Authors: Mike Gayle
“Yes,
that
Rob,” said Mel, tolerating my playground wit. “I bumped into him in Bar Zinc a little while after we’d split up. Anyway, we started talking about old times and exchanged numbers and I thought nothing more of it. He called me at home a few days later and asked me out to dinner. I said no initially, and then I thought, why not? Why should I have to stay in crying myself to sleep every night? Why not just go out and have a good time? And that’s what I did. I make no apologies for it, Duffy. None at all.” She paused, calming down her quickened breathing. “Does that answer all your questions?”
It didn’t. Not by a mile. But some things, I reasoned, are best left unknown. I couldn’t not ask anything. Her question was a challenge of sorts—defying me to face up to what I’d done. “Does he make you . . . you know . . . happy?” I found myself asking.
She smiled. “It’s not like you to use euphemisms, Duff.”
Mel thought I was talking about sex, obviously not quite understanding that I would not now, nor would I ever be talking about her and Rob 1 having sex. “No, you’ve got me all wrong,” I clarified. “What I meant is exactly what I said: does he make you happy? As in joyful. As in cheery.”
Mel looked puzzled. I don’t think she’d been expecting that one. “Yeah, he does. He makes me happy.”
“That’s good,” I said. “You deserve to be happy.”
Then came another of those long pauses that my life seemed to consist entirely of. It was quite possible that I was becoming addicted to them. “Just the one pause, okay maybe another one.” How long would it be before I’d be visiting dodgy pubs in pursuit of drug dealers with a sideline in pauses? Pauses—they seemed to be everywhere I went, lurking in the darkness waiting for the right moment to highlight my inadequacies.
“None of this is what you came here to talk about,” said Mel, breaking the silence. “So tell me, what’s going on, Duff? What’s wrong?”
I looked over to the woman with the toddler; at a half-eaten croissant on a table next to me; at my own reflection in the café window. “I got a letter this morning,” I began, as I unscrewed the letter I’d received and handed it to Mel. “It’s from my dad.”
“Oh,” said Mel quietly after she’d read it. She pulled her chair closer to me and placed her hands on my hand. “I’m so sorry, Duff. I really am so sorry.”
This was why I was here. Mel was the only person in the world who would know what I was feeling without my having to explain. In fact she probably knew better than I did. I didn’t have a clue what it was I was feeling.
“The letter says he wants to meet up with you.”
“Yeah, I know. Strange, isn’t it?”
“Isn’t he twenty-eight years too late for that?” Mel’s eyes filled with tears as she gently squeezed my hand. Embarrassed by her tears, she wiped them away with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry I’m getting so upset. It just makes me so angry. Does he really just think he can walk back into your life like this?” She wiped away another tear. “Are you going to meet him?”
“No.”
“Do you need me to do anything? Do you want me to talk to your mum or Vernie about any of this for you? I want to do something to help, Duff. I really do.”
“I’ll be all right,” I said. “There’s nothing more to do really. Like I said, I’m not going. I just needed to talk to someone about it, that’s all, and the only person on the planet I could think of was you.”
Mel smiled. “I’m glad we can still depend on each other.” She paused and looked at her watch.
“Me too,” I replied.
“Will you walk back with me?” she asked.
I nodded.
As we headed toward her shiny office block we chatted avidly, avoiding all the big issues of the day—about hair (she was thinking of having it cut short. I was contemplating growing a goatee); magazine articles (I’d read one that said men would be extinct by the year 2030. She’d read one that said women in America were giving up on men and buying dogs instead); and
EastEnders
(in our separate domains watching the weekend omnibus we’d both been shouting the same advice to the same characters at the same time).
Eventually we reached her office building, glinting in the midday sun, and said our goodbyes.
“Thanks for that stuff you said about . . . well, you know . . . wanting me to be happy.” She reached up and kissed me on the cheek. “It means a lot to me. I do want us to be friends. I want you to be okay.”
I looked into her eyes and suddenly realized that despite my clumsiness I had a heart crammed full of things that I hadn’t said, that I suddenly desperately needed to tell her. I wanted to tell her about my dad and the way my mum had thought he’d love her forever. I wanted to tell her about Greg and how he’d cheated on his loyal girlfriend. I wanted to tell her about Dan and how he’d taken Meena for granted when they moved in together, and I wanted to tell her about all of the millions of men who’d thought they could do commitment but had ended up walking out on their kids, wives, girlfriends and lovers. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t know whether I was like them or like me; whether I really could do commitment or just thought I could, and because of that—the fear that I’d one day do to her what my dad did back then—I could never marry her. And last but not least, I wanted to tell her that despite all this I needed her more than anyone in the world. I didn’t say any of this, of course. I just whipped out another one of my interstellar pauses.
“Are you okay?” asked Mel. “You seem to be somewhere else.”
“Yeah,” I replied ambiguously. “I think I probably am.”
Cinema, drinking, eating,
dancing . . . bowling
A
few weeks went by in which I spent a lot of time pretending I wasn’t thinking about my dad, before I finally admitted to myself that I was being stupid and that it was time I thought about him in the open. Talking to Vernie about it all helped put things in perspective. Strangely, my dad hadn’t been in contact with her, but that didn’t bother her in the slightest because if he had, like me, she said she wouldn’t have been interested in meeting him at all.
After that, there was nothing more really to say or think, so I did a little rearranging in my mind: I put my dad to the back of it, and the idea that Mel and I might become proper friends to the front. I was just sorting the mess I called my career somewhere into the middle, when something odd came along that completely messed up all my arrangements—I got my audition for
The Hot Pop Show,
and if that wasn’t enough, a brief conversation with Alexa just as I was leaving it.
“Is that you, Duffy?” called out Alexa. “It
is
you!”
I looked up and said hello. I’d actually spotted her in the corridor as soon as I’d come through the double doors of Studio 3, where the auditions had taken place, but I was trying my very best to play it cool. Even though it was five o’clock on a humid Thursday afternoon, when by rights even the most gorgeous of supermodels could be forgiven for looking a bit crumpled, Alexa looked amazing.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, after having done her statutory double-kiss hello.
“I’ve just had that audition,” I said awkwardly. “You know, the one for your show.”
“Of course,” she said, a look of recognition illuminating her features. “I saw your name down on the list, but I completely forgot it was today. How did you get on?”
“I dunno.” I shrugged. I wasn’t being modest at all. I really didn’t know. I’d felt like I’d been at the audition all day. I’d told them a few jokes from my normal routine, run through a couple of sketch ideas I’d come up with based on the brief they’d given me, and told them my life history. And after all that I was still none the wiser.
“Did it look like they liked you?”
“I suppose so. They didn’t appear not to like me. It’s hard to say really. They don’t exactly give a lot away, do they?”
“No they don’t,” she agreed. “They were exactly the same when I had my audition. I couldn’t sleep or eat for days afterward.” She patted my shoulder in a friendly, reassuring manner. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, Duffy.”
“That’s enough about me, anyway,” I said. “How are you? How’s the show?”
“It’s going really well,” she said enthusiastically. “I’m just so busy all the time that I feel totally exhausted, but it’s a good kind of tired, you know?”
“Yeah,” I lied—the only type of tired I was aware of was the crappy kind.
“And what about you?” She bounced the conversational ball back to me again as if I were a guest on her show. “Apart from the audition, I mean?”
“Okay,” I said, which was the best answer I could manage in the time allotted.
Fortunately Alexa wasn’t fazed for a second by my monosyllabic answer. She came back immediately with an enthusiastic, “That’s good to hear,” and in return I faked a cough while I thought of something clever to say.
“Have you managed to catch the show at all?” she asked when I’d finished spluttering.
I had indeed, and she’d looked mightily impressive. On the last show I’d seen she’d been surrounded by kids whilst interviewing an up-and-coming boy band dressed in matching purple silky tracksuits and baseball caps. Though barely above school leaving age, they’d attempted to flirt with her by making thinly veiled suggestive comments, all of which failed to impress her in the slightest.
“No,” I lied. The last thing I needed was her thinking I was only talking to her because she was TV’s Hottest Totty.
“You don’t know what you’ve been missing,” she said, looking directly into my eyes. She paused. “I was talking to Mark the other day.”
“Oh, yeah,” I replied. “How is he?”
“He’s fine. We had quite a long chat about you, as it happens. He tells me you’re a single man now.”
“Yeah,” I said, as if this thought had only just occurred to me, “I suppose I am.”
Silence.
“Was it a bad breakup?” she replied eventually.
“Aren’t all breakups bad?” I responded, wondering what was happening to her trademark snappy deliveries.
Silence.
Here was a woman who under normal circumstances didn’t know the meaning of the word “pause,” and yet in the last few minutes she’d paused for England. Why was she suddenly acting against type? As far as I could see there were three possible answers:
1. She was bored but was too polite to cut the conversation short.
2. She really was lost for words.
3. She was doing the Hinting Thing.
I studied her face. She didn’t look bored or speechless, so she had to be doing the Hinting Thing.
One more silence,
I thought,
and then I’ll ask her out.
“I’d better be going, then,” I said looking at my watch.
“It’s been good to see you,” she replied.
Silence.
I needed no further encouragement. “I was wondering whether . . . if you’re . . . free at the weekend?”
“Oh!” She sighed theatrically in a way real people never do. “I can’t. I’m in Los Angeles. There’s some big film thingy that’s coming out or something and I’m interviewing the star, what’s his name . . . [she proceeded to name a Hollywood star of the caliber that gets to do his shopping in Harrods when it’s closed to the public].” I reminded myself never to try and tackle the Hinting Thing again in this or any other lifetime.
“But I’m free a week on Saturday if you’re not busy,” she added. “I’m sorry it’s so hectic at the minute, but I promise I’ll be worth the wait.”
Ignoring what had to be the come-on of the century, for fear of no-saliva dry-mouth choking syndrome, I pretended to check my busy social schedule in my pocket diary. “Yeah,” I said, brightening up. “I think I can make it.”
I
felt great after that meeting. Strong, independent, even virile. My life was back on track. I had an audition for a job on TV and was going on my first hot date in over four years, with a kids’ TV presenter!!!! Now that I felt this good, I could handle talking to Mel again. I promised myself our friendship was going to work or I’d die in the attempt.
Before I could change my mind I called Mel up and we got on great. In fact for the rest of that week either she called me at work or I called her at work, sometimes even two or three times a day. Out went the pauses and the tension and in came pure unadulterated making each other laugh.
In one conversation on the Wednesday of that week, in an uncharacteristic fit of bonhomie I told her that I was glad she and Rob 1 were getting on so well. I think I said it to hear what it sounded like—a tentative step on to a frozen lake, if you will. The minute it was out there, however, my façade as Duffy the Amiable Ex-boyfriend cracked. I was not glad they were getting on well. If she really needed to be with someone else, I wanted her to be with someone a little less perfect for her. So far I’d learned that Rob had a great eye for color schemes, could cook without the aid of a microwave and—wait for it—loved shopping for soft furnishings.
Mel thought my confession was the most wonderful thing ever—a sign that we were true friends, a sign that I’d matured. To me, however, it was just a sign that I was losing my mind.
It was a key point in our let’s-be-friendsness. From that call forward, the content of our cozy chats changed. Whereas before, her conversation had been ten percent Rob 1, ninety percent other stuff, very slowly his percentage began to creep up. “Oh, Rob did this . . .” or “Rob did that . . .” she’d say, and I’d grimace silently. Then occasionally she’d let slip some detail that would really cut to the bone. It wasn’t the obvious stuff, like her staying over at his house or him staying at hers—although needless to say
that
didn’t help matters—it was odd things like them going shopping together or even going to Mark and Julie’s for dinner. According to Mel, Julie and Rob 1 got on like a house on fire. Even Mark, though he apparently missed my “funny ways,” thought he was wonderful. Everybody loved Rob 1 except me. Mel was even trying to persuade me on that score. “You’d really like him,” she said one day. “He’s on your wavelength.”
What was I supposed to reply to that? Great, bring him round? Fabulous, I must go for a drink with him? Brilliant, because if you were sleeping with a man who wasn’t on my wavelength I’d be really upset? So in the way you do when you’re talking to your mates on the phone at work and your line manager approaches you, I said, “. . . thanks for calling, Mr. Harrison, I’ll make sure the message is passed on to the relevant department,” and put the phone down.
T
he night of my date with Alexa came round quickly. An hour before I was supposed to meet her I found myself in the bathroom mirror staring at my reflection.
I gave myself a pep talk: “The difference between you and the legendary soul singer Barry White in a spiritual sense is nonexistent.”
I wasn’t suggesting that I was a big bloke with a gravelly voice. I was saying that what I saw in the mirror was pure sex. I looked so good, felt so confident, that I had to have been possessed by the soul of Barry White—god of love and gettin’ on down. Alexa might have been TV’s Hottest Totty, but she didn’t stand a chance against my charm offensive.
“Where are
you
going smelling like that?” yelled Dan, as I strode past the open living room door. The aroma of my Chanel aftershave—a present from Mel—had obviously managed to cut through the smell of Cantonese-style sweet-and-sour chicken.
Without even pausing for thought, I yelled back, “I’ve got a date with destiny,” before adding an alarmingly hopeful, “Don’t wait up,” and walked out the door.
H
i, Duffy.” Alexa kissed me on the cheek. Just as I was pulling away she came round to kiss me on the other cheek and I ended up kissing her ear.
Bloody media types and their two-part kisses.
“Good to see you again,” she said, sitting down.
“Cheers.” I replied, taking in her total visual effect. She was wearing a white long-sleeved T-shirt, a black knee-length skirt and trainers. She looked so trendy, so absolutely now, that she sort of reminded me of the shop-window dummies in women’s clothes shops like Kookaï and Karen Millen—only without the ridiculously pert nipples.
“You look . . . great,” I said. “I didn’t realize you were going to dress up, otherwise I’d have”—I gestured pitifully to my clothing, lost for words—“a bit more.”
“You look great, Duffy,” she said, and waved to someone she knew across the bar. “I live in my jeans normally. I just fancied a change.”
I got the drinks in. I ordered a beer and Alexa had a martini. I gave the barman a tenner and he gave me back my change on a small saucer.
Yeah right,
I thought to myself as I carefully picked up the coins.
Like I’m going to leave you a tip just because you gave me my change on a piece of crockery!
“Here you go,” I said, placing her martini in front of her.
She took a small sip. “Vodka,” she purred. “How did you know that’s the way I liked them?”
“I just guessed,” I replied, as once more my banal conversation compelled Oscar Wilde to rotate 360 degrees in his grave. I took a sip of my beer to fill in some of what was bound to be a long night of pauses. “It took me ages to find this place. I walked past it four or five times. What is it with these trendy bars? Why don’t they put signs with their name on so you can find them?”
“That would be too easy,” said Alexa, wrinkling her nose in the cutest manner possible. “If it wasn’t difficult to find, it wouldn’t be a cool place to drink, would it?”
“It’s ridiculous. If they really wanted to be cool, they should make anyone who wants to come here arrive wearing a blindfold. Then no one would know how to get here—not even the bar staff. Now that would be the kind of exclusive bar I’d like to go to on a regular basis.”
Alexa laughed lightly. On a scale of one to ten of sexiness she scored a perfect twelve.
“So?” I said, fearing another pause attack. “What do you fancy doing?”
“What are the choices?”
“Cinema, drinking, eating, dancing . . . bowling.”
Alexa frowned, wrinkling that nose again—it seemed to be getting cuter and cuter by the second. “Bowling? Isn’t that the kind of thing you do on dates when you’re fourteen?”
“Probably,” I conceded. “So this is a date, then?”
“Well, let’s see,” she said coquettishly. “Dating checkpoint number one: are both parties single?” She smiled. “Well, we know about you.” I nodded coolly. “And I’m not seeing anyone at the minute. So yes we’re both single.” She sipped her martini. “Dating checkpoint number two: are both parties keen to get to know each other?” She looked at me and I nodded cautiously. “That’s a yes from him and I can concur that it’s a yes from me too.” She plucked the olive from her glass and dropped it into her mouth. Never before had I so wanted to be an olive. She continued: “So I’d pretty much say that if we act like we’re on a date and look like we’re on a date then we probably are on a date.”
“Ah!” I said knowingly. “But how do we know if we look like we’re on a date? We’ve only got each other’s opinions to verify that.”
“Let’s find out.” Alexa turned to her left and tapped a stocky man in a long leather jacket on the shoulder. He was in the middle of a conversation with a young blonde dreadlocked woman in a trouser suit. “Excuse me?” said Alexa. “My friend and I were wondering if we looked like we were on a date. Do you think we are?”
Bloody TV presenters!
While the rest of us were content to tell people what kind of a fun personality we have, people like Alexa always felt a need to prove it. I cringed with embarrassment. Fortunately, the man recognized her and couldn’t wait to flatter her ego.
“You look like old college friends,” he said, humoring her. “You look way too comfortable to be on a first date. What d’you reckon, Olivia?”