Home > Love Almost(5)

Love Almost(5)
Author: Hayley Doyle

‘I’m sure Chloe’d rather just talk to you.’

‘You don’t mind Fergus staying, do you, babes? I mean, he can give you the male perspective.’

I lean forward, rest my elbows on my knees. I guess now is the time to—

‘Did he leave you?’ Beth asks. ‘Or was it your call? Was it just not working?’

Oh, it was working fine, wonderfully. But thanks to a spanner being thrown into the works – one the size of a delivery van going fifty-two on a road with a twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit – it had come to an abrupt end.

‘No, it’s none of those things,’ I say, each word slow as I build myself up to say it.

‘Shit, is he married?’

‘Is he gay?’ Fergus pipes up. Beth throws a metallic cushion at him.

I take a gulp of tea. I can’t imagine telling Beth – or anyone, for that matter – that Jack Carmichael – the fella I met at the opening night of a terrible musical just five months ago, the man who turned on a light within me and made me believe he’s a species in his own right, a unique and brilliant individual with the ability to make me feel everything that is pure and good – is dead.

‘We had breakfast together this morning,’ I find myself saying. I’d last seen him sat at the breakfast bar, fixated on the canvas print hanging above the cooker, a photo from our holiday in Thailand; the man in the shopping trolley. As usual, Jack was pondering about what the man was actually doing there, as I half-listened before dashing out to work myself. ‘We never have breakfast together during the week. He leaves for work so early …’

But he had a day in lieu.

Fuck.

Jack would still be alive if he’d just gone to work today. He would never have left our flat in the middle of the day, crossed the road and … oh. I think I know what happened now. Jack must’ve realised he’d left his phone behind, by the blue Marrakech dish. So he’d run back; crossed the road again without thinking.

‘What a fucking idiot!’ I say. Or perhaps yell.

‘That’s the spirit,’ Beth says, standing up and cheering. ‘Fuck him. If he can’t see how fucking fabulous you are, you’re better off without him. I mean, at least you only knew him for five minutes—’

‘Months,’ Fergus corrects her.

‘Whatever. Fergie babes, go and make yourself useful and open a bottle of wine, will you?’

‘I don’t want wine,’ I say.

‘Whiskey then. Get Chloe a glass of that good stuff, the one your boss fobbed you off with after you thought you were getting a pay rise. Now, Chloe. Either tell me everything, or tell me nothing. If you don’t wanna say the name “Jack” ever again, that’s fine by me. I’ll make sure you’ve forgotten he ever existed in no time.’

‘No,’ I protest. ‘I’ll never forget.’

‘Oh babes, what the hell did he do? It’s not like you to be so … crushed.’

I wince. I haven’t had a chance to think about what physically happened to Jack yet, but oh God, what if he was crushed? Did every bone in his body break? Did he bleed to death?

‘Did he hit you?’ Fergus asks, his tone low and solemn.

‘God, NO.’ I stand, joining them.

‘Because if he did, I’ll kill him for you. I will, you know. I’ll kill the bastard.’

Fergus clenches his fists.

‘That’s right, Fergie my love,’ Beth whoops, giving her husband a supportive pat on the back. ‘Let’s kill him!’

‘No, you don’t understand.’

‘I do. I do, babes.’ She edges towards me, shooing Fergus away like a pigeon and reaching out to give me a hug. ‘Ah, you really liked him, didn’t you? You thought he might be the—’

‘Beth, no, don’t hug me!’

‘Whoa. Okay,’ she jumps back.

‘I’m sorry,’ I try again. ‘He’s …’

I’m trembling. I notice it in my knees, particularly the left one. God, it’s trembling so hard that it’s going to dislocate. I slap my hands down, trying to control it. My hands are clammy, yet cold. I might be sick.

‘Can we get some air?’ I ask.

Fergus has already started doing burpees in the back garden. I follow Beth out front and sit on the brick wall, staring at the grey pavement, and at Beth’s dainty bare feet.

‘We should be in Greenwich,’ I say, catching my breath.

‘So why are you here? In Islington?’

‘It’s that comedy night. You know, Jack’s mate? The crass one?’

‘I dunno …’

‘Ross Robson?’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘No, you don’t get it. He’s, he’s,’ my breathing is shallow; my voice is cracking; ‘he’s dead …’

‘Yep!’ Beth goes in for the hug I told her not to do. She squeezes me and pulls my face down onto her shea-butter-scented shoulders. Like a mother consoling her child, she strokes my hair and kisses the top of my head, repeating her words as if whispering a lullaby, ‘He’s dead to you. Good. Good riddance. You said, it. He’s dead. Dead to you—’

‘NO,’ I break away, my eyes heavy with tears. ‘Beth. He’s dead.’

Beth’s eyes pop out; her complexion drains. Her sharp fingernails dig into my upper arms. Beth won’t be grief-stricken. She won’t even be sad, not really, because she didn’t know Jack; not enough to grieve him in any way. She’s simply in shock. Because things like this don’t happen. Not in real life.

‘Beth …’ I say, desperate for the horror of this moment to pass.

Her nails dig deeper.

‘Beth, you’re hurting me.’

She pauses, then her thumb strokes my arm.

‘What happened?’ she asks, gently. ‘When?’

‘Oh God, I need to go, just be on me own.’

‘Chlo—’

‘No. I’m begging you, pal. I don’t know anything other than …’ and I clam up again.

No. I simply cannot say what happened to Jack today. This is all too surreal. Beth’s road is spinning around us, the terraced houses dancing in zigzags around the parked cars, the evening breeze warm and sticky and making me gag. So, taking advantage of Beth not wearing any shoes, I break away from her, whisper something about being sorry, and run.

 

 

3


The day Jack gave me a key to his flat, I responded badly.

It wasn’t in a little red box or tied to a fancy ribbon, but he did get down onto one knee and, throwing his arms to the gods, pretended he was in some sort of amateur dramatic Shakespeare production. He then took the key from his shirt pocket, held it up like a prized chalice and shouted, ‘TA-DA!’

‘Oh, I’ve already got one,’ I said.

Back during one of my early visits, I’d nipped down the road to the Sainsbury’s Local to buy some chocolate and Jack had given me the spare key to let myself back in. I’d just forgotten to give it back to him.

‘Well, you could just play along,’ Jack said quietly, gritting his teeth.

‘Sorry, hun. I meant, OH YAY!’

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