by Hannah Pearl
‘How are you holding up? Are you dating again?’ I asked her.
She shook her head. ‘It’s different for me, I have Alice. And I’ve just been through a divorce. I think that buys me extra time to be by myself.’ She gestured at me with her spoon. ‘You should go out with Jake.’
‘Assuming he even wants to go out with me,’ I said as Bea shook her head at me. ‘He might not,’ I said defensively. Just because he got turned on when I’d climbed all over him at the hospital, it didn’t mean that he wanted to date me.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Scrolling through, she turned the screen and showed me a picture. It was of a pencil drawing of me, asleep on the plane on the way home from Dublin. Jake had captured the sense of peace I’d gained from spending time with him. There were no grey bags under my eyes any more, or tension lines on my forehead. I looked serene.
‘You think someone who doesn’t care about you could draw you like that?’ Bea asked.
‘It’s beautiful.’ I reached for the phone so that I could see it again. ‘Jake’s an amazing artist.’
‘He’s not a bad human being either. Don’t run away from this, whatever it turns out to be. That’s all I’m asking. I think he’s getting ready to open up just as much as you are, in his own way.’
‘I won’t.’ I promised her. Then, as we were being honest, I added ‘ I don’t think you should hide behind Alice forever either. I know you got hurt, but Alice is a great kid. Any guy would be lucky to have the pair of you, and you must get lonely sometimes.’
‘I do,’ she agreed. ‘But I’m in no rush to have my heart stomped on all over again. No, I think I’ll hold out until I find someone good enough for me, or maybe I’ll just wait until hell freezes over, which might happen first.’
‘I’m scared too,’ I whispered.
She stopped eating and looked at me. My hands were shaking so I set my glass down before I spilled it.
‘What happened to you?’ she asked. ‘Did someone hurt you too?’
I shook my head. ‘It wasn’t as dramatic as that, but it did make me stop and think. I think I lost sight of who I was for a while back there, and I needed to do something that helped me to remember.’
‘Hence your tracking down old boyfriends,’ she said.
‘I know it sounds weird, and I must admit there have been a few times that I’ve felt downright creepy doing it. I was nervous that they’d think I’d been a crazed stalker all these years, but I had to try.’
‘And has it helped?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t finished yet,’ I pointed out, ‘but so far so good. It has been nice to think back to simpler times, when I used to fall for guys just because of how they looked, or how they made me feel and without any regard for whether it could go anywhere. I was remembering being nineteen and someone telling me for the first time that I was pretty and that I should be more confident. That was a nice memory.’
‘So who is next on your list?’ she asked.
I wondered how much detail it was appropriate to go into. I was fairly sure she wouldn’t tell Jake every word I said, but there were some things I wanted to keep to myself. Fresh from my chat with George, I’d tried to act more assertively. I’d gone back to university after the Christmas break and auditioned for the amateur dramatics society.
The society put on a play once a term. I’d expected more of my fellow English Literature students to sign up, especially given how many of us were taking the scriptwriting module that semester, but when I stood on stage, trying to impress the panel with my monologue, I didn’t know anyone else in the hall.
I tried to use this to my advantage, as if I embarrassed myself I would never need to see any of these people again, so I took a deep breath and delivered my speech. Although the play I was auditioning for was a dramatic piece, I’d prepared a monologue that Cher delivers in Witches of Eastwick, which details why Jack Nicholson’s character isn’t good enough for her. Given my new-found self-assurance, it seemed appropriate.
I didn’t get the role, but I did score a date with the director, Jeremy, or Jem, as he insisted on being called. He was in his twenties and studying for a masters in the performing arts. He wore super skinny black jeans and a leather jacket, and had dyed his hair purple. We dated for six weeks, during which time I saw every open mic night, obscure play and performance art delivered within a hundred miles of our university. We had a whirlwind romance, eating at obscure restaurants, making out in his dingy bedsit.
It had been fun, but slowly the differences crept in. Jem wouldn’t hang out with my friends whom he deemed philistines. Eventually I dumped him when he had announced that I was stifling his creative buzz. I made the mistake of inviting him to the cinema to watch a James Bond film. He said that no one who bought into such commercial productions truly valued art.
I told him that no one who sat through the tripe he went to visit knew what art was. We had a fairly dramatic break up, complete with me throwing several mugs at the wall behind him. I wasn’t really that angry, I just figured that I’d probably never date anyone with his artistic flair again, and if I wanted to know how it felt to have a proper break up fight, now might be my only chance. Right after I ripped his copy of Posers Weekly, or whatever his magazine was really called, and broken down in hysterical laughter, he had stormed out muttering about the crazy redhead and I’d never seen him again.
He had stuck in my memory though, not simply for his clothing choices, but because we’d had a lot of fun together. Not the least of which was that he’d been so inexperienced in bed the first time that I had turned director and told him what I’d wanted him to do. It was worth being assertive with him. Once I’d explained what I needed, he’d been enthusiastic and had been responsible for the first orgasms I’d ever had with another person.
‘Just a guy I knew once at uni,’ I told Bea, and tried not to blush again at the memories.
Chapter Eighteen
I had expected Jem to either be really easy to find because he’d be a famous director and his name would be buzzing all over the internet, or impossible to find because he’d given up on the developed world and gone to live on the beach in Thailand. Instead, google suggested that Jem Brooks was either a hairdresser in Cardiff or a porn star in Las Vegas. I changed my search term to ‘Jeremy Brooks’ and got a hit.
There was a PDF of a poster advertising a performance of A Christmas Carol in a school three miles away. The poster was a couple of years old, but I googled the school and found a photo of Jem on their website. It was taken side on, showing him pointing at the new school drama facilities. He’d had some success in local theatre, but probably not enough to make a living. I assumed that was why he had trained as a drama teacher. He’d shown no inclination to subsidise his lofty artistic aims in this way when I’d known him.
Back then I had written: ‘I met this guy last week. He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met before. He’s not as gorgeous as Rob, but he’s so interesting. He knows so much about literature and art. He doesn’t make me laugh like I do with George, but I feel like I learn something new every time I go out with him.’
I emailed Charmaine a link to the website, and within a minute had a message back that asked whether I was really sure that I wanted to try and meet up with him again. I wasn’t sure what was putting her off, I don’t think it was the piercings; goodness knew she’d been out with a few holey guys herself. Maybe it was the fact that despite being almost bald these days, the remains of the ponytail, which he sported, was still dyed purple.
I’d come this far though, and it was important to me to see him. Not just because of the orgasms, though I had enjoyed them, but mostly because I’d known him at the height of my self-confidence, and it was nice to remember how I’d felt. There were only two days remaining of school before the holidays, so I had no time to waste if I didn’t want to wait another five weeks to see him.
Normally – if anything about my searches could be considered normal –
I’d have tried to ring the school and make up an excuse to meet him, but I decided to be more direct. With exams over for the year, I finished teaching for the day at two o’clock. After straightening up my classroom, I told the school secretary that I had a stonking headache, but instead of driving home, I drove straight over to Jem’s school.
Once there, I parked up and walked into the main office. I showed them my school ID card and told their secretary a small white lie. I pretended that I had booked an appointment with Jem to talk to him about his school productions. I kept my fingers crossed that she wouldn’t phone him to double check, but luckily the school bell rang for the end of the day, and she was suddenly overwhelmed by the hordes of children streaming around.
She pointed me in the direction of the drama room, and turned back to answer the million and one questions about trips, lunch money and children who had lost their bus fare. I wandered around the corridors, finding the selection of student art and writing decorating the walls reminiscent of every school I’d ever worked in.
The drama department was housed in a separate block, built on to the end of the main corridor. I passed through an archway between the old building and the newer one, and knocked on a door that had been painted black with purple stars. I was in the right place. No one answered my knock, and I hoped I hadn’t missed Jem. Tracking him down in the staffroom would make me feel much more like a stalker, though I had my strategy planned. I tried the door and found it unlocked so I walked in. If I couldn’t find Jem himself, maybe I could get a sense of who he was now. With Bill Banks and Andy Brown just a brief conversation had been plenty.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when the door opened and Jem was stood right in front of me. He had fine lines now around his eyes, though they were hard to see under his glasses. His jeans were still tight, but not quite the second skin they used to be. Secondary school kids could be brutal, and I wondered whether that was why he now wore a regular black T-shirt and not the floral blouses he used to favour. It was a shame, they had suited him. I wondered how different I looked to him after all these years.
‘Hey, ginge,’ he said, stepping aside so that I could enter. It was a wonder I hadn’t thrown a mug at his head sooner for sticking with that nickname.
‘Hey yourself, baldy,’ I shot back. Antagonising him wasn’t going to help me though, so I swallowed my next insult and stuck my hand out for him to shake. ‘This is a surprise,’ I lied. ‘I work locally and when I contacted your school to ask about their experience of putting on a play with the students they suggested I come and talk to their drama teacher.’ I kept my fingers crossed in my pocket as I said it, and hoped that he never compared notes and found out that the conversation had never happened.
‘Fancy a coffee?’ he asked, stepping back into the room.
I’d wanted to avoid chatting with him in public, just in case we wanted to cover our history and so I was relieved when he opened another door at the back of the room, which led to a tiny kitchen. He filled the kettle and switched it on. Amazed that he was going to trust me with any crockery, I stayed a few steps behind him in the main room and waited for him. The kitchen was little more than a converted cloakroom, and had I tried to step in too I’d have been as close to him as I used to be, which was certainly not part of my plan.
I looked around as he made the drinks. The room had been painted black, even the windows were painted over, though badly, leaving flakes against the frames and bubbles on the glass. It was impossible to get a sense of time when you couldn’t see daylight. The chairs were stacked against the back wall to make for an open performance space, and I could imagine Jem telling the kids to commit to the emotion of the scene. I could also imagine them telling him to piss off. Working in a secondary school could be like that sometimes.
I thought about grabbing a couple of chairs to sit on but it felt too formal to have only two chairs out in an otherwise empty room. There weren’t even any posters on the walls. All the better to have a neutral arena. Jem backed out of the kitchen and handed me a mug. ‘I don’t have a fridge I’m afraid so no milk.’
I thanked him for the coffee and we sat down, back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of us.
‘It’s nice to see you again, Evie,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry about breaking your mugs last time,’ I replied. ‘I promise I’ll be careful with this one,’ and we both laughed.
‘I was a bit precious back then, wasn’t I?’ Jem remarked.
‘And I was making the most of the opportunity to act out,’ I replied. We sipped our coffees in silence for a moment. ‘This room is great,’ I said, trying to build a little rapport again.
‘It’s a far cry from where I thought I’d end up,’ he conceded.
‘So what happened?’ I asked. ‘Not that I think there is anything wrong with where you ended up. I’m a teacher myself too these days.’
‘How about we add a drop of the hard stuff to these drinks, really celebrate the holidays in that case,’ he suggested. ‘I don’t know about you but I need some help unwinding after a long day with these little darlings on occasion.’
I nodded and he got up and fetched a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard. ‘I keep this to calm me down after watching some of the kids attempt to be particularly dramatic.’ He shuddered and I laughed, realising that some things about him really hadn’t changed.
He poured a good inch of whiskey into each of our mugs. We clinked and muttered cheers to each other, then sat back in silence for a few moments as we drank. The quiet lasted for so long that I found myself twitching. I gulped the coffee down quicker than I meant to, and the combination of caffeine and alcohol sent my heart racing and made my palms sweaty. I wiped them quickly on my jeans and tried to remember how I’d planned for this conversation to go. I was about to plunge into my explanation again when Jem reached for my empty cup. ‘Fancy another?’ he asked.
He jumped up before I could answer and headed back out to the cloakroom kitchen. The second mug held more whiskey than coffee, and I knew as I tasted it that I wouldn’t be driving again tonight.
‘I wanted to ask about school plays,’ I began. Jem snorted. ‘I did,’ I said again. This time he sat back and laughed heartily. ‘Why did you make me a drink then? What did you think I was here for?’ I asked.
He took the hairband out, shook his hair out and retied it. It didn’t look any different and I wondered if he was waiting for me to tell the truth. I wasn’t used to daytime drinking any more and found myself blurting out more than I meant to. ‘I’m getting in touch with my past, trying to see if I can learn from it. I’ve been pretty mixed up for a while. I don’t want to feel like that any more.’
He’d still barely said a word. He got up and walked back to the kitchen, but this time he made no pretence of making coffee, just grabbed the whiskey and brought it back out.
‘So what can I do to help you?’ he asked. ‘Now that I know that you don’t simply want to find out how you can coax a dozen kids who would rather be anywhere near a stage, through a production without wanting to give up and lock yourself in the dressing room whilst you cry.’
Jem topped up our drinks again. If he wasn’t careful I’d hardly be able to walk home, let alone order a cab. I wondered how often he needed liquid therapy. He certainly didn’t seem to be spinning as much as I was. I set my cup down and tried to sober up.
‘Being with you was probably one of the last times I was with someone without questioning my every move,’ I said.
He took a deep swallow of his drink. By now it was pure alcohol, no mixer, and I could almost feel the burn for him as it went down. ‘What did you worry about after me?’ he asked. ‘What their taste in movies was doing for your soul?’
I shot him a look and he set his mug down. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That was uncalled for. Believe it or not I have actually grown up over the last few years.’
‘I know,’ I told him. ‘There’s been something about reliving my past which has m
ade me think again about how I behaved back then, though truthfully it has also been a nice reminder about how it felt to be young and carefree. I guess I always thought that by now I’d have found someone and be settled down, and that I’d understand men and relationships and not be scared by them.’
‘What scared you?’ Jem asked me. I shook my head and didn’t answer him. I hadn’t had enough whiskey yet to touch that question. ‘I don’t think anyone expects you to know all the answers, or to marry the first person you sleep with. Or even the second person.’ He looked at me and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Or even the third?’
This time I laughed with him. ‘I’m not telling. Seriously though,’ I said, trying to stop the giggles and realising that I definitely shouldn’t drink any more, ‘It has been nice to see some of you guys again.’
‘And on behalf of your “guys”,’ he responded with a wink, ‘please allow us to say that you have matured well, like a fine wine.’ I snorted at that, and hoped that he wasn’t about to ask me out again. Turning people down politely when I was drunk had never been my strong suit. He must have sensed my disquiet, as he continued. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not hitting on you. I don’t think Derek would be very pleased with me.’
‘Derek?’
He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out his wallet. Flicking it open, he passed it over and I saw a picture of Jem with his arm around another man. I presumed this was Derek, and I could see why Jem would not want to upset him. Even in the tiny photo he looked heartachingly handsome, with lush lips, a small scar through one eyebrow, and his hair braided in cornrows.
