Ralph's Party (18 page)

What was it she wanted to say to him? He couldn't get it off his mind. Oh, wel — he only had one whole enormous, never-ending day to wait to find out.

He turned right and left at Parliament Square and folowed the river on to Victoria Embankment, stil cycling suicidaly fast, ignoring the burning in his leg muscles and the possibility of errant pedestrians walking into his path.

It was a glorious day, cold in the nicest possible way, the sky an unfeasible blue, the Houses of Parliament gleaming like freshly washed bedsheets.

Fucking Smith. Fucking bloody Smith. Smith had always had the better luck. From early on. Smith had the smart house in Shirley, the nice liberal parents, the coolest friends, the best-looking girls after him, the flash car on his eighteenth birthday, the holidays, the job, the money, the flat, the career. Ralph had just tagged along to start with, feeling out of his depth and insecure.

His parents were old, much older than anyone else's parents, and timid of nature. He couldn't have invited anyone back to their house in Sutton—his mother would have laid a table of Viscount biscuits and cardboardy jam tarts and wanted to chat with his 'ymmg friends' about school and the weather. His father would have taken refuge in the garden, pottering around in his twil cap with his rake and his hoe or whatever, looking like an elderly groundskeeper in a stately home. The television would be switched off- it was rude to have it turned on in company — and the smal beige living room would have resonated with the sound of the old wooden clock on the wal ticking away the interminable seconds.

He'd had to work hard to find his feet in Smith's world. The first time he'd been round to see Shirele, he'd been almost moraly shocked by the attitude of Smith's

parents, who swore frequently and shouted loudly over the din of every television in the house, and let Smith's friends come and go without the slightest interest in who they were or how their schoolwork was going or whether they were about to have sex with a foreign exchange student in the spare room.

He hadn't lingered at first, servicing Shirele as speedily as possible with one eye on the door, not quite able to comprehend the fact that Smith's parents didn't actualy care, and leaving rapidly, dressing on the way out, not looking to the left or the right for fear of making eye contact with one of the many people who appeared to be constantly miling around the large, comfortable house.

And then of course he'd gone for that walk with Smith and found that he was not a bad bloke and was obviously disproportionately impressed by Ralph's supposed sexual prowess, and Smith had welcomed him into his life.

He'd been uncomfortable for a while, worried that he was the subject of some enormous joke, but he soon learned to relax and enjoy the advantages of having wealthy, happy friends. The jealousy he'd always felt towards Smith began to wane, and as the years went by and their friendship developed into one of brothers, the initial discrepancies between them faded and they became equals.

Ralph was cool now, too, he could hold his own - he was the star of the Royal Colege, he had press coverage, beautiful blondes, a wide circle of friends and invitations to smart parties.

But now al those old feelings were rising to the surface again, the feelings of inadequacy, of being the country mouse, the poor relation, the social misfit, the butt of

someone's joke. Because Smith had the one thing in the world that Ralph hadn't even realized until now he'd wanted — a real relationship with a real woman who realy loved him.

Fucking Smith. Fucking bloody Smith. Not. Fucking. Fair.

He hurtled up Thames Street towards a bank of impatient cars queued four-wide at the traffic lights. He rode on, faster and faster, up Lower Thames Street and towards Tower Hil. The burn in his legs had stopped ages ago, he was an automaton, the bike was cycling itself. He heard a car horn for the milionth time that morning.

'Ah, fuck you!' he shouted out, sticking his finger in the air.

He took his hands from the handlebar, got to his feet and closed his eyes against the wind that whipped across his face like a leather glove. He took in a huge deep breath, bigger almost than his lungs, and opened his mouth wide enough to feel the rush of air against his tonsils.

He was about to yel but the sound was lost in the blaring screech of yet another car horn, of rubber against Tarmac, of metal grinding metal as Ralph's bike hit the bonnet of a shiny red Mercedes 350SL

convertible, his dream car, and his body flew up into the London skyline, across a parked car, over a parking meter, finaly landing with a menacing thud of flesh and bone against the wal of an office building on Minories.

His body was soon surrounded by a concerned group of strangers oohing and aahing and asking if anyone was a doctor, and shouldn't they cal an ambulance, and putting their ears to his mouth to see if he was breathing.

'Shhhhh!' said a smal fat man who, for some unofficial and peculiar reason had taken control of the situation, 'shhhhhh, everyone, he's trying to speak.'

He put his gelatinous face an inch from Ralph's mouth, his cheeks turning red with the effort of leaning over. He sat back, exhaled and scanned the faces of the attentive crowd gathered around him.

'He's saying that he wishes he had Jessie's girl,' he announced with confusion, 'over and over - "Jessie's girl."'

'"I want Jessie's girl..."'

'Why the hel does he keep singing that?' whispered Smith.

Jem shrugged and squeezed Ralph's hand again. 'Oh, God, look at him?' she wailed. 'It's al my fault! He would stil have been in bed at that time of the morning if it hadn't been for me.' She put her head down on the side of Ralph's bed and began to sob.

'Oh, Jem, don't cry. Don't blame yourself.' Smith stroked her smal, quivering head. 'It's
not
your fault. Remember what the driver of the car said. He was cycling unbelievably fast, with his eyes closed - it wasn't just bad luck...' He trailed off as the image of his poor mangled bike flashed through his head again. He'd only had it for two months and now it was a write-off, dead, deceased. Thanks a lot, Ralph.

The doctor had informed them that Ralph had a fractured wrist, severe bruising to the left side of his body, a broken rib and mild concussion. He would come around soon, he told them, any time now. He was very lucky apparently; the wal had, perversely, broken his fal. If he'd hit the pavement first he could have injured his back or broken a leg.

They were sitting with Ralph, in the quiet of the ward, either side of his bed, Jem holding his hands, Smith holding his own crossed in his lap, waiting for Ralph to do something, anything at al rather than lie there looking so pale and stil and bruised, singing that bloody song over and over again.

'Let me get you a cup of tea,' sighed Smith, getting to his feet and stretching, looking quickly at his watch. He had so much work to do.

Jem turned back to observe Ralph. He looked so sweet, his face scuffed and tinged with purple, his big round eyes so distressingly closed, his left arm in plaster, a bandage around his chest holding his broken bones together. He looked like a child, a vulnerable, lovable, sweet, broken child, and it was al her fault. It didn't matter what Smith said, what anyone said, it was she who'd steered Ralph down that particular path of fate, whether he'd also been to blame or not. If it hadn't been for her he'd stil have been in bed at that hideous moment when his bike hit the bonnet of that car; she'd determined his destiny that Friday morning, she and no one else.

' "Jessie's girl -1 want Jessie's girl,"' Ralph was humming again in that strange, rasping voice.

This is Jem, Ralph — can you hear me?'

Where can I find a woman like that... ?'

'Oh, Ralph, this is Jem. Please, Ralph, open your eyes, look at me.'

Ralph just lay there.

'Ralph - Ralph - it's me!'

Ralph awoke. 'Jem ...' Ralph's voice sounded weak, tired.

'Shhhhh ... shhhhh,' said Jem, putting her hand to his cheek, 'don't try to speak.'

'Jem.' He smiled at her and closed his eyes again nuzzling his cheek against her hand. 'Jem.'

Smith returned at that moment, grasping two poly styrene cups of tea.

'Smith, Smith, he's awake! He talked to me!'

Smith put the cups down on the bedside table and reinstated himself quickly on his chair. 'Ralph - Ralphie - can you hear me?'

Ralph nodded and opened his eyes slowly. He smiled at Smith.

'What the fuck's going on?' he croaked.

'You tel me,' laughed Smith, grinning widely at Ralph and taking his hand, 'you lunatic bloody kamikaze cyclist! What the hel were you playing at?'

'I—I don't remember,' he replied, speaking very slowly. 'Oh, yes, I do! I was singing. Singing. I was singing. I was on your bike. Yeah

- that's right.'

Til get the nurse,' whispered Smith to Jem, 'they probably need to know.'

'Jem,' said Ralph, after Smith had gone, 'so nice to see you — you look ... lovely.'

'Oh, Ralph, thank you, but I think your judgement's probably a little impaired at the moment.'

'Has Smith gone home?'

'No, he's gone to get a nurse. You've been unconscious for hours.'

She watched as he drifted into a happy slumber. She felt overwhelmed with tenderness and affection. Al of a sudden she wanted to hold Ralph, to protect him, to look after him, to love him? ... -It had been such a strange morning. The whole episode with the mustard had unsettled her. There was something nice about it; she'd enjoyed the feeling of his hands on her legs, his finger between her toes ... and there'd been that moment, before the bacon burnt, when the world had stopped for a second, literaly stopped, and he'd stood over her, close to her and her heart had beaten so hard it had felt like her eardrums were going to explode and now ... now ... for some reason she was feeling very confused.

She looked at Ralph, his cheek stil resting against her hand, his body stil and shattered, his mind elsewhere. He looked so gentle, so in need of love and care.

Her heart tied itself up in a knot.

It had been a very happy fortnight for Siobhan and Karl, the happiest for months and months. Siobhan had taken Rick's advice that night at the chapel and talked to Karl about everything, absolutely everything. And Karl, in his usual strong and compassionate way, had listened and understood — even the bit about Rick.

You kissed him,' he'd stated matter-of-factly, sitting bare-chested under the counterpane on the huge four-poster bed, Rosanne curled up at his side with her head on his lap.

'Uh-hum,' Siobhan had nodded, looking glumly at the floor, long strands of scruffy golden hair faling
from
the pins that had held it in place al night, her eyes streaked with black mascara and smudged eyeliner, her dainty heels clogged with mud from the banks of the loch.

Karl had felt a smal jolt of surprise. That mad Tamsin girl had been right — sort of. They'd kissed. Rick had kissed Siobhan. Siobhan had kissed Rick. He found himself feeling a little sick.

'Jeez. What ... what ... er, how ... how long ... how long did you kiss for, exactly?' he said slowly, rubbing his chin, feeling awkward about this unexpected scenario but also that he needed to handle it like a grown-up.

Ten minutes, twenty minutes, I don't know. I thought of you,' she added, wanting to turn the conversation back to what was important — them. 'I thought of you and I stopped ...'

'Why? Was it... was it... because you were drunk, high-what?' Karl was talking calmly, rationaly, genuinely trying to understand what had happened that night but stil shaken by the image in his mind of Siob-han, his Siobhan, in the arms of another man, kissing him, her tongue in his mouth ...

Tartly — wel, no, not realy at al. I was ... I was thinking about it even before we started drinking, the minute I saw him, in fact,' she gulped, feeling maybe she'd admitted too much but then realizing that this was just the beginning of what needed to be said. 'Wel, yes. He^s a great-looking guy, I suppose ...' 'Oh, Karl, stop it!

Stop being so bloody reasonable. Do you think that's al there was to it? You think I just liked the look of him and suddenly, after fifteen years with you I just thought, Oh, what the fuck, I'l have him? Yes, he's good looking, of course he's good looking, but... but that's not it.'

'Wel, then, tel me, Siobhan. Please tel me. Why?' 'To show you that I'm stil attractive, that other men, good-looking men, would find me attractive. I wanted to make you jealous, Karl. I know how immature that must sound, how ... how stupid. I wanted you to stop me, before, when we were flirting, I wanted you to get angry, to be possessive, to think, That's my girlfriend and if I'm not careful she's going to have sex with someone else — but you didn't. You were so typicaly Karl — so unfazed, cool, oblivious - so fucking smug!

It didn't occur to you did it, Karl, it didn't cross your mind that someone else might want me? You just think I'm some great ugly inkblot, some fat bird that no other man would look twice at...' She broke down in angry tears.

'Oh, God, Siobhan, this is what we were talking about before, before we went downstairs tonight. Shit. I wanted to talk to you then but you were so angry, so defensive, you wouldn't talk about it.' Karl could feel tears weling up behind his eyes now. 'Come over here, Shuv.' He patted the empty bed beside him. 'Please. I want to be close to you.'

She got up from the dressing table and walked slowly to the bed, sitting gingerly on the edge, wanting to be close also, but stil ful of so much uncommunicated anger and resentment that she was unable to yield herself to him entirely.

'Shuv,' he began, Tm not going to lie to you. You have put on quite a lot of weight. I've not mentioned it because it just didn't seem important. Realy,' he added, registering the raised eyebrows and scepticism on Siobhan's face. He took her hand. 'You are the most beautiful woman in the world. And I'm not going to say "to me"

because that's not true. You're beautiful to me, but I can also see that you're beautiful to other people as wel. I've seen the looks men give you when we walk down the street. You're overweight, yes, but that doesn't matter. I mean look at you — you're magnificent, Siobhan — your hair, those blue eyes, the way you carry yourself, the way you are with people, your laugh. And when you're naked you look voluptuous, feminine, round ...'