50 Reasons to Say Goodbye (4 page)

Dirk grits his teeth, then says, “You've had too much to drink.”

I shake my head in despair. “Of course I've had too much to fucking drink! Otherwise I'd be sitting here in silent adoration, like the big wanker that I actually
am
instead of asking the bloody question,” I say.

People are
really
staring now. Dirk glances around uncomfortably. “Can we discuss this outside please?”

He places a hand on my shoulder. I get up.

The pebbles on the beach are cold and damp. I shiver and light a cigarette. Opposite, the moon and the lights on the pier shimmer in the water. Under different circumstances it would be perfectly romantic. Still, it calms me; the cold air sobers me. “Look Dirk,” I say reasonably. “I just need to know where this thing is going.”

He nods his head, looks at his feet. “I'm sorry, I didn't know,” he says.

“Well now you do.”

“But I don't… I couldn't.”

“I mean, what do you think we've been doing for two months?”

“I thought we were friends,” he says.

“And you've never considered sleeping with me?”

“Sorry.” He pauses. “No.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “I think I love you too much, I mean I don't really do that.”

Tears well up and trickle down. “Do what?” I say. The “wh” of “what” whistles.

“I don't have relationships with people I love. I
have, you know, casual sex, but not … I love you too much.”

I taste the tears on my lips. “And sex as an expression of love?”

He puts a hand on my shoulder but I shrug it off.

He says, “Look, don't make this into a drama.”

He says, “Let's go back to the hotel.”

I say, “No.” Then it turns into a shout. “Fuck off Dirk! You're just so full of shit, just fuck off.”

And slowly he does; in little hesitant steps he retreats up the beach.

I weep. I sit on Brighton beach and I let it all out.

The alcohol has opened the floodgates to hell. I cry for myself, for my dead father, for anyone who has ever been unhappy. It all washes through me.

When I awaken, damp and stiff at sunrise, I return to the hotel room.

Dirk is snoring; I climb carefully into the bed but he wakes up.

He moves across the bed.

A little later, he gets up and goes to the bathroom.

I pretend to sleep, but I hear him pack and then I hear him leave.

The bus turns out to be wonderful. It's hard to believe that I have been driving to work for over two years. In the mornings, as it thunders down the bus-lane past the traffic-jams, I doze. In the evenings, I read. Over an hour a day gained.

I notice him on the third day; I see him climb onto the bus. He asks the driver about season tickets. He has a gentle Irish accent; his jet-black hair glistens from standing in the rain and his cheeks are ruddy. In my mind, he becomes Paddy, then Patrick. He laughs at something the driver says, moves to the back of the bus smiling at everyone, smiling at me.

I don't actually think much about it until the next morning. Not until I find myself sitting at the back of the bus, watching to see if he will climb those stairs.

He arrives at the last minute, squeezes through the closing doors. He sits in the same seat as yesterday, across from me. I sit sideways, peer at him over my book. I try to work out what's so cute about him and decide that it's his mouth – it crinkles up at the corners in a permanent smile.

He peers out of the window. Occasionally he works, scribbles what look like mathematical formulae in his notebook.

On Monday, the bus is crowded and a fat woman sits in his seat. I reserve the seat next to mine with my coat then remove it as he arrives. Our thighs bump together as the bus hammers round the roundabouts. I move my book to cover my erection. He places his coat on his own lap, and I wonder.

Tuesday, I wipe the mist from the window. I strain, hoping to see him running as the bus pulls away, dream of being the one to shout to the driver, stop the bus, save him, but he doesn't appear. I think about him all day at work and I promise fate that if he appears tomorrow I'll talk to him.

Wednesday night as I go to sleep I actually pray, beg for a second chance. I say, “Look! I know this is dumb, but that guy …” I end with, “Sorry, but there's just something about him, a feeling.”

It's ridiculous, I know; for there is nothing there, no story, no opening, but it takes a month before I stop looking, stop hoping.

I've had too much to drink – Nick's friends are to blame. Two more pints are already sitting on the table, waiting for me. Nick is on form, eyes shining, an easy smile. The pub is busy, buzzy, like a London pub after work. Everything is a blur and I feel soft and cocooned by the alcohol.

“You're very quiet,” says Nick.

I grin at him. “Pissed,” I say.

I push through the crowd to the toilets, and as I enter, I vaguely note a new face, a
nice
face – shaved head and stubble.
“He looks like a footballer,”
I think. As I piss, the name comes to me:
Eric Cantona
.

On the way out he grins at me, a tight-lipped intentional grin with raised eyebrows.

I sit back down. “D'you know that guy by the loos?” I ask Nick.

He strains in his seat, peers over. “Which one?”

“Eric Cantona,” I giggle drunkenly.

Nick stretches, stands, peers again, and sits back down. “Yeah,” he says. “And I'm Marilyn Monroe!”

“He's cute though,” I say. “Very … male.”

Nick shrugs. “Go talk to him.”

I lay my head on his shoulder. He slips an arm around me. “What's the point?” I say. “They all have a shelf life of twenty-four hours anyway. He'll be off by tomorrow.”

Nick squeezes me. I pull a cigarette from the packet. “If that's the way you think,” he says.

I light it. “I know, I know,” I say. “I'll never meet anyone.”

The smoke makes my head spin. I feel dizzy, so I
stub it out and stand. “I need some air,” I say.

I move clumsily through the crowd, out into the fresh night air. The roads shine beneath the drizzle; I lean against the wall. The music inside makes the windows behind me buzz and rattle. A car crawls past – the driver peers at me.

The pub door opens; the music thumps out – it's Eric Cantona. He leans against the wall beside me. He says something breathy, but it's drowned out by the music. The door closes.

“Sorry?” I ask.

“You needed fresh air too,” he says. His voice is crackly, croaky.

I double take him.

He explains, touching his chest, “I lost my voice.”

I nod. I stare at the streetlight opposite – it is blurred, two-headed. I shake my head.

“Sorry,” I slur. “I've gotta go home … Too much to drink.” I feel tired, drunk, slightly sick, slightly depressed. I can't be bothered with it at all.

Eric Cantona nods. “Can I come?” he whispers.

I turn, stare at him and try to focus. He cracks up laughing. I snigger too.

We stumble along together; I think he's as drunk as I am. It's just too much effort for him, so I talk as we bump along side by side.

He breathes “um” and “huh” noises in reply.

At home I fumble with the lock, stumble into the hall. We kiss for the first time in the darkened hallway at the bottom of the stairs, but my mouth is numbed by the alcohol – I don't feel much.

We move into the lounge. My flatmate is out, for which I am grateful. We kiss, we cuddle, we half undress, move into the bedroom. His body is tight, firm, and hairless.

We kiss again but his mouth is drunken and slobbery and I don't enjoy kissing him at all.

I fall onto my bed; he collapses beside me, rests his head on my chest.

“Look, I'm, like
really
pissed,” he hisses. “I'm sorry, but …” Phlegm catches in his throat, rattles as he breathes the words.

I smile to reassure him. “Me too,” I say. “There's always tomorrow morning.”

I am happy just to have him in my bed.

I awaken first. I hear John rummaging around behind the bedroom door. I look at Eric Cantona lying beside me – he's smaller than I remember. He has tiny hands and darker stubble this morning. Asleep he looks quite beautiful, angelic even. I slip carefully from the bed, pull on some jeans and creep from the room.

In the kitchen, John is making tea. “D'you want some?” he asks me, waving the pot. He's wearing cricket whites.

I nod. “Two cups please.”

He looks at the door, raises an eyebrow. I nod, grin.

“Tell me more,” says John reaching for another cup.

I shrug. “I dunno. I was
sooo
drunk.”

John pours the second cup.

“He looks a bit like that footballer, Eric Cantona,” I say. “But smaller, very cute, very butch.”

“His name?”

I bite my lip. “Don't know that either, husky voice though, actually he's
lost
his voice,” I add, remembering.

John adds milk to the first cup of tea then pauses, interrupted by a shriek – a high-pitched, sharp-edged shriek.

“Helllooooo?”

John looks at me in surprise.

“Helllooooo! Is anyone ho-w-ome?” The voice rings
around the house.

“Eric Cantona, I presume,” John smirks.

I bite my lip as he appears in the doorway, a sheet wrapped around him toga-style.

“Joel actually,” he says. He pronounces it “Joe-elle.”

He continues, “Ooh, sorry boys.” He looks at me, raises an eyebrow. “I didn't realise we had
company!”

His voice is machine-gun speed – high pitched, exaggerated camp.

“And guess what!” he says mincing to my side.

I grit my teeth. “What?”

He flattens his hand across his chest. “I got my voice back.”

He leans back against the countertop, eyes John from head to toe. “Very nice, I must say. Very …
white,”
he says.

“John plays cricket,” I explain.

He purses his lips, says, “Ooh, a real man.”

I look at John and imperceptibly widen my eyes.

He sees, stifles a snigger, and looks at his watch. “Oh shit!” he says.

“John?” I say. I look at him pleadingly.

“Gee, I have to go.” I hear the irony in his voice.

He sweeps his cricket bag off the floor.

Eric Cantona/Joe-elle bends a leg, juts out a hip. “Oh well,” he says. He sounds disappointed.

“Now you boys be good,” says John pushing out of the lounge.

I roll my eyes. Under my breath I say, “Bastard!”

The front door slams and as Joe-elle spins to face me, his sheet drops. “Good morning my little cuddle-monster,” he says.

He grins; his teeth need a brace.

“I have such a hangover,” I say.

I'm in the Burleigh when I see Dirk again. I am swaying at the bar, somewhat drunk but still trying to get another round in before last orders. I grin stupidly and he smiles back.

“So, Mark!” he says. “Long time no see, how long has it been? Six months?”

We force smiles and force ourselves to laugh about Brighton.

I say, “How did you get back?” and, “I was such an arsehole.”

Dirk says, “Such a good weekend, despite it all!”

But my world suddenly is huge again. I look at his eyes, at the sparkle of intelligence and love shining out, and it all happens to me again.

Nick appears behind me. “Are you bringing that round over or not?” he asks.

I slide an arm around Dirk's shoulders. I notice, but ignore, the rigidity of his body. I say to Nick, “He's back!”

Nick grins at us both. “Well good for you!” he says.

Dirk worms his way from my grasp, disappears into the toilets.

I chat to Nick, and Darren, and anyone else nearby, suddenly drunk and hysterically happy. When my glass is empty I point to the remaining pint on the bar, ask whose it is.

It's Dirk's. He has gone.

Eleven-thirty p.m. It's closing time, and the house is instantly full. The three hi-fis that John has wired together, which sounded so loud when we tested them this morning, are having trouble rising above the babble of the rabble. The flashing disco lights and the smoke machine, both rented, are working in hyperactive harmony. Our lounge is a nightclub.

Forty people are frantically dancing, stomping, swinging, bouncing. Some of us, mainly my friends, are singing along to Gwen Guthrie's:
Ain't Nothin' Goin' on But the Rent.

Claire, strangely, is dancing the twist with the French girl currently living in her house. Owen, my brother, up for the weekend, is staring at his feet, drunkenly trying to get them to coordinate. The French girl spins Claire away into the crowd. She spins out of orbit, out of control and collapses across three people sitting on the sofa. Everyone laughs, everyone grins.

I press the button on the smoke machine and with the sound of a rush of air everything disappears behind a thick fog. I see a head floating above the grey blanket of cloud, eerily wobbling from side to side like a Hindu Deity. The only person that tall is Dirk and I grin as I move towards him.

His reaction is the same as ever: dead calm. “Hi Mark! Great party!” he says.

I restrain myself and place a hand on his shoulder. I grin at him. “I'm glad you came,” I shout back. “Hey, and this time don't piss off without saying goodbye!”

Dirk laughs. “That's why I'm here,” he shouts. “To say goodbye.”

I frown. “Uh?”

He leans into my ear. I can feel his breath swirling around the edges as he speaks. “I'm here to say goodbye,” he says. “I'm flying back to L.A. on Monday.”

I nod. I force a smile.

“Everybody's gotta go sometime,” I say.