Three Way (2 page)

Pile One: Underwear

Pile Two: Tops, dresses, skirts

Pile Three: Jackets and coats

In the corner, a stack of shoe boxes. My eyes hone in on a pair of Birkenstocks, scuffed and dirtied with sand. Svetla walks in, her eyes deliberately not catching mine. She bends down and picks up her iPhone charger.

‘Okay, think that’s everything,’ she says. I glance at the piles of clothes, then back to her. Her shoulder-length blonde Scandinavian hair is tied back roughly. She wears lose tracky bottoms and a baggy T-shirt. Honestly, she’s looked better. Her eyes are tired from crying. My fault. Hours of pleading, arguing, shouting and now this. Quiet observing. Acutely aware neither of us can change what’s been said and done.

‘What about these?’ I say, indicating the piles of clothes.

‘Charity,’ she replies.

‘You want me to take these to the charity shop?’ I ask, frowning.

‘No, Ollie, I’ll do it. Just leave them somewhere and I’ll do it when I have time,’ she replies in a cold voice. I nod slowly. She picks up her bulky pink rucksack and throws it over her shoulder.

‘Let me help you-’ I say, stepping forward.

‘NO. No, thank you,’ she replies, correcting her tone. She walks out into the hallway. I follow her to the front door, a zombie. I put on a pair of old slippers and we walk out to her car. She goes around to the boot and throws the rucksack on top of the rest of her things, pushing it down hard. I go to help her, she shoves me away. I hold my hands up and step back. I watch her struggle to close the boot but eventually she succeeds and slams it shut. She turns to face me but doesn’t make eye contact.

‘Okay, so…bye,’ she says.

‘Svetla-’

‘No. We’ve said everything we need to say. Let’s say goodbye like adults,’ she replies, holding out her hand. Two and a half years we’ve been together and she wants to shake my hand. I look at her palm then up to her eyes. She blinks fast then turns away. There are so many things I want to say. So many apologies for all the stupid things I’ve said and done. Sorry for being me. She opens the car door.

‘Hey,’ I say, walking round to her. She turns to face me, tears in her eyes. When I see them my heart melts. What the hell are we doing? ‘You sure there’s nothing more we can do?’

‘We’ve done everything. You’re miserable with me. I’m miserable with you. We gave it a good shot and it didn’t work. Time for something else,’ she says, staring straight into my eyes.

‘Okay well, I just…’ my voice crumbles, ‘…I just wanted to say that I…really loved you and although I didn’t show it very often…I hope you’re happy somewhere else.’ Do I mean any of the words I’m saying or are they just some ploy to persuade her I am a genuinely nice guy? A tear rolls down her cheek. I move to hug her, she lets me but I feel her tense up. No warmth. No affection. Hugging a statue. I release her. She looks down and turns as the tear drops from her face to the ground. She quickly wipes her cheek and sniffs, getting into her car and closing the door. I stand back, my hands finding their way into my pockets. She starts the engine and pulls away. I stand, rooted, imprinting every part of this into my psyche. She indicates left at the road and slowly pulls away. I hear the car disappear into the distance and then…nothing except the sound of birds singing. The end.

I turn and walk back inside my flat. My mind is still processing what’s just happened. The girl I love has just left me. The girl I thought I was going to marry no longer lives with me. I walk into my bedroom and sit down on the bed. A tear runs down my face, I blink it away. I take a cardigan from the pile and smell her smell, closing my eyes. What have I done?

I wake with a start and check the clock. 05:45 AM. Damn. I’m up half an hour early. How did that happen? I yank the duvet off and tip toe to the bathroom looking like I’m doing some sort of weird pigeon walk. I get to the toilet, urgently needing to go. It’s always tricky at this time of the morning. I have to do some serious trajectory calculations and just like some of the world’s best scientists, every so often, I’m out. I won’t go into details, suffice to say I think we all know what I’m on about. Yeah, alright Ollie, get on with it. Right.

This is me. I live in this two bedroom shithole slap bang in the middle of the crap part of Clapham, South London. And before you ask, yes there is a good part. I saved up for literally years to afford this place, not bad for a twenty-six year old. There’s a constant drawl of traffic outside and every so often I hear a police car or ambulance go by. On the plus side, the toilet flushes. The place has electricity and the water is drinkable albeit with a slight smell of eggs, don’t know why. The reason it has two bedrooms is because I have somehow ended up living with my best friend from school, Parker McGregor. The first thing that comes to mind when you look at Parker is…Simon le Bon’s slightly fucked up twin brother. Parker is bulging at the seams, broad and a slob. He’s like a big green giant. Except he isn’t green. His bedroom door is closed. He won’t surface until at least midmorning. He’s a ‘writer.’ Which I take to mean, lazy arse. In the two years we’ve been living here, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him write anything. But he pays me rent, so what the hell, right?
How
he pays is another matter. He’s got rich parents, so the pressure’s off a bit.

I pull on my shirt (unironed) and trousers (M&S crease resistant) and wander back into the bathroom. I carefully and deliberately apply a generous portion of paste to my hair and pull it as far forward as I can. It’s short, I’m not going for any Spandau Ballet thing. I nod at myself and walk out.

When I reach the kitchen, I open the cupboard. Yes, there’s only one, and every bit of non-fresh food I own is crammed inside. I pull tins out and rifle around until I find a half-empty box of Special K. That’ll do. I open the fridge and peer inside. I won’t describe the smell, other than to say it’s in my interest to close the door as quickly as possible. Really should Dettol that fucker. Maybe I could leave a note for Parker to do the shoppi- what am I saying? I grab the milk, one of the few items still in date, and pour it over my cereal.

On the plus side, the Nescafe is still in healthy supply. I make a black mug of the strong stuff and wander into the living room with my bowl of cereal. I click on Breakfast TV and watch the presenters being unnecessarily cheerful for the time of morning.

I glance around the flat. Yeah, it’s not much to look at. Could be worse, could be living at home.

I prepare to slam the door as I leave. Want to make sure I wake up Tristan next door. He makes a living selling weed to a variety of clients who stop by and always, ALWAYS knock on the wrong door. It gets really boring. Tristan is one of those posh types who fell onto the wrong side of the tracks and has now got himself into that slippery place called ‘I owe Wayne more money than I make and I hope what I do give over next time is enough to save my kneecaps.’

I feel sorry for him. But I still think he needs to wake up early, meet the day head on. Get a proper job. I slam the door hard. It bangs and the echo bounces beautifully around the building. Nice.

‘OLLIE?’ I hear Tristan shout from behind his door.

‘YEAH!’ I match his yelling with my own.

‘FUCK YOU!’

‘You too mate. See you tonight.’

‘Kiss my fucking arse!’

‘Ciao.’

Always good to play with the drug dealers, I think.

The tube journey to work is hellish. I make it bearable by listening to my iPod. The Northern line is the worst line on the map. Maybe they made it black because it’s so bloody filthy. And the people are laughably rude. Well, it would be funny, if I could get on the train. But hey, it’s London. Deal with it or leave, right? Not like this city needs me clogging up its arteries like human cholesterol.

I arrive at work at 08:50AM. I stand looking up at the imposing glass fronted building. This is T.B.N. or Television Broadcast News. You want to know what I do? What do you mean, no? Come on, I’m not in the mood to mess about today.

I walk through one of two large glass turnstiles and into main reception. Beyond the glass walls, I can see the newsroom. There are people here twenty-four hours a day and you can tell when you walk through the door because the smell of carpet cleaner lingers in the air. I show my I.D. to the security guard who ignores me as I walk past. I keep going, past a large atrium area and straight over to the glass entrance to the newsroom. I swipe my card and the door releases. I pull it open and walk in.

The ‘Morning Programme’ is just coming off air. I find my seat on the newsdesk, sit down and log onto the news computer system. I’m a news producer, which is so generic it’s almost laughable. My duties basically consist of these things:

1) I am asked to do interviews to go into reporters VT’s (a cut news story told with pictures and a voiceover telling you the story).

2) I am asked to do vox pops (interviews with members of the public) to go into reporters VT’s.

3) I am asked to doorstep famous people/politicians who haven’t agreed to an interview but it’s deemed in the public interest for me to stand outside their house at some ungodly hour and freeze my nuts off.

4) Almost anything else the newsdesk wants me to do. I’m essentially the newsdesk bitch.

So that’s me. It’s a great job and I love it but you have to watch out for new news editors trying to make a name for themselves. Paul Enright walks back to the newsdesk carrying a cardboard box full of coffees. He spots me sitting down opposite him.

‘Ah Ollie, glad you’re here. Got a job for you,’ Paul says. He’s a good guy. Despite heading into his twilight years, you can see how much he enjoys his work. Yeah, I know the moustache is a little theatrical but try to look beyond that. Look at his flowing silver hair and unquestionable faith in John Rocha clothing. The bad breath thing is only really noticeable when you’re standing close to him.

‘Is it somewhere warm? Indoors?’ I ask, hope obvious in my voice.

‘Sort of,’ he says, winking at me. ‘Downing Street, cabinet arrivals.’ I sigh. One day I want to be doing his job. Probably not as well because no one’s as good as Paul, but sometime in the next few years I’ll be a news editor in my own right. Then I’ll call the shots and tell people to go and stand in Downing Street. That’s the plan anyway.

‘Where’s the Millbank producer?’

‘Off sick. Come on, it’ll be an hour at most. It’s not all bad, Millbank are sending Angelina Segar.’

‘Really, well that’s something I guess.’

‘I was being sarcastic. You get on with her?’ He frowns, the lines on his face becoming dangerous caverns.

‘Yeah. Why, don’t you?’

‘She’s a pain in the arse,’ the phone starts ringing, ‘but then, sometimes the good correspondents are, aren’t they?’ I shrug, considering his words. Paul turns and picks up the phone. ‘Newsdesk.’

Downing Street has the usual media suspects lined up opposite the famous black door. I show my press pass to the security guard and, having passed through the metal detector with flying colours, I walk up to our position. Angelina is already there, looking at herself in her compact mirror. She wears a black suit, sports thick cropped red hair and has a figure to die for. Seriously, she must spend all her spare time in the gym.

‘Morning,’ I say as cheerfully as I can. The clouds look menacing and the wind is already picking up. Downing Street is the worst location for producers and cameramen. There’s nowhere to piss, nowhere to get a sandwich and when you’re not on air or shouting questions at politicians, there’s nothing to do.

‘Hello Ollie. I didn’t know you were coming down,’ Angelina says.

‘Yeah well, when they said it was you, I couldn’t resist.’

‘Ah, that’s nice,’ she replies, running a brush through her hair. Unsure if I was trying to be sarcastic or not, I opt to carry on.

‘So…how’s Glen?’

‘Urgh, don’t ask,’ she says.

‘Oh. Why not?’ I reply. Angelina breathes out.

‘Can you keep a secret?’ she asks.

‘Yeah,’ I reply.

‘Seriously?’

‘Of course.’

‘He wants a kid,’ Angelina says, in an unenthusiastic tone.

‘Oh. Is that not a good thing?’