Not Gonna Happen

by Adam Carter

  Narcissism. That’s what was called for. People who loved themselves. That way if their partner did something wrong, they couldn’t complain, since the two in the marriage were exactly the same.

  Now what was he talking about?

  Starke shook his head once more, this time in wonderment that even he was not able to follow any of his own thoughts.

  Which did not mean he should despise such thoughts: after all, they were his own so he knew (by default of his own argument) he could hardly complain.

  Discarding the postcard, Starke gave in and picked up his phone. Punching in Liz’s number, he waited patiently for three rings until it was answered.

  “Hello?” Liz said, sounding far too jovial for his liking. Starke brushed past this and answered.

  “Liz. ‘Sme.”

  “Rich?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh.” Had her voice just dropped an octave? Did she just lose her smile? “Uh, how ya bin?”

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  “You?”

  “Oh. Fine, fine.”

  “Good.” But it was not good. He did not want her to be fine. If she was fine, it meant she was over him; and what right did she have to be over him so quickly? Starke liked to believe he did not even think about her any longer, but the truth was she was hardly out of his mind. “Good,” he repeated without actually knowing why.

  There was a pause on the other end. “Uh, Rich? Was there something you wanted?”

  “I ... what are you wearing?”

  The silence upon the other end was tense, and after but a second did he hear what he knew to be stifled laughter. “Oh, Rich, you never change, do you?” Her tone was whimsical, which suggested her statement may not have been a bad thing.

  “I try not to,” Starke said. Or should it be that he did try to? If he changed his mind, though, it meant he was falling into the trap of allowing himself to be changed by a woman.

  “You still got the shop?” Liz asked.

  “Shop? Yeah, oh yeah I got the shop. Living here now, actually.”

  “Really?”

  “Room upstairs.”

  “Wow.”

  “What?”

  “Well,” Liz replied playfully, “used to be whenever you said you would be somewhere, you were always at your flat instead. Now you’re not going to be because you’ve sold it.”

  “I was never that unreliable.” He paused. “Was I?”

  “‘Fraid you were, Rich,” she replied sheepishly.

  “Oh. Is that why we broke up?”

  He could feel her go cold on the other end. “Richard, please don’t go there.”

  “Sorry, Liz, I just thought ... I don’t know what I thought.”

  “What? That we could pick up where we left off?”

  “I guess.”

  “Rich, you can’t change the world. The best you can do is to learn to live with it.”

  “Henry Miller.”

  Liz smiled upon the other end. He could almost see her. “Still doing that, then.”

  “You used to as well, remember.”

  “I still do,” Liz said. “Just now I get paid for it.”

  Starke frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Liz sighed. “Look, Rich, it was nice to hear from you, but I think we need some distance, don’t you? If you turn up in my life again, things are only going to get complicated like they did last time.”

  “The only complication I noticed was you walking out on me.”

  “And there were things which led up to that.”

  “We could talk about them. Maybe meet somewhere?”

  “I ...” He could hear her shift the phone to the other ear. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea at the moment, Rich. Maybe give it some time, yeah?”

  “It’s been almost a month, Liz.”

  “It’s just I ... I don’t know. Guess I’m onto something good and I don’t need to be distracted from it, that’s all.”

  “You found someone else?”

  “No. God no, I’m not ready for a relationship right now.”

  “Then you mean work. What’s your new job?”

  “New job?”

  “Said you were getting paid for quoting people.”

  “Not quoting people exactly. Just ... I’m good with words.”

  “We’re both good with words. It’s what kept us together.”

  “Rich, I ... you don’t watch TV, do you?”

  “I try not to. You on TV?”

  “I’m on TV.”

  “Wow, Liz. What you doing? A programme about brainy people or something?”

  “Not exactly. I’m an, uh, an assistant. On a show.”

  Starke blinked. “A show? You mean like a circus show?”

  “They tend not to show circuses on TV, Rich. They have big open fields for that.”

  “Then what? A magic show?”

  “Game show.”

  “Game show?”

  “Game show.”

  Starke absorbed what she was telling him. “Well that’s ... nice.”

  “Nice?” He could almost hear her cringe. “There’s a word my English teacher always told me never to use.”

  “Always told you never to use,” Starke laughed. “If that kind of sentence has a name to it, I don’t know what it is. So, how’d you get into that anyway?”

  “Right place, right time. Same as anything in life.”

  “Right place, right time. You remember when we first met, Liz?”

  “Richard, stop, please.”

  “Blackpool Pleasure Beach. Summer, oh-six.”

  “Rich ...”

  “I bought you an ice cream. There you were, trying to find some change on you even though you were wearing your bikini, and I stepped in and said ‘A change is as good as a rest, so here’s some change, pretty lady, and let’s go sit down somewhere and rest.’ You remember that?”

  “I ...”

  “Liz, do you remember it?”

  She was silent a moment. He could hear her fighting back tears. “Yes,” she sighed. “Yes, Rich, I remember it.”

  “And we sat there and we talked, and the tide came in and we were laughing. We compared Shakespeare to the Moomins.”

  Between sniffs, Liz smiled. “And concluded Little My was King Lear’s fool and worked out how it was possible for Mr Brisk to be fighting upon St. Crispen’s Day. I remember.”

  “They were good times, Liz.”

  “And they make for good memories, Rich. But it doesn’t change anything.”

  “What doesn’t it change?”

  “Anything.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the fact that we didn’t work out.”

  “We did for two years, Liz. We still could.”

  “We ... we can’t, Rich. And you know why.”

  “Why?”

  “Did you speak with Doctor Foster?”

  “Before he went to Gloucester?”

  “Richard?”

  “No. No, I didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t see the point!” He knew he had shouted, knew he should not have, but what was done was done and there was no way he was going to be apologising for it now. “There’s nothing Doctor Foster could say or do which would ...”

  “Maybe that’s reason enough,” Liz broke him off. “Look, Rich, it’s been good to ... no, it’s been great to hear from you. But we can’t meet, and we can’t see each other. And I’d ... I’d appreciate it if you didn’t phone me again. Can you do that?”

  “Can I not phone you again?”

  “I’ll call you, I promise I will. But I need to get settled here first, I need to sort myself out. Need to ... move on.”

  “What’s his name, Liz?”

  “There is no other guy, Rich. I told you that, remember?”

  “I remember the beach.”

  “I remember the beach as well, but I have a life now. I’m going somewhere.”

  “And
you weren’t going places with me?”

  “I don’t think I was, no.” She carefully weighed up what she would say next. “Richard, you know I care about you, you know I’ll always care about you. But you have to move on as well as me.”

  “So you are thinking about me?”

  “I’ll call you. Couple of weeks maybe. We can ... I don’t know, we can go out somewhere. Get something to eat maybe.”

  “You could drop by the shop.”

  “We could go out.”

  “You don’t want to be alone with me, is that it?”

  “No, that’s not it and you know it. I just ... God, this is so hard.”

  “Just say it straight, Liz. I won’t be offended.”

  “That’s just it. There is no straight way to say it.”

  “Then say it in a Graham Norton voice for all I care, but just say something.”

  Liz did not laugh this time and Starke decided she was past the point of accepting his jokes. “Look after yourself, Rich,” she said simply, devoid of emotion now. “And I’ll call you, I promise.”

  She hung up.

  Starke kept the phone to his ear for some time afterward, perhaps not accepting that she was really gone, perhaps waiting for her to pick the receiver back up so he could talk to her again. Either way, he finally replaced the receiver and sat back in his chair.

  He was up in an instant, his brain working furiously as he cleared some of the clutter before his television. He thumbed the set on and scrabbled for the day’s newspaper, where he figured he would be able to find the TV listings. Liz had said she worked on television now, in a game show. It might take him a while, but Richard Starke would find it. And then he would know precisely where to find her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It had been shaky at first, unsettled perhaps, and it had been strange for Louise to see her father on TV. There was a time when Corsac had always been in the media, but Louise was too young to remember such things clearly. She had always been excited to see him, but most of her memories were through when her mother had videoed her father’s appearances. She used to laugh as only a child can at her father there on the screen doing his act. She had to admit she hadn’t seen his act in years, hadn’t really thought about it at all for a while. Now he was back on TV, it was as though she was five years old again watching Daddy do his funny stuff.

  “What are the ratings like?” Louise asked as she sipped her coffee.

  Across the table, her father nodded as he blew on his own hot tea. Louise had come to the set to see him, a surprise visit, and had seen how a show was filmed. Her father had taken her to lunch during his break and they had chatted about nothing for well over fifteen minutes now.

  “Good,” Corsac said, able to sip his tea at last. “Very good, in fact. Di blasted me with lots of figures and words I didn’t understand, but from what I gather the ratings are good.”

  “Di?” Louise asked.

  “Sorry. Forgot it’s your first day on set. The woman who you were talking to before? Diana Troupe, my floor manager.”

  “Oh. Yes, I didn’t know her name.” Louise had never been any good with names. She supposed her father must have introduced them, but so much had happened since then. “Struck me as a tad ... I don’t know, offish maybe?”

  “It’s just her way. She takes her job very seriously; but she’s good at it, though.”

  “For a woman?”

  “Jokes about women aren’t well received any more, Lou. Well, I tell a lie, they are well received, they’re just falling into the same category these days as disabled jokes. Or the paedophile jokes.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The ha-ha-ooh joke.”

  Louise tried not to laugh. “Ha-ha-ooh?”

  “What do you call a blind man balancing on one leg? Nothing, you’re silent when you push him over. If you don’t call him anything, he won’t know who did it.” He paused, but Louise didn’t actually laugh, which was annoying. He continued: “The jokes you laugh at through instinct, before something in your brain kicks in telling you ‘Hey, you shouldn’t be laughing at that!’ so you instantly try to cover up the laugh with an ooh. And usually an expression openly condemning anyone around you who is laughing.”

  “Well,” Louise said, setting aside her coffee to start on her cream bun, “just don’t go using any ha-ha-oohs on telly, Dad.”

  “No.”

  “So,” Louise said, changing the subject, “looks like Sam came through for you.”

  “She did,” Corsac agreed. “I’ll have to find a way to thank her properly.”

  “Call her and say thank you.”

  “I was thinking of buying her something.”

  “Trust me, Dad, calling her and saying thank you would go down better with her. When was the last time you called her again?”

  “All right, I’ll call her and say thank you.”

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  They sat in silence for some moments. Finally the cream buns were eaten and Louise said, “It’s good to see you happy for once, Dad.”

  “It’s a far cry from the comedy clubs, but you know, I do miss them.”

  “You hated them.”

  “I know, but there’s nothing wrong with them. If you ask any famous comedian what they love doing, the most common answer you’ll get is that they like standing on stage. Or ad-libbing. Comedians love to ad-lib.”

  “But you always said they were sleazy places.”

  “Maybe that’s just what H used to get for me.”

  Louise absorbed that. “You heard from Crotcher lately?”

  “H? No. No, I doubt I will, either. He promised he’d get me something big, but instead I went to Sam and wound up with this.”

  “See? Sam came through where Crotcher always failed you. You do realise he was only ever after the money?”

  “Money? If H just wanted money he’d have had me on telly ages ago.”

  “No, he wouldn’t.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Crotcher didn’t see you as anything other than a has-been comedian. You used to be big, really big, but when Crotcher found you, you were on your last legs. Instead of redefining you he kept you doing what you’d always done. He knew he could get a constant wage out of you and that’s why he kept you doing the clubs. He knew if he tried something new it could fail and he’d lose you because you’d lose heart and chuck it all in. He was just using you, Dad, and I’m glad you’re finally rid of him.”

  “I’m sure he wasn’t using me, Lou.”

  “No? Sam said the same thing last year. Told her to be on the lookout for something.”

  “Sam?”

  “She’s been helping you out for a long time, Dad. This game show didn’t just drop into your lap by accident.”

  “God, and I haven’t even called her in so long.”

  “But she was still looking out for you.” Louise smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Sam’s just happy you got the job.”

  “She is?”

  “Dad, she got you a job, the least you could do is talk to her.”

  “I ... do talk to her.”

  Louise sighed. Her father and Sam had never really got along. Sam had always been headstrong, even as a child, and the two had never seen eye to eye about anything. Louise was not the rebel, she was just her daddy’s girl, and her relationship with her father had never deteriorated. What her father had never really understood, what most fathers probably never understand, is that no matter how much a child (now adult) has spent arguing with her father, she’s still her father’s daughter.

  “I’ll call her,” Corsac promised. “Tonight. I’ll probably just get Derek, though.”

  “Don’t much like Derek, do you?” Louise asked whimsically.

  “Infinitely better than Steve was.” Corsac watched his daughter’s eyes suddenly dart away as he said this and inwardly he groaned. “Lou, please tell me you’re not back with Steve?”

  “OK, I won’t te
ll you.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Neither was the joke about the blind guy on one leg.”

  “He’s no good for you, Lou. You know that.”

  “Do I?”

  “He uses you, Lou.”

  “Well then, maybe we’ve just figured out where I get that from. Maybe we Corsacs just like to be used by people.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Sorry, I just ... Dad, Steve’s not that bad.”

  “He got a job yet?”

  A pause. “He’s looking.”

  “Is he looking at windows while he does it?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Breaking and entering is serious, Lou. I don’t care how long ago it was, the guy’s no good for you.”

  “I’m sure he’s not, but I could tell you what he is good at.”

  Corsac shook his head, knowing Louise was saying that on purpose just to make him walk away. Instead he breathed deeply and said, “I just don’t want to see you doing something stupid, Lou. You shouldn’t revisit your mistakes. It doesn’t solve anything.”

  “Jack!” a voice called as a young woman trotted up to him. “We’re back on in five.”

  Louise glanced up at the woman. She was in her early twenties and wore her dark hair long. Her attire was decent, so long as you were at the beach, and the V cut of her top was likely drawing in a few more viewers for the show. In fact, Louise amended her viewpoint: she couldn’t say she had seen that sort of outfit even on the beach. It was white, pure white as though that was supposed to symbolise something. There were white boots which progressed halfway to the woman’s knees, made of laced leather. Her legs were otherwise bare, with her costume clinging tightly to her hips, forming a sharp V. One at the top, one at the bottom. At least it was symmetrical.

  The top of the costume was no better. The arms were bare down to the elbows, where the woman wore white leather gloves. At her shoulders, the clothes began, leading a form-fitting piece directly down to her thighs. It was likely a one-piece suit, but Louise really didn’t want to look that closely.

  On second glance, which was one more than Louise wanted to make, she noticed all the edges of the costume were pronounced by white fluffy frills which were a somewhat sleazy cross between feathers and cotton wool. In all, it was certainly not attire suited for the beach, or a family game show. Louise had the inexplicable urge to place a five-pound note in the woman’s cleavage.