by Jenny Colgan
It came like something out of a cartoon, when the Acme Company delivers an enormous box of pepper to someone. We simultaneously ‘ATCHOOED’ all over the place.
‘He’s sneezing! That’s a conscious sign!’ said one of the students.
‘It sounded like a double sneeze though,’ said another.
I sighed as, slowly, the owners of the six pairs of legs came into view. I closed my eyes and squeezed Finn’s hand tightly (not the hands we’d sneezed into). He squeezed back.
‘WWWEELLLLLL!’ said Dr Hitler, as if she’d just found out I was born in a handbag.
‘And so …’ said Finn quickly, ‘this is what we mean by the word down, and where we were before was what we mean by the word up.’
‘I’ve been confusing those for years,’ I said, scrambling out from under the bed and dusting myself down.
‘Thank you, Dr Levy! So, this is up, yes?’
‘That’s correct. No more falling down for you!’
‘Wow! Shall we go downstairs?’
‘Indeed. And perhaps we can practise near and far by first attempting far.’
We started walking quickly away from the bed.
‘Remind me again of the distinctions between fast and slow?’ I asked.
The medical students watched in disbelief as we made our exit.
‘It is at times like these when you may find your belief in the Hippocratic oath severely tested,’ said Dr Hitler loudly, so I could hear.
‘It’s at times like this when you may wish Anthony Edwards was actually QUALIFIED,’ I said loudly, as Finn shooed me away.
Finn had to go off to some boring thing at the Royal Geographical Society. Well, it may or may not have been boring, but I certainly wasn’t invited, and – guess what – Madeleine was. How charming for them both. I stomped off home by myself, picturing Finn surrounded by hordes of smarty pants bespectacled lovelies, then got cross with myself for picturing it, then felt horribly disloyal and nasty, like those men you see in the drink-driving ads who leave their girlfriends after they’ve been in disfiguring accidents. So finding an atmosphere at 44 Bisthmus Road that you could make into ice sculpture was hardly ideal.
‘Hey!’ I said tiredly, walking in the door, hoping against hope that just once my flatmates would leap up, remove my coat and coo with endless sympathy at my burden before presenting me with gin and tonics and home-baked cakes. There was no reply. I wished we had a dog – or, better still, one of those Japanese robot dogs that could make you a gin and tonic and be pleased to see you.
I leafed through the post – you never know, despite acres and years of evidence to the contrary, someone might decide to send a nice surprise out of the blue – then, empty-handed, slouched through to the kitchen, trying not to think about the fact that it was Saturday night and I had fuck all to do. I didn’t even have a meeting of the bloody Royal Geographical Society to go to, for fuck’s sake. Josh was sitting slumped at the kitchen table with his back to me.
I eyed him closely. It wasn’t a ‘having trouble coming to terms with my new sexuality’ slouch. On the other hand, he wasn’t wearing a Jean-Paul Gaultier sailor’s outfit either.
‘Yo?’ I said, experimentally. Josh waved an exhausted hand.
‘Hey.’
I stepped round the table and sat opposite him. ‘Well?’
He raised his arms Gallicly. ‘Well???’
‘Well, go on … you are going to tell me, aren’t you?’
Josh heaved a sigh.
‘I suppose so.’
‘Hooray! Do you want to wait for Kate? Please say no. Tell me first.’
‘I don’t have to wait for Kate. She’s already here. She’s sulking in her room.’
‘Oh.’
There was a pause whilst I debated with myself how much I wanted to talk about Kate. Not at all!
‘Well, tell me then.’
Josh gave a sigh.
‘OK. Well, we went to Snows …’
‘And?’
‘Do you want to hear this or not?’
‘I want to hear whether you did it, not whether you both had starters.’
Josh sat up suddenly.
‘Holl, do you think I’m homophobic?’
‘Well, given that you openly date men, probably not.’
‘No, I mean, really.’
‘I don’t know – try this multiple choice. Do you call homosexuals a) botty burglars, b) uphill gardeners or c) darling … I don’t know, do I? I don’t think so.’
‘OK. Well, then, ehm … I don’t think I’m gay.’
‘Because why?’
‘No reason.’
‘Josh! You did it, didn’t you?’
He squirmed. ‘Well, maybe.’
‘You did! You’re a cheap date! Oh my God! What was it like?!’
‘What do you mean, what was it like? It was like going to bed with a man.’
‘Oh, yeah, right. But you know, I like doing that.’
‘Well, I didn’t like it. It was all … hard, and hairy.’
‘Hard and hairy are usually seen as positive attributes – Robin Williams excepted.’
‘Huh. Well, I definitely didn’t like it. I think I like … soft, and kind of mushy.’
I nodded understandingly. ‘Yup. That’ll be girls.’
He nodded. ‘So.’
‘Well then, aren’t you pleased?’ I said. ‘Now you’ve sorted all that out? You can get on with having lots of meaningless relationships that end up in degradation and heartache, just like the rest of us!’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘And that does feel good. It’s just … well, Stephen is so nice, you know. I hate to let him down like this.’
‘Ooh no,’ I said. ‘Stephen’s my friend, and I won’t have you pretending to be gay out of politeness. It’s not fair to drag someone on like that. What about Sophie and you? God, the way she treated you, I could have told her where to go when she rang this morning …’
‘Sophie rang?’
‘No!’
‘Oh my God! Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I don’t know … Because you were out being Big Gay Al?’
‘I’m just going to ring her …’ he said, diving out of the room.
‘Oh, well done,’ I said, and gave myself a sarcastic round of applause.
As soon as I could hear him buzzing excitedly on the line, his vowels elongating by the second, the door creaked, and Kate popped her head in, red-eyed.
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’ I said to annoy her.
‘Well, is he or isn’t he? I haven’t been able to sleep, you know.’
‘You sounded asleep this morning when I had to get up to answer the phone,’ I grumbled.
‘How can you say that? I’ve … never felt like this before. Please don’t scoff at me.’
‘What about the dog dentist bloke?’
‘HOLLY!’ she said, exasperated.
‘OK, OK. Do you want the good news or the bad news?’
Kate sidled in and sat down.
‘Good news, please. Is he in love with me?’
‘Ehm … well, he’s not gay.’
‘Good! OK, what’s the bad news?’
‘Guess who he’s on the phone to …’
She looked at me for a second.
‘It can’t be.’
‘It is.’
I explained Sophie’s evil scheme. Kate was clearly furious. Then she gave me a pleading look.
‘No!’ I said immediately.
‘Well, you know …’
‘You want me to overthrow a chance of Addison getting some extra money to make him better so that you can try and get off with Josh without any competition.’
‘And stop the world being overrun by over-privileged fascists in parliament!’ said Kate, scandalized. ‘Do you think I’m completely heartless?’
‘I don’t know. But I am taking Sophie’s money, I’m afraid.’
‘Class traitor.’
‘Haaa!’ I turned on Ka
te, just as Josh bounced back into the room like the Andrex puppy.
‘Guess what, everyone! That was Sophie!’
‘Oh, I thought someone was dragging their fingernails down a blackboard,’ said Kate.
Josh ignored her.
‘And she’s presenting a cheque to the hospital wing where Addison is! AND I told her about the television cameras coming to film Holly, so she’s going to do it on Monday afternoon!’
‘No. No no no. Please, not on TV,’ I said.
‘But think,’ said Josh sincerely, ‘this money could change the lives of hundreds, if not thousands – ’
‘– of prospective Conservative candidates,’ said Kate. ‘Josh! Holly! Please don’t let this happen!’
‘But …’
‘And I think …’
‘No way!’
We were well on our way to a full-blown barney when the doorbell rang.
We stopped scrapping, and looked at each other.
‘Well, it’s not Sophie, because she’s in the country,’ said Josh. I sniffed.
‘And it’s not John because he’s NOT JOHN,’ said Kate sourly.
They both looked at me. Even though I knew it couldn’t possibly be Addison, I felt a sudden thrill of anticipation as I tiptoed to the door and down the stairs.
‘Hello?’ I asked tentatively.
‘Jhnghf?’ came the noise from the other side of our admittedly heavy door. I opened it nervously, preparing my face.
‘Hello,’ said Addison’s mother, smiling nervously at me.
I obviously didn’t prepare my face enough because it must have looked a bit disappointed.
‘I am sorry … this is a bad time?’
‘No! No, this is absolutely the best time!’ I said, ushering her in.
‘I made a goulash …’ I noticed she was carrying a heavy bowl.
‘Why, that’s brilliant. Kate, Josh …’
I brought Magda into the kitchen. Both appeared surprised then managed to make themselves look pleased. I kicked myself for not sorting my face out better downstairs.
‘I hope I am not intruding …’
‘No, of course not,’ we all said, in a totally over-the-top way, so that even though it was true it sounded false.
‘Sit down,’ said Josh, springing into gentlemanly action. ‘Why don’t I open a bottle of wine?’
We all made appreciative noises as Magda handed over her goulash. It became clear that she was simply in search of a bit of companionship, and there was nothing mysterious at all about her visit. Except for the obvious, which Kate asked her as soon as we were all sat round the table eating.
‘Ehm, Magda … how did you know we’d all be in on a Saturday night?’
Magda shrugged tactfully. ‘I just … no, really, I did not know.’
‘I think the thing that worries me most,’ said Magda when we had moved on to the sitting room to finish the wine, ‘I think … is when he wakes … he will be different.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Josh.
‘No, I know,’ said Kate. The imposition of an external – and maternal – force on us had made us be civil, and that had gradually relaxed into actually being pleasant – maintaining huff status, as everybody knows, being simply too exhausting and bothersome. ‘I read about it. Sometimes people wake from periods of unconsciousness with different personality habits. One guy woke up speaking French.’
‘Oh, whereabouts in France?’ I asked, then wished I hadn’t.
‘Yes, that is the kind of thing I mean,’ said Magda. ‘Or that he has amnesia.’
‘Oh, that would be great,’ I said. Then, after a pause, I decided to get up and make the coffee.
‘Wow. Addison with a different personality,’ mused Josh, voicing our thoughts.
‘You’d never shut him up.’
‘Yes, he’d be off climbing mountains all over the world then boasting about it,’ said Kate.
‘Or he’d become a hippy and go and live in a field and kiss rabbits.’
‘Or write poetry with a quill pen.’
‘Or become a Radio One DJ,’ I chipped in from the kitchen.
‘Or a consumer affairs television presenter!’
We mused on the amount of opposite personalities Addison could have.
‘I think I’d like my son back the way he was,’ said Magda.
‘Me too,’ said Kate.
‘Me three,’ I said in a small voice.
Eleven
Six forty-five on Sunday morning. I lay fuming, listening to the phone blare at me. Wasn’t it enough that my bedroom was small enough to cause carbon dioxide poisoning if you didn’t keep a window open without having to suffer assault by phone?
Nope. Definitely no one else was moving. It suddenly occurred to me that it might be the hospital and I swore and performed my patented duvet jam roly-poly manoeuvre into the hall.
‘Rrgh?’
‘Is that Holly Livingstone?’
‘Ehmm … yes?’ I jerked awake. I always snap to attention when somebody uses my full name, in case I’m not listening and get arrested for something I didn’t do.
‘Oh, yes, hi, this is Roger Montserrat? I’m the producer for Candice Piper’s show?’
‘Hello,’ I said grumpily. ‘Don’t tell me – you’re at a coke-fuelled TV party and haven’t been to bed yet?’
He pretended to laugh loudly.
‘Actually, we thought we’d find you at the hospital.’
‘It’s six forty-five in the MORNING.’
‘I know … it’s just, one of the male nurses said you were very dedicated.’
‘I am FUCKING dedicated. Didn’t you hear me? It’s six forty-five in the …’
‘Quite, yes, all right. Anyway, just wanted a little chinwag about tomorrow?’ He had one of those annoying nasal voices that turns everything into a question.
‘OK,’ I said, leaning against the telephone table and preparing to give a faintly sanitized history of my relationship with Addison. ‘Well, we met …’
‘What colours were you planning on wearing?’
‘What?’
‘Candice is most particular that no one clashes. She was planning on pistachio, so we’d be most grateful …’
‘Hang on,’ I said, shaking my head to clear it. ‘What colour is pistachio? Pale brown?’
‘It’s green.’
‘Green? Like, rotting nuts?’
‘Ha ha ha. So, if you just steer away from the primary palettes, I’m sure everything will go perfectly smoothly. We haven’t heard from your band’s agent yet, but we’ll be expecting you all around two, OK?’
‘Hang on!’ I said, panic-stricken. ‘What am I actually going to do?’
He seemed stupefied by the question.
‘Just … you know, dear, you’ll be on TV!’
‘Doing what?’
He sighed. ‘Just turn up in non-clashing pastels and prepare to try and make yourself cry, darling. OK? We’ll handle the rest. Remember: it’s all for the best and you’ll be on TV! Brilliant, eh?’
I went back to sleep and had one of those horrible early-morning nightmares – I was being pursued by Addison tied upside down on a board whilst trying to find a non-green smock in my wardrobe, which was inexplicably turning into a bowl of spaghetti. I finally got up when I heard Josh banging about in the kitchen washing up. Not having to do the washing-up – well, I was taking my small bonuses where I could find them.
I had to phone Chali about the next day. It occurred to me that if I was going to be there and she was going to be there, there was a small shop opening problemo, and I needed her advice.
Of course, a big troll thing picked the phone up.
‘Chali?’
‘Ugh??’
‘CH-ALEE, PLEASE,’ I said, enunciating very slowly.
‘Ugh, uhu.’
After half an hour, Chali came on the line.
‘Yes? Buster, stop that.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘You d
on’t want to know. There’s snuffling involved.’
‘You’re right. I don’t want to know. Do you want me to phone back?’
‘No, don’t be silly, we’re only having sex. Is this about the band?’
‘Are you still ready to go ahead?’
‘Is it still on? Oh, that’s brilliant! We’ve written a special song.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘“The New Coma Suture”.’
‘Oh God.’
‘No, it’ll be cool. It’s still thrash, but I add an air of eastern exoticism.’
‘What are we going to do about the shop?’
She thought for a moment.
‘God. I’d ask my uncle, but apparently he’s down to absolutely no faculties or marbles whatsoever. Hmm … Buster, lower.’
I hung on the phone. After about a minute she said, ‘I’ve got it!’
‘What?’
‘We go on strike! We’ve got rights, haven’t we?’
‘I don’t know about the right to take a day off to be on TV.’
‘No, no, we should. Form a protest.’
‘What for – communal tea bags?’
‘Come on, Holl – Christ, we barely make minimum wage.’
‘Yes, but you steal.’
‘Not the point. I’ll phone old butterbum now. Terrorize her into accepting our demands.’
‘Hadn’t you better wait a bit, in case she does accept them and we still have to turn up?’
‘Good point. Fear not. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Two o’clock,’ I said. ‘And don’t wear anything pistachio.’
She snorted. ‘God, could you be any more middle-aged? Buster, stop that.’
‘Urhgh.’
‘Oh no, don’t stop that.’
I put the phone down.
‘I rather like pistachio,’ said Josh, holding up two ties whilst doing his Sunday night ironing.
‘Josh, you don’t know what you like, so shut up,’ said Kate.
‘Also, nobody must come,’ I said. ‘If I have to humiliate myself in this way, I’d rather do it alone.’
‘Sophie asked me to come, so there,’ said Josh, selecting the mulberry tie and poking his tongue out at me.
