Happy Endings (13 page)

Obviously the message was for me. What could I say? Was I ignoring her? Yes and for good reason. She was beautiful, home alone and thinking of me and I was out, drinking, my girlfriend was ten thousand miles away and I hadn’t had sex in forever. I decided it wouldn’t hurt to have a bit of friendly banter.

Of course not. Just out with a mate having a few beers. Why aren’t you out? E x

Before I had the chance to put the phone back in my pocket, it buzzed again.

No one to play with. At home in my pyjamas, bored and wishing you were here. G xx

I quickly typed a reply before Jack came back.

And what would we do? Film? Takeaway? Other? E xx

It was wrong and stupid, but at that moment, I didn’t care. I felt out of control and maybe it was what I needed. Maybe what I needed was Georgie. Obviously I wasn’t thinking clearly, but before I managed to text myself further into a hole, Jack came back to the table.

‘How’s the writing going?’ I said nervously, hoping he wouldn’t spot the look of embarrassment and guilt that seemed, to me at least, plastered like a billboard across my face.

‘All done. Sending off the agent letters on Monday.’

‘And this is definitely the last one?’

‘For a while. I’m so bored of being broke, of feeling like a complete and utter failure. If this doesn’t work, it’s back to the drawing board.’

‘Like I’ve said before, you can always come and work with me.’

‘Another pint here or do you want to go somewhere else?’ he said, ignoring me.

‘We can stay here if you want; get pissed like a couple of old codgers.’

‘You don’t fancy going somewhere a bit, I don’t know, livelier?’ said Jack with a disappointed shrug.

I looked around at the pub and it was lively enough. Admittedly, the people were mainly City workers who came here because they could sit down and talk, eat some half-decent food without being elbowed out of the way by pissed tourists, students and people under the age of twenty-five. The pub was full of people like me. People who sat in comfortable chairs all day and didn’t want that to change by night.

‘Fine, let’s go somewhere a bit livelier,’ I said, downing the last inch of my pint.

‘While the Kate’s away, eh.’

I smiled and grabbed my coat. Maybe it was time I took a chance and had a bit of fun. Maybe it was time I stopped living the easy life in easy pubs full of middle-aged people living middle-aged lives. After all, I wasn’t yet thirty. I was sick and tired of always doing the right thing, the sensible thing, and acting as though I was past it. Kate wasn’t the only one who could be impulsive and have fun.

Four hours later I ended up drunk and standing outside Georgie’s flat in Clapham, throwing small stones at her window. Maybe if I’d have stayed with the commuter-belt bunch, I’d have gone home like a good boy, bought a kebab and fallen asleep on the sofa thinking about my girlfriend. As it was, I spent the night with Jack, getting steadily drunker, texting backwards and forwards with Georgie until I couldn’t take it anymore. Jack and I left the club and after I said goodbye and wished him well with Emma, I hopped in a taxi and headed to Clapham.

From the age of eight to sixteen Alex Holloway was my best friend. Alex’s family moved to Wales just before sixth form and we lost touch, but before that we were inseparable. For Alex’s fourteenth birthday his dad bought a video camera and spent the whole party videoing us. This was in the days before cameras on mobile phones and no one I knew had a video camera.

What I remember most about the party wasn’t the cake, the snooker competition or even that he’d invited Hannah Callaghan, the best-looking girl at our school, but watching the video footage back afterwards. It was the first time I’d ever seen myself on video and I couldn’t believe it. Was that what I really looked like? Was that how I smiled? Moved? Spoke? Was that how everyone else in the world saw me? In our heads we have a certain image of ourselves, but when we see how we actually are, it’s so different. It made me wonder who I really was.

Fifteen years later, I was thinking the same thing as I stood on Georgie’s front door step. Who was I and what the fuck was I doing?

‘You came,’ said Georgie as she appeared at the door.

She was wearing a simple floral dress that stopped just above her knees. She looked at me for a moment, her lovely face and incredible body just waiting for me to step over the threshold. ‘I did,’ I said, and then she grabbed my hand and pulled me inside.

The minute I stepped into her flat it was like everything accelerated. The pretence I was there for anything other than sex quickly washed away. The pretty floral dress fell to the floor, revealing Georgie’s wonderful body beneath. She was wearing a matching blue and white polka-dot bra and panties.

‘What do you think?’

‘Incredible’, was the only word I could think of.

‘Just give me a moment,’ she said, planting a delicate kiss on my lips before she bounced away and disappeared into what I assumed was her bedroom.

While she was gone I had a quick look around her flat. It was your typical just-graduated-from-university flat. The walls were adorned with posters of bands, films and the mandatory Gustav Klimt poster. The various eclectic knick-knacks and ornaments that didn’t quite fit together; the combination of two different people bringing with them their histories and childhood memories; photos of young girls with their ponies, on holiday with their parents, boyfriends, brothers, I didn’t know. The scattering of old books on shelves and on the coffee table. The wine bottles stacked up on a sideboard and the IKEA rugs plastered across most of the old wooden floor. It screamed of lives just beginning, of unanswered questions, of youth and promise. Then, over the fireplace, I saw a picture of Georgie, with what I assumed were her parents, on graduation day; she was beaming from ear-to-ear, a beautiful young lady and her proud mum and dad.

‘Ready?’ said Georgie, suddenly reappearing around the doorway.

To be honest, I wasn’t. The alcohol had done a fairly decent job up until that point, but, now we were about to disappear into her bedroom, the realisation of what I was going to do seemed to hit me like a bus. I walked towards her until we were face to face.

‘What now?’

‘Now, Ed Hornsby, you fuck my brains out.’

It was a strange experience if I’m honest. The sex was great. It was natural, raw and spontaneous, and I did things with her I hadn’t done with Kate in years. Whereas with Kate I didn’t go that extra-mile, try that different position, because we had our system and it worked, with Georgie it was different. Afterwards we lay in the dark looking up at the ceiling and the orbs of light that crept in from the streetlights outside.

‘Can I ask you something?’ I said through the darkness.

‘Sure.’

‘Why me? Why did you pick me when you could’ve had anyone at work?’

‘Because there was something about you. A vulnerability. A sadness. It was as if from the moment I met you, I could feel it. You were desperate for something and I thought maybe it could be me.’

She rubbed her leg along mine and then reached across with her hand and ran a finger down my stomach. I suddenly thought of Kate and a huge wave of guilt swept through my body, making me feel nauseous. The alcohol had worn off and I was looking up at the mountain face of reality and it went on forever. It suddenly dawned on me that I would have to tell her. She would come back ready to settle down, get engaged, start our life over and I’d have to tell her. I had cheated and suddenly I regretted it more than anything in the world.

‘I should go,’ I said, looking down at Georgie’s body outlined against the white sheet.

‘No, stay, Ed. I want to go again.’ Her hand quickly reached towards me, but I shifted myself in the bed.

‘I should . . .’

‘Feeling guilty? Don’t. You’ve already done it so another once or twice isn’t going to hurt.’ Her hand tried to find me again but I stood up and searched the floor for my clothes.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Ed, stop being ridiculous and get back in bed,’ said Georgie, kneeling up so I could see her body in full. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except leaving. I managed to find my jeans and then my shirt. I got dressed while Georgie slumped back into bed.

‘Seriously, you’re leaving?’

‘It’s not you, Georgie, it’s me. It’s Kate. I can’t do this. I love her.’

‘It was fine ten minutes ago when you had your head between my legs; why isn’t it fine now? What’s changed?’

‘Nothing. I just feel like I should leave.’

‘But I don’t want you to leave, Ed. Stay. Please. For me?’

Georgie got off the bed and wrapped herself around me, kissing my neck and making my escape that much harder. But something had triggered inside of me. I didn’t want this anymore. I didn’t want Georgie. I wanted to go home and wrap myself in the duvet that still faintly smelt of Kate.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said and walked out.

Jack

I reached across and felt nothing but a slightly creased sheet. The bed was empty. My head felt like someone had attacked it with a hard, blunt object from the inside. My eyes were stuck together with sleep and my stomach felt like a washing machine of salt and vinegar. It had been a good night with Ed, but now I was paying the price. I wondered what time it was. I stretched myself across the bed so I could see the alarm clock. Ten thirty. No wonder Emma was up.

I got out of bed, put on some clothes and headed into the lounge in search of Emma but she was nowhere to be seen. Instead, all I found was a note on the fridge. She’d gone out and wouldn’t be back until later. There was no mention of where she’d gone, with whom or what time I should expect her back. I had, it seemed, been abandoned. So, in my hour of need and desperate to stop the pain that was beginning to encircle my body, I headed off to the café around the corner for a full English breakfast and at least two mugs of very strong coffee.

Frank’s Café was the top dog when it came to upmarket greasy spoon breakfasts. I liked Frank’s because Frank was Italian and so even though it was traditional café grub, it was served as if you were in a café in Naples. He also made incredible Italian coffee. I ordered the Frank special breakfast and a cappuccino. I picked up a copy of the newspaper and scanned the headlines, but I couldn’t concentrate. Partly because my head was pounding, but also because I felt so guilty about Emma.

I’d been a monumental idiot. There was no doubt in my mind I’d made a complete and utter mess of everything. Emma shouldn’t have kissed Rhys, but it was nothing, just a silly, stupid moment of weakness. If I hadn’t been so against the film in the first place, then perhaps she wouldn’t have felt the need to seek comfort and solace in the arms of Rhys Connelly.

Frank brought over my food with a smile, the plate overflowing with bacon, eggs, sausage, black pudding, toast, beans and hash browns. I began eating almost as soon as the plate touched the table.

‘Feeling a bit worse for wear?’ said Frank, holding an over-sized pepper grinder.

‘Just a little. Bit of a big one last night.’

‘Still, good to get out though, eh. Pepper?’

Frank always waved his big phallic wooden pepper grinder at me and I always said no. I didn’t like pepper, but Frank liked to wave it about as though he were offering me an expensive bottle of wine. It was a grand gesture for something so simple. If there had been a little pot of pepper on the table I could have ignored it, but when Frank came over so happy to see me and offered me the chance of extra pepper with a sort of theatrical, Shakespearean pomp, I felt terrible for saying no. But on that morning and with the guilt of Emma already weighing heavily on my shoulders, I couldn’t let Frank down too.

‘Please,’ I said and a huge smile spread across Frank’s face.

‘Just say when,’ said Frank, going to work; little pellets of black pepper cascaded onto my plate and covered my food.

Stepping out into the chilly but bright day, I felt a sense of happiness, and the darkness that had encircled my morning began to filter with light. I’d been a fool, but I could fix it. I had made Frank happy and I was going to make Emma happy too. I was going to let her do the film, fulfil her dream and I was going to be happy about it. It would make everything all right. I guess the whole point was that I trusted her, always had, and whatever happened, I had to keep on trusting her.

I was on the dreaded one-to-close shift, which meant I wouldn’t be home until gone midnight. This also meant I wouldn’t see Emma. I was feeling a bit better after breakfast and I even had a surge of optimism about my book. Sitting on the tube, I started imaging our life if I actually achieved the impossible and got published.

The tube was a great place to think, dream and imagine a better life. Maybe because it’s underground and easy to get lost in your own little world or because it’s like a return to the foetal state, as the gentle rhythmic swaying and rattling puts you into a sleepy trance. It worked. I was daydreaming about not having to work at To Bean or Not to Bean again. About the day I could go in, hand over my apron and walk out, head held high and with the knowledge I would never have to work there another day in my life. As I took the escalator to the surface and walked out into the sunshine, my dreams began to fade away and the reality I was going to spend the next ten hours behind the counter serving terribly named coffee to tourists slapped me around the face. I was suddenly wide awake.