Come Together

by Emlyn Rees

  And it’s working now.

  In the last half hour, thoughts of Nathan have soiled my state of well-being on no fewer than eight occasions. In response, I’ve thought about eight things more pleasant than Nathan. These have included:

  a) Bat droppings

  b) Lice

  c) Dog slobber

  d) Haemorrhoids

  e) Death

  Which, while not exactly making me feel good either, have succeeded in preserving me from a general collapse into mind-melting paranoia. I check my watch. It’s seven on the dot. Amy should be meeting up with Nathan right about now. Bastard. I quickly add varicose veins to the More Pleasant Than Nathan list.

  ‘All right,’ Matt says, appearing in the doorway. He’s dressed in his oldest shirt and jeans: combat clothes for Alex’s stag night. ‘How’s the packing going?’

  I flick my empty Gladstone bag with my foot. ‘Shit. How about you?’

  He pats the toothbrush sticking out of his shirt pocket. ‘Travelling light,’ he says with a grin, coming over and sitting down next to me on the bed. He lights a cigarette. ‘What time are you off?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Quarter past nine flight.’

  ‘Yeah? Amy crashing here tonight, then?’

  ‘No, she’s out with a friend.’

  ‘What,’ Matt laughs, ‘and she expects you to make it to the airport on time on your own? She must be mad.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  My tone of voice causes him to look at me strangely. ‘Everything all right, mate?’

  ‘Sure,’ I tell him. ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’

  ‘No reason.’ He looks at me sceptically. ‘Only you don’t exactly sound too thrilled about things. I mean, here you are, blowing out the opportunity of a top stag weekend in Edinburgh, because you’re going away instead with the woman of your dreams, and yet you’re looking about as happy as a pig in a slaughterhouse.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I tell him. But I’m not. And he’s right: I’m not making much sense right now. I want to tell him what’s bugging me. I want to tell him all about Nathan, and all about Amy lying to me about him. I want to tell him that I feel insecure, that my ego’s at rock bottom and burrowing deeper by the second. But I can’t. Because he’s my mate. Because I know how gross insecurity looks to other people. Because I don’t want his pity. Same as I don’t want Amy’s. Same as I don’t want anybody’s. So I do the only thing I can do: I change the subject. ‘Look, Matt,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Alex’s stag party. About not coming.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘You’re not pissed off at me?’

  He glares at me. ‘Of course I’m pissed off. You’ve chosen your woman over your mates. You should be shot.’ He relents, rests his hand on my shoulder. ‘But I’ll give you a reprieve – so long as she’s worth it, okay?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Good. That’s all I wanted to hear.’ He gets up and walks to the door, then hesitates in the doorway and looks back. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he says, ‘help yourself to some clothes from my room. Dress in any of that shit and she’ll drop you out of sheer embarrassment.’ He salutes me goodbye, saying, ‘Have a good night.’

  But I don’t. I have a shite night. I manage to kill an hour or so choosing clothes from the Matt Davies Summer Collection and stuffing them into my bag, along with the plane tickets and my passport. After this excitement, though, it’s all downhill. It’s just me and a bottle of vodka and a jug of freshly squeezed lime juice and the kitchen table. And it’s a steep ride down.

  As the minutes flick by, and Churchill eyeballs me from the table top, the More Pleasant Than Nathan list grows. By eight-thirty, when Amy and Nathan are probably arriving at whatever overpriced, dick-swinging restaurant he’s booked, it’s approaching the fifty mark and it’s getting kind of obscure. Tooth plaque, for example, has made the list. As have dirty socks and bad breath. By eleven, when they should have finished their post-dinner coffees, I’ve hit a hundred, and it’s becoming plain ridiculous. Tailenders include fish scales, nuclear power stations and mud. And in between all this list making and booze swigging, I’m calling Amy’s flat. Repeatedly. But she’s not there. She’s still with him. Midnight comes and goes and I give up on the list altogether, and start repeatedly throwing darts at an imaginary picture of Nathan on the dartboard. I blow out the lime juice, too, plugging direct into the vodka – or what’s left of it, anyway.

  But then it happens. Just before one. The doorbell goes. And I laugh. I laugh out loud, and if there’s a tinge of hysteria to my laughter, then so be it. I’m not proud, just relieved. Right now, all that matters is that Amy’s come round to see me, and all this worrying’s been nothing but a waste of time.

  Having consumed enough premium strength vodka to qualify as a Russian denizen, rather than rushing into the arms of my loved one, I settle for lurching down the hallway to open the front door.

  * * *

  Confessions: No.5. Infidelity

  Place: Matt’s house, London.

  Time: Now.

  I open the front door.

  ‘Hello, Jack.’

  ‘Sally?’ I ask. I have to ask, because whoever this willowy female slumped against the doorway is, isn’t immediately clear. There’s too much blonde hair hanging over her face, too much madly patterned dress covering her body. And this, combined with my alcohol-induced Blur-O-Vision, makes identification almost impossible.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ she says, pushing her hair back, revealing that it is indeed Sally McCullen.

  I put my hand on her shoulder to steady her. Since I’m far from steady myself, this has the unintended effect of leaving each of us gripping on to the other for support. ‘What are you doing here?’ I manage to ask.

  ‘What do you think?’ She lurches forward and attempts to kiss me.

  ‘You should go home,’ I tell her, gently pushing her back.

  She stares at me, confused. ‘Why?’

  This is a good question, and one which my addled brain isn’t well poised to deal with right now. She is, after all, cute. And I am, after all, pissed off at Amy. So why, indeed, shouldn’t she stay? But the answers to these questions aren’t long in coming. Because it would be wrong. Because it’s Amy I wanted to be at the door, not Sally.

  ‘It’s late,’ I mumble, starting to close the door on her. ‘I’ve got to get up early tomorrow. I’m going to bed.’

  But she just grins and brushes past me into the hall. I turn and watch her disappearing, shaking my head, confused. Why me? Why now? And, more to the point, why not a couple of months back when I was in a position to oblige her? I close the door, accepting the fact that there’s no justice in this world, and follow her through to the kitchen. By the time I get there, she’s standing by the cooker, looking round the room. I watch her eyes settle on the vodka bottle.

  ‘You not going to offer a girl a drink?’ she asks, her eyebrows raised expectantly. ‘You always used to offer me a drink,’ she adds slyly, walking over to the table and taking a long swig from the bottle. She looks at me sideways. ‘So what’s changed? Don’t you want me any more?’ She takes another swig and pouts at me, leaning back against the table. ‘Is that it?’

  I remember her lying there in the studio. I remember the curves of her body, the shades of her skin. I close my eyes for a second and will the vision away. Time’s moved on. I’m different. Sally’s right. I don’t want her any more. Just Amy. I just want Amy back safe and sound.

  ‘You’re drunk,’ I slur. ‘I’ll call you a cab.’

  As I head past her towards the phone, she grabs me, pulling me into her. ‘I don’t want a cab,’ she tells me. ‘I want you.’

  ‘I’ve got a girlfriend, Sally,’ I say, suddenly feeling incredibly tired. Too drunk. I want her out of here. I want to go to sleep.

  But she hasn’t finished. ‘So what? When I had a boyfriend, it didn’t stop you trying to get me into bed, did it?’

&n
bsp; ‘No,’ I admit, ‘but you didn’t sleep with me then, and I’m not going to sleep with you now.’

  She lets go of me and wanders to the sink, fills a glass with water and drains it. ‘He’s dumped me, you know,’ she says, sitting back down and turning to face me. ‘Because of what that girl you were with at Chloe’s party said. He says I’m a slag, doesn’t want anything to do with me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  But I’m not. I know she’s better off without him. Now, though, might not be the best time to point this out. She may disagree. Or, worse, she may think I’m hitting on her, assume that by my telling her she’s too good for him, I’m actually implying she’d be better off with me.

  ‘Was that her – that girl – is she your girlfriend?’

  ‘Yeah. Amy. Her name’s Amy.’

  ‘Didn’t look your type.’

  ‘How’s that?’ I ask, glancing at the phone, waiting for an opportune moment to suggest calling a cab again.

  ‘Physically.’ She puts her legs up on the table. Her dress slips down over her perfectly toned calves and thighs.

  ‘Well she is,’ I tell Sally, starting to get pissed off with her. ‘She’s great. She’s exactly my type.’

  ‘Yeah? So where is she?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where is she?’ She makes a show of looking round the room before getting up. ‘Where is this great woman?’ She opens the fridge and wags her finger at it. ‘Not in here,’ she says, taking out a can of beer, opening it and drinking. She puts the can down. ‘What about in here?’ she mutters, opening a cupboard and peering inside. She swings round drunkenly to face me, chiming, ‘I don’t think so …’

  ‘She’s out.’ No sooner have I said this than incontinent old men the world over are celebrating their inclusion on the More Pleasant Than Nathan list.

  Sally raises her eyebrows. ‘When the cat’s away …’

  I don’t even bother asking Sally if she wants to go this time. I’ve heard enough. I walk to the phone and pick up the receiver, read the cab number off the board. But – maybe because I’ve done it so many times already this evening that it’s the only telecommunications function my fingers are capable of initiating, or maybe it’s because I’ve just noticed from the clock on the wall that it’s now gone one – I don’t ring the cab company. I ring Amy. I ring Amy and yet again there’s no reply. There’s no reply because she’s still out.

  Still out with him.

  ‘Before you order me a cab,’ I hear Sally saying behind me, ‘why don’t you turn round and see what you’ll be missing. Not,’ she continues, as I look over my shoulder, ‘that you haven’t seen it all before …’

  She’s stepping out of her knickers, the rest of her clothes already discarded.

  ‘I’m going upstairs,’ she says, turning her back on me. ‘See you in a minute.’

  But she doesn’t. Not in a minute. And not in an hour. Because I don’t move from the kitchen. It’s like I’m paralysed. I just sit here, wondering what the hell I’m going to do. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to. I mean, look at her. Sex personified. And gagging for it. The perfect pull. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. But there’s Amy. And I meant what I said to Sally: Amy is exactly my type. Everything about her. It’s 2 a.m. on the dot and I give Amy one last call: again, nothing. OK, so she’s still not home, which means she’s still out with Nathan. But so what? I don’t know that anything bad’s going on. Anyway, even if she is screwing around on me, it doesn’t give me the right to screw around on her. This isn’t some tit-for-tat kids’ game we’re playing. The decision to be faithful to her has to be made by me.

  And I’ve just made it: I will be.

  Sally’s lying on her back on the bed when I walk into my room. I set Fat Dog to go off at six, giving me plenty of time to get to Gatwick to meet Amy, then slip into bed next to Sally. She’s asleep. Euphemism. She’s passed out. For the count. And this is a relief. There’s not going to be a scene with her attempting to get it on, while I’m attempting to get her out. All there’s going to be is sleep. I’m knackered. I’m drunk. Loneliness washes over me. The need for comfort’s almost overwhelming and, even though I know it’s stupid and is exactly the kind of action that can be horribly misinterpreted, I snuggle up next to Sally and, careful not to wake her up, fold my arms around her.

  I’m woken by a groan.

  My own.

  I don’t move for a minute, just lie here savouring the sensation spreading from my groin across my body. My lips move, forming the word Amy. I reach down with both hands and run my hands through her hair. The noise of her movements fill my ears. I shift my hips up towards her, groan again. I feel her tongue flicker and feel myself twitch involuntarily against her. I want her. I want to be inside her. Now. I hook my hands beneath her arms and pull her up my body. Her lips press against mine and I open my eyes and look deep into hers. Then suddenly, just for an instant, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.

  But then I do.

  And I freak.

  Because it’s Sally, not Amy, and I realise I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life.

  * * *

  8

  Amy

  JACK IS TWO hours late. That’s 120 minutes … 7,200 seconds.

  I know.

  I’ve counted.

  Sonia, the FunSun rep, has ticked off everyone else on her clipboard and has tottered off to passport control. I’m left alone by the check-in desk (about to close), desperately searching faces in the other queues around me. Even though my new sandals are busy chewing up my feet, I can’t stop myself pacing.

  Emotionally, I’ve covered every angle:

  7.15 a.m.:

  No show = mild amusement (predictable bloke shabbiness)

  7.30 a.m.:

  No show = irritation (duty free shopping time jeopardised)

  7.45 a.m.:

  No show = anger (start of holiday ruined)

  8.15 a.m.:

  No show = worry (danger of missing flight increasing by the second)

  8.45 a.m.:

  Still no show = panic (the plane leaves in under half an hour)

  Now I’m just plain frightened.

  Jack’s dead. There’s no other explanation for it. He’s been brutally murdered on the Gatwick Express and is lying, unrecognisable, in a pool of blood. The tannoy interrupts my morbid train of thought.

  This is the last call for Flight CB003 to Kos. Would all remaining passengers go to gate D46 for boarding.

  ‘Okay God. Listen up,’ I mutter aloud before starting again, attempting to be more reverential. ‘Dear God. Now I know I haven’t been a model specimen of purity and compassion so far, but I’m willing to change. I promise you right now that I’ll go to church every Sunday if you will please, please, make Jack turn up. Just this one favour. Please.’ I look around me desperately. ‘And I’ll give all my money to Christian Aid.’ I grimace at the woman behind the check-in desk. She shrugs at me, looks at her watch and shakes her head. ‘I’ll become a nun. Will that do?’

  ‘Amy!’ I hear Jack’s shout before I see him sprinting towards me, tickets flapping in his hand.

  Damn! I shouldn’t have said the nun bit.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he gasps, sweeping past me without so much as a kiss.

  ‘What happened? Where’ve you been?’ I shout, torn between the urge to smother him with relief and the equally strong urge to rugby tackle him.

  The woman at the desk looks sceptically at Jack as he rummages frantically through his bag before producing his passport. He takes a moment to catch his breath. The woman checks Jack’s passport photo and looks back up at him. I can understand her difficulty equating the well-groomed (and, yes, I must admit, cute) snapshot to the bedraggled, wet-haired mess before her. But then Jack remembers his first-class honours degree from the University of Charm and flashes one of his supersonic knee-trembler grins at the woman.

  ‘Too late to check in your bags, you’ll have to take them wi
th you,’ she says, reluctantly, but I can tell she’s won over. ‘You’ll have to hurry.’

  ‘Thanks,’ smiles Jack. ‘Come on,’ he orders, hoisting the strap of his bag on to his shoulder. I can barely lift mine. Despite H’s advice, it contains practically every item of clothing I possess in it, along with half of Boots. Jack doesn’t notice. He’s already halfway across the hall, barging through the holidaymakers.

  ‘Jack! Wait!’ I yell, but he doesn’t.

  As life is operating by the principles of Sod’s Law this morning, the boarding gate is the furthest one from the baggage check. I spend several minutes trying to flag down one of the buggies that are ferrying around fat blokes with golf bags. Surely my need is greater? They all look like they could do with some exercise.

  But it’s no use. It’s official: the age of chivalry is dead. I start my waddling run after Jack, who is clearly in earnest training for the London Marathon. Approximately five miles later and still only a third of the way to the gate, I collapse on the moving walkway. My heart is pounding in my throat.

  ‘Come on! Get up,’ yells Jack. He has the audacity to sound cross. ‘We’ll miss the flight.’

  ‘I can’t, I …’ I’m gasping for breath. ‘My bag, it’s …’

  I slide towards Jack and he yanks it from me. ‘Amy! What’ve you got in here?’

  ‘Bricks,’ I yelp, as I’m deposited on to the carpet.

  ‘Bricks?’ he asks, as he heaves up my bag on to his other shoulder.

  ‘To build the fucking hotel!’ I sneer, wanting to kill him. I pull off my sandals and stand up. I’ve got a stitch the size of the Bayeux Tapestry.