Boyfriend in a Dress (26 page)

‘Well, no, I didn’t think there was any need to go into that, I was telling him it was over, that was enough, I think.’

‘Right.’ He still won’t look at me.

‘Dale, are you okay?’ I can’t believe he is showing no reaction whatsoever – no emotion at all.

‘Dale?’ I ask again.

‘Did he ask you if there was anybody else?’ he asks.

‘No, no, he didn’t ask,’ I say, and gulp.

We sit there for a couple of minutes, and I shiver again. He takes off his coat, and hands it to me. I slip it on, and snuggle into his borrowed warmth, and the smell of it.

‘I have to go soon,’ he says quietly.

‘That’s the thing,’ I say, and turn myself to look at him. He still looks at the ground, but speaks quickly.

‘I am going. I’m not staying,’ he says, and I am thrown.

‘Okay, well, I just thought we could talk about the possibility of, well, if you won’t stay, maybe I could come and see you … or something.’ I feel like a useless kid. All my courage has gone out of the window. He is non-responsive.

‘Why would you do that?’ he asks, and looks up finally. I can really see his eyes, feel them searching for the right answer from me.

‘Because, I’d like to see you … or spend more time with you … it would just be a shame if that was it.’ I trail off.

‘What, like last night? Do you want to come and see me, sleep with me, meet my kids, say hi to Joleen?’ He is being cold, and I don’t know why. Somehow I have hurt him all over again.

‘Why are you being like this? Don’t you think it would be nice to … keep in touch?’

‘I don’t know that it would. You don’t know what you want. I came here, I thought I’d say hello, and look what’s happened! You’ve split up with Charlie – you shouldn’t have done that!’

‘I didn’t do it for you! I did it because I was always going to do it! I did it because we were running on empty, and you being here, well, it just made me realize that I didn’t have to be with him because I felt sorry for him, or felt guilty about something, and besides you didn’t just come to say hello, you
came with every intention of …’ He looks at me too deeply, and I look away.

‘Well, for whatever reason, Dale. I just think that we get on, you know? Maybe we could just see what happens.’

He stands up, and takes a couple of steps forward.

‘I have to go.’

‘No, no, you can’t just go like this!’ I shout and jump to my feet.

‘Why not? Because you aren’t in control, because someone is rejecting you for once? This is how it feels! I’m going.’

He takes a couple of steps away from me, and I run towards him, but stop myself short before actually touching him. He senses me behind him and turns around.

‘What, Nicola? Are you going to tell me that you love me? How desperate are you going to get here, to get the upper hand?’

‘What? No, well, I wouldn’t say I loved you, but … I feel fondly for you.’ I sound pathetic.

‘Fondly? You are joking.’ He turns and walks away again.

‘Why are you being so cold – I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong? I was in a difficult situation!’

‘Well, so was I – I came here and sought you out, and put myself out on a fucking limb for you, and you weren’t even going to give me the right phone number, for Christ’s sake, but then Charlie fucked up and you needed a shoulder to cry on, and you let me coerce you into bed, like you had no say in the matter, and were doing me a favour – I felt like we were back at college again! And then you sneak off, and I spend a day waiting around for you to call, thinking, I won’t call her, she’ll turn up. And now, now that I’ve made up my mind, you want me to change all my plans for you! Tell me, if I told you I’d stay would you want me to go? Is it just somebody leaving YOU that you can’t take? Because if that is it, you are pathetic.’ He looks at me icily, and I want
to shout something at him, shout that he’s being unfair, he isn’t even trying to see it from my perspective, but I’m scared that if I open my mouth I’ll cry.

‘Well?’ he says, and takes a step towards me, and looks into my eyes.

He takes my face in his hands, and wipes away a tear that rolls slowly down one side of my cheek, and then says softly,

‘Do you think that you are so fucking irresistible that no one, especially not me, could walk away?’

I shake him off and take a step back, and start to cry. I rip his coat off and throw it on the ground in front of me. He practically chuckles at my immaturity, and picks it up, brushing it down, and throws it over his arm.

‘Oh stop fucking crying, you’ll be over this in a week.’ And he turns to walk away.

‘You know what?’ I yell after him, through my tears my words sound distorted, and I sound young, eighteen again.

‘You know what!’ as he carries on walking away.

‘I’m glad I did it. I’m glad I got rid of it! It could have turned out like you!’

As soon as I say the words, I regret them, and I put my hand over my mouth to stop myself saying anything else. The worst things are said in the heat of the moment, horrible things that you don’t for a second believe, you just want to hurt somebody as much as they have hurt you, make them feel as bad as you are feeling. But there are some things that should never be said, that are too bad to take back.

Dale turns and looks at me, and takes a few steps forwards. I am suddenly very aware of where I am – in a park, in London, at one o’clock in the morning with a man I have just told I killed his baby. I am scared, and I look around quickly to see if I can spot anybody else, but we are alone. The only light is from the street-lamps behind Dale, which he is blocking out
with a frame that seems to have grown bigger in the last few minutes.

‘What did you say?’ he asks me quietly.

I stand still, and hope he will just walk off.

‘Is that it? Is that what this has all been about? Did you get … were you pregnant?’

‘No, I didn’t mean that,’ I say quickly, and try and make myself seem bigger.

‘Nicola, did I get you pregnant, all those years ago?’ Dale has a strange look on his face, almost a smile. My eyes widen at the situation I am in. I am actually starting to fear for …

‘No, Jesus, just go if you’re going. I’m not keeping you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry if you had a shit time in London, and I’m sorry if I wasn’t the princess you thought I’d be. Please, Dale, just go. Don’t say anything else.’ I hug myself tightly, try and protect myself from his eyes, which are stabbing into me.

‘Did I get you pregnant?’ he asks again and takes two more steps towards me, within striking distance now. I shake my head and start to cry, and hope he will just leave.

Dale leans in towards me, and I feel my body tense up, but I am rooted to the spot. He whispers in my ear,

‘Would have been a lucky kid, if it had its mother’s looks and its daddy’s brains. But the other way around could have been terrible.’ He lingers for a second, and I can feel his breath on my face. And then he does something unexpected; he kisses me softly on the cheek, a cheek wet with tears.

‘See ya,’ he whispers, and turns and walks away. I look up after a minute, and see him over the road, climbing into a taxi. I think he looks towards me, but I’m not sure. The door closes, and the driver pulls off. The cab turns around, and drives towards me. I walk towards the road, and wait on the pavement on the other side of the road. The cabbie waits for a motorbike to pass, and then pulls off, past me. I look into the darkness, but I can’t see his face. How could
he just brush it aside like that, how could he not be affected by something like that, something huge? How could he leave, after what I’d just told him?

I walk back towards the hotel – I need to get a cab, I need to go home – and then my mobile starts to ring. I reach for it in my bag, and see Charlie’s name flash up on the screen, and my battery bleeps at me to be charged.

‘Hello?’

‘Nicola, why are you still up? Where are you? Have you been crying? What’s going on, are you alright?’

‘Yeah, honestly I’m fine,’ and I fight off the tears from starting all over again.

‘Where are you?’

‘In the middle of town.’

‘Get in a cab, and come here now.’

‘Charlie, how can I? I can’t, not after tonight.’

‘Yes you can – get in a cab, come here now. You were there for me, I’m going to do the same. I’ve got money, just get a cab. And not a dodgy one either, a black cab.’

‘I can’t.’ My phone goes dead. I walk over to the concierge.

‘Are you okay, Miss, you aren’t hurt, are you?’ He notices my tears.

‘No, I’m okay, can I get a cab please?’

The concierge whistles for a cab, and one pulls out from a street down the road.

‘Thank you,’ I say, and get in.

‘Ealing please,’ I tell the cabbie, and sit back in the dark. It’s time to go home.

The weekend drifts and drags by; every time I turn on my phone there is another message from Charlie, angry or upset or apologetic. I don’t call. It wouldn’t do him any good at all. My moods fly about like juggling balls, and my thoughts range from getting on the next plane to the States, to going round to Charlie’s, to just sleeping all day every day for the next year. The fact that I now have three weeks before I leave my job and I have done nothing about travelling, or finding myself another job, panics me slightly, but then I just push the thought away, and sleep again. I need to pull myself together. I need to see my friends, who all seem to sense that something is wrong, and are leaving messages constantly as well. By Sunday night, I know that the right thing to do is get up tomorrow – no more sleeping all day! – and go to work, and log onto the internet, and look for cheap holidays. I also need to phone up Jake and tell him he can rent the spare room in my flat for the next few months if he wants, if he doesn’t mind me coming and going. That way I have the mortgage covered, and I can use my savings just to go away, come back, decide what I want to do. As exciting as the prospect of this should be, breaking the routine, the world is my oyster and all that, I am not
remotely excited. It feels like a chore just to make a decision. I am distinctly … numb. The problem is, I can’t work out who it is I’m missing, Charlie or Dale. I convince myself it can’t be Charlie, given that I have ended it with him, and I know I shouldn’t go back, and I am practically convinced that he hasn’t really changed, and he can’t really love me like he says he does. But how can it be Dale? He was only here for a week.

I get into work early with washed and dried hair and a face full of make-up, and make quick phone calls to everybody, including Amy, who was worried as I had not phoned yesterday and had lunch as agreed. I fill up my diary with meals and the cinema and drinks, and coffees with Jake and Jules and Amy and Naomi, to keep myself busy. But when the last call has been made, and I put the phone down, I still feel numb, and quiet. I turn on the computer and start making lists of the work I need to do before going onto the internet and searching for holiday destinations. I think it’s true – nothing is as much fun on your own. Everything is better shared with somebody you like, or love.

My phone rings, and I answer it, wondering why Phil isn’t in yet.

‘Hello, Nicola speaking.’

‘Oh Nicola, it’s Terence Sewell, Phil’s granddad.’ I have met him a couple of times, lovely bloke, like a much older Phil with decent conversation. Phil has lived with him for a couple of years, since his parents moved to Barbados.

‘Hi Terence, is he chucking a sickie and getting you to call for him again? He really can phone himself you know,’ I say.

‘Nicola … Phil died yesterday morning. He was in a car crash, on the way back from football.’

‘What?’ I ask, bewildered. I don’t understand what he is telling me.

‘Phil died, yesterday. He won’t be …’ His voice breaks and I hear him sob, and try and control himself. I manage to hold onto the phone, but I am out of breath suddenly, and my body feels like it is collapsing on the inside.

‘I can’t … I don’t know …’ I can’t speak. I want to be sick.

‘The funeral will be on Thursday, I think. I’ll give you a call and let you know.’

‘Oh Jesus,’ are the only words I can say, completely involuntarily.

‘I’m very sorry, dear, he liked you a lot, he liked working for you …’ His voice goes again.

‘Thank you for letting me know. Is there anything I can do?’ I say the words without focusing, on autopilot.

‘No, his parents arrive at midday. If you could just let people know, at work, that obviously he won’t be in.’ I hear him cough to stifle the sobs in his throat.

‘Of course, thank you, for phoning …’

The phone goes dead.

I stare at the wall, and the door, and drop the phone. I can’t breathe at all. I feel sick, and giddy, and all I can think of is Phil’s face, playing cricket with his stupid ruler, and laughing at some terrible, politically incorrect joke. I run to the bathroom, past people flooding into the office, trying to stop me and ask what’s wrong, but I don’t make it in time, and I throw up all over the toilet floor. I slump down the side of the wall, and start to cry and hold my head in my hands, and shake with tears.

After an hour of people walking in and out on me in the bathroom, of dragging my hands through my hair, of crying myself to pieces, and when I am hoarse, and can physically cry no more, I push myself to my feet, and walk back into the office. I don’t look at his desk as I walk past, the organized
mess that was his way of coping, and make my way down to where the MD’s PA sits. People look at me weirdly, and stop and stare but I ignore them. I mumble out the necessary words to her in monotone and do not even note her reaction, the tears that immediately spring to her eyes – I think she had a thing for him, all the younger girls did, and I ask her to send an email to everybody in the office, let them know what’s happened. I tell her I am going out.

I grab my cigarettes and my sunglasses from my desk, and have to look away at the photocopier as I walk past his desk again, and head out into the bright blazing sunshine. All I can think is that now, now I need to be on my own. Using shaking stiff fingers, I manage to light a cigarette on the third, fourth, fifth attempt, and walk to the square, which is half full already of people sunbathing and laughing and soaking up another day that they got. I sit on a bench in the shade, and cry again. Images of Phil just keep pushing themselves to the front of my head. I want them there. I want to cry, I want to keep on crying. Every time my crying stops, and I get tired, and rest my head back, my mind makes me focus on him again, like some masochistic urge, and I start to cry again. Occasionally people walk past, and look away rather than look at the girl crying on the bench in the sunshine: something must be terribly wrong, they think. Something is. The sound of an ice-cream van penetrates my head, and I think that it is strange for it to be playing its tune in the middle of Soho. I want to punch anybody that comes within ten feet of me, and fight anybody whose voice I can hear talking about rubbish, about boyfriends, or the one who didn’t call, or how drunk they had been the night before. I want to make the whole world shut up, just for a while. He was a friend, and he saved my arse time and time again. And he worried about work without seeming to worry at all. Everybody has a death day – a day that they live through year in, year out.
If they knew that that was the day they would die, I wonder whether they’d have a ‘death day’ party, and mark it with the significance it deserves. Get drunk at least. And then in the next couple of days they’d be reminded how important it is just to live out each day properly, and wholly. Then, in the following weeks they’d forget it, and carry on as normal, having pointless arguments and doing pointless boring things, and worrying needlessly about trivial nothings, the way we all live.

I get back to the office at lunchtime, and now everybody is hushed as I walk through, and conversations stop around me. I feel the odd arm stroke my back as I pass , but I ignore it. I look at Phil’s desk outside my office, and pick up his ruler and carry it with me into my office, and close the door. I phone my mum.

‘Mummy, it’s me, can you talk?’ I ask, as I hear the noise of her office in the background. She works in a solicitor’s, has done since Charlotte was old enough to go to secondary school.

‘Of course, what’s wrong, darling?’ she asks.

‘Mummy …’ I feel the tears come again, the way they only can when you are talking to your mother, and through my tears I manage to say it.

‘Mummy, Phil died,’ and the tears flow again, and I feel like a child.

‘Oh Jesus,’ she says. It must be where I get it from. I had often told her about his stupid exploits, his silly stories, she had met him every time she had come up to town for lunch with me, or to the theatre in the evening. He had made her cups of tea while she waited for me to get out of over-running meetings.

‘Come home,’ she says, instantly knowing what I need.

‘Can I?’ I ask, stupidly.

‘Of course, come home now.’ She says it with an urgency
that the word ‘died’ causes in any mother. She wants me home, and I want to be there.

‘I’ll be home in a couple of hours,’ I say.

‘Okay, I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ I say and start to cry again, and hang up.

I get a car to take me back to my flat, and I throw things in a bag, and then head back out in fifteen minutes to the train station. Every moment I spend, waiting for the train, sitting on the train, staring out of the window, going home to my parents, I feel like the people around me, the strangers, should know what has happened, should know that somebody had died. But I don’t say anything. I just sit in silence until I get to my parents’ house. My dad is retired, plays a lot of golf, goes to the gym, but he is there when I get in. He takes my bag, makes me a cup of coffee, and quietly calls my mother, and talks in whispers. My mum’s car pulls up ten minutes later, and she hugs me for a while, asks me what happened. I tell her I barely know. I go to bed, my old bedroom, full of all my teenage things and colours, and sleep for a while. When I get up it is getting dark, and I can see the sun setting, beautifully, outside the hall window as I walk downstairs, and hear voices in the garden. I walk through, and see Amy, sitting chatting with my parents. My dad smokes a cigarette, and my mum sips on white wine. I walk out and sit in a chair by my daddy, and reach for his cigarettes and light one. Charlotte has phoned apparently, but has exams this week, so can’t come home. Of course she can’t, I say, of course she should stay where she is. Amy had come straight from work, phoned Andrew her husband, and told him he had to kiss the baby goodnight for her, and she would be back tomorrow.

We sit in the dark, and the garden lights come on. My mum puts a plate down in front of me and I pick at it for a while, and my dad gets a bottle of red, and pours me a huge glass. We sit in the garden and talk until midnight. Sometimes I go
quiet, and sometimes I start to cry again. It is important to be here. These are the people who really love me, the people who drop everything when you need them to, because they want to. I am so lucky to have them here. They are the rock my life is built on. So many people don’t have it, and I am so busy going about my time that sometimes I forget how lucky I am. I raise a glass to Phil, and so do my parents and Amy.

‘To Phil – he would have wanted me to cry!’ I laugh slightly, and wipe my eyes.

Everybody goes quiet, and we take a sip of wine.