Growing Up Twice (15 page)

But this is Michael. Sun-filled, innocent, happy-go-lucky Michael. He is all the games of spin the bottle that I have ever played, he is all the tight-lipped moments of tension I have spent trying not to laugh while some poor lad has been grappling with my bra fastening. Michael is the last moment before the first kiss under the glow of an orange street lamp, in the days when I could still see the stars in the sky. He is everything I was before I met Owen, and what I love about him most is watching him find his way. The smile resounds in my voice.

‘I look forward to it,’ I say. There is a short silence of smiles coming back at me.

‘Look, I’d better go,’ I say. We both smile silently for a moment longer.

‘OK, I’ll call you in the week to sort it out?’

‘Yeah, see you,’ I say softly.

‘Good luck with your move. See you,’ he says and hangs up.

I stretch back on my naked bed and try to imagine his bedroom. There is something about Michael, something that doesn’t exactly remind me of Owen but something they have in common. Owen is very charismatic, maybe that’s it. One of the reasons I fell for him so totally at the beginning was his charm, which was genuine in the original meaning of the word, in that his manner could be beguiling and bewitching. In the early days after a reunion his displays of authoritarian love for me made me feel warm and secure. His romantic indulgences coupled with an innate sense that he was right about me prevented me from having to worry about deciding my own fate; for the first time since Dad left home I had someone else to make those decisions.

But it’s not like that with Michael, it’s almost the opposite. I close my eyes and picture him in the sunlight in the park, in the shadows in Rosie’s room. It’s the way he sees me. Owen used to look at me in that way, with that desire and emotion, but the difference is that with Owen I would be living on tenterhooks waiting for that expression to suddenly vanish or dry up. With Michael I know that every time I see him he will look at me that way. He reflects my glory.

‘Jen!’ Rosie shouts along the corridor in a mildly frustrated tone. ‘What are you
doing
in there?’

‘Phoning Mr Bilton!’ I reply. ‘What do you think?’ Her voice is suddenly right outside the door and I sit up abruptly. She opens the door.

‘Oh. Well, he’s here now, so you can stop.’

‘Is he? I must have the wrong number, I wondered why I kept getting an unobtainable tone,’ I say, and I follow her out to meet Mr Bilton. Normally that would have been a close thing but I’m finding another side-effect of Rosie’s pregnancy is a short-term memory to rival a goldfish. If any suspicion crossed her mind I’m pretty sure it will be lost in her baby-filled ether by now, drowned out by a cloud of anchovy-craving hormones and the much more interesting prospect of real life, the actual process of creation, right inside her, right now. It pretty much blows
my
mind when I think about it.

Mr Bilton is a very tall, very fat man, who wears a very old, very brown, browner than the original colour, very smelly jumper. Mr Bilton is probably London born and bred but for some reason (maybe he has watched too many episodes of
Coronation Street
and
Emmerdale
) he feels compelled to call us lasses, miss whole chunks out of sentences and add the letter ‘t’ to the end of random words. Somewhere down the line he must have done a dreadful impression of a northern person and was never able to revert to normal, or he is a northerner who has lived in London so long he sounds half cockney. Either way, on the few occasions that we have spoken it freaks me out. That and his personal hygiene habits.

I follow him around the flat trying not to gag every time a whiff of stale smoke, sweat or fried food wafts in my direction.

‘Of course, there were no subletting allowed.’ He nods at Rosie who leans on the door frame of the living-room, her nose stuck in a permanent wrinkle.

‘Rosie? She’s just a mate who’s come to help me move out.’ I smile at him as sweetly as I can whilst holding my breath and he makes a grumbling noise deep in the recesses of his massive girth.

‘Table’s broken.’ He points at the three-legged table.

‘Yes, but it was when I moved in. You were going to come and fix it. Look, I have the inventory.’ I wave a random piece of paper in his face, hoping he won’t want to take a look. The windy intestine noise erupts and echoes around the empty room.

We finish our tour, and he points out the iron-shaped burn on the floor (guilty), the broken handles on the kitchen cupboards (guilty) and black bubbly mess of melted lino in the bathroom (not guilty, it was Rosie and I have no idea how she did it). Luckily he doesn’t try the cooker and the beetles seem to be staying in hiding, maybe as a farewell gesture. He tucks his chin into, well, more chins and looks at me from two tiny red-rimmed eyes.

‘I’ll give you two hundred back, not a penny more, no point bartering, lass, you’ll get nowt more out of me, y’hear?’ I nod in disbelief and accept the slightly smelly-looking cash.

I give him the keys and carefully prop open the front door as the last few bits are carried out. He strides off over the road and heads straight into the pub.

‘You can’t let him get away with that!’ Rosie says indignantly. ‘This flat was a hell hole when you moved in!’ I tuck the cash in the pocket of my jeans.

‘Listen, Rosie, between you, me and the lino incident I’m grateful for whatever I get. I thought
he
was going to charge
me
!’ Rosie rolls her eyes at my non-negotiation skills as I grab the last box and take it out.

Everything is in the van, Rosie and Josh are having one more look under beds, Selin is having a last-ditch attempt at making the hoover pick something up and Danny is in the driver’s seat tuning the radio. He has already offered me the seat next to him. I have declined in deference to Rosie’s condition.

I take one last look around me as a resident at the Grove, expecting sentiment to kick in at any moment.

That’s why when I hear Owen’s voice, I think for a moment it’s a daydream.

‘Jenny?’ There it is again, fake upper class with a faint trace of Brummy. Owen, he’s here. My stomach takes a tumble for my feet.

I take a deep breath and look back at the open door. Selin, Rosie and Josh will be down any minute. Finally I look at Owen.

‘Owen, hello. What do you want?’ I ask in measured tones. I can’t help giving in a little to the pull that his blue eyes have always had on me.

Danny must have found the station he wants on the radio, as the volume soars and blots out the noise of the passing traffic, leaving Owen and me standing alone able to hear only each other and hard-core chart rap. Some skinny white guy is extolling the virtues of raping his kid sister and then murdering her.

‘What’s going on?’ He gestures at the van. Even though he’s smiling and his voice is reasonable I don’t want him to know I’m moving, it’s just a gut thing. There is still something about him that makes my stomach lurch and my heart pick up pace. The rising volume of the base coming from Danny’s van seems to drum inside my head. Owen takes a step closer to me. I take a step back.

‘Owen, why are you here?’ I cock my head to one side and smile at him, attempting to appear as relaxed as possible. Somehow the noise around us has become an inescapable wall.

‘Why do you think?’ His genial tone disconcerts me. ‘You’re not answering my calls. Why?’ His smile is still present, a little more tight-lipped but still there.

Danny’s changed his mind about the rap and for a moment the air is filled with deafening static before the baleful tones of some indie popster wash back in and then out again, complaining about the weather. As Danny searches, snatches of voices, tunes and empty noise buffet the air around me. My irritation with Danny and his god-damn radio and Owen and his god-damn smug smile finally begin to simmer and I start to lose my brittle composure. Any lingering remnants of nostalgic romanticism that I might have felt about him evaporate like mist and I am suddenly certain that I want Owen to go.

‘Owen, we split up. You finished with me. Why should I answer your calls?’ I am annoyed with the tight girlish tone in my voice.

He brushes his floppy blond hair back from his face and chuckles. Yes,
chuckles.

‘You’re upset with me, of course you are,’ he patronises. ‘I do nothing but hurt you. But
you
know. It’s always you that I come back to. Those other girls mean nothing to me. They just prove to me more each time how much I love you.’ His voice softens and he steps a little closer to me. ‘This time, Jenny, I think I really have learnt my lesson. This is the last time, I swear to you.’

As I listen to his litany of clichés I find the anger that rises in my chest almost impossible to quell, but my instinct tells me not to lose my temper. I speak in measured tones.

‘Owen, the last time? The last time
was
the last time.’

He shakes his head in disbelief and laughs again, almost a giggle this time.

‘OK, OK, so you don’t want to be together any more,’ he says, clearly not believing a word of it. ‘But what about being friends? We’ve been too close for too long just to throw it all away.’

This time I can’t help the angry laugh that escapes my throat.

‘
Friends?
After everything you’ve put me through, you want me to be your
friend
?’ His face hardens at my tone and I glance over my shoulder again, hoping to see Rosie or Josh, and say, ‘Owen, just go.’

Another radio station phases in and for a moment the Grove is filled with ‘Hit Me Baby, One More Time’. The volume decreases but Danny doesn’t turn it off.

Rosie’s voice precedes her down the stairs.

‘Right, that’s the last of it, we’re good to go!’ As she emerges on to the road she is saying, ‘Christ, who is playing that awful …’ she sees Owen, ‘… music.’

‘Good to go where?’ he asks, looking at me.

‘Nowhere,’ I say.

Rosie joins me and links her arm through mine. ‘Owen,’ she says flatly.

‘Rosalind,’ he replies, using the full name she can’t stand. I can feel her bristle.

She sweetly steps in front of me. ‘Look, you might as well just go. Jen’s moving and there’s nothing you can do about it.’ The secret’s out. It’s at times like this that I wish the psychic connection we have often imagined between the three of us really existed.

‘Moving?’ Owen’s voice rises sharply. ‘How can you move without letting me know?’

Rosie speaks for me. ‘Why should she tell you?’ she hisses. Her eyes narrow and she almost bares her teeth.

‘Because I need to know where you are, you fucking bitch!’ As always his sudden verbal violence stuns me into silence. I stare at him, fighting back tears.

The flat door slams and suddenly Selin and Josh are at my side.

‘What’s going on here? Owen, why are you here?’ Josh demands, instantly taking control. Despite his anger Owen takes a step back.

‘This is none of your business,’ Owen spits at him. Josh stands in front of both of us and takes another step forward until he’s looking down at Owen.

‘No, you’re wrong. This is
my
business, this is
my
friend. Now, she doesn’t want you here and neither do I. So why don’t you just fuck off?’ If I’d seen this on TV I’d have just laughed, Owen and Josh standing eyeball to eyeball getting ready to fight over me. I have never seen Josh look so angry. I’ve never seen Josh look angry at all. I wonder if I should try and calm the waters and ease the tension, but I find that I’m rooted to the spot. I’ve seen that look on Owen’s face before. I’m afraid of him.

All at once the music spins off and the noise of the street rushes back in. Danny hops out of the van and takes in the scene. He saunters over and says, ‘Need any help, man?’ in a noncommittal way that could be addressed to either Josh or Owen in any context. In a second he becomes another best friend. Owen breaks the deadlock and turns on his heel.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ he shouts, and his coat-tails flap in the breeze as he marches down the street. I want to thank Josh and Danny, to tell Rosie off for giving it all away and to love her for sticking up for me, but before I can speak I’m in tears and Rosie and Selin are both hugging me tightly.

Danny lights a roll-up and leans against the van.

‘Uptight guy,’ he says.

The living-room of our new flat is an assault course of boxes and bin bags. We have plugged in the TV and the kettle and although there is a perfectly nice sofa we are sitting on the floor with fish and chips. Selin, Josh and Danny are still here.

Our encounter with Owen seems like years ago now, just a dream that has already faded and which I have half forgotten. Which I would have completely forgotten if everyone would only stop talking about it.

‘So, then I told him to get lost or else,’ Josh proudly tells us again as if we hadn’t all been there.

Selin eats another chip with a furious expression. ‘Thank God Josh was there, hey, Jen?’ she repeats for the third time.

‘Yes,’ I say quietly. ‘Thank God.’ They assume that Owen has made me quiet and withdrawn but actually I am totally, unfairly angry with Josh.

I don’t know why I’m angry, I was really glad he was there at the time, but this constant harping on about how Owen was clearly insane and probably dangerous, and who knows what might have happened if Josh hadn’t been there to rescue me, is starting to grate. His new-found role as the local knight in shining armour is beginning to get on my nerves. I mean, it wasn’t that big a deal. It seemed scary at the time but really it was just Owen getting on his high horse again. I’m pretty sure he would have left of his own accord if Rosie hadn’t turned up when she did and let the cat out of the bag. Because of Josh’s heroics the rest of the day had been about that little scrap outside the van. Today was meant to be about my new beginning. Now I just want to forget it.

I change the subject.

‘I’m going away next weekend,’ I say. Rosie takes her eyes from
Blind Date
and looks surprised.

‘Oh? You didn’t mention it. Where are you going?’ I think she might be a little peeved that I’m abandoning her for only our second weekend in our new home.