by Lisa Jewell
The black security guard remained waxwork-still as they passed him at the door. Ralph held back the clacking beads for Jem and they stepped out into the street, relieved that it hadn’t suddenly turned into a strange, uninhabited ghost town, that there were still normal-looking people milling around the streets, queuing for night-clubs, waiting on corners for non-existent cabs to take them home.
They walked back towards Lisle Street and enjoyed an MSG-rich meal of crispy beef and chilli, chicken in chilli-and-black-bean sauce and Kung Po chilli pork in a near-empty restaurant, under the watchful gaze of a bored young waitress who had appeared thoroughly confused by their request for their food to be ‘extra spicy’ and was now observing them curiously for signs of spontaneous combustion or insanity while they chatted about Pete and the sex shop and their strange evening.
‘What Pete said just now, before we left–it really made me think you know,’ Jem said, pouring the remains of a Tsingtao lager into her glass, ‘about adventure, and trusting people and everything. He’s right, you know. I like to think of myself as a bit of a “free spirit”’ – she fashioned the quote marks out of the air with her fingers – ‘I like to think I’m up for anything, open to adventure. But Pete was right. Everyone in this city is scared, aren’t they? There are lots of weirdos out there, but I don’t suppose many of them are likely to kill you or kidnap you, are they?
‘It’s like, d’you ever walk past people in a train station, say, or walking down the street, a group of friends meeting up, talking about their other friends – “Oh, how’s so and so?” – talking about their lives, and you can tell they’re quite close, known each other for a while, shared experiences? D’you ever get a twinge like maybe you’re missing out on something? Like, how come their paths crossed and ours didn’t, maybe they’re great people but I’ll never get to know them? I’m just a stranger on the street to them, I’ve got my own friends, my own shared experiences with other people who they’ll never know. And it just seems sort of sad. D’you know what I mean? So many people in this world and the law of averages says that you can only ever get to know such a tiny percentage of them. And fear means that you’ll get to know even less. Why are we so scared of each other? Someone at work invites you over for dinner and you’re filled with horror, you bump into an old friend on the train, they suggest going out for a drink, you swap numbers and then pray they won’t call you, you’ve got your nice safe circle of friends, your Tuesday friend, your Thursday friend, your weekend friends, you’ve got your night in on a Monday, your gym night on a Wednesday, and all of a sudden you haven’t got any room left for anyone new. Is that what God intended? Is that right? Surely we’re all living point nought nought nought nought one per cent of our potential lives. I’m only twenty-seven – what am I going to be like when I’m fifty? Don’t you think it’s sad?’
‘I think you’re being a little rose-tinted about the whole issue, to be honest, Jem. Friends are an investment, they’re not always easy. It’s not always fun and laughter and super shared experiences. Friends have needs, problems, demands, insecurities, expectations, and in order to be a good friend you have to at least try to satisfy all of those things as well as enjoying the good times. I just don’t think it’s possible to offer that sort of relationship to everyone you pass on the street. I think we’re forced to be selective, to take just a couple of chocolates out of the box and leave a few strawberry creams and hazelnut whirls for someone else.’
‘Ah,’ said Jem, enjoying Ralph’s analogy, ‘but who gets the montelimar?’
Ralph smiled. ‘I think the montelimars end up working in Soho sex shops and going home to an empty flat covered in bat droppings.’ He picked up the bill that the eagle-eyed waitress had prematurely planted on their table.
‘Yeah, I suppose I’m being a little idealistic. Friends can be a pain. They can be demanding and hard work. But maybe that’s because they’re the wrong friends. I read a quote once, can’t remember who by, but they said that your friends aren’t necessarily the people you like the best, they’re just the people who got there first. You spend your whole life searching for the right partner but maybe you settle for your friends too soon and then just make do for the rest of your life, never knowing what you’re missing out on. Oh, I don’t know,’ she sighed, resting her head on her hands and smiling at Ralph across the table, ‘maybe I’m talking complete crap. I just feel … Pete’s just made me feel like I’m missing out, like I’m not living properly. I’m grieving for all the strangers I’ve never known!’ She turned the bill around on its saucer to have a look at the total.
‘Pete’s one in a million,’ said Ralph, ‘it just isn’t possible for everyone to be like that. We really would be in trouble if they were – human nature couldn’t support that level of openness, there’s too many of us, we’re not equipped for it. We’ve evolved like this for a reason: survival, the most basic of all human instincts, adapted to living in a city with eight million other people. It makes sense.’ Ralph peeled a ten-pound note from his wallet.
‘I guess I’ve just always been the sort of person that can’t bear to feel they’re missing out on anything. If I’ve got a choice of two parties to go to I’m always convinced I’ve chosen the naff one and the one I missed is going to be the party that people will be talking about for years to come. Grass is always greener sort of thing …’
She stopped abruptly and they looked at each other. There was a moment’s silence. Jem stopped fiddling with her napkin.
‘Does that apply to your relationships, too?’ asked Ralph, semi-flirtatiously, semi-seriously.
‘Not usually,’ Jem said, looking down at her hands and examining them nervously.
‘Not usually?’ Ralph stared at the top of her head. ‘So, sometimes?’
The atmosphere was suddenly deliciously awkward.
‘Yes, sometimes,’ Jem lifted her head slightly and smiled behind her hand.
Ralph could feel that they were clinging on to the precipice by their fingernails – one more millimetre and they’d be there, falling. He couldn’t blow it now, couldn’t say the wrong thing. He took a deep breath and waited to see if she’d say anything more. She didn’t. They stared at each other, breathlessly, across the table. She opened her mouth, lowered her eyes. Ralph’s heart stopped beating. Still she didn’t say anything. His turn.
‘When?’ he asked gently. Jump, Jem, he thought, I’ll catch you. It’ll be fine. Just jump, please, let go …
Jem pleated her napkin into a fan. ‘Oh, just sometimes – not usually.’
‘So, you have felt that the grass was greener while you were in a relationship? Was it? Greener?’
The waitress removed their bill and two ten-pound notes without either one of them noticing.
Jem shrugged and carried on pleating. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You never found out?’ Ralph was fishing.
Jem stopped pleating and looked up at him.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I haven’t found out. Shall we go?’ She got up abruptly from her seat, which lost its footing and fell backwards. She flustered and tried to pick it up but got her bag tangled on the table leg. Ralph helped her untangle herself and straighten the chair. They stood inches from each other. Jem awkwardly adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. She looked up at Ralph. He was gazing at her with an intensity that made her glance away immediately.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, making a pointless effort to get past him.
Ralph took her shoulders and looked into her eyes. ‘You haven’t yet – that’s what you said. Do you think you might find out? Ever? In the future? Maybe?’
Please say yes, Jem, please, for the love of God, say yes.
‘No,’ she lowered her eyes, ‘I don’t think so. It doesn’t work like that does it?’
‘You mean Smith?’ said Ralph.
‘No, I don’t mean Smith. We’re not talking about Smith, are we? We’re talking hypothetically here.’
‘Oh, right – I see,’
Ralph felt himself shrinking. ‘Cross wires!’ He attempted a small laugh. Fucking Smith. ‘Guess we’d better go. Let’s see if we can find a cab.’
Neither of them had allowed the atmosphere to linger. The conversation, as blatant, as explicit as it had seemed at the time, seemed more and more ambiguous as it receded into memory.
They took a deft U-turn in the conversation as they sat in the back of the heated cab and watched early-hours London flash by in a multicoloured series of twinkling vignettes. By the time they got home they were friends again. But it was a rather poor patch-up job, a temporary fix, because they both knew deep inside that they hadn’t imagined the conversation – there were no cross wires.
Ralph lay in bed that night, flat on his back, his duvet up to his chin, his hands clasped together underneath on his chest, staring at the ceiling. He was tired but he didn’t want to close his eyes. If he did his head would fill with images, images that hurt too much now. Images of a parallel universe in which he had brought home the peonies, had made more of an effort, hadn’t gone to bed first on that fateful evening, had taken more care over his career, his destiny, a parallel universe in which Jem had made the right decision, had chosen him. Tonight had been one of the best nights of his life. He’d never had such fun with a girl before, never had such adventures. The whole night had been like a film – magical, surreal, wonderful. And he was more in love with Jem than ever before.
A tear formed, he blinked and it ran down the side of his nose. She’d said no, it wasn’t going to happen. He’d never felt so sad in his life.
Chapter Twenty-two
‘Morning, Jem,’ chirruped Stella.
‘Morning, Stella,’ Jem replied.
‘New jacket?’
‘No – very old jacket, actually.’ Maybe Stella was finally beginning to exhaust her repertoire of compliments.
‘It’s lovely – it suits you. How was your weekend? How’s your poor flatmate?’
‘Oh, he’s much better now. The bruising’s gone down, his wrist’s starting to heal – the doctors reckon there won’t be any lasting damage.’
‘Oh, good, good. That’s marvellous news. My auntie Kate broke her wrist – it never healed, gave her pain for the rest of her life, she was never able to use it again, but then, she was eighty-two, I suppose, and old bones are so weak. Like my mother’s hip – she broke one hip and had to have it replaced, waited three years for that operation, dreadful NHS, and then her knee went and she had to wait another two years to have that replaced, she walked like a duck after that, waddle, waddle, waddle, and …’
Jem’s thoughts began to wander, as they did on the rare occasions that Stella talked about her own life. They wandered back to her weekend, such a strange, but wonderful weekend. It had been magic, their night in Soho. And then there’d been that big, plump moment of awkwardness in the Chinese restaurant, when they’d nearly … oh, God. They’d been so close to going to a place that Jem didn’t want to visit. Ever.
Jem’s feelings were all over the place and she suddenly found herself subconsciously making mental pro and con lists:
Smith: sweet, generous, handsome, peonies, her friends liked him, she liked his friends, good job, lots of money, nice flat, reliable, affectionate, easy to be with, man in her dream?
Ralph: sweet, generous, handsome, sexy, stacks in common, great sense of humour, easy to talk to, always in a good mood, creative, passionate, vulnerable, potential for After Hours living, man in her dream?
Smith: a bit restrained, tendency to moodiness, not very adventurous in bed, predictable, likes kormas, thinks girls should drink dry white wine, not creative, introverted, settled, no potential for After Hours living.
Ralph: unstable career (but he was trying), bad taste in women (but he had finished with Claudia), oversexed (no, she crossed that one off her mental list) … she racked her mind for more cons … longjohns (no, he didn’t wear those any more) …
Jem shuddered slightly, trying to shake the thoughts out of her head. Stella had finished her catalogue of OAP joint-replacement stories and Jarvis, her boss, had arrived in a flurry of paper and camp complaining. ‘Oh, Jemmy, darling, please, please can I relieve myself on your desk – I’m desperate,’ he whined, dropping a thick folder in front of her. ‘It’s that repugnant Scots witch, she’s in full broomstick mode – wants me to negotiate another 5 per cent for her from Carlton for that dreadful quiz show. I ask you! She’s lucky anyone will hire her at all – face like a rhino’s arsehole with piles. Could you, would you, Jemmy darling? I’ve got the hangover from Gomorrah and my back feels like Roy Castle’s been tap-dancing on it all night in stilettos – thank you, thank you.’ He blew her a kiss, disappeared into his office and fell asleep face down on his sofa.
Jem and Stella looked at each other and exchanged a small smile. Jem sighed and pulled open the folder. What a start to the week. She hated having to negotiate rates, especially with the people at Sin ‘n’ Win, who were notoriously tight with their budget. The phone saved her from having to contemplate this unpleasant job.
‘Good morning, Smallhead Management,’ she trilled in her silly phone-answering voice.
‘Morning, Smallhead Management,’ said a strange nasal voice, ‘I’ve got quite a small head and it’s a bit out of control at the moment and I was wondering if you could manage it for me. And, do you do big ears and fat ankles by any chance?’
Jem smiled and turned away from the office towards her desk.
‘Ha ha ha, McLeary – funny boy, very, very funny.’
‘Too quick for me, Ms Catterick, and how are you today?’ He sounded terribly bouncy but just a little nervous, a slight breathlessness catching in the back of his throat.
‘Not bad, not at all bad. How are you, and to what do I owe this delightful honour?’ Her heart was pounding. This was Ralph, for God’s sake, dear old Ralph. Why on earth was she feeling so … so … giddy?
‘Oh, knackered, bored, miserable without you.’ He produced a peculiar strangulated laugh that said he shouldn’t have said that – that was the sort of thing you said to your girlfriend, not your flatmate, not your best mate’s girlfriend.
‘Not going to the studio today?’ Jem replied, deliberately ignoring his last comment.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, ‘I’m here already. I’ve been here since nine o’clock. My fingers feel really supple today, I think I might be able to use them – give it a bash anyway.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
They were silent for a second, awkward, almost.
‘And I just wanted to say, thank you – for the weekend – I really enjoyed myself.’ Ralph cracked the silence.
‘Yeah – it was good, wasn’t it? I enjoyed myself too.’
‘And I wondered if maybe …’
‘Uh-huh …’
‘ … Well, there’s this restaurant in Bayswater … and I know Smith’s working late tonight … does the best jal frezi in town … and maybe … well, you’re probably going out or maybe you fancy a night in, but if you fancied it we could meet up later … er …’
‘Uh-huh …’
‘It was just a thought. Nothing fancy, you know, just a curry … and … um …’
‘OK.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, OK. What time?’
‘Straight from work? Six-thirty maybe. I could meet you outside the Tube. Bayswater, not Queensway.’
‘OK.’
‘OΚ, then. Excellent. Well … have a good day and I’ll, er, see you later, then.’
‘Yeah, see you later. Work hard.’
‘I will. You too. Bye, then.’
‘Bye, then.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
Jem put the phone down. She needed to take a few deep breaths to bring her heartbeat back to normal human resting levels. Bloody hell. If she wasn’t quite mistaken, Ralph had just asked her out on a date – and she’d accepted. This was it. The beginning of the end.
She ignored Stella�
��s curious gaze and began fumbling through the folder on her desk.
Shit. What had she done? And why was she so bloody excited?
Chapter Twenty-three
The tape recorder made a hissing noise, then a whirr, then a click. The room fell silent. Siobhan jumped slightly. She lifted her hand heavily to tuck her hair behind her ear. She put her head in her hands. She stood up. She paced the room. She sat down again. The clock said eight-thirty. She stood up. She squeezed at her temples and stared at the floor. A car pulled up outside. She went to the window and threw open the curtains. It wasn’t him. She looked in the mirror, adjusted her hair and wiped away the deathly streaks of mascara that had formed under her eyes from the tears she’d cried. When she was hurt. Just before she got angry. A long time before she’d started hating him.
She searched through the debris on the floor for her hairbrush, pushing pieces of broken vinyl out of the way, lifting cushions off the floor and putting them back, peering under the up-ended Christmas tree and shattered picture frames. She found it in the hallway, where she’d thrown the contents of their ‘bits and pieces’ tray – the carpet glittered with multicoloured foreign coins and hairpins, plectrums and keys. She untangled her hair from its velvet elasticated band and began to comb it vigorously, till it gleamed and every strand was in place. She tied it back again, making sure there were no ridges or tangles in it, and smoothed it down with her hands. She felt calmer now.
Another car pulled up outside. It wasn’t him. She paced the room again. Fucking bastard. Fucking smug Irish piece of shit. Cunt. Cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt. She was ready for him now. She stood at the window, waiting. She saw the dark-haired man and the girl from downstairs leave the basement flat clutching cans of lager and laughing. Out for a normal Friday night – lucky them.
Come home, you bastard, come home, you bastard.
She tapped her fingernails on the windowsill. Come home.
