Low Expectations (29 page)

‘It's not harassment! If he doesn't answer the door I'll go home. I just – this is killing me – I feel like every second that passes that I can't explain …'

Gary rolls his eyes, clearly disapproving, but finally raises his hands and says,

‘Fine, but darling, sort out your makeup before you do, you've got mascara all down your face.'

I hadn't even realized that I had started crying. I know I am in no fit state to find Scott, but once I am drunkenly determined to do something, there is no stopping me. Luckily, I still have enough presence of mind to know that reapplying my makeup wasted in a taxi is not the look one wants to sport when begging forgiveness of a man.

Back in the toilets, Gary blots away the trails of greyish misery that pigment my cheeks with damp bog roll, as I sip a glass of water he insisted I take. He finishes wiping it off and asks for my makeup bag, fixing the trainwreck that is my face with a deft, surprisingly motherly hand.

‘What a transformation, eh?'

He spins my shoulders towards the mirror. It is indeed impressive. I have gone from looking like inebriated hell to passably normal, the best I could have hoped for.

‘I used to live with a drag queen,' he says modestly by way of explanation. ‘Don't worry, I'm not sure you can see straight enough to notice but I held back on the eyeliner.'

‘Gary, you're a star. Why are you so nice to me when I've been a total prat?' I whisper pathetically.

‘Doll, we are all of us prats, at times. The important thing is, you've got your heart in the right place. You're a good egg even if you have horrible judgement. And you make me laugh,
I guess. I still think you should wait till tomorrow, but if you insist on disturbing him tonight, go get him, tiger!'

The pulsating feeling of urgency returns as I realize it is nearly three in the morning. The sensible part of my brain – always tiny and now drowning in booze – emits a little wail, vainly signalling that nothing will change in the next ten hours. That I should wait, be refreshed, showered, clean and sober and call him beforehand to warn him I'm coming and possibly bring him some sort of peace offering, like Beardy's head on a platter or, failing that, a really, really good sandwich. But I feel time pressing on me, a horrible feeling that somehow action, now, is pivotal to my success. I kiss Gary on the cheek and make a dash for it, trying not to knock anyone over as I stumble through the dance floor on my increasingly unsteady heels.

‘Georgie! Where the fuck have you been? I haven't seen you for ages. Have you been getting off with someone?'

Julian has spotted me just as I finally retrieve my coat from the cloakroom. The queue was packed with fashion people of both sexes drunkenly swaying on all manner of absurd platform heels. I had waited a good fifteen minutes, barely preventing myself from loudly declaring a state of emergency in order to be served first, but my English reticence is stronger than even my most extreme desperation. I groan, leaning against the wall with no energy to explain my absence.

‘Julian, it's a long, long story, a terrible story … I need to go.
I have an awful story to tell, so awful this story. I will tell you when next I see you, I need to find Scott—'

‘Darling, you look really, really pissed. I can barely understand you. Go home to bed. Let me help you find a black cab, there are loads of dodgy minicabs outside.' In spite of my nonsensical protestations, Julian forcefully takes me by the arm and leads me outside. I am really very, very woozy, increasingly bone-tired.

‘Miss? Ma'am. Hello? Excuse me. Hello! Wake up!'

I groggily come to, slumped diagonally over the seats of a taxi, my legs splayed in a way that reminds me of the Wicked Witch of the West's striped socks when she is found flattened by a house.

‘Er … Wha—? Where … where am I?'

‘Your home, I hope to God. Your friend gave me your address and promised you wouldn't puke. This is your house, right?' The driver seems concerned. When late-shift taxi drivers, who arguably have to deal with the messiest, darkest sides of humanity on a nightly basis, appear to be worried about you, it is not a good sign.

‘Yes,' I say blearily, before I look out the window to make sure that it is, in fact, my house. ‘Yes, this is me …' I struggle to put myself aright, fumbling through my purse.

‘Ah … Your friend left you some cab fare. It's … in your shirt.'

I look down. Indeed it is. There is a crisp, folded £20 note slotted into my cleavage. Bless Julian's cotton socks.

I manage to open the front door after about five minutes. I was beginning to freak out, thinking that I had broken or irreparably bent my key, before realizing I was using the set to my mum's flat. I didn't think I would be so affected by only four or five cocktails. Maybe it was six. Oh, and that bottle of champagne we shared on the way over. And the cider I had while putting on my makeup. All on an empty stomach. It's for the best I haven't found Scott tonight.

I crawl into bed, hating myself. My laptop, resting against the pillow next to me, is still playing my getting-ready-to-go-out playlist; it is horribly jarring. I search for something soothing. Something I haven't listened to before. Mum gave me a meditation disk once. I select Paul McKenna's
Change Your Life In Seven Days
, ‘A mind-programming technique that will help you to feel happier in yourself, focus on success, release your true potential and create more abundance in your life'. I fall asleep, lulled by a soothing voice telling me that when I awake, it will be with an inner sense of calm.

DO NOT LISTEN TO THIS EYES-CLOSED PROCESS WHILE DRIVING OR OPERATING MACHINERY; ONLY LISTEN WHEN YOU CAN SAFELY RELAX COMPLETELY.

Urgggh. My iTunes has been set to Repeat. The calming meditation was sporadically interrupted all night by a violently shouted beginning set to tinny A-I-robot music. Even in my passed-out state, I have had very strange dreams. I can't remember the particulars, but the lingering image I have when I awake is of the Michelin Man operating on my uterus, which in my dreamscape world is made up of automobile tubing.

I hastily mute my computer, noting bitterly that it is only 10 a.m. After a night like last night, this is ridiculous-o'clock.
Still, maybe it was worth it, perhaps McKenna has started to subconsciously heal the self-directed bile I can feel rising up inside me now. Wait. That is not emotional bile, but actual bile. Running to the toilet, I manage to lift the lid just in time before I gag, a thin trickle of acidic liquid emerging from my mouth to pool, disconsolately orange, in the watery basin. I barely ate yesterday and my body is so dehydrated that I can't muster up the essential fluid to eject the ethanol I poisoned myself with last night. I am twenty-five years old in six weeks and I can't even puke properly.

Back in bed, the full horror of this mess I have got myself into hits me again. I have been such an enormous dick. I don't even know where to start reprimanding myself. It's a new low.

I seem to be using that expression a lot recently.

The thought of finding Scott and opening up to him, sober, terrifies me. But I also start to think that really, he is not the person I owe an apology to, or at least he is not the first in line. Beardy is awful. I saw the signs and ignored them; low self-esteem and an appreciation for superficial characteristics created a bubble around him I dared not penetrate. I placed more value on a beard than on myself and others. Not that there was anything I could have done, exactly, to prevent what he attempted with Alice. But at least I wouldn't have blindly, unquestioningly followed him, dashing other loyalties in the process.

I take a long bath, retch again, get dressed and feel ready to eat something. I breakfast on runny poached eggs with wholemeal toast spread with horseradish, cottage cheese and a dash of Tabasco. It sounds disgusting but is my hangover cure-all (particularly when combined with a Bloody Mary, but I am swearing off alcohol for the next eight hours). It is early afternoon, an acceptable time to ring Gary and hope that he will pick up. He does, on the third try. The guilt gremlin pressing on my chest outweighs my normal concerns about phone-harassment protocol.

‘Georgie? God, how did it go?' he says groggily.

‘Gary. I want to thank you for telling me last night and helping me, you could have just blanked me, I couldn't have even blamed you for it—'

‘What happened? Give me the edited version; I have company.'

‘The edited version is that nothing happened. I was too drunk and ended up going home. The thing is … I've been thinking this morning about talking to Alice first. I don't know if she will want to hear it, but she is the real victim here and I want to see that she is all right and just say how terrible I feel about …'

There is a long pause. I can hear Gary sitting up and lighting a cigarette.

‘Love, I dunno about that. You don't even really know her. Is this for your benefit or for hers?'

I had been mulling that one over. In much the same way that a well-meant AA apology might come as an unwanted intrusion in someone else's life, stirring up shit they prefer to ignore, I don't know if it is appropriate to infringe. Is what I am after forgiveness? A pat on the back for finally opening my eyes? Not really. If she hates me for ever, I will understand. I just want the chance to extend my sympathy and explain. I say all this to Gary, brokenly.

‘Bloody hell. I don't know what to say. I do know that she's been working part-time in a café on Upper Street while she waits for Tim's solo career to take off. The Violet Bakery, or something. If you go, don't say I sent you. I have enough of a reputation as a gossip as it is.'

‘Thanks so much. I appreciate this—' Gary hangs up before I can finish the heartfelt speech I had prepared. I steel myself for a similar reaction from Alice.

There is no Violet Bakery, but having walked down the whole of Upper Street to Angel, I pass The Orchid Bakery, which is a likely bet. Entering, I immediately see Alice behind the counter, preparing a bag of goodies for a mother pushing a pram. Weirdly, I am floored, not expecting to actually find her there. I hesitate in the doorway. She finishes serving her customer and turns around with a friendly smile in my direction. It vanishes when she recognizes me.

‘Alice—'

‘Georgie. What would you like?' A fake, professional smile is set on her full lips.

‘I … can I talk to you, for a minute?'

‘I'm working. You need to order, to talk to me.' The café is almost entirely empty. If I am going to do this, now is the time.

‘Ok … I'll have this,' I set a bottle of orange juice on the counter. I could really do with a strong coffee, but don't want to speak to her back as she prepares it. ‘Alice, I just want to say that I am so, so sorry. I just recently found out what happened with Leo – what Leo did. I feel awful about it. I know that stalking you where you work is not the way to go about things, but I just wanted to say that it's terrible and I didn't know and that I am disgusted with myself for having sided with him. And I hope you are all right.'

She rings up my purchase, stony-faced.

‘That's £3.50.'

‘Right … here you go. I'm so sorry …' Silence. ‘I'll just go then. I … I wish you the best.'

I walk out the door, feeling her eyes boring into my back. I mindlessly follow my footsteps eastwards in the biting winter air, absorbing the reception of my apology. I leadenly prepare myself for the likelihood that Scott's reaction will be exactly the same, if not worse. I'm not sure if I have the strength to do it all over again immediately. And yet, if she mentions
this to him, it will be even stranger if I turn up at The Newt with a cowardly time-lapse of several days.

Better to get it all over with in one fell swoop. The forty-minute walk that brings me to the door of the pub has cleared my head; I am determined.

Swinging open the door, I march straight up to the till. Joy appears from the other side of the bar, exactly the last person in the world I want to see. By the expression on her face, the feeling is mutual.

‘What do you want?' Joy leans aggressively on the counter-top, eyes flashing. I cringe, before reasserting myself. After all, if it wasn't for her manipulation, I might have missed the entire Alice/Scott embrace, which I have since come to realize was not what I had thought I'd seen.

‘Is Scott here? I need to speak to him.'

‘He isn't here,' Joy says coldly. ‘And he isn't available for you, ever.'

Crushing, but not unexpected. Short of camping out outside the pub, there is nothing I can do but go home.

*

My reputation as a hardened stalker probably already beyond my control, after going back to mine, making dinner and drinking a few stiff whiskeys I decide that the only option available to me is to stake out the pub. This isn't quite as creepy as it sounds – it being too cold to wait outside for hours, I rang an increasingly reluctant Gary to ask him to do
some sleuthing on my behalf as to when Scott will be home. Actually, that may be creepier, but nevertheless, I receive a text around 11 p.m. with the brief missive, ‘Between 12.30 and 1 a.m. You owe me big.'

I arrive at 12.15, hiding in the bushes down the road until I see Joy and Craig close up and leave. When they are out of sight, I emerge from my spy-hole, walk over and resolutely stand in front of the door, not wanting to startle him by lurking in the darkness. I practise my little speech, becoming more of a nervous wreck with every passing minute. The reservations that would have prevented any rational person from attempting this in the first place surface with a vengeance.

What the hell am I doing? What will I say? Will he really appreciate being accosted in the early hours by a girl he hasn't even kissed, who he hasn't seen for weeks and moreover thinks of, quite rightly, as an emotionally retarded fool at best, immoral bitch at worst? Will Alice have warned him I might turn up? Did Joy? What might they have said? What do I think could possibly happen?

If this was a rom-com, he would accept the pathetic explanations from the quirky girl misguided by her insecurities, take her upstairs and make mad, passionate love to her by way of happily-ever-after. In reality, if I even succeed in making him take the time to hear me out, he will probably nod, tell me to leave, open the door of the pub and walk directly upstairs to bed. I am an idiot.

I've been outside for an hour now. Shivering madly, I sit down on the pavement to light a fag and decide to give myself five minutes to think this over logically and then do something socially appropriate, in the daylight hours, like call him. As I take a few deep, desperate puffs, a coughing fit strikes me. I try to smother it in the armpit of my coat with some success before putting my head in my hands and growling a low, gravelly groan of repentance.

‘Eh, excuse me? Are you all right?'

My head whips up. Wrapped up in my tortured navel-gazing, I had not heard footsteps approaching; in the dimness, Scott hasn't recognized me and probably thinks I am just some wasted girl who has chosen his doorstep to recover. He is standing still, a metre away from me, his messy barnet the colour of Stroopwafel in the weak light. His hair has always reminded me of my favourite carbs. I should have known it was love from the start.

‘Scott! I … um … it's Georgie,' I say, scrambling up.

Scott's expression of mildly disapproving concern shifts to one I hesitate to analyse, but which definitely holds no trace of concern.

‘Who are you?' a second voice calls out assertively in cut-glass tones.

There is a petite, pretty redheaded girl just behind him, looking none too pleased to find a female interloper crouched in front of what is possibly, probably her lover's home. How
could the risk of interrupting him on a date not even have occurred to me?

‘Er …' The unexpected addition completely throws me for a loop. They are both staring at me as I fail to add to this brilliant opener, my mouth hanging open in a panic. I am such a fool. Obviously, a grovelling apology is still in order, but this manner of going about it reeks of desperation.

‘This is Georgie, a former employee. I'm not sure what she's doing here.'

I wince.

‘Scott, can I … speak with you? Privately.'

Silence, but for the barely muffled laughter of his companion.

‘Please?'

Though I've tried to contain myself, my voice cracks and I fight back tears, with little success. This show of feminine weakness, however pathetic, does have the effect of loosening the expression of rigid displeasure from Scott's face. He turns to the girl, whispers something in her ear and curtly declares that I have five minutes. He unlocks the door, letting her pass through before shutting it behind him. He turns towards me, leaning against his pub, arms folded. Evidently this conversation is to take place outside in the cold. I had noticed the girl, whoever she is, had walked assuredly over to the stairs that lead to his bedroom. Clearly this is not just some one-night stand. I have never felt so small in my life.

‘I … just w-wanted to say …'

I lapse into silence, filled with the horrible conviction that if I utter another word I will be carried away in a flood of self-indulgent sobs.

‘Well? Georgie, what the hell are you doing here? If you're so upset about – whatever it is that's bothering you, you should really be leaning on your boyfriend,' Scott spits out.

Weirdly, his bitter mention of Leo gives me a surge of optimism. If he really didn't care for me at all, surely the thought of Leo as my boyfriend wouldn't upset him? It is also possible that he just really, really hates the man who attacked his best friend and consequently all those associated with him. I place all my hopes in the former interpretation and pull myself together.

‘Scott … I just want to apologize. I found out from Gary last night what really happened between Leo and Alice. I didn't know. When I came downstairs, after we …'

Silence.

‘After you helped me with my nose and I maybe, probably wrongly, expected something to – and I saw you and Alice together and Joy said you were in love with her, that you were kissing her – I just sort of lost it. Not that that excuses my behaviour; I didn't ask, or look hard enough or think beyond my own pride. Basically I've just behaved like a complete and utter twat and I want to say sorry for being a coward. I apologized to Alice. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do, but I felt
so awful about everything and that it was the very, very least I could do because I really hope that she's all right. I feel like such a tosser. I just – wanted you to know that.'