‘No, I did,’ Amanda says, contradicting herself. ‘I did as you asked, and I’ve been doing whatever you ask ever since. And now I’m asking you to ask me something instead.’ She frowns, tripping up over her confusing speech.
‘That’s a lot of asking for one woman.’ I smile, going for light-hearted, aware I’m probably grimacing more than smiling.
‘Ask me now or we’re done.’ She’s not going to let it go, and I’m feeling increasingly backed into a corner.
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘I’m deadly fucking serious, Jack,’ she says, too sharp, and I fall quiet because it’s clear that I’m not going to cajole her out of this pub. ‘Last Christmas’ starts up on the jukebox and Amanda’s mouth twists at the irony.
‘This isn’t the place,’ I say, my hand on her knee.
‘Probably not,’ she says, shaking me off. ‘But then there isn’t a good place to propose to someone you don’t love, is there?’
Fucking hell. ‘Please …’ I start, not even knowing what I’m going to say next. This isn’t going to be okay.
‘Oh, please yourself, you usually do. You know what, Jack? Forget it.’ She’s angry now, tears on her lashes. ‘Forget the whole fucking thing. I’m done with waiting for you to decide if you’ll ever love me enough.’ A tear runs down her cheek and she dashes it away. She stands up, wobbling on her high boots. ‘This is officially the last time you get to say no to me.’
I wish we hadn’t had a drink. She’s saying things, I’m saying things, and they’re the kind of things that stay unspoken for a reason. I stand, picking up our coats. ‘Come on,’ I say, because all I want is to get out of here.
‘No.’ She lays her hand flat on the centre of my chest. It’s not a loving gesture; it’s a ‘stay there’. ‘I’m leaving and you’re not. I’m leaving you because you don’t deserve me. Because I won’t be your girl in reserve any more. Because you can’t love someone if you’re already in love with someone else.’
We stare at each other, knowing there’s no coming back from this. I feel winded. Is that what I’ve done to her?
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I –’ I stop, because she’s already turned away and is pushing a path through the busy Christmas drinking crowd.
I sit back down again with my head in my hands, and a few minutes later the bloke from the next table lays a whisky down in front of me.
I nod, try to say thanks, but the words clog in my throat. Someone puts ‘Lonely This Christmas’ on the jukebox, and I close my eyes and feel like a fool for a million different reasons.
2017
* * *
New Year’s Resolutions
My life feels so far removed from the person I was twelve months ago; I can barely stand to look at those hopeful resolutions of last year. Where would I be now if Oscar and I had fallen pregnant on our first or second attempt? Pushing a stroller around Brussels? Would I have been happy? It feels too far away from the reality of my life to visualize.
Anyway, enough looking back. It’s time to look forward.
1) I need to sort out my living accommodation. I’m thirty this summer – too old to be renting someone’s spare room.
2) Work. I don’t mind my job, but it feels stale. It covers the bills, just, but I don’t think that’s enough any more. I’m treading water. In fact, that’s how I’d sum up my whole life right now. It’s strange – you’d think that in the upheaval of separation, the stability of work would be welcome. It’s actually had the opposite effect; it’s made me want to throw all my cards up in the air and see where they land. I’m treading water, but what I want is to swim.
There. That’s my resolution for the year ahead in one word.
3) Swim.
1 March
Jack
‘Happy birthday.’
Martique (I know, it’s a stage name; she won’t answer to her actual name, which is Tara – I saw her passport) has just strolled into my apartment on heels higher than some people’s kneecaps, and now she’s unbuttoning her dress.
‘I didn’t know what to get you, so I bought myself some new underwear instead.’
Her dress pools around her ankles and she dips one knee, her hand on her hip. She’s filthy hot and she knows it. She reminds me of a young Sophia Loren; all delicious curves and smoky eyes. ‘Well?’ she pouts. ‘Do you like it, Jack?’
No red-blooded man could resist. She’s a temptress; I wouldn’t be surprised if she produced an apple out of nowhere and asked me if I’d like a bite.
‘I like it,’ I say, crossing the room.
‘Then show me.’
Her perfume is pure bordello, sending a message straight to my groin, and her mouth tastes of lipstick and one of the ten million cigarettes she smokes a day. Her teeth are tugging on my bottom lip, her hands working my jeans open. We’ve been doing this on and off for a few weeks now. It’s an arrangement that suits us both. She’s on the way up, one of the many starlet singers who pass through the radio station. I’m her ideal man, she told me when we first met. By that, I know she means I’m her ideal step up on the route to stardom, someone slightly less good-looking than her who she can shag without any emotional complications and no fear of exposure.
I don’t think we even like each other very much; my personal life has hit the buffers. Even as she steps out of her underwear, I’m thinking that this is going to be the last time.
We sink on to the sofa, her astride me, and as we fuck I admire the way even the mess of smeared lipstick somehow looks sexy on her. She leans in, saying all the right words in the right order, and I close my eyes and try not to feel bad.
‘Happy birthday,’ she murmurs when we’re done, biting my earlobe before she climbs off me and checks her phone. ‘There’s somewhere I need to be.’
I watch her get dressed, my jeans round my ankles. I rub my ear, checking if she’s drawn blood. I’m not sorry she’s leaving.
Later, at the station, I pick up a text from Sarah and Luke, who bizarrely has turned out to be one of my favourite Aussies – not that I know that many. He likes a beer and he loves Sarah in a clear and uncomplicated way that he doesn’t even try to hide. They’ve sent me a picture of them holding up a ‘Happy Birthday Jack’ sign, both of them pissing about laughing. They’re on a beach and the words have come out backwards, which only seems to have amused them more. It amuses me too, and I send them back a quick Thank you, you pair of idiots.
Laurie has texted too. All her message says is Happy Birthday x. It’s so brief that there’s nothing to read into it. All the same, I study it, wondering if she puts a kiss at the end of every text she sends.
That’s when I decide. I don’t want to be the type of person who shags the type of person like Martique. I want what Sarah and Luke have. I may not be worthy of someone as good as Laurie, but I want to try to be that person.
I read her message over one last time, and then reply.