Less Than Three

by Jess Whitecroft

  “You can really see the size difference in that one,” he said.

  “It evened out.”

  “It didn’t. I’m still half an inch taller than you.”

  “My arse, you are,” I said.

  “No, I am. Auntie Liz always used to make us stand back to back, remember?”

  “Unless she parked a spirit level on the tops of our heads, then I don’t believe it,” I said. “We’re exactly the same height, and you’re not interested in baby pictures, so why don’t you stop putting it off and text your damn boyfriend?”

  Simon didn’t. He sat there, chewing his bottom lip for a moment. “What if he’s not into me?”

  “He is into you, you dingbat.”

  “He tried to kiss you.”

  “No,” I said. “He tried to kiss me because he thought I was you.”

  He sighed. “But you weren’t me.”

  “I was. Did you miss the part where I’m a fucking fantastic actor? And you were the first part I ever played. I know you, Simon. I know your mannerisms, your speech patterns, your unsettling digressions about the worst things that can happen to the human skeleton. And I did them. All of them. Even the unsettling digressions. When I was with him that afternoon in the gallery I was you. And he was into that person. He was into you.”

  He sighed again, fluttering the edges of the old photographs I hadn’t yet secured in the album.

  “What?” I said, knowing I’d have to prod.

  “I feel awful,” he said. “Like I got this far under false pretences.”

  I shrugged and wondered if there was any way to sugar coat that. There wasn’t.

  “This wasn’t supposed to work,” said Simon. “I suppose I just thought he’d…he’d find me odd and walk away. But now I really like him.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “And now I feel awful about tricking him. And the more I like him the worse it seems…and…oh, I don’t know. This isn’t making any sense.”

  “It’s making perfect sense,” I said. “Those are called ‘feelings’, by the way. That strange confusion you’re experiencing right now? That’s a thing that happens to people all the time.”

  He gave me a long, disgusted look.

  “Sorry,” I said, chastened. “Probably not the time to take the piss.”

  “Probably not, no.”

  I peeled back the sheet of film on the next page of the photo album. It made a sound like flypapers tearing apart in the sticky summer heat. “Are you going to come clean?” I said.

  “Are you mad?” he said. “He’d run a mile. How would you feel if someone turned around and said ‘Oh, by the way, that person you kissed at the end of our second date was actually my twin brother’?”

  Again, no sugar coating that one. “Yeah. I’d suspect I was dealing with a pair of absolute psychos.”

  Simon exhaled and got up from the couch. He wandered into the kitchen and I heard him rattling around in there, putting away the dishes and sighing. Then I heard his phone bleat a couple of times and I heard him typing.

  “Dinner,” he said. “It’s just dinner.”

  6

  It was over two weeks until my next day off, and it found me head down in a toilet, dry-heaving at the terrible things I’d witnessed while filming an advert for some new eco brand nappy. Fairly simple, I thought. All I had to do is look paternal and sleep deprived, put the nappy on the baby and smile an exhausted but beatific smile when my on-screen offspring was safely damp-proofed and I could go back to fucking bed.

  It wasn’t simple. I’d thrown up twice already, and now I knew why the old adage about never working with children and animals remained a classic.

  I was resting my head against the cool tile and wondering if I’d ever get that smell out of my nose, when the phone rang.

  “What?” I said, in no mood for this.

  “Help,” said Simon.

  “No.”

  “Yes. I need you to apologise to Rob for me.”

  I closed the toilet lid and scrambled up onto it. “Oh God. What is it now? What did you do?”

  “He was supposed to be meeting me for dinner at that place in Kingston and I’m not even on the right side of the river…”

  “…and you knew I was filming in Wimbledon,” I said. “God, you’re devious.”

  “No, I’m desperate. I was trying to get away in time, but I’m going to have to stand him up for dinner. A patient’s come in and they need an orthopaedic—”

  “—and what am I? The messenger service?”

  “Nathan, I can’t stand him up by text.”

  “Yes, you can. It’s the twenty-first century. People stand people up by text all the time.”

  “All right,” he said. “I don’t want to. How’s that?”

  “Shocking,” I said. “Of all the times to get in touch with your feelings…”

  “Nathan. Please. Just…just smooth things over for me. I promise. It won’t happen again.”

  “You’re doing this on purpose.”

  He huffed and returned to his usual, sarcastic self. “Yes. I’m doing this on purpose. I paid a teenage girl to jump off a balcony and shatter her ankles so badly that her lower legs feel like fleshy socks full of gravel.”

  I gagged. “Okay, that’s officially the worst sentence you have ever spoken in your entire life. Even the thing about Kinsey’s dickhole can’t hold a candle to that one.”

  “Look, I’ve got to go. And I’ve no idea when I’ll be out of surgery. It’s going to be a marathon trying to save her feet, and I can’t be worrying about an annoyed boyfriend the whole time.”

  Boyfriend. That was the first time I think I’d heard him use the word of Rob. Obviously things were going well, or at least well enough to send his stunt double to paper over the cracks. I headed over to Kingston-Upon-Thames and found the pub, a rather pricey-looking gastro place with a deck that overlooked the river. Rob was already there, looking adorably sad over a bottle of white wine and two glasses, one of which was empty.

  “Hi,” I said, practically skidding sideways into my seat.

  He double-taked. “Nathan?”

  “Yeah. Hello. Is there wine?” I was parched from the train and from throwing up.

  “Yes. Of course. Help yourself. Thank God you’re here. I was starting to worry that I looked like an alcoholic. Where’s Simon?”

  I held up a finger, mid swig, and swallowed. “Not here,” I said. “He sent me over because he didn’t want to do this by text—”

  “—oh my God. He’s dumping me?” Rob went pale.

  “No. Not that. He just can’t do dinner. He didn’t want to stand you up by text.”

  “Phew. Well, that’s a relief. And there was me thinking that things were going well.”

  “Nah. You’re fine,” I said. Jesus, that wine was slipping down easily. “He got called away with a surgical case. Teenage girl – apparently she jumped off a balcony and shattered both ankles.”

  “Oh no. How horrible.”

  “It was worse when he told it, believe me.” What was with me and people falling off balconies lately? “Lots of gnarly medical detail. He has no filter for these things.”

  “I know,” said Rob. “On our second date he told me a story about upper spinal trauma. In the National Gallery, of all places.”

  I nodded, trying not to look too pleased that my performance had landed. “That painting. I know. The nymph and the little Mr Tumnus guy.” I crooked my wrist and curled my fingers. “The waiter tip.”

  Rob shuddered theatrically. “Ew. Stop it.” He wrapped both hands around the back of his neck. “Gives me the jibblies. I spent the rest of the afternoon really conscious of how my head was attached to the top of my spine.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know how he does it. The things that come out of human bodies are bad enough, never mind poking around inside them.” My glass was empty and Rob reached out and filled it, emptying the bottle. “I’m sorry – I think I’m going to have to buy you some more wine.”


  He gave a polite hitch of laughter – a short inhalation that was a fraction of the volume of his usual mating walrus honk. “Bad day?” he said.

  “Something like it. I managed to book an advert for nappies. New eco-Pamper or something. Had to put a nappy on a baby and look like a tired but doting new dad.”

  “Aw. How cute.”

  “It was. Until the baby went method with it. Really got into his role.”

  “Oh. Oh no.”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “So. Much. Poo.” The laugh was full on now. Heads turned, but he didn’t give a shit. “He couldn’t have weighed more than fifteen pounds, but it just kept coming. Are they like the Tardis or something? Bigger on the inside?” I shuddered at the memory. “Was not prepared for that. I threw up twice. I thought I was about to make it a hat trick, but then Simon rang.” I waved to a passing waitress. “Hi. Could we get another bottle over here, please? Same again.”

  I slid it out of the cooler to show her the label. It said something awful about me that I’d just necked a glass and half of it without even knowing what it was.

  “Pinot Grigio?” she said. “Sure. Are you ready to order?”

  “Oh, we’re not…” I started to say, but then Rob caught my eye.

  “We could,” he said. “Could you eat?”

  “More should at this point,” I said, thinking of my empty stomach and the sudden influx of booze. “But yeah. Let’s do that.” I turned back to the waitress. “Could you give us five more minutes?”

  “No problem. I’ll bring your wine.”

  “Well, this looks wonderful,” I said, reaching for the menu. “Stealing my brother’s dinner date.”

  “He cancelled and you’re hungry,” said Rob. “Nobody’s stealing anything. Besides, I’m fucking starving.”

  The food – as I suspected – wasn’t cheap, but it was good. I had a posh burger topped with mozzarella, pan fried prosciutto and fancy garlic horseradish. Rob ordered the veggie burger with chevre, and a large dish of root vegetable chips. As I ate I felt the floaty sensation of too much wine on an empty stomach recede. We sat back, burping contentedly and picking over the remains of the chips. The evening sun was almost bearable and we watched, lazy and half drunk, as a blue and white pleasure boat drifted past, scattering a flock of Canada geese ahead of its bows.

  “Lovely spot,” I said. “Would it be unbelievably corny of me to ask if you come here often?”

  He laughed. “Yes,” he said. “But yeah, I do. The food’s good, and they have a massive selection of whiskies.”

  “Ah. That’s how you hooked my brother. He does love a single malt.”

  “I didn’t hook him very well, evidently,” said Rob, dipping a parsnip chip in the garlic mayo. “Being as he’s not here.”

  “Yeah, you might have to get used to that. He’s still on the lower rungs of the surgeon ladder, and I’m told they do tend to treat the juniors like grunts and gofers.”

  “I didn’t realise there was such a pecking order until he told me,” he said, retying his hair, which had come loose at the roots. Little gold corkscrews at the edges of his sun-blushed forehead. He really was very cute, if you liked that sort of thing. “And that orthopaedics were right at the bottom.”

  “Has he told you the orthopaedic surgeon jokes yet?”

  “Oh, some. What was it? How do you hide a twenty pound note from an orthopaedic surgeon?”

  “Put it between the pages of a medical textbook.” I said. “What’s the difference between an orthopaedic surgeon and a carpenter?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A carpenter can name more than one antibiotic.” He was going full Sibyl Fawlty with the laugh again, and it was infectious. “How many orthopaedic surgeons does it take to change a lightbulb?”

  “Go on.”

  “Two. One to check the range of motion and the other to write ‘dark? Cause?’ on the referral form.”

  He threw back his head and honked. “Oh my God. Why are they so mean?”

  “I don’t know. There are jokes about other specialities, too. Like, what’s the difference between God and a neurosurgeon?” I took a beat. “God doesn’t think he’s a neurosurgeon.” I sipped my wine, more than a little tipsy. “I think orthopaedics have this reputation as one track minds who treat the human body like a massive Meccano set. Because it’s ‘just’ bone, I suppose.”

  “But it’s not. It all sounds very complicated to me.”

  “It is. I can’t even begin to imagine how much information he’s had to stuff in between his ears over the years. It’s mind-boggling. I don’t mind admitting that he makes me feel incredibly thick at times.”

  “I’m sure you’re not,” he said. “Anyway, your talents lie in a whole different area.”

  “Maybe.” Today I doubted it. First real acting job in ages and I’d almost vomited myself inside out.

  “How’s the Vicomte coming along?”

  I sighed. “He’s not. Currently all I have to work with is ‘Eighteenth century Patrick Bateman’ and an unrequited boner for Madame de Tourvel.”

  “Ancien Regime Psycho,” said Rob, musing. “Interesting.

  “It was her idea. Nadia. She’s playing Tourvel.”

  His smile turned knowing. “Ah.”

  “Redhead. Gorgeous. More or less totally indifferent to me.”

  “Have you told her you like her?”

  I shook my head. “Nah. I haven’t got as far as asking her to have coffee with me. Not successfully, anyway. Besides, it’s probably nothing. She’s beautiful and I’m shallow, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “You’re not shallow,” said Rob. “Really shallow people don’t have the self-awareness to know they’re shallow. Self-awareness takes some measure of depth.”

  “Yes, but depth is a variable measure. Paddling pool, Marianas Trench – they’re all some degree of depth, even if they’re not equal.”

  He gave me a comically despairing look. “Why are you desperate to put yourself down?”

  “I’m not. I just…I like to be sure of who I am.”

  “Is anybody, though?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Are you?”

  He looked out at the river and exhaled. “This is it,” he said. “Just because you identify as something, does that mean you are that thing? Unless you make an effort to realise your identity, isn’t it just a pose?” He stared down into his wine glass and gave a little shudder. “Like telling yourself you’re a writer when you don’t fucking write anything.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Simon told me you were working on a novel.”

  Rob snorted. “‘Working’ would imply progress,” he said. “I think even James Joyce moved faster than me, and he spent most days agonising over single punctuation marks and soothing himself by writing long, farty love letters to Nora Barnacle.”

  “I can’t imagine,” I said. “Like, I have lines, written by other people. But to make up your whole artistic expression from nothing? To pluck it out of thin air the way writers do? That’s impressive to me.”

  “It would be, if I’d actually written the bloody book. Right now, all I have is a mountain of post-it notes and scribbled bits of research, and I don’t even know where to start.”

  “The beginning?” I said.

  It was a glib and stupid answer and I knew it before the words had even finished leaving my mouth. Rob gave me the kind of look I deserved.

  “All right,” I said. “What’s it about?”

  His frown softened, and he turned a deeper pink under the flush of sun and wine. “Oh, you know,” he said. “Stuff.”

  “A novel about stuff?”

  He giggled, embarrassed. “Yeah. People do stuff, and stuff happens.”

  “You realise that could be just about any book in the world, right?”

  “Couldn’t,” he said. “There are some shamefully passive protagonists out there, let me tell you.”

  I refilled his glass. The awkward moment had lifted, and now I had the sen
se that we might start having fun again. “Okay. Protagonists,” I said. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Tell me about your protagonist.”

  “There are six of them.”

  “Six protagonists?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah. It felt like a round number at the time. What? Stop looking at me like that. It’s not that bad. War And Peace had like, nine...I think.”

  “Yeah, and I think I’ve identified your problem. You’re trying to write two thirds of War And Peace.”

  “I’m not, I promise,” he said. “It’s about globalisation, so it has to be…global. Needs a big reach. That’s why I ended up sitting on such an insane amount of background. I have six different characters from different cultures and countries, and it’s about how their lives interlock. There was a lot of research. I’ve had to learn languages, even.” He leaned forward, animated now. “Like with the Roman character, Paolo – I got into Italian and that was a whole rabbit hole, because did you know the Italian verb for ‘like’ conjugates backwards? Piacere – to like. If you wanted to say ‘the cat likes the milk,’ then the cat is no longer the subject of the sentence, but the indirect object. It translates more accurately as ‘the milk is pleasing to the cat,’ and that’s fascinating, because it’s passive, and that’s a whole thing right there, a whole commentary on the nature of the way we like things. We’re passive. We don’t actively like things. We hit the heart button or the like button and we move on, lazily dispensing thumbs up or thumbs down like bored Roman emperors.”

  “All right,” I said, taken with his passion. “You need to write this book, because I want to read it. I doubt I’ll understand it, but…”

  He laughed. “You have a real problem with confidence, don’t you?”

  “Not at all. Simon’s the one with the confidence problem. He was quiet and brainy, and I was the brash, annoying child who required constant attention.”

  But Rob wasn’t having it. “I find you so interesting,” he said, giving me an unexpected burst of pleasure, which fizzled almost immediately when he kept talking. “Twins are fascinating.”