Something as cold as ice clasps the palm of my hand.
‘Looks like you need some sort of pick-me-up?’ It’s Helen, Snowy’s girlfriend, one hand holding a bottle of opened prosecco, the other holding mine.
She’s not dressed for a cold bonfire night. Her tight jeans are ripped at the knees, a loose Oasis t-shirt hangs off one shoulder revealing a red bra strap. Long, thick, red locks bounce over her other shoulder.
‘I’m not drinking, Hel—’
‘Ah, shut it, Jimbo. We ALL know you’re not drinking; you’re DRIVING. Show off.’
Her lips, a little smeared, match her lingerie with shocking power, but the rest of her face is fresh, clear, rosy. Helen has flawless skin. Snowy and Mikey are stumbling by the breakfast bar trying to force the contents of a tequila bottle into a giant water pistol.
‘I feel like I’m standing in a zoo, looking at all the animals behind the bars,’ I say.
‘That’s why I NEVER drive,’ Helen says.
‘Didn’t know you could drive.’
‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Jimbo.’
I sip my Coke, like a loser. ‘No way, Hels. I know everything about you. Twenty-two years, you can learn a lot about someone in that time.’
‘Fuck me, Jimbo. Is that how long we’ve known each other?’
‘Yep. Since Year Seven.’
‘Year Seven was TWENTY-TWO years ago?’
‘Do the maths, Hels.’
‘I was shit at maths. God! I still feel twenty-two.’
‘Well, if it’s any consolation, you look about twenty-three.’
Helen lifts the bottle of prosecco and swigs. ‘Charmer.’
‘On a good day, I mean. On a bad day, I reckon you look about twenty-eight.’
Her hand is still in mine.
‘Come with me,’ she says.
No. I tug my hand away and shove it into my jeans pocket. I’m not going anywhere with Helen. With a few drinks down me, yeah, I always follow her, listen to her. She bloody loves an antisocial one-on-one. But it feels very different tonight. The blend of bright kitchen lights and my being fully aware of everyone in the room makes slipping away awkward. And as innocent as it is, being sober doesn’t hand me an excuse.
A squirt of liquid hits me between the eyes. Snowy’s got the tequila gun in his hand, killing himself laughing. He throws his head back, aims for his own mouth and shoots a blast of tequila down his throat, then turns the gun back on me as his target.
‘Mikey said you blew Becca off,’ Snowy shouts over the music.
Helen playfully hits my shoulder.
‘Who’s Becca?’ she asks.
‘No one,’ I say.
Snowy squirts me again, this time getting me right in the eye.
‘Ah, pack it in, mate!’
‘Not “The One”?’ Snowy mocks, which pisses me off.
Mikey snatches the gun and gives himself a shot, followed by a whoop.
‘The One, or not The One, that is the question,’ he says, and shoots Snowy.
Helen puts the bottle of prosecco on the table and walks off, heading into the lounge to check on the twins. I watch as she removes their coats, holding their little limbs like delicate china. The boy, Rocco, turns his body into the sofa and curls up tight, determined to slip right back into the deep sleep that his mum’s just disturbed him from. Helen bends her knees and sweeps the girl, Maisie, up into her arms.
Just before she reaches the stairs, Helen’s eyes catch mine. So, I creep into the lounge, take Rocco in my arms and follow her.
In Year Seven, because our surnames both began with G, I had to sit next to Helen Gladstone for all lessons except music. It took me until Year Nine to ask her to go out with me.
Helen was my first kiss. According to Helen, I was her second. We went to the pictures every Saturday night until we were old enough to start trying to get into pubs. Helen’s mum called me the son she never had. My dad loved her. She even came to Rhyl with us every summer. It took Helen a whole year to let me touch her boobs, then, on the eve of our final GCSE exam, we lost our virginity to each other in Helen’s dad’s shed. Helen left school and went to college to do nursing. I stayed on to do my A Levels. During my first year at uni, we were careless and Helen fell pregnant. She wanted an abortion.
Neither of us ever said out loud that our relationship was over.
We didn’t need to.
And now, Helen and Snowy’s gorgeous little twins are conked out, with me and Helen tucking them into bed, together, as friends.
‘We need a bigger house,’ Helen whispers. ‘These two can’t share forever.’
‘You’ve only just moved in,’ I whisper back.
Helen slouches down into a bean bag. The twins’ room is spacious, maybe because the furniture is so small. A gentle lamp with a soft blue bulb calms the room, making me sleepy. It’s only about seven o’clock.
Tapping the bean bag, Helen invites me to sit beside her.
‘Remember when we used to think Fleetwood Mac followed us around?’ she mouths, a hint of sound escaping her red lips.
‘They did.’ I smile.
‘Everywhere we went, one of their songs was playing.’
‘That random pub in Southport.’
‘Exactly.’
Simultaneously, we both whisper the lyrics of ‘You Can Go Your Own Way’.
‘I wish we hadn’t,’ Helen says, bringing her knees up to her chest.
‘What?’
‘Gone our own way.’
I let out a small laugh, and Helen follows, cringing at herself.
‘Sssh,’ she says. ‘I’m being serious.’
‘You’re pissed, Hels.’
‘Patronising.’
Maisie begins to stir. I hold out my hand, gesturing Helen to stay sitting as I drag myself up, placing my hand on Maisie’s tummy. I’ve seen Helen do this numerous times. Snuggling further into her bunny, she settles. Raven haired, just like her dad, Maisie’s a real-life little Snow White, whereas Rocco’s got his mum’s fiery hair and freckles.
‘Don’t be sad, Hels,’ I whisper. ‘You’ve got a gorgeous family here.’
Helen replies with a sigh.
‘Come on, Helen. Get up. Let’s join the party.’
‘I chose the wrong man, Jimbo.’
‘No, you didn’t. Don’t be a drama queen. You didn’t choose anyone, it wasn’t like that.’
‘You’re saying I had no choice?’
‘I’m saying you didn’t have to choose. It wasn’t like me and Snowy were about to duel and you swanned over to decide who you wanted. Me and you were kids, Helen. You and Snowy happened years later. A lifetime later.’
‘He doesn’t understand me, doesn’t give me what I need.’
‘He makes you laugh.’
‘He makes everyone laugh.’
‘I’m going downstairs.’
I’m already by the door, tired from whispering, when I feel Helen’s breath on my neck.
‘I don’t love him, Jim.’
‘Well, I’m sorry for you. I am. But it’s not my problem.’
She twists my shoulders, forcing me to turn to her, face to face.
‘It is your problem.’