His Other Lover (14 page)

S
o, my new flat has an added extra I didn’t bargain on,” Patrick says as we sit down with our drinks.

I do my best to look interested.

“Mice!” he says dryly, and then laughs at my wrinkled nose.

“Oh come on, what’s not to love? Mouse shit everywhere, chewed bread packets, not knowing if girls I bring home are screaming at me naked or a small rodent scuttling past the end of the bed.” He takes a swig of his beer. “It’s awesome.”

“Have you put traps down?”

“Yeah. Caught two this morning. Although I’ve had some interesting suggestions for alternatives. One of the girls at work said, ‘What you need to do, right…’” he mimics a chav accent, although not unkindly, “‘is put daan a little bowl of water and a little bowl of cement powder mixed with sugar. Then, right, the little mouse walks up and first he smells the sugar so he eats the powder and then, right, he’s really firsty so he goes to the water bowl, has a little drink and then it all goes off in its belly and…he turns into a brick!’”

For the first time in a week, I manage a genuine laugh.

“I know!” he grins. “Brilliant, isn’t it?”

“But mice notwithstanding, you like it?”

He shrugs. “It’s okay. I can be at the station in under ten minutes, I’ve got the TV working now and the shower’s not a dribble. Don’t need much more than that.”

Patrick has always been easy-going to a fault. At school, he was the one who used to make everyone laugh in class. Just sporty enough not to be a geek, but not good enough (to his huge frustration) to be on school teams, he was a jack-of-all-groups, which was what drew a lot of girls—including Katie—to him. She relentlessly pursued him at several parties, until at one, to Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” he caved in and they snogged passionately in a dark corner of the living room. Later, in the bathroom, she breathlessly told me that he was the best snog she’d ever had, which was why it surprised me
and
Patrick when the following week she was discovered snogging Adam Stebbings in his mum and dad’s bedroom at
his
party.

“Sorry.” I shrugged helplessly to Patrick. “She did say she really liked you, but…”

“She just likes Adam more,” Patrick said ruefully.

“I think he’s a dick. If it helps,” I said.

“Not really, but I’ll survive. Do you want a drink…Mia, isn’t it?” he said.

And so began a friendship that lasted through Katie’s resulting strop. She’d snogged him and dumped him—it was inconvenient to have him still hanging around getting in the way, as she grumpily put it. Why couldn’t I be friends with some other boy instead? But I liked Patrick. He made me laugh.

In the end, he and Katie not getting on was simply never an issue. They were coolly polite if they were ever forced to speak at school, she’d melt away if he came over to talk to me; and
when Katie and I finally fell out at university, he was fantastic. I leaned on him a lot.

The brief time when I did have feelings for Patrick only lasted for about three months, just before I met Pete, and I didn’t let on to Patrick. It was after we’d been out on a Friday night and I went back to his afterward, like I’d done a hundred times, to call a cab. We were both pretty pissed, and while we were waiting for the taxi we collapsed on the sofa and put late-night TV on.

I don’t know what made that night different to any of the others, but I was all cosied up to him and suddenly realized that it felt nice. Patrick is really tall, but works out loads and has this fab upper body—not too big, just blokey.

His arm was resting lightly round me and I could smell his aftershave. I remember looking up at him and for the first time ever wondering what it would be like to kiss him, which was a really disturbing thought. He must have felt me looking at him, because he looked down at me and there was this God-awful pause where it suddenly felt like we
were
about to kiss. He moved slightly closer and I felt my eyes close, but then there was a knock at the door and the cab was there. I’ve never sobered up so fast in my whole life. We just sort of looked at each other and then both jumped up and it was all awkward “Ooooh, where are my shoes?” and “God, I feel
wrecked!
” and “Shit, I can’t believe what time it is!”

I got to the front door and turned back to say good-bye, but for the first time ever didn’t know what to do next. Everything that had nearly happened a second ago was drifting in the air round us. Normally I’d have kissed him on the cheek to say good-bye or punched him on the arm or something, but suddenly I felt shy of touching him, which was ridiculous.

We just sort of stood there for what felt like forever. Finally the cab driver said impatiently from his window, “Where is it you’re off to, love?” and his voice broke the tension. The atmosphere changed; we both snuck another look at each other and laughed in a sort of relieved “Phew, that was close!” sort of way. Patrick said, “Come here, you!” and gave me a friendly bear hug, and I lightly pretended to punch him in the stomach. Then I legged it into the taxi feeling totally confused.

We didn’t talk the next morning and about three days passed before I saw him again, by which point I wasn’t sure if I’d been more drunk than I thought and imagined it all. I certainly didn’t want to ask him if he’d been more sober than me and have to have that horrible “Er, about the other night…” conversation.

So we didn’t discuss it and things went back to normal, which is to say I started to think about him in this new and very confusing way for a few weeks. I wrestled with myself and couldn’t work out if I fancied him or not, or was just mixing up friendship and feelings that weren’t real. Just as I finally decided yes, I did fancy him, he got himself a really gorgeous girlfriend.

Once my heart had plummeted down a well when he walked into the pub on the Friday night holding her hand and smiling happily (I had thought I
might
tell him how I felt that night), I got my breath back, smiled a beaming, welcoming smile and thanked God I hadn’t said anything. I stumbled through the evening okay, had a little cry that night at home and got on with it, as you do.

It all worked out for the best anyway, because I met Pete not long after that. I started seeing him, and was blissfully happy, just about the same time as Patrick and Mel, I think her name was, split up.

“So what’s new with you then?” Patrick glances up as a girl brushes past him and then turns his attention back to me.

I manage not to laugh hysterically and for a brief moment I picture myself sitting there saying, “Not much. Found out Pete’s cheating on me, staged a burglary, went looking for this girl to tell her to fuck off, ended up in her flat and saw Pete’s picture by her bed. Same old same old.”

“Well, I’ve been ill pretty much all week, so everything’s been quiet. You?”

“Rubbish really,” he says dismissively. “Work’s pretty pedestrian and I’m here with you on a Friday night which tells you everything you need to know about the current state of my love life. Bumped into a blast from the past recently, though…”

I try to look interested but I’m thinking about how long I’ve been away and if he’ll have phoned her yet. I can’t leave it too much longer.

“…It was really weird. I was at the station and she just walked up to me and said hi. I can’t remember the last time I saw her. Probably before you and her had your falling-out, I expect.”

“Sorry.” My attention snaps back. “Who’s this?”

“Katie,” he says, looking over my shoulder. “Do you want another drink while the bar’s quiet?”

“No thanks, I’m okay,” I say quickly. “What did she have to say, anything interesting? What’s she up to these days?”

Patrick looks at me curiously. “That’s a lot of sudden questions.”

I shrug, trying to look nonchalant. “Just nosy, that’s all. How did she look?”

He ponders for a moment. “A bit too thin, actually,” he says
thoughtfully. “Sort of—angular. Not massively different, though. Older.”

“What did you talk about?”

He thinks again. “Not much, really…she’s going traveling.”

I frown, glass on the way to my mouth. “Traveling? Where?”

He shrugs. “I dunno, one of these save a disadvantaged yak programs somewhere. Did I tell you I saw Reuben too—d’you remember? That kid who set the science lab on fire? He’s running a division of JP’s now in—”

“Did she say when she was going?” I cut in insistently. He looks surprised. “I didn’t ask. We didn’t speak for that long.”

“Did she…did she mention me?” I say, and hate myself for asking.

He looks awkward and shifts in his seat. “Honestly, it was like a five-second conversation and—”

“So she didn’t?”

“No. ’Fraid not.” He reaches out and pats my hand affectionately. “Sorry.”

I don’t say anything, just shrug and try a smile.

“But not being funny—why would she, and why would you care anyway? She was a total cow to you!”

I hesitate. Was she? Or was she telling me the truth?

“To risk a friendship over a bloke is bad enough once—but twice?” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry to say, Mia, I don’t think she lost much sleep over it. Did you think she might still want to set things right?”

“Maybe.” I don’t look at him directly.

“But perhaps it isn’t unfinished business for her,” he says gently. “Perhaps it just is for you.”

We go a bit quiet then.

“Don’t take it to heart,” he says eventually. “You know what
she’s like, she didn’t ask me anything about myself either—Katie is only interested in Katie.”

I don’t say anything, as I know he will always be slightly biased on that front. Funny how a kiss at the age of fourteen will stay with you for years afterward.

“All she did was gabble on about herself, say that we must meet up to catch up properly, gave me her mobile number and that was it.”

My eyes widen. “She gave you her mobile number?”

“Yes,” he says, exasperated, “but I’m not going to call because a) she’s totally self-absorbed, b) she was horrible to you, and c) she’s going traveling. The only thing more boring than listening to someone else’s travel plans is listening to their dreams. I dreamed I got married to Mel the other night. Remember her?” He shudders.

“Well, they say that whatever you dream, the opposite comes true in real life.”

Patrick frowns. “Well—while I hope that’s certainly true in the marrying Mel case, that sounds like total guff to me. I dreamed I was walking to work the other day—but last time I checked, I still can’t actually fly.”

“You dreamed you were walking to work?” I look at him perplexed. “How crap are your dreams? And since when is flying the opposite of walking, you daft sod? I mean things like if you dream you die, you’re going to have a long and happy life.”

“D’you think you and Pete will get married?” Patrick says suddenly.

I manage to smile, then shrug and squint up at him. “Hope so. He hasn’t asked me.”

“He will.” Patrick takes a swig of beer. “He’d be crazy not
to.” He glances to his left as a short fat bloke punches the air with his fist and goes, “Yesssss!” loudly as he hits the jackpot on the fruit machine and it begins to pump coins into the tray. “Lucky bastard.”

I dart a glance at him, and my heart inexplicably does a little thump-thump. Who is? Pete or Tubby Fatso over there shoveling pound coins into his pocket? But then my phone, which has been lying on the table, lights up, starts flashing Pete’s name and begins to vibrate itself into a puddle of spilled Diet Coke.

“Hi, it’s me,” says Pete smoothly. “Can you come home?”

“What, right now?” I look at my watch as Patrick mouths “Another drink?” and grins cheerfully at me. The moment has passed, if it was even ever there.

“Clare’s here.”

“What—at our house?” I’m confused and shake my head at Patrick. “What’s she doing there?”

“Hang on—I’ll pass her over.”

There’s a fumbling sound. “Yo, chick,” says Clare. “Where the bloody hell are you?”

“I’m at the pub. What are you doing at mine?”

“Well,
someone,
aka our mother, phoned me and said she was worried about you and could I come down and make sure you were all right. She said you were weird on the phone to her.”

“I’ve been ill, actually,” I say quickly.

“Evidently. Nice pub, is it? I
told
Mum you were all right. Anyway, I thought I’d come and surprise you since you were on your sick bed. I’ve got Lucozade and magazines and everything. And I’ve sacrificed a Friday night.”

“Well, you should have called first.”

“Er, except then it’s not much of a surprise, is it? And since when are you ever out on a Friday these days anyway? What pub are you at? I’ll come and find you.”

“The Bottle House, but don’t worry—I’m coming back in—” But the line has already gone dead. Great, now I have to wait until she gets here and I want to go home!

“My sister is coming to join us,” I say to Patrick.

He frowns. “Isn’t she about fifteen?”

“Yes, seven years ago. Has it been that long since you saw her?”

He looks nonplussed. “Maybe. It’s been a while. I don’t really remember. Shall I get some more drinks in? What’ll she have? Lemonade?”

I snort. “If you put about four vodkas in it, yes, she probably will.”

He’s still at the bar when Clare puffs up to the table, all rosy-cheeked from being outside, and slings her bag down on the floor.

“Hiya.” She leans in to kiss me. “Oh yeah, I can see what Mum meant—you look
really
ill. You’re such a wanker—I could be out getting some bunty tonight, but Mum was like, ‘Stop being so selfish and get on a train.’ Where’s your pal, or did you make him up too?”

“At the bar,” I begin. “Look, Clare, I don’t want to stay that long…”

“Oh great.” She rolls her eyes. “Is he a tit?”

“No! It’s Patrick. You’ve met him before.”

She looks blank. “Must be a gooch, I don’t remember him at all.”

“I just don’t want to leave Pete on his own all night, and—”

“Why?” She makes a face. “He was in a right stomp when I
arrived. I could hear him shouting as I came up the garden path. I’d leave him to it.”