But Mel, with his suicidal tendencies, had made me stay. It hadn’t even occurred to me to leave. In fact, if he hadn’t started to fall asleep at three o’clock and hadn’t been completely spark out at four-fifteen I would’ve spent the night with him. Listening. Only listening.
I’d got worse. Moving up here had made me worse, not better. I hadn’t ‘started over’. The Commandments were so underused I’d forgotten how they went – much like the real Commandments.
I hadn’t started over at all. I’d become so embroiled in people’s lives it didn’t even enter my mind that I had a life. In fact, did I have a life? What was I feeling before the party? I can’t even remember. I can’t actually remember what I was feeling or thinking about before Mel. I pulled a cushion over my head. I’d lost myself in other people’s lives.
Click, went the front door, as someone closed it quietly. I peeked out from under my cushion as a form slunk past the living room and went towards the kitchen. That looked like Jake.
Except it didn’t. It looked like a depressed version of Jake, his head hung low, his body moving listlessly. He could be coming down after a major drugs binge or, I took a moment, yup, no mistaking it. The air in his wake sparkled with sex. And it certainly wasn’t from me.
I threw back the covers, got up, picked up my duvet and wrapped it around myself in the manner of a movie starlet after she’s had sex and is off to the kitchen. (Those beanpole actresses made it look so easy, wrapping heavy bedding around yourself AND walking. It wasn’t. At all.)
Jake sat on a stool by the breakfast bar, staring out the back window even though the blinds were closed. He hadn’t turned on the light and the kitchen was in semi-darkness.
‘Where’ve you been, you dirty stop-out?’ I whispered. Whispering seemed to fit the mood.
‘Getting screwed in every way possible,’ Jake replied.
easter holidays
chapter fifteen
Just Good Friends
First day of the Easter holidays. First day of my first official holiday as a lecturer. God knows what I’m going to do with it.
Saturday was officially the first day of my holidays, but after the whole Mel/Jake thing on Friday night/Saturday morning, the whole of Saturday spent in front of the TV with Jake and Ed, recovering, and most of Sunday spent in front of the telly with Jake and Ed, I hadn’t really felt like I was on holiday.
I snuck down under the covers. And besides, this was the first weekday in ages that I got to sleep in. Weekday after weekday of lying in would follow. Kids’ TV and eating chocolate. There was no bad here, at all.
I rolled over and listened to the silence in the house. It was pure silence. Jake and Ed had both gone home to see their parents last night. Both had been concerned that I might be scared being on my own in the house. ‘Not me,’ I’d said bravely. The scary clown from It hadn’t entered my mind until Jake had hit the M1. He’d left last. He’d dropped Ed down at Leeds station in town, Ed had a very long journey down to Cornwall so wouldn’t reach there until sometime today.
Jake had then come back and had something to eat before getting himself ready for the drive back to Scotland. Involuntarily, my body sighed as I thought of Jake . . .
After I’d gone into the kitchen, Jake had filled me in on the details of his love life.
Jake was a good-looking lad, nice personality, had the capacity to be a bastard but only if really pushed. I did often wonder if he was too sensitive. Cared too much about other people, took them at their word even though he didn’t trust anyone. He thought too much about others. (That was probably the pot calling the kettle black but I had no choice in it. I had the wants of others thrust upon me, Jake was just too considerate.) If he saw something he thought someone would like, he’d most likely buy it for them. They’d be surprised, pleased, but rarely did he get it back in kind. As in, very, very, very few people did the same for him. Few people thought that much beyond their own world. The way Jake was so giving was odd considering he was an only child, some might say. However, it’s likely that was part of Jake’s motivation – he wanted to give too much to be loved too much. He probably thought he had to buy presents for his friends to make them play with him. As an adult, he thought he had to be extra nice all the time to make his friends love him.
Jake did realise that the buying of presents and niceness was a fragile basis for a friendship. That he could never be sure if they liked him for him or his niceness. If he showed them his nasty side would they still be there for him? A couple of times I’d been tempted to sit Jake down and tell him to scrub that ‘trample all over me’ sign off his forehead. I mean, take the whole ‘you don’t need a reference to move into my lovely home’ episode with me. I could’ve been anyone from that chick in Single White Female to Michael Keaton in Pacific Heights; I could have been on the run from a mental hospital. But Jake took me at my word when I said I was normal. Jake was too nice. Which was why he’d been screwed over in his love life.
Basically, the story went like this: Jake had known this guy, now renamed The Git, for years. They’d been good mates, had a laugh, but The Git had a long-term boyfriend. A year or so ago, they’d got drunk together, one thing led to another and Jake and The Git ended up in bed. Jake, not having any confidence in his attractiveness knew that The Git wouldn’t leave his fella, so they just got on with being mates. But, they were constantly flirting and one day, when they were both sober, they’d ended up in bed again. It’d happened regularly after that; every month or so, Jake and The Git shagged.
That night, at the party, Jake had gone to find The Git, not to find drugs, they’d gone home to The Git’s place, had sex, ended up having a long chat. Jake had basically gone vocal with his feelings, told this guy how he felt. Not a great big, I love you, more a ‘I’ve felt a lot for you for several years and I’d like to know how you feel. Cos we can’t be sleeping together every month and let it carry on like this indefinitely. I just want to know if there’s some hope for us, you know, somewhere down the track. I’m not expecting you to leave your fella, I just want to know how you feel.’
And The Git had told him to f-off, but in a lot more words. It’d sounded so cruel, so unnecessary, I felt like I’d been slapped. And I wasn’t there.
‘Go on, say it,’ Jake said tiredly when he finished his hideous tale.
I’d made tea and we’d gone outside onto the patio to watch the sun come up. I was sat in my underwear, hidden and warmed by the duvet; Jake was curled up in his chair with my long black coat draped over him.
‘Say what?’ I asked.
‘What everyone else says: “You should just forget about him now. Put him right out of your mind and move on.” Go on, say it, you might as well, everyone else has.’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not like everyone else,’ I said, a little offended that Jake would think that of me. ‘And anyway Jake, I’d never say that. Not to you, not to anyone.’
‘Really? Why not?’ Jake asked, eyeing me suspiciously.
‘People only say “move on, get over him” because it’s a nicer way of saying, “I’m sick to death of hearing about this, just shut up will you.”’
Jake double-took. Clearly a ‘thought into head, out of mouth’ moment. But it was true, I simply should’ve dressed it up a bit nicer. ‘It’s true. I’m sorry to put it like that, but it’s true. People get to the point where they’re so frustrated at listening to a tale, they shut off from it. And how do they stop you from wittering on about it? Tell you to move on. I’d never say that to you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because if you knew how to move on, you’d have done it already.’ I pulled my knees up onto the chair so I could double-up the duvet. Watching the sun say hello was very nice but also very cold on a late March morning. ‘I know it’s not a simple case of forgetting him. If it were that simple, half the books and films and songs out there wouldn’t have been written. Actually, half the books, films and songs out there shouldn’t have been wri
tten . . . but that’s beside the point. In the grand scheme of things, getting over someone isn’t easy. And you shouldn’t harass yourself or let anyone else harass you about it. If you want to hurt over this guy, go right ahead. They’re your emotions. It’s your life.’
‘What do you think I should do?’ he asked.
‘That’s the whole point, isn’t it Jake? It doesn’t matter what I think, or what anyone else thinks. What matters is you do what comes from the heart.’
‘I did, and look where it got me. I told him how I felt in a light way, nothing heavy, not making any demands and he told me to fuck off. I just don’t think I deserved to be treated like that. I mean if like he said, he knew all those years how I felt, then why sleep with me? You know he said he slept with me out of friendship. Like I couldn’t have handled a rejection. Rejection’s bad, but this is worse. I mean, why wait until now to tell me to get lost?’
‘Because, sweetheart, it was a lot easier to ignore it. And, of course, it didn’t do his ego any harm.’ Ouch. Another head to mouth moment that got away from me.
Through the pale blue light of sunrise, Jake stared at me, surprise smeared all over his face.
‘Yeah, well, it’s true.’ I looked down at the pattern embroidered on my duvet. ‘All that noble, “I slept with you out of friendship” stuff is nonsense. Once is pity. Twice is being too nice. Once a month is enjoying it. The attention and the sex. Mate, if I had someone as good-looking, lively and good-hearted as you following me round, I’d be flattered. I wouldn’t want to get rid of you, I’d be sending out mixed signals left, right and centre. I’d probably end up sleeping with you. It’s human nature.’
‘Maybe,’ Jake said quietly.
‘I’ll let you in on a little secret that I’ve gleaned from all my years as a listener of tales and as a rejected woman. You can flatter almost anyone into bed. There’s only a small, small,’ I raised my finger and thumb and showed Jake how small, ‘minuscule number of people who are immune to flattery and they’re the ones who don’t like sex very much. Because the way to anyone’s libido is through their ego. I mean, think of the people you’ve slept with solely because they were extra nice to you or made you feel special or kept on about how great you were. Everyone has their ego trigger and almost everyone can be flattered into bed once you find it. If you hang around this guy long enough, you’ll get him into bed again for sure. Even though you’ve had this chat and he’s said all this stuff.’
‘You think?’ Jake said a bit too keenly. Considering how badly he’d been treated not an hour ago.
‘Yup. He’s done it once, he’ll do it again. It’s just a question of how long you’re going to put your life on hold till it happens again.’
Jake stared off into the distance, he seemed happier. Which wasn’t the point. It so wasn’t the point. He shouldn’t have been fixated on the fact he could shag The Git again if he wanted to.
‘Ask yourself Jake, is just another shag good enough for you? Because, mate, now that he’s treated you like that and finds out he can still get away with it, a shag and ill-treatment is all you’re likely to get.’
I lay back in bed, listening again to the silence. To my breathing. My life force going in and out. I looked down at my chest, moving up and down. I held my breath, then let it out. I could’ve gone home too. Returned to London for a few days or the complete break. But London was my bête noire now. Somewhere I’d rather not go to unless it was to see specific people. Because it wasn’t my home. My bank statement with all my mortgage payments and loan payments and insurance payments may say that London was my home, but in my heart, home was where my body was. Not where my accent was from.
I jumped when the phone rang. The house was that silent, that still. I rolled over in bed and picked it up. ‘Hello.’
‘Right, D’Altroy, get out of bed and get your arse round here.’
‘How do you know I’m in bed?’
‘You’re always in bed.’
‘True. And why, exactly should I extract myself from it at only midday on a Monday when I’ve got Oprah starting in an hour and a half ?’
‘Fred’s gone away with his football mates; the girls are off in Spain, so we’re going drinking, and you’re staying over afterwards,’ Jess said.
‘What now?’
‘The very second you get here.’
‘But . . .’
‘But what?’
‘But nothing, I suppose.’
‘OK, get a bus round here and we’ll start in the Grey Horse, work our way down Town Street.’
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ I asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not as young as y—’
‘Brrrrrrr,’ the dialling tone replied.
We’d been sat in the Hog’s Head, the fourth pub down Town Street, for less than an hour when the barman came over with a clear drink in a clear glass on a silver tray.
‘Excuse me love, sorry to interrupt, but someone asked for this drink to be sent over to you,’ he said. He was blushing profusely.
‘Ahh, it’s from you, isn’t it?’ Jess laughed.
‘No, love. It’s him over there, by the fruit machine.’ Jess and I went to look. ‘Don’t look,’ the barman hissed. ‘He asked me not to tell you who it’s from straight away.’
‘Did someone really send her a drink?’ Jess asked, looking at me and on the point of laughter. Cheeky mare. Obviously didn’t realise that my beauty inspired such acts from men.
‘No, love, it’s for you.’
chapter sixteen
Pulling
‘We’re in a pub in Horsforth, not a bar in bloody LA,’ Jess said, looking around the bar. A tall, tanned man grinned at her and raised his glass to her.
‘You’ve pulled,’ I hissed at Jess. He wore a shiny suit, the kind that no man looked good in – not even my beloved Angel would look good in that.
‘He probably meant it for you.’ Jess slid the drink over to me.
‘You wish,’ I replied. ‘Oh God, he’s coming over.’
‘Hide!’ Jess shrieked quietly. For a women of her age, she moved with lightning speed, but she wasn’t quick enough for me. I grabbed her arm, held her in the booth. ‘You’re going nowhere, lady,’ I whispered, then: ‘Smile for the nice gentleman.’
‘How you ladies doing?’ the man said in the fakest American accent I’d ever heard. His eyes sparkled in Jess’s direction.
Neither of us spoke. Shock, I think. It’s not every day you’re confronted with a man who sends over drinks, wears light-reactive suits and talks with a fake accent. ‘Fine,’ I finally said. I was, after all, far more used to this than Jess.
I kicked Jess. ‘Ow!’ she said. ‘Ow, I’m fine.’
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ he asked Jess.
Jess’s head swung round to look at me. Rescue me was written in her eyes.
Not on your life, I said back. I’m sure there was something I needed to get her back for. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just be off to the bathroom,’ I managed with a straight face, slid out of the booth and went prancing off to the toilets.
I took my time returning from the loo. Jess, who I was sure never fully appreciated what it was like to be constantly approached by weirdos, needed time. To learn. As I reached them, her eyes swung up to look at me.
‘I was just telling our guest here that we’re off to meet our husbands for dinner, aren’t we?’ she beseeched. She was two seconds away from throwing herself on her knees at my feet and begging me to get her out of there.
‘Yeah,’ I replied, trying to keep a straight face. ‘I just noticed in the john, that we’d be late, if we didn’t leave now.’
Jess grabbed her bag.
‘We could finish our drinks though, if you want,’ I said.
‘No, no, you know how my other half gets when we’re late.’ Jess shot out of the booth.
‘At least let me have your phone number?’ the man begged.
I felt a li
ttle sorry for him then. He wasn’t just some weirdo, although he was a weirdo – nobody persisted with that fake accent unless they were a little strange – he genuinely liked Jess. I could sense that. He thought she was beautiful, he liked the way she laughed and had watched her for a while before sending over the drink. That was why he’d sent over the drink. He liked the way she pushed me away when she really laughed. The way her hair flowed down her back, the way her eyes were intense when she was listening.
‘Oi,’ Jess said, shaking me, ‘come back to earth, we’re leaving.’
‘Sorry?’ I said, struggling to focus on her.
‘You checked out of reality then. We’re going to be late.’
‘Yeah, right,’ I said. For a second, I hadn’t been myself. Now that was weird, that was an out of body experience. The way I expected drugs to feel. How I felt then was the reason I didn’t take drugs – I always wanted to be in control of who I was.
‘Have I seen you around The Met?’ The guy was very good-looking. Shaved head, brown skin, very dark eyes framed by long black eyelashes. And he was, of course, talking to Jessica Breakfield. A woman who was clearly old enough to be his mother. Not that I was bitter or jealous or anything.
‘Maybe,’ Jess replied, cautiously.
The guy took this as a green light and sat opposite her at our table. ‘You’re in the psychology department, aren’t you?’ he said keenly.
‘Have you been stalking me?’ Jess asked.
‘No, I’ve just seen you around college and always wanted to come talk to you but never had the courage and here you are in my local.’
‘You want to talk to me about psychology? I only do that Monday to Friday between nine and six.’