His 'n' Hers (16 page)

‘You’re definitely going to take it, then?’

There’s a long silence, which I assume is my answer.

‘When would the job start?’ I ask her.

‘After Christmas.’ There’s a long pause, then she adds, ‘You could come too. You could apply to firms in London. I’m sure there’ll be loads of opportunities for you there . . . It’s nothing to do with you . . . or us . . . or anything like that. We’re really good together. I just want more than I’ve got here.’

‘But I don’t want to move,’ I tell her. ‘I’m happy here. All my friends are here. I don’t want to give up all that. And I can’t do the long-distance thing. I just can’t. I thought asking you to move in with me would be a way of keeping us together. But it’s clear we’re going in different directions. Maybe we should just split up now so that we can stay friends.’

‘Well, I don’t think I can stay friends with you,’ Alison replies sadly. ‘I think it will hurt too much. So maybe you better just go.’

The doorbell has just rung. I answer it, and standing on the step in front of me is Alison carrying Disco. A few weeks ago she’d called me to ask if I’d consider looking after the cat until she gets settled in London. She’s brought over a carrier-bag full of Whiskas tins, some packets of dried food, all her toys and a little card with the vet’s address on and the date of her next set of injections. Disco seems pleased to see me, which is more than I can say for Alison. She doesn’t say much at all and she barely looks at me. I can’t understand why she won’t see things from my point of view.

My girlfriend is leaving to go and live in another city.

Long-distance relationships never work.

These are the facts and none of them is my fault.

‘What time are you leaving tomorrow?’ I ask, as she gets ready to leave.

‘Dad came up and took most of the big items from my room last weekend,’ she replies. ‘I don’t know. Early, probably, because the trains will be packed with everyone going home for Christmas. What about you?’

‘I’ll get the train home some time in the afternoon.’

She nods, and there’s an awkward silence.

‘Well, I suppose I’d better go, then,’ she says, and stoops to stroke Disco who is scratching at the carrier-bags by our feet. ‘Me and the girls are going to the Jug for a farewell drink if you fancy coming?’

‘I’d love to,’ I say, ‘but I’ve got too much work to do.’

‘Okay, well, have a great Christmas, won’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You too.’

It’s Christmas Eve.

More importantly, it’s the day that Alison’s leaving Birmingham for good. Which is why I’m banging on her front door. I don’t want her to go. I don’t want us to split up. And I have to tell her now.

‘Who is it?’ says Jane, behind the closed front door.

‘Quick, Jane, it’s me,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to speak to Alison before she goes.’

Jane opens the door and looks at me. ‘You’re a bit late for that.’

‘Don’t tell me she’s gone.’

‘Of course she’s gone,’ says Jane, firmly. ‘Why would she hang about here waiting for you to come to your senses?’

‘But—’

‘No buts, Jim. No buts at all. Alison loves you. And the fact is, you’ve let her down.’

Even with no idea of what time train she’s getting I convince myself that I’m still in with a chance of seeing her before she leaves Birmingham. I race to the bus stop on the high street just as the number fifty pulls up. Jostling a number of pensioners and their shopping trolleys, I fight my way on and will the driver to put his foot down. He obviously isn’t picking up on my psychic messages because he drives so slowly that, as we reach the city centre, I decide it will be faster under my own steam. I persuade him to let me off by Digbeth coach station, then run like my life depends on it – which, in a lot of ways, it does. I run from the coach station, up through to the markets, past St Martin’s and into the station.

I’m assuming that Alison’s going home to Norwich so I check all the timetables located on the walls. Once I’ve worked out the relevant information (i.e. that it’s not a Saturday in March) I discover that the next train to Norwich is leaving from platform eleven in five minutes. I run through the ticket barrier and down the escalators to the platform, which is when I realise the fatal design flaw in my plan – looking for someone on a packed train is not the easiest thing in the world to do. Especially when this particular train seems to be packed full of contestants for the 1995 Alison Smith Lookalike Championship. There are fat-looking Alisons, short-looking Alisons, Alisons who look like Alison from behind and nothing like Alison from the front, Alisons who have Alison’s hair but nothing else, Alisons who have Alison’s body and non-Alison hair (there is, believe it or not, a Chinese Alison, who has every single Alison attribute with the exception of Alison’s lack of Chineseness). So here I am searching for her, finding all these non-Alisons, and all the time the clock is ticking. Finally I reach carriage F and there she is, reading a magazine. I bang on the window and she looks round with a jolt. I wait patiently for her to appear at the carriage door, which, thankfully, she does, and she lowers the window just as the guard blows his whistle.

‘I’m sorry,’ I yell, over the deep growl of the train’s diesel engine. ‘I don’t want us to split up.’

‘I’m sorry too,’ she yells back.

‘I think we can make this work,’ I say, jogging along the platform next to the train, ‘and I don’t care what you say, I won’t take no for an answer.’

I receive one card: a black and white photo of a heart made in pebbles on a beach. Inside, it reads: ‘Happy Valentine’s Day. You make me complete. All my love, always, Alison.’

I’ve just been round to Mr McNamara’s. The conversation went like this:

Me: ‘Hi, Mr McNamara. Sorry to bother you. It’s just that I’ve only got a single bed in my room and when my girlfriend comes to stay there’s no room for the two of us. I was just wondering if you could supply me with a double bed. My girlfriend is on the verge of giving me a really hard time. I’m sure you understand what a difference a bigger bed would make.’

Him: ‘I’m renting the room to you – not your girlfriend.’

I couldn’t see the point of pushing the matter any further, given that this was the full extent of Mr McNamara’s reasoned debate. And as I’m perfectly happy in the bed five days out of seven I decide to let sleeping landlords lie.

Alison and I have just arrived at my place.

‘You know what I’d really like to do?’ purrs Alison, as we stand in the hallway.

‘What?’ I say, even though I’m pretty sure what the answer will be.

‘I think we should christen the new double bed!’ she exclaims, and then she begins nibbling my earlobe. Before I know it we’re scrambling up the stairs and towards my room. We kiss frantically on the upstairs landing and manoeuvre ourselves into my room backwards, then flop on to the bed. This is exactly the moment at which Alison realises there isn’t a new bed to christen. If I’d had a single ounce of sense I would’ve bought one as soon as I’d left her the previous weekend. I didn’t, however, have even half an ounce of sense so instead I ignored the problem as if it might sort itself out. By the time it occurred to me to do something about it was nine thirty last night and all the bed shops I could find in the
Yellow Pages
had been closed for hours.

‘Where’s the new bed?’ asks Alison.

‘There’s a little problem with that,’ I explain quickly.

‘But I thought—’

‘I lied. I asked my landlord and he wouldn’t budge.’