by Matt Dunn
‘Are these two free?’
I bite off the impulse to say ‘almost’. ‘Pardon?’
‘Is anyone sitting here?’ She points at the two spare stools round the table, one of which has just been vacated by the toilet-bound Dan, and exchanges a glance with her friend.
Yes! I can still pull! I’ve still got it! This isn’t going to be so bad, this single life. In fact, I probably won’t be single for all that long. I think of the kudos I’ll get when Dan comes back and sees me sitting down with these two. I can’t wait to see his face. He won’t mind standing up.
I change my expression from astonishment to what I hope is my most charming smile.
‘No, please, feel free. My name’s—’
‘Thanks, love,’ says taller blondie, cutting me dead. She and her friend help themselves to a stool each and head back towards a vacant table by the bar.
‘But…Excuse me.’
As they both stop and swivel round on their stilettos, taller blondie peers at me before raising a badly plucked, several-shades-darker-than-the-hair-on-her-head eyebrow.
‘What?’ she hisses.
‘It’s just that, well, I thought you wanted to sit here.’ I point at my table pathetically. ‘With me.’
Taller blondie looks me up and down as if inspecting a sack of potatoes. And rotten ones, at that.
‘Why on earth would you think that?’ she says, before turning to her friend and miming horror. And as they head off and sit down, giggling between themselves, I can’t work out what I’m more embarrassed about—the rejection itself, or the emphasis she’d put on the word ‘you’.
When Dan returns from the toilet, he stares in puzzlement at his missing stool.
‘Drink up,’ I tell him, leaping to my feet and quickly draining my glass. ‘And don’t ask.’
9.49 p.m.
As Dan walks back with me to my flat, he asks me for the millionth time if I’m going to be okay. I nod bravely, though in truth my earlier numbness is starting to wear off.
‘Yup.’
‘You want me to hang around?’
‘Nah.’ I remember that he’s filming in the morning, and make some lame joke about how he needs his beauty sleep, which he doesn’t contradict. When I thank him for listening, he shrugs it off.
‘Don’t mention it. You’re my oldest friend.’
For once, he sounds like he’s actually being sincere, and I get a lump in my throat.
‘Thanks, mate. We do go back a long way, don’t we?’
Dan grins. ‘No, I do actually mean “oldest”. All my other friends are a lot younger than you.’
‘I appreciate you coming out. You know, missing Antiques Roadshow and everything.’
Dan shrugs. ‘S’alright. I’m taping it.’
‘Oh. Good.’
As I head up the steps and open my front door, Dan clears his throat behind me, and I turn to see him waiting on the pavement, holding Jane’s letter out to me.
‘I think you’ve forgotten something.’
I stare at him for a moment, before making a decision. ‘Chuck it away for me, will you?’
‘So, you’re just going to forget about her? Move on?’
‘What else can I do? Look at what she wrote. She’s left me. End of story.’
‘Well…’ He gingerly unfolds the note and stands there, reading, for a second or two.
‘Well what?’
‘She doesn’t exactly say that, does she?’
I walk back down the steps. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, now I read it again, it seems more like an ultimatum than a goodbye. Shape up. Sort yourself out. A wake-up call.’
Dan hands me back the somewhat creased piece of paper, and I hold it up to the street lamp, struggling to make out Jane’s words, as if I’ve obviously missed something.
‘How so?’
‘Well, how she refers to the fact that you need to look at what’s happened to you. And then there’s the sentence: “Perhaps we’ll talk…”.’
‘“Perhaps”? That doesn’t sound very promising to me.’
Dan sighs, ‘Edward, you have so much to learn. If I walked away every time a girl said “no” to me when I asked her out…’
‘That happens, does it?’
Dan thinks about this. ‘Well, rarely. But the point is, where a woman is concerned, “no” doesn’t always mean “no”. In fact, sometimes it’s actually a “yes” in disguise. So, following on from that, “perhaps” certainly isn’t a negative. It just means that she’s not sure—yet. She needs convincing. And it’s up to you to convince her.’
‘Really?’
Dan shrugs. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Is that “perhaps” in the male or female sense of the word?’
‘God knows. Just “perhaps”.’
‘So what was all that bollocks about in the pub? About us having grown apart? Me driving her away?’
Dan sticks his hands into his pockets. ‘I dunno. I’m not a psychiatrist, am I? Just making conversation, I suppose.’
Not for the first time this evening, he’s making very little sense to me. But in my depressed state, the idea that Jane might not be out of my life completely is a lifeline that I’m prepared to grab onto with both hands.
‘So you’re saying that if...’ I swallow hard, ‘I make some changes, maybe put a bit of effort in, Jane might be prepared to give me another chance?’
‘Perhaps. I mean, maybe. Yes. Certainly reads like that to me.’
I remember how lousy the girls in the pub have just made me feel, and realize with a frightening clarity that I don’t want to go through all that dating malarkey again. Besides, and possibly more importantly, I love Jane, don’t I?
‘Well in that case, I’m going to get her back.’
Dan claps me on the shoulder. ‘Good for you.’
We stand there, grinning at each other like idiots, before reality kicks in, and my face falls.
‘Ah. Only one problem with that decision.’
Dan frowns. ‘Which is?’
‘I don’t quite know where to start.’
He looks at me earnestly. ‘Well, you’d better begin by following her advice. Otherwise your chances of getting her back are, unlike you, very slim.’
Dan heads off down the street, and I wait until he disappears round the corner before letting myself back into my flat, where I walk through to the bathroom and splash my face with cold water. As I lean on the sink, staring disbelievingly at the empty space on the wall in front of me, Jane’s words echo around my head.
Take a long hard look at yourself in the mirror. If only I could.
She’s even taken that.
Monday 17th January
8.00 a.m.
When I wake up, or rather, get up the next morning, given that I haven’t actually been able to sleep that well, I know immediately that something’s not right. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve managed to go a whole night without having to fight for possession of the duvet, but whatever, I’m acutely conscious of the space next to me where Jane should be.
As I smoke my first cigarette of the day, I realize with a shudder that it’s possibly the first time in ten years that she hasn’t been next to me for reasons other than occasional work trips away, or the odd family gathering. Even when we’d been arguing we’d still share the same bed, lying there back to back in stony silence, as far apart as possible, until that moment when one of us would extend a hand or a foot towards the other. Once that first physical contact had been made we’d cuddle up together and forget what had made us fall out in the first place. Ten years!
Jane and I met at college here in Brighton. Her nose was the first thing I noticed about her: cute, freckled, slightly turned up at the end, and often in other people’s business. We were both on the same course, although she was in the year below, but kind of ignored each other until one night in the student union I’d accidentally spilt her pint of snakebite, and she’d insisted loudly in front of everyone that
I buy her another. Not wanting to make a scene, I followed her to the bar and did what she wanted. I thought I’d been doing that ever since.
At the time I’d been renting a flat with Dan, who was on the media studies course, and by our third year, Jane had moved in too, although that was probably more for economic rather than romantic reasons. It took another six months before Dan got the hint, moved out, and rented a place of his own, and since then—up until yesterday —Jane and I have been living together.
I finished my course a year before she did, and bought this flat, using some money I’d been left by a mad aunt for the deposit, and waited around for her. I’d originally wanted to go back and study for my masters, but instead found a job, the same job I have now, and just kind of kept on with it. Jane, meanwhile, had worked her way up the marketing ladder, changing companies every few years, and until recently had been marketing manager for a large insurance company here in Brighton. We’d agreed that, seeing as I’d put down the deposit, she’d stump up for the furniture. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
I drag myself through the shower, decide that I can’t be bothered to iron my shirt, and select one of my half-dozen suits—a choice made easier because there are only two that still fit. As I shut the wardrobe door, the clanging of empty hangers on the rail serves as a stark reminder that Jane’s clothes are all gone. At least the wardrobe is still there, although that’s probably only because it’s attached to the wall.
I get dressed, then trudge through to the kitchen and make myself a coffee, but have to have it black because no Jane also means no fresh milk in the fridge. There’s half a packet of chocolate biscuits left in the cupboard, and I eat them all while debating whether to go into work today. I think about calling in sick, maybe just staying at home to watch crap daytime TV, but then I’ll be seeing Dan later in the flesh anyway, and I’m already in my suit, so I decide that work’s as good a place as any to sit and be miserable.
Besides, I don’t have a TV any more either.
8.45 a.m.
My flat, in Lansdowne Place, is on the ground floor of a beautiful white Regency building just off Brighton seafront. I have what the estate agents call ‘oblique sea views’, which means if you stand on tiptoe by the window in the lounge, lean forward, and crane your neck to the right, just as you bang your forehead on the glass you should be able to catch sight of that grey heaving mass that passes for the English Channel. The building itself is grade two listed, which means you need to get planning permission if you want to do anything more complicated than put up a pair of curtains, so Jane and I hadn’t bothered with anything other than a coat of paint when we first moved in. In truth, Jane’s pictures, furniture, and growing collection of ornaments had made it home, and without them, I can see the place for what it really is: old, tired, and right now, quite empty.
As I head out to work, my upstairs neighbour, Mrs Barraclough, whose age I estimate to be somewhere between eighty and 150, catches me in the hallway. She’s almost completely deaf, but despite this, seems to have an uncanny ability to hear about everything that goes on—Jane used to call her our building’s equivalent of CCTV.
‘Good morning, Mrs B,’ I shout.
‘You’re still here then?’ she asks, a surprised look on her face. ‘I thought you’d moved out.’
Great. I’ve been up less than an hour and already the questions have started. I think about trying to explain, but don’t know where to begin.
‘No. I mean, yes. Jane…’
Mrs Barraclough fiddles with the volume control on her hearing aid. ‘It’s just that there was a removals van.’
‘Removals van?’ Of course. What was I expecting—that Jane had hired a transit and done it all herself?
‘That’s right,’ says Mrs Barraclough. ‘Men clumping in and out of the front door. Making a terrible racket, they were.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ I say, thinking it must have been bad to disturb Mrs Barraclough, before wondering what on earth I’m apologizing for.
‘She left you then, has she?’
‘What? Oh no—she’s just…gone away for a while.’
Mrs Barraclough looks confused. ‘With all that furniture?’
Fortunately the postman chooses that moment to arrive, providing me with enough of a diversion to slip past Mrs Barraclough and out of the front door. As I reach the pavement, the sound of a car horn beeping loudly makes me jump, and I turn round angrily to see Dan’s BMW speeding down the road towards me. As usual, he’s got the roof down, despite the temperature probably being in single figures.
As he screeches to a stop by the kerb, I notice that—apart from the fact that Dan’s a poser—there’s another reason for his convertible appearance; there’s a tall, thin cardboard box occupying the passenger seat.
Dan clicks off his stereo and removes his ever-present shades. ‘Can’t stay. Got something for you.’
‘Oh. Right.’
I stand there stupidly until he nods impatiently at the box.
‘Well go on then.’
When I lean over to lift it out of his passenger seat, I nearly pull a muscle in my back.
‘What on earth’s this?’ I puff, leaning it against a parking meter.
Dan grins. ‘Mirror. Full length. And with folding side panels, so hopefully full width as well. So you can get the whole picture, however grim that may be.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
‘Thought it might come in handy.’
‘Don’t you need it?’
Dan shakes his head. ‘It’s my spare.’
‘Your spare? Why would anyone need a spare mirror? In case your main one goes wrong?’
‘I’ve heard they can crack,’ he says, slipping his sunglasses back on, ‘in some cases. Anyway, must rush. My public awaits.’
With that, he floors the accelerator, roaring off before I can remind him that given the scheduling of Where There’s a Will, his ‘public’ probably numbers little more than a handful of housewives, pensioners, and stoned students.
I pick the box up and struggle back inside, nearly knocking Mrs Barraclough over in the process, and dump it in the bedroom. Once I’ve got my breath back, I remove the packaging and set the mirror up next to the wardrobe, folding out the side panels as per Dan’s instructions. Staring back at me, red-faced, is the person I’ve got to say goodbye to.
And I have to admit, he’s seen better days.
9.05 a.m.
I leave my flat for the second time, checking that Mrs Barraclough is nowhere to be seen, and walk miserably down Western Road into town, quickening my pace past Norfolk Square, where the assorted winos and drug-users have already formed their usual discussion groups. After a further five minutes I pass Churchill Square shopping centre, making my way through the collection of truanting Burberry-hoodied youths hanging around the burger bars and discount mobile phone fascia booths, before finally crossing West Street.
My office is on Ship Street, in an area of Brighton known as the Lanes, an ancient network of streets packed with restaurants and pubs, and where every other shop seems to be a jeweller’s. It’s not to be confused with the North Laines, the other side of North Street, where Brighton’s trendy set hang out. There, the shops sell everything from designer gear to skate wear, the pavements are lined with stalls stocking a range of strange incense-burning equipment and everything you could ever need to ‘roll-your-own’, and the traditional pubs have all been turned into bars with the word ‘lounge’ tacked onto their names. It’s all a bit hip for me, and not somewhere I normally venture unless accompanied by Dan.
As I turn the corner, I hear a familiar voice.
‘G’issue?’
Billy, Ship Street’s resident homeless person, if that’s not a contradiction in terms, leaps out of his doorway brandishing a copy of the Big Issue. I’d guess he’s about forty, although it’s hard to tell; some days he looks half that, other days he makes Mrs Barraclough look like a slip of a girl. Billy accosts me every d
ay, sometimes more than once. In a bad week, or a good week, as far as Billy is concerned, I probably end up buying about half a dozen copies.
‘Morning, Billy. How’s life up Ship Street?’
‘How do you think?’ says Billy, blowing on his hands to emphasize how cold it is. ‘Bleedin’ marvellous.’
‘Pleased to hear it,’ I say, trying to walk on past him.
Billy flashes me a gap-toothed, stubbly grin and steps in front of me. I can already see an empty Special Brew can by his feet.
‘What can I get you this morning?’
It’s his favourite joke, given the fact that all he sells is the Big Issue. In fact it’s his only joke, but today, I’m past the point where I can pretend to be amused.
‘A return ticket to Tibet please.’
Billy stares at me for a moment. ‘Do I look like a bleedin’ travel agent?’
I look him up and down, but fail to spot any trace of a striped polyester blouse. ‘No, Billy, you don’t. Not dressed like that, anyway.’
Billy looks hurt, and I immediately feel guilty. ‘What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?’ he asks, smoothing down his parka.
‘Nothing, Billy. I’m sorry. You look very…’ I can’t in all honesty use the word ‘smart’, as Billy’s coat has seen better days. As, I’m sure, has Billy. ‘I was just trying to suggest that you weren’t dressed like a travel agent. That’s all.’
He peers at me suspiciously. ‘Whassup with you this morning?’
Do I want to keep having this conversation today? No.
‘Nothing. I’m fine.’
‘Pull the other one.’
‘Just women trouble.’ I say, the prospect of pulling anything of Billy’s not exactly filling me with pleasure. ‘Nothing you can help me with.’
‘Don’t be so bleedin’ cheeky,’ growls Billy. ‘I was married once, you know.’
This shocks me. For some reason I’d never even thought that Billy might have had a normal life before this.
