Ralph's Party

by Lisa Jewell

  ‘You’re very thorough,’ she said.

  ‘All gone,’ he said nervously, slowly, very slowly getting to his feet, his nose almost brushing against the protrusion of her breasts through the T-shirt. He was standing perilously close to her, towering over her, his heart beating so hard he could hear it in his ears.

  She didn’t move. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  He didn’t move. ‘My pleasure,’ he said.

  ‘No mustard for your sausages, then,’ she said.

  ‘I guess not,’ he said.

  Neither of them made any attempt to return to their respective chores. They stood where they were, for what seemed like eternity but was probably only a few seconds.

  ‘Ralph?’

  ‘Jem.’

  ‘Remember what I was saying yesterday – you know, about thinking that you deserved someone better, how I think you’re quite special?’

  Ralph hardly dared breathe. He felt like he was being kept upright only by the magnetic force that Jem was radiating, like if she was to walk away he would just collapse in a heap on the floor. ‘Yes?’ he replied expectantly. Oh, God. What was she going to say?!

  ‘Well, I just wanted to say …oh, shit!’ Her face became panicked and she turned around abruptly, ‘Shit – the bacon!’ She pulled the pan off the heat and opened the window over the sink.

  The kitchen was thick with grey, caustic smoke, the bacon annihilated, shards of brittle black charcoal sitting shame-facedly in the pan.

  ‘Oh, bollocks!’ she exclaimed, laughing. ‘No bacon either, I guess.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Ralph, ‘the beans are my favourite bit anyway. Don’t worry about it. Carry on. What you were saying, you know, just now …’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Jem, ‘That. I was just going to say …’

  A deafening wail obliterated her sentence, a high-pitched shriek emanating from somewhere in the flat.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ shouted Ralph over the din.

  Smith was standing in the doorway in a green towelling dressing-gown, looking dazed, his hair all over the place. ‘What’s going on?’ he mumbled with annoyance. ‘Why’s the smoke alarm going off?’

  ‘Oh, God. I burnt the bacon,’ said Jem. ‘Quick, Smith, blow on it – blow on the alarm!’

  The three of them congregated in the hall. Smith stood on a stool and blew on the alarm, fanning away the small amount of smoke with his sleeve.

  ‘What were you making bacon for anyway?’ he asked, bristling with irritation.

  ‘For Ralph. For his breakfast,’ she added unnecessarily.

  Smith continued blowing and fanning until, eventually, the unbearable siren died down.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said, getting off the stool and smoothing down his hair.

  ‘Sorry, boyfriend!’ said Jem, holding out her hand to him. ‘At least we know it works, though.’

  ‘Hmmmm,’ replied Smith, gruffly. ‘Well, I suppose it was time to wake up anyway. Is there any breakfast for me?’ he asked.

  She smiled at him radiantly. ‘Of course there is. Coming right up!’

  Smith went for a shower then, and Ralph and Jem returned to the kitchen, Jem cracking eggs into a clean pan and turning the heat down under the now almost solidified beans.

  ‘Jem,’ said Ralph, putting out knives and forks, ‘what you were saying …?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’ she said, and carried on with the breakfast.

  Later. Later? It was another one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, TEN! hours until later. How could he possibly wait ten hours to hear what Jem had to say? That was impossible.

  ‘Can you not just give me a little clue?’ he said, wincing.

  ‘Oh, God, Ralph! It’s no big deal. I’ll tell you later, OK?’

  ‘OΚ,’ he said, taking a seat at the table and watching her deftly co-ordinating the final stages of the greasily aromatic breakfast.

  Smith came into the kitchen and breakfast was served.

  There you go – a proper working man’s breakfast for proper working men,’ said Jem, placing plates covered with eggs and sausages and beans and mushrooms and huge slabs of hand-sliced toast dripping with butter in front of them. ‘Get stuck into that!’

  ‘You are an angel, you’re a saint, you’re totally and utterly perfect! Thank you!’ Under the circumstances Ralph felt able to blast Jem with superlatives and adoration without arousing discomfort or suspicion (the way to a man’s heart and all that) and Jem took it as it sounded rather than as it was meant, smiling happily at her satisfied customer.

  His overpowering need for satiation, stimulated by the morning’s string of oddly sensuous encounters, was projected on to his food, and he ate like an animal, wolfing down the huge plate of food in moments. He wanted to go now anyway. Smith and Jem were playing footsie under the table and smiling at each other over their breakfast plates. He took his plate to the dishwasher, packed a small rucksack with a radio, some mini Mars Bars and a spare jumper, grabbed Smith’s bike and helmet and set off down the road. Smith and Jem waved him off sweetly from the top of the basement steps, arms around each other, looking almost like proud parents. The notion made him feel queasy, quashing the whole air of ripe desire and eroticism that had inflamed his morning.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ralph cycled quickly, taking the scenic route along the river, over Battersea Bridge, past the desirable residences of Cheyne Walk, down Grosvenor Road towards Millbank.

  ‘“Where can I find a woman like that – like Jessie’s girl …” ‘He sang loudly to himself as he pedalled, not caring who heard. He was bursting at the seams with pent-up everything – lust, jealousy, love, hurt, excitement, disappointment. This was unbearable, totally unbearable. How could he go on like this, living under the same roof with the two of them, Jem not minding if he saw her bottom, telling him he was ‘special’ and then playing footsie with Smith as if he didn’t exist? Was she doing it on purpose? Maybe she was a nymphomaniac after all. No. No. That wasn’t right. There was more to it than that, much more. There was something between them, something … spiritual. Oh, what rubbish. Spiritual! No, they got on, it was as simple as that. They got on very, very well together, they had a ‘Special’ relationship. If he didn’t fancy her so much he could very well have been friends with her – that would have been novel, a female friend. But that was impossible now, especially after this morning, especially after the pee in the toilet and the T-shirt and the mustard and everything.

  What was it she wanted to say to him? He couldn’t get it off his mind. Oh, well – he only had one whole enormous, neverending day to wait to find out.

  He turned right and left at Parliament Square and followed the river on to Victoria Embankment, still cycling suicidally fast, ignoring the burning in his leg muscles and the possibility of errant pedestrians walking into his path.

  It was a glorious day, cold in the nicest possible way, the sky an unfeasible blue, the Houses of Parliament gleaming like freshly washed bedsheets.

  Fucking Smith. Fucking bloody Smith. Smith had always had the better luck. From early on. Smith had the smart house in Shirley, the nice liberal parents, the coolest friends, the best-looking girls after him, the flash car on his eighteenth birthday, the holidays, the job, the money, the flat, the career. Ralph had just tagged along to start with, feeling out of his depth and insecure.

  His parents were old, much older than anyone else’s parents, and timid of nature. He couldn’t have invited anyone back to their house in Sutton – his mother would have laid a table of Viscount biscuits and cardboardy jam tarts and wanted to chat with his ‘young friends’ about school and the weather. His father would have taken refuge in the garden, pottering around in his twill cap with his rake and his hoe or whatever, looking like an elderly groundskeeper in a stately home. The television would be switched off – it was rude to have it turned on in company – and the small beige living room would have resonated with the sound of the old wooden clock on the wal
l ticking away the interminable seconds.

  He’d had to work hard to find his feet in Smith’s world. The first time he’d been round to see Shirelle, he’d been almost morally shocked by the attitude of Smith’s parents, who swore frequently and shouted loudly over the din of every television in the house, and let Smith’s friends come and go without the slightest interest in who they were or how their schoolwork was going or whether they were about to have sex with a foreign-exchange student in the spare room.

  He hadn’t lingered at first, servicing Shirelle as speedily as possible with one eye on the door, not quite able to comprehend the fact that Smith’s parents didn’t actually care, and leaving rapidly, dressing on the way out, not looking to the left or the right for fear of making eye contact with one of the many people who appeared to be constantly milling around the large, comfortable house.

  And then of course he’d gone for that walk with Smith and found that he was not a bad bloke and was obviously disproportionately impressed by Ralph’s supposed sexual prowess, and Smith had welcomed him into his life.

  He’d been uncomfortable for a while, worried that he was the subject of some enormous joke, but he soon learned to relax and enjoy the advantages of having wealthy, happy friends. The jealousy he’d always felt towards Smith began to wane, and as the years went by and their friendship developed into one of brothers, the initial discrepancies between them faded and they became equals. Ralph was cool now, too, he could hold his own – he was the star of the Royal College, he had press coverage, beautiful blondes, a wide circle of friends and invitations to smart parties.

  But now all those old feelings were rising to the surface again, the feelings of inadequacy, of being the country mouse, the poor relation, the social misfit, the butt of someone’s joke. Because Smith had the one thing in the world that Ralph hadn’t even realized until now he’d wanted – a real relationship with a real woman who really loved him.

  Fucking Smith. Fucking bloody Smith. Not. Fucking. Fair.

  He hurtled up Thames Street towards a bank of impatient cars queued four-wide at the traffic lights. He rode on, faster and faster, up Lower Thames Street and towards Tower Hill. The burn in his legs had stopped ages ago, he was an automaton, the bike was cycling itself. He heard a car horn for the millionth time that morning. ‘Ah, fuck you!’ he shouted out, sticking his finger in the air.

  He took his hands from the handlebar, got to his feet and closed his eyes against the wind that whipped across his face like a leather glove. He took in a huge deep breath, bigger almost than his lungs, and opened his mouth wide enough to feel the rush of air against his tonsils.

  He was about to yell but the sound was lost in the blaring screech of yet another car horn, of rubber against Tarmac, of metal grinding metal as Ralph’s bike hit the bonnet of a shiny red Mercedes 350SL convertible, his dream car, and his body flew up into the London skyline, across a parked car, over a parking meter, finally landing with a menacing thud of flesh and bone against the wall of an office building on Minories.

  His body was soon surrounded by a concerned group of strangers oohing and aahing and asking if anyone was a doctor, and shouldn’t they call an ambulance, and putting their ears to his mouth to see if he was breathing.

  ‘Shhhhh!’ said a small fat man who, for some unofficial and peculiar reason had taken control of the situation, ‘shhhhhh, everyone, he’s trying to speak.’

  He put his gelatinous face an inch from Ralph’s mouth, his cheeks turning red with the effort of leaning over. He sat back, exhaled and scanned the faces of the attentive crowd gathered around him.

  ‘He’s saying that he wishes he had Jessie’s girl,’ he announced with confusion, ‘over and over – “Jessie’s girl.”’

  ‘“I want Jessie’s girl …”’

  ‘Why the hell does he keep singing that?’ whispered Smith.

  Jem shrugged and squeezed Ralph’s hand again. ‘Oh, God, look at him!’ she wailed. ‘It’s all my fault! He would still have been in bed at that time of the morning if it hadn’t been for me.’ She put her head down on the side of Ralph’s bed and began to sob.

  ‘Oh, Jem, don’t cry. Don’t blame yourself.’ Smith stroked her small, quivering head. ‘It’s not your fault. Remember what the driver of the car said. He was cycling unbelievably fast, with his eyes closed – it wasn’t just bad luck …’ He trailed off as the image of his poor mangled bike flashed through his head again. He’d only had it for two months and now it was a write-off, dead, deceased. Thanks a lot, Ralph.

  The doctor had informed them that Ralph had a fractured wrist, severe bruising to the left side of his body, a broken rib and mild concussion. He would come around soon, he told them, any time now. He was very lucky apparently; the wall had, perversely, broken his fall. If he’d hit the pavement first he could have injured his back or broken a leg.

  They were sitting with Ralph, in the quiet of the ward, either side of his bed, Jem holding his hands, Smith holding his own crossed in his lap, waiting for Ralph to do something, anything at all rather than lie there looking so pale and still and bruised, singing that bloody song over and over again.

  ‘Let me get you a cup of tea,’ sighed Smith, getting to his feet and stretching, looking quickly at his watch. He had so much work to do.

  Jem turned back to observe Ralph. He looked so sweet, his face scuffed and tinged with purple, his big round eyes so distressingly closed, his left arm in plaster, a bandage around his chest holding his broken bones together. He looked like a child, a vulnerable, lovable, sweet, broken child, and it was all her fault. It didn’t matter what Smith said, what anyone said, it was she who’d steered Ralph down that particular path of fate, whether he’d also been to blame or not. If it hadn’t been for her he’d still have been in bed at that hideous moment when his bike hit the bonnet of that car; she’d determined his destiny that Friday morning, she and no one else.

  ‘“Jessie’s girl – I want Jessie’s girl,” ‘ Ralph was humming again in that strange, rasping voice.

  ‘This is Jem, Ralph – can you hear me?’

  ‘Where can I find a woman like that …?’

  ‘Oh, Ralph, this is Jem. Please, Ralph, open your eyes, look at me.’

  Ralph just lay there.

  ‘Ralph – Ralph – it’s me!’

  Ralph awoke. ‘Jem …’ Ralph’s voice sounded weak, tired.

  ‘Shhhhh … shhhhh,’ said Jem, putting her hand to his cheek, ‘don’t try to speak.’

  ‘Jem.’ He smiled at her and closed his eyes again, nuzzling his cheek against her hand. ‘Jem.’

  Smith returned at that moment, grasping two polystyrene cups of tea.

  ‘Smith, Smith, he’s awake! He talked to me!’

  Smith put the cups down on the bedside table and reinstated himself quickly on his chair. ‘Ralph – Ralphie – can you hear me?’

  Ralph nodded and opened his eyes slowly. He smiled at Smith. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he croaked.

  ‘You tell me,’ laughed Smith, grinning widely at Ralph and taking his hand, ‘you lunatic bloody kamikaze cyclist! What the hell were you playing at?’

  ‘I – I don’t remember,’ he replied, speaking very slowly. ‘Oh, yes, I do! I was singing. Singing. I was singing. I was on your bike. Yeah – that’s right.’

  ‘I’ll get the nurse,’ whispered Smith to Jem, ‘they probably need to know.’

  ‘Jem,’ said Ralph, after Smith had gone, ‘so nice to see you – you look … lovely.’

  ‘Oh, Ralph, thank you, but I think your judgement’s probably a little impaired at the moment.’

  ‘Has Smith gone home?’

  ‘No, he’s gone to get a nurse. You’ve been unconscious for hours.’

  She watched as he drifted into a happy slumber. She felt overwhelmed with tenderness and affection. All of a sudden she wanted to hold Ralph, to protect him, to look after him, to love him? … It had been such a strange morning. The whole episode with the mustard had unsettl
ed her. There was something nice about it; she’d enjoyed the feeling of his hands on her legs, his finger between her toes … and there’d been that moment, before the bacon burnt, when the world had stopped for a second, literally stopped, and he’d stood over her, close to her and her heart had beaten so hard it had felt like her eardrums were going to explode and now … now … for some reason she was feeling very confused.

  She looked at Ralph, his cheek still resting against her hand, his body still and shattered, his mind elsewhere. He looked so gentle, so in need of love and care.

  Her heart tied itself up in a knot.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It had been a very happy fortnight for Siobhan and Karl, the happiest for months and months. Siobhan had taken Rick’s advice that night at the chapel and talked to Karl about everything, absolutely everything. And Karl, in his usual strong and compassionate way, had listened and understood – even the bit about Rick.

  ‘You kissed him,’ he’d stated matter-of-factly, sitting bare-chested under the counterpane on the huge four-poster bed, Rosanne curled up at his side with her head on his lap.

  ‘Uh-hum,’ Siobhan had nodded, looking glumly at the floor, long strands of scruffy golden hair falling from the pins that had held it in place all night, her eyes streaked with black mascara and smudged eyeliner, her dainty heels clogged with mud from the banks of the loch.

  Karl had felt a small jolt of surprise. That mad Tamsin girl had been right – sort of. They’d kissed. Rick had kissed Siobhan. Siobhan had kissed Rick. He found himself feeling a little sick.

  ‘Jeez. What … what … er, how … how long … how long did you kiss for, exactly?’ he said slowly, rubbing his chin, feeling awkward about this unexpected scenario but also that he needed to handle it like a grown-up.

  ‘Ten minutes, twenty minutes, I don’t know. I thought of you,’ she added, wanting to turn the conversation back to what was important – them. ‘I thought of you and I stopped …’