Swimming Upstream (6 page)

“Is that a good thing, do you think?” I asked
Larsen.

“They’re not going to sack you, Lizzie. They love
you.” Then Larsen added, “And I love you, you know. I really do.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“But maybe,” he said, looking not at me but at the
small blue and white flames that were dancing around in the fireplace. “Maybe
we should break up.”

I looked up at him. He was still beautiful. He
smiled down at me and I could see in his eyes that nothing had changed for him.
He still loved me in exactly the same way that he always had - too much, but
not enough, at exactly the same time. He held me tighter.

“Maybe you're right,” I agreed. “Maybe we should.”

Larsen moved out the following day. I sat helplessly on
the sofa with my crutches and watched as he hauled three boxes and a suitcase
down the narrow stairs into the living room and out of the door to Dave’s van.

I hobbled to the doorstep and kissed him goodbye.

“I still love you,” he told me, with what sounded
like a question mark at the end.

“I still love you too,” I told him back, the same
question hanging silently in the air between us.

We locked eyes for a moment and both stood waiting
in the doorway for the other to say that this was a mistake. Then Larsen
grinned, ruffled my hair and leapt into Dave’s van. He reached out and shut the
door as he had done so many times in the past. Only this time he wasn’t going
down the M11 to London, to the Fulham Greyhound or the Mean Fiddler, or up
North to Manchester, or round the M25 to Oxford. This time he was going just a
few streets away to Brian’s house; but he was leaving our home. The familiar
heavy metal slam of the van door echoed in my ears like the clunking of a
prison cell door, only I was now locked out, instead of in, where I could have
been - with him. Right now, at this moment, my newborn freedom felt hollow,
cold and strange.

On Thursday it was Polling Day but all I could do
was to lie on the sofa and stare at the telly. I watched old movies: “Calamity
Jane” and “The Way we Were” and cried for Robert Redford and Barbara Streisand
and for everything they had lost. I desperately needed to talk to someone but
there was no-one I could call. Except… Catherine. Maybe? But she didn’t know
me, or at least not me with Larsen, and she was getting married and I was
breaking my heart and none of it was right, or ripe for discussion.

Doug rang at around tea-time, when he got home
from work and asked if I wanted to come over; but, again, it didn’t feel right
somehow, with him being Larsen’s friend first, before mine. Besides, I didn’t
want to talk with Marion there. She had a way of looking like the cat that had
got the cream when anyone else appeared to be having a bad time. Deep down I
was wondering if Larsen would come back; pretend he’d forgotten something, say
he wanted to talk. I waited up late into the night, while the election results
rolled in, with one eye on the telly and the other on the door and eventually
fell asleep on the sofa in the early hours of the morning. This must be the
right thing, us breaking up, I reasoned with myself. All we ever did these days
was argue. I wasn’t happy and it was clear that Larsen wasn’t happy. But I
hadn’t expected it to be this sudden, this final, and this soon.

By Friday morning the Conservatives were back in
power, despite a severe recession, despite losing 38 seats, and despite all forecasts
to the contrary. The phones would be ringing off the hook in the newsroom and I
needed a piece of the action. I couldn’t bear the empty silence of the house
any longer and, finding that I was able to both smile and walk with a degree of
dignity and just one crutch, I caught a taxi to the radio station.

It took a long time to get up the stairs. I pushed
open the door and caught my breath, inhaling the rubbery scent of hot
machinery, of newsprint and of freshly ground coffee, the smell that defined
the newsroom. The printer that gave us the feeds from the General News Service
was clunking and whirring noisily in the corner of the room. Simon Goodfellow,
the lunchtime reporter, was sitting at my desk. He peered over his shoulder as
I entered and stood up, slowly.

“Good lord, that looks painful,” he commented, but
didn’t offer to help.

I sank down into my chair, exhausted. On my desk
was a letter from Phillip marked “Private and Confidential”. I glanced briefly
round the newsroom. Everyone was milling around, carrying out their daily
routine except Simon, who was looking curiously at the letter in my hands. I
stuffed it into my handbag and pushed it under my desk. I logged onto my
computer, and started to type up the news feeds for the lunchtime bulletin,
which Simon had left for me.

It was an extraordinary coup for the government,
their fourth consecutive victory and one for which the Sun newspaper was taking
full credit, following their provocative headline the previous day urging the
last person to leave Britain to “turn out the lights” if Labour won the
election. It was clever all right; it fed right into the paranoia of the
national psyche. That headline was for anyone who worried about trade unions
taking over the country, about immigrants stealing their jobs and their women,
about reds under the bed. I quickly typed up the rest of the national bulletin
and then began to search for a local story. There was nothing from the police
today. I glanced again through the feeds that Simon had left me.

“And finally,” I typed. “A farmer in Whittlesford
is lobbying parliament this week with a petition signed by four hundred Kent
and Sussex farmers against the proposed Channel Tunnel link.” I stopped writing
and spun my chair round.

“Why?” I asked Simon, who was now sitting at the
desk behind me, eating a pork pie.

“Why what?” He looked defensive.

“Why,” I asked impatiently, “does a farmer in
Whittlesford give a flying one about the Chunnel link?”

Simon didn’t answer.

“It's going from London to Paris,” I elaborated. “There's
no detour planned via Whittlesford.”

“So?” said Simon. “Maybe he's coming out in
solidarity.” I knew that this was a dig at Larsen’s left-wing politics, with me
as the object of torment. I hadn’t told anyone at work that we had split up. I
certainly wasn’t going to tell Simon.

I folded my arms. “Am I going to have to delete
this news item?” I asked him.

Simon grinned. “The farmers - united - will never
be deleted,” he recited, punching the air with his fist. He chuckled and rocked
back in his chair.

“It's not funny Simon. This is supposed to be a
story. Either it is or it isn't.” I stood up and went over to the desk where
all the information came in from the General News Service.

“Listen to the clip …” Simon began.

“I don't have time,” I said, edgily, sitting back
down at the computer screen. “If it's going in I need it now, finished.” I was
aware that my voice had risen by at least a couple of octaves.

I could hear Simon getting up and moving around
behind me. He leaned over my shoulder and placed a pile of carts onto my desk
in front of me, then left the newsroom.

I glanced at my watch, picked up the carts and my
crutch and stepped into the studio.

When I came out Greg Chappell, the programme editor,
was waiting for me. He smiled and sat down at the desk behind me.

“That was quick,” said Greg, when I came out
again. “You had another two minutes to play with there. You'll be giving those
lunchtime listeners indigestion.”

I slumped down into my chair. Greg put down his
pencil.

“Look,” he said. “Don't let him get to you.”

“That's easy for you to say,” I muttered. “I'm fed
up of doing Simon’s job for him and then feeling like an autocratic old nag for
minding. It's like working with my brother.”

“I didn't know you had a brother,” said Greg,
trying to be tactful, trying to change the subject.

I hesitated a moment. I wasn’t sure that I wanted
to have a discussion about my family. “Yeah. Just the one. His name’s Pete.”

“And he wound you up, right?” Greg continued. “That's
what being a brother is all about. It's in the job description.”

“Yes, well, it's not in Simon's, is it?” I said.

Greg looked at me sympathetically. “You need to
get out of here. You need a new start somewhere else. You've outgrown this
place.”

I felt a glimmer of hope inside me, something I
hadn't felt in a while. “Do you really think so? I thought I was only just
getting somewhere.”

Greg wheeled his chair over to mine. “Look,
Lizzie. You've got loads of potential. You could easily get a job in town.”

“I already am in town.” I was confused.

“I'm talking about London,” he laughed. “One of
the independents, or the BBC stations even. You're hardworking, you've got what
it takes. Don't keep selling yourself short.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “You're leaving,” I said.
“Aren't you?”

“Yes,” said Greg.

“When?”

“End of the month. It's an attachment, but...” he
trailed off.

“So who's going to cover for you?” I asked.

“Well who do you think?” Greg smiled. “I thought
Phil had told you. He said he had.”

“What?” I turned and grabbed my bag from under the
desk and ripped open the letter. “I thought I’d got a warning…”

“But listen to me, Lizzie, you can do more. Don't
let it be forever...”

“It's enough,” I grinned. “For now.”

I got up, flung my arms around him and kissed him
on the cheek. “You've just made my week. Month. Year,” I said, hugging him.

“Good,” said Greg. “In that case I forgive you for
you for not caring that I'm going.”

“Of course I care,” I protested. “I'll really miss
you, you know I will. But this is great news for both of us.”

I swung round and
logged back into the computer.

The following Friday, I picked up the phone and dialled
Catherine’s number. She answered after a couple of rings.

“Lizzie!” she said. “I am so glad you rang! That’s
so spooky. I was going to call you tonight.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’ve been thinking about you all week, how
nice it was to see you again.” Something in her voice didn’t sound quite right.
“How are you? How’s the foot?”

“Much better, thanks. I had to have a few days off
work. But I’m back now, and in fact I’ve just been promoted.”

“Congratulations!” Catherine sounded genuinely
delighted. “Let’s go out,” she said. “Tonight. We’ll celebrate!”

“Oh, I’m not sure. My ankle’s still not great. I
mean, it’s better than it was, but... I’ve broken up with Larsen,” I blurted
out.

“What? Are you serious?”

“Yes. Sorry. I didn’t mean to just dump that on
you.”

“You’re not dumping anything, Lizzie, we’re
friends, remember?”

“Of course. Thanks.”

“I’m so sorry. I thought you and he were..? Well,
the way you described him, he sounded great.”

“He
is
great,” I said.

“So why, then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s me. How long have you
got?” I laughed, ironically.

“Right. That settles it. We’re going out. Tonight.
Celebration or commiseration, it’s your call.”

Your call. I remembered Larsen saying that to me,
the night we met, when I was talking about leaving college. I wondered how much
of anything that had happened in the last seven years really had been my call. And
I realised with sudden clarity that this was no-one’s fault but my own.

“Come on,” Catherine persisted. “You can stay at
mine, that way we can get a cab back together. We’ll have a great time, don’t
worry.”

“Go on, then. Why not?” I was wondering what it
was about Catherine’s voice that sounded different. She sounded kind of high. “So,
are
you
okay, then?” I asked.

There was a pause. “What
have you forgotten?” Catherine asked, and I realised she wasn’t talking to me. I
could hear a voice in the background, getting louder, shouting. It was clearly
Martin. “Well, of course I would have washed it. Calm down. Hang on, and I’ll
help you look.” The phone went dead for a moment and then Catherine was back on
the line. “Lizzie, sorry, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back. No. I’ll see you
at eight. The Free Press. You know it? Near Parker’s Piece. Okay?” And then she
was gone.

Catherine was waiting outside the pub when my taxi pulled
up. She helped me out onto the pavement and threw her arms around me and held
me tight, and I realised that she was the first person who had touched me since
Larsen left. I felt suddenly and pathetically grateful for her friendship, but
realised that she was equally pleased to see me because she was holding me so
tight, for so long, that I nearly lost my balance. When she stepped back I
realised that she was trying very hard not to cry.

“Catherine? What is it?”

She waved her hand in the air. “Oh, nothing. Ignore
me. I’m just being stupid. Let’s get a drink.”

The pub was warm and inviting. The familiar pub smells
of hot chips and roasted peanuts mingled with cigarette smoke and the sour
stench of ale. I sat down at a table while Catherine went up to the bar and
ordered the drinks. A small fire flickered in the open grate beside me and I
leaned forward briefly and warmed my face in its amber glow before shrugging
off my coat and sinking back into the cushioned leather of my armchair. A group
of students, deep in conversation at the table next to me, suddenly let out a
loud roar of laughter. I glanced over at them and wished for one strange moment
that I were back there with them, with a chance to do it all over again, the
whole student thing, only properly this time, to integrate myself fully into
that other world and with those people. Maybe that was where I had belonged
after all; maybe the past seven years had been a mistake. Maybe fear and
insecurity at leaving home to study - at starting a new life on my own - had
caused me to go the entirely wrong way through the sliding doors of fate into
the club on Mill Road and into Larsen’s life.