The A-Z of Us (20 page)

We sit in the uncomfortable plastic orange chairs and I want to be sick, or to scream, or to sleep, or to smash my fist through the glass door of the surgery. Molly and Ian sit there in stony silence. Suddenly, this seems like the very worst idea I have ever had, but it's impossible to move. I feel heavy and slow, as if in a dream where forces beyond my influence are controlling me. I want to pee, so I stand and ask the receptionist, who points to the glass doors, first on the left. As I step through the doors, looking for the toilet sign, I have a sudden urge to take off my wedding ring, so I pause and tug at it, desperate to rip it off, and a large figure steps into the narrow corridor. It's Neil. I stop, my finger on my ring. He stops. My heart stops.

‘Jesus,' he says, his voice deeper and less Scottish than I remember it.

We stand there, silent, as if playing a childish game of statues. Minutes seem to pass. Then he puts his large hand to his dark curly hair and says, softly:

‘Gemma Cook. What the hell are you doing here?'

At least Gemma seems to be having fun. As far as I can see over the large quiffs of six gay Elvis Presleys. There are probably close to fifty homosexual Elvis impersonators scattered throughout the large bar, along with their supporters, many of whom are sporting dazzling Priscilla Presley blonde wigs and sequin dresses. Brighton's one-and-only ‘Gay Elvis Night', so Vincent the compere informed us, regularly brings in camp Kings from as far away as Winchester.

The Junction is a modern wood-floored place, dressed in creams and browns, which, despite its name, is the very antithesis of the way stations I appreciate, seeking as it does to make you feel at home (gas flame fire, comfy sofas, magazines) rather than alone and transient. It looks like any number of bars I've been to in the world's major cities over the past five years, from the shining pewter bar counter to the gaudy chandelier hung over the lounge area.

At least the Gay Elvis night is original. I'm no fan of the King of Rock and Roll, but you have to admire the dedication and ambition of the Elvis impersonators who've spangled and greased their way to Brighton town centre on this warm Saturday evening.

Neil chuckled when we saw the sign – ‘Welcome Kings and Queens!'

He paused, smiling gently, and said:

‘Well, we could go elsewhere, there's plenty of other places…' but Gemma was adamant that she liked the look of the place, and that a Gay Elvis Night in Brighton was top of her list of things to do before she died. Neil chuckled once more, touching her hand as they walked into the pub.

Now Gemma and Neil are sitting together across from the bar, Gemma in the burgundy leather booth, Neil opposite her on a small bar stool that seems to accentuate his large, implacable size. As far as I can tell, they've slipped back into the bantering I recall from their year together, leaning close, smiling and nodding.

It's remarkable, I think to myself, how reminiscent this is of the past – the raucous pub, sipping my pint of Guinness with Neil and Gemma deep in conversation at a table, and Molly and myself standing awkwardly at the bar. It's as if ten years have never happened. Rather than feeling reassured, this thought dismays me. I'm thirty-one years old. Have I not moved on?

I turn to Molly but she is studiously watching ‘Malcolm from Hove' belt out ‘Suspicious Minds' on the small stage. We haven't said a word to each other for almost ten hours since Molly pulled up in her fancy BMW. I try to think of a line to break the silence, but can't come up with anything after ‘So, Molly…'

The sudden, familiar pang of loneliness stabs my lungs, like the niggling of an old injury in cold weather. I know I want to drink a lot tonight, and that drinking a lot will most likely lead me into melancholic self-pity, but I don't care. Self-pity is one of the few pleasures left to me.

‘They seem to be getting on well,' says Molly, suddenly.
I glance at her. She smiles, briefly. To my surprise, I feel instantly better. I wonder, in this moment, whether women experience such a phenomenon, whereby a simple smile from an attractive man can obliterate all negative feelings as instantly and conclusively as an atom bomb. It's unlikely. Women are not that gullible.

I try to feel stronger.

‘Fancy another drink?' I venture, softly.

‘Go on then. Another vodka tonic.'

A slim Elvis in a red wig and sweat streaking down his foundation swaggers to the bar by our side and leans forwards, close to Molly.

‘Priscilla darling, you look absolutely radiant tonight,' he croons, in a terrible American accent.

‘Why, thank you Mr Presley. You appear somewhat slimmer than the last time I saw you,' she counters, with a large smile.

‘Well darling,' says the bean-pole Elvis, reverting to a Liverpudlian twang, ‘I've taken up shagging men. Keeps you trim!'

They laugh. I can't help smiling. Molly seems to have blatant knack for socializing with anyone – the very opposite of my own particular ability for detachment. Molly starts telling Jason from Newhaven the story of her sister and Neil. I listen to her exuberant explanation, trying to remain immune to her bubbling enthusiasm, the way she trips over words and repeats herself with cheerful insouciance, unlike my habitual focused, direct dictation. As I glance at Molly, telling her sister's story, I notice the small creases of crow's feet at the sides of her brown eyes, that I've loved ever since I met her in Gemma's first year at university.

‘And now they're here, face to face for the first time in ten years!' Molly concludes with a flourish.

‘Very Danielle Steele. I love it! What do you think they're talking about?'

Molly and Jason strain to hear words from the burgundy booth, but the music is too loud. I listen too. After a moment, Jason stands to his full height of five-feet-six in his platform heels and declares:

‘I shall go and spy! My mama was in the KGB!'

‘Elvis…' Molly rebukes him sternly, but it's too late – Jason is away to position himself by the booth with his vodka and Red Bull, pretending to stare intently at the stage where a large man with gold lamé flares and a naked chest adorned with a large medallion is launching into ‘Hound Dog' to whoops of acclaim and ridicule.

I am uncomfortable. Listening in on Gemma and Neil's conversation seems like a betrayal of my best friend. As I gulp my pint, I wonder if I'm getting side-tracked, as I sometimes do, by my own thoughts. I need to re-focus on Gemma. After all, I'm here to help her. Molly seems less concerned about her younger sister, treating this excursion as a game, a jaunt. I wonder at the levels of jealousy and rivalry between them; emotions that I, the siblingless child, can merely guess at.

I'm not going to follow Molly's lead. I must be separate, objective – Gemma's best friend, looking out for her. I wonder about walking over and asking Jason to stop his covert surveillance, but I know this will seem prudish, and a part of me can't bear the idea of Molly thinking me uncool. At that moment, Jason returns to the bar.

‘So?' inquires Molly, with a wry smile.

‘In the proverbial Gucci darling,' states Jason, conspiratorially. ‘They're talking about kitchens, like an old married couple. It's scary but true…'

‘They haven't seen each other in ten years!' I say, gruffly. ‘So what if they're talking about kitchens?'

Jason puts his hands on his hips.

‘Well now, Mr Defensive! Anyone would think you were jealous of the bulky Scot!'

Molly laughs, a little too quickly, I think.

‘Or maybe it's the lady you envy? Do you fancy a bit of Aberdeen Angus yourself, hey, Bigfoot?'

I lower my voice, trying to keep my cool. My toes itch at the end of my plaster cast.

‘We should just let them get on with it…'

‘Suit yourself. I'm off to create my own perfect love story.'

Jason downs the last of his drink and turns on his heels, flouncing away towards the dance floor.

‘You didn't need to be like that,' says Molly, pointedly. ‘He was just having a laugh.'

I don't answer. I stand, trying to think of a suitable rejoinder that would put Molly in her place, without resorting to a string of expletives. Neil laughs, leans across the table and whispers into Gemma's ear. Then he stands and turns to walk to the toilets. When he disappears through the door marked
Caballeros
, Gemma looks around, eyes wide, seeking us out, and Molly rushes to the booth. I follow, pushing on my single crutch, careful not to slip on the beer-stained floor.

‘So?'

Gemma's face is flushed with red wine and elation.

‘It's amazing. He's not married. He was seeing this woman, but they broke up six weeks ago. Can you believe it? He's thinking of going back to Canada to work. Oh God, this is so weird.'

An hour later I'm drunk. The pub is merrily riotous now – men with arms around each other, several pairs kissing. It's a happy, exuberant atmosphere that reminds me of children's birthday parties when I was young, with that same over-excited sense of fun, the same use of coloured lights and silver streamers and sparkling costumes, but without the bawdy hand gestures, men French-kissing other men and taking off their shirts to expose shaved chests and pierced nipples.

To my surprise, Molly asks if I would like a drink. I accept, a little too quickly, perhaps.

She buys our drinks as the latest Elvis finishes on stage. I look at my watch. It's 10.30 p.m. Suddenly I realize that after six vodka tonics Molly can't drive. We will have to stay in Brighton. We should get organized.

‘Look, maybe we should be looking for somewhere to stay.'

Molly puts down her glass.

‘Chill out, Ian. We'll figure something when the time comes…'

‘But we should at least know where we're going to stay, you can't drive, you're way over the limit…'

‘Yes. Thank you. I do realize that.'

She turns away, looking back at the stage where Jason is now standing, twirling the microphone. My stomach constricts with anger once more. We don't talk for several
minutes, as Jason massacres ‘Love Me Tender', gyrating energetically, to general acclaim.

‘Wow. That's quite frightening,' says Molly eventually, in a tone that invites a rapprochement.

‘I don't know,' I reply. ‘It's strangely reminiscent of Nicolas Cage at the end of
Wild At Heart
.'

Molly turns to me, and at that moment her eyes are the most beautiful I've ever seen them.

‘Oh, I love that film. It's so sexy, that actress… what's her name?'

‘Laura Dern?'

‘Yes, her, she's just so dirty…'

The way she says this word sends a thrill through my abdomen. My penis stirs.

As the bell rings for last orders, and Neil goes to the toilets once more – thereby proving that big men don't necessarily have big bladders – Gemma steps up, breathlessly.

‘Look, I know this is kind of weird, but he wants to go on somewhere for a drink, and… well…'

Molly smiles.

‘We can look after ourselves. Don't worry.'

‘Really? I just think, I don't know, maybe it'd be good for us to have some quiet time, just the two of us…'

‘It's going well?' I ask.

Gemma blushes once more.

‘It's… good. Comfortable. Look, I've got my mobile, I'll give you a call.'

‘We'll be fine,' says Molly, and I know that this is a tone she's used with her younger sister since childhood. ‘You go and have fun.'

*

The air by the beach is colder. It's just stopped raining, and the bitter odour of wet asphalt mixes with the fresh rankness of the sea. I walk with Molly along the wide promenade above the shingle in silence. Several couples are also stumbling along the nocturnal wall, arms entwined, lurching occasionally to kiss or fumble. The hush of the sea is the rhythm of gentle yearning, back and forth across the pebbles.

‘I want to see the sea,' declares Molly, with her usual vigour.

I hold out my crutches.

‘Sorry, not too good at beaches.'

‘Oh. Right. Yeah.'

‘We could go on the pier?'

Molly looks at me. She nods, once.

‘Okay.'

I know I'm wasted, but I have to admit that, at this particular juncture, with my plan for Gemma and Neil progressing nicely, and Molly seeming to soften, I feel surprisingly upbeat. I know I should be asking her again whether she slept with Will Masterson, but somehow, having her here at my side, I don't care any more. At the back of my mind I've made a deal with myself. If Molly will sleep with me tonight, it will be proof that she didn't have sex with her ex-husband, and I will forgive her and never think about it again.

It is, I'll admit, a very male bargain.

We walk on to the pier. The lights seem brighter, the sea louder, my body lighter. I want to put my hands on her thin white arms and lean down and kiss her hard, but I know that timing is everything. She starts to talk, almost
to herself, a story about her childhood, as she stares out at the black oily sea. I try to listen, but all I can do is picture a moment in the following few minutes when I might be able to grasp her and crush her beautiful red lips against mine. I wonder if I should interrupt her under some pretext, say something that will melt her heart, and step up to claim my prize. Or just take her here against the cold metal rail. I nod and interject sounds of interest while she continues:

‘I loved piers when I was little. We went to Clacton one year, I've no idea why, it was far too down-market for Mum, maybe it was Dad's idea, the old closet leftie that he was…'

I chuckle, and when she's finished her unassuming anecdote, we stand in silence, barely apart. The waves push and release. Once more, I imagine taking her in my arms, brutally, and kissing her again and again. Would she scream? Slap me? Or return my ardour like in a Hollywood movie?