. He wants to argue. I can sense it from his grim expression.

  “Please,” I plead. “I don’t want to argue.”

  “Well, I do” He gets up and stands next to me, a few steps from the lakeshore.

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “Trudy, I can’t keep going on like this. I’m not going to let you use me.”

  “I’m not using you,” I defend myself.

  “Yes, you are. You’re sad? You come to me. You’re angry? You leave. You change your mind and come back. You change your mind again and tell me to piss off.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Okay… Okay, fine.” He raises a hand. “You’re right,” he gives me some rope. “It’s me, I got the wrong end of the stick – is that better?”

  Hmm… I don’t know why, but his surrender is unconvincing.

  “So will you take me home?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “Okay.” I set off towards the path.

  “Or…” He suddenly pulls me close to him.

  I knew there was a catch!

  “Or what?”

  “Or we stay.”

  “Here? Are you crazy? Have you seen where you brought me?”

  “Why do you always pretend not to understand?” he asks, losing his patience. “I’m just trying to understand what you want to do about us.”

  “There is no ‘us’.”

  “And will there ever be?” he finally finds the courage to ask.

  “Wha… what do you mean?”

  All of a sudden I’m having trouble breathing.

  “Trudy,” he repeats my name almost in a whisper. “I only want to know whether you want to keep se
eing me.”

  “I thought I’d already answered that question.”

  “Not really.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “That before I let you keep changing your mind – from now on, I won’t,” he says categorically. “If you say ‘no’ now, then I’ll no longer want to know.”

  I look down with a dejected gaze. I hate the turn this conversation’s taken. We shouldn’t have got to this point – and why does everything always have to depend on me? How can I know what will happen to me tomorrow, if my present self is drifting?

  “Ethan, I’m sorry, I want to end it here. It’s just not a good idea,” I say, trying to reason with him. “Especially after what happened to me with—”

  “I can’t believe it. Are you… Are you really saying ‘no’?”

  “Exactly,” I confirm.

  He looks at me as if none of it makes any sense.

  “Will you tell me why you have to fight it? Pointlessly fight it?”

  “In a month I’ll be back in London,” I remind him. “Tell me, what would be the point?”

  And for the first time my words seem to have an effect on him because his face darkens and, without saying a word, he turns away, putting his hands in his pockets.

  “Well, I’d say I’m almost presentable,” I mumble, pretending not to have noticed his sudden change of mood. “What do you think, shall we go?”

  He nods.

  And that’s all he does. Even when he drops me off at the stairs of my apartment. He just nods when I ask him if he’s okay. He nods when I try to make conversation by asking him if he has to work tomorrow. He nods when I say ‘goodbye’. He nods and walks away and from that moment I’m absolutely sure that there’ll be no other chance to broach the subject.

  Ethan is a closed chapter.

  Another month and Turriff will be a closed chapter too.

  Chapter 31

  A Non-Negotiable Offer

  “Good morning.”

  “What makes you so sure it’s a good morning? How dare you come in here and throw your good morning at me like that, with no respect? Are you aware that every minute in the world a woman realizes she’s dyed her hair the wrong colour?”

  “Trudy, pick up your bloody phone and call him”

  And August has passed as well…

  I tear off a calendar page a few days late. This never happened when I got here. I could hardly stop marking off the days in the hope that it would hasten the passage of time. Now I struggle to remember what day it is and I’ve started to find my daily routine almost bearable: I have a coffee and donuts at the market every morning and I always have lunch with the staff. A miracle? I call it resignation.

  The only problem with this story continues to be Ethan. He didn’t take what happened very well. He continues to say that I’m a coward, and I keep telling him I’m realistic. We can’t agree on anything – if he says ‘yes’, I say ‘no’, and one way or another, we end up doing as I say. At least, for the moment. This means that since the day at the park we haven’t seen each other, except by accident. I even keep away from the pub to avoid making life uncomfortable for us both. Positive sides? We no longer fall out and we still manage to get by. Down sides? None in particular. So, I guess you’re wondering why I called it a drawback? I don’t know. It’s that sometimes… And I don’t understand why, really, why make all that fuss if, as soon as I point out… Because he knew it anyway! Don’t… I’m not saying that he should keep trying. No… I didn’t mean that… Just that, him disappearing out of the blue like that. Isn’t it a way of admitting I was right? That, after all, his obstinacy was only an end in itself?

  “Good morning, Miss Watts,” Miss Hunt greets me cheerfully, entering my office without knocking.

  “Good morning to you. Have you changed your hair?” I ask, stacking a load of papers and slamming them onto the desk.

  I’m used to it by now. I don’t even protest any more. She’s in and out of my office as if it was her own bedroom. But this time I’m glad. She’s come at just the right time: I was about to nose dive into a tub of ice cream to make up for feeling so unloved. I hate it when that happens. I never think about it, really, then sometimes… I don’t know, I suddenly start feeling blue and…

  “So you noticed?” she says, and touches her hair proudly.

  I smile.

  “You look lovely.”

  “Thanks a lot,” she says timidly. “I’d better get back to work, I only came to give you this.”

  “What is it?” I ask, taking the envelope she is holding out to me. I open it and I find myself staring at an invitation printed on recycled paper in very bad taste.

  “It’s the poster for the fair! Do you like it?”

  I’ve seen nicer looking obituaries.

  “It’s very… errr, very colourful.” I smile again, with some effort.

  “Isn’t it? Al did it. Isn’t he a treasure?”

  “Al the… the binman?” I ask, bewildered.

  “He’s always been mad for graphic design. Don’t you think he’s absolutely wasted in that job?”

  “Sometimes the paths of the Lord are inscrutable,” I say wisely.

  “That’s so true!” she agrees. “I mean, look at what happened to you. You came here to fire us all, and instead it was only thanks to you that we’ve all been saved from bankruptcy. It makes you think, doesn’t it?”

  It certainly does…

  “Anyway, back to work. Remember to inform the Mayor that you’re going. He would like to invite you on stage to give a brief speech to the citizens of Turriff,” she adds.

  “What? No… No, wait.” I interrupt. “I don’t think I can. There are things I have to do at home.”

  “But you can’t miss it! There’ll be the election of the Pumpkin King and Queen,” she insists in disbelief.

  “That’s exactly it… You see, I just don’t think I… I really can’t…” I mumble, imagining being buried alive under hordes of drunken farmers, or even worse, forced to taste disgusting food drenched in rivers of animal fat while a little further on they proudly show off Polly, the prettiest goat at the fair, who bleats festively amongst the carrots which will be served with her as a side dish.

  “I really can’t come!” I repeat.

  “Miss Watts, you can’t not come. The thing is… I shouldn’t tell you. It was supposed to be a surprise, but if you don’t come—”

  “What? What? Speak, damn it!”

  “We’ve arranged a little surprise for you, on behalf of all the staff to thank you for everything you’ve done for us these last few months,” she confesses. “Can you imagine how upset they would be if you didn’t turn up?”

  Defeat.

  “Then I suppose I’ll have to be there,” I agree with a sigh.

  “Wonderful,” she says cheerfully. She seems unable to control herself, and bounces around the room. “I can’t wait! I’m so excited.”

  “When is it?”

  “What a question! It starts tonight – didn’t you read the posters scattered all over town?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh, well… You’d better hurry. You only have this afternoon to find a suitable outfit.”

  “I’m sure I can manage,” I reassure her, trying to look natural.

  What the heck, I have a wardrobe full of suits, do you really think I won’t be able to find something passable for this bumpkinfest?!

  “Okay, well I’ll be off then,” and she walks away.

  “Of course… Ah, Miss Hunt, before I forget, can you call the florist? I would like to take a bunch of flowers to Mrs Cox. If I’m not mistaken, tomorrow there’s the preliminary meeting with the lawyers chosen to represent her three children. She told me she’s very tense and, considering what’s happened I just want to remind her how grateful we are for having chosen us to represent her financially, what do you think?”

  “I’ll ask them to send a suitable bouquet to her estate.”

  “
No, there’s no need. I’ll give them to her myself tonight.”

  “Didn’t you say you were coming to the fair?”

  “E… Exactly?”

  “Oh, maybe you don’t know…” She beats her forehead. “Mrs Cox hasn’t come to the fair since Mr Cox died.”

  “Ah… Why?” I ask, while imagining that they are the same reasons that keep me fenced in my living room.

  “Partly because she doesn’t like crowds. Partly because since her husband died she doesn’t want to see anyone; and partly because she quarrelled furiously with the Mayor. They haven’t spoken since the journalists started stalking her. She wanted our first citizen to protect her from certain attacks, but poor Mr Mason’s hands were tied. He did try to talk to the editor of Turriff Today but you know how these things go – freedom of the press, and all that.”

  “And then they haven’t spoken since?”

  “No, Mr Mason has tried to contact her several times. They were very good friends. The Mayor’s mother went to school with Mrs Cox – they were inseparable. It’s a real pity their friendship has ended. There wasn’t a party or event he didn’t invite her to.”

  “I see. Well then, get back to work. I’m finished for today.”

  “Already?” She asks, shocked.

  “Exactly,” I say resolutely. “And do you know what I’m going to do?”

  “Not really.”

  “I think I’m going to go to the hairdresser.”

  “Good heavens, Miss Watts.” She laughs. “I can hardly recognize you today.”

  *

  Two hours later I’m at Mrs Cox’s.

  “What the hell are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in town for the fair?” she greets me warmly just like an adorable granny from some nightmare.

  “Yes, so hurry up. You’re making me late,” I reply drily, passing a bouquet of orchids with an abrupt gesture. I had planned it otherwise. I had also prepared a little speech, but this woman manages to bring out the worst in me.

  “You’re not my type,” she makes it clear, without deigning to stretch a finger to take my little present.

  “And you are not mine, if that reassures you. They’re from the bank staff. There are at least six people who owe their employment to your miraculous intervention, and can’t wait to thank you. They’re from them, I’m just delivering them.”