Can't Let Go (5 page)

Most people – most casual, unobservant
acquaintances – would probably have described
me as 'nice' or 'pleasant'. I was always
neat and tidy and inoffensive to look at, and the same was
true of my conversation. I was good at polite, conventional
responses. I was known as a good listener. Of course I was,
because usually that was pretty much all I did – listen.
'Goodness.' 'Really.' 'How interesting.' 'Tell me more.' 'I
don't know. What do you think?' Those were the kinds of
remarks I made to punctuate conversations, carefully
steering away from any chance of being asked questions.
Acquaintances who were a little more observant, or
who spent more time with me, sometimes seemed puzzled
at my persistent refusal to talk about myself, the way I
deflected questions about anything from relationships to
reminiscences. My polite but consistent rejection of most
social invitations was also cause for comment. But only
those who tried to get really close – Danny with his kiss
and his dance moves; Zoey with her shoulder-touching –
got to experience the full Beth Stephens brush-off. I hadn't
mastered the polite way to do that. There probably was no
polite way to do that. And, as it turned out, that was what
Zoey wanted to talk to me about.

'Here's what I was afraid of,' she said. 'I was afraid that
you thought I was coming on to you, and that's what
freaked you. And I thought I should clear the air and
make sure you realised that I wasn't. Coming on to you.
Because I'm not gay. Not that there's anything wrong
with being gay. God knows, it's virtually the default
setting amongst female stand-ups. Not that that's a bad
thing. Anyway, I get it a lot, the lesbian thing. It's the vibe
I give off, I guess. I sit too close to people, apparently. I
look too engaged and interested. It's all part of this
American-in-London thing. I haven't learned the correct
body-space dimensions yet. And you're shaking your
head at me, which means I'm wrong. So therefore I'm
forced to consider something else entirely, and I'm not too
happy about it.'

'What?'

'Well, the only other explanation for your boorish
behaviour on Friday night is that you are extremely,
offensively rude.'

It was nearly midday and it was already mercilessly
hot. We were drinking overpriced bottles of water and we
were sitting by the canal at Camden Lock, people watching.
The smell of dope and falafels hung in the air.
Zoey, bold and bright in a turquoise vest top, was waiting
for an answer.

'Sorry,' I said eventually, limply. 'I'm really sorry.
You're right, it was rude of me.'

'So, was there a reason for your rudeness?' She pulled
her hair back into a ponytail and I noticed a faint fuzz of
unshaved hair in her armpits. She seemed to be the kind of
woman who wore her imperfections with pride. I wouldn't
have dreamed of leaving the house with armpits like that.

I could have told her to piss off. I could have walked
away and never seen her again. Or I could say something,
and risk it, and possibly make a friend. And that's when
Danny's words came back to me: 'Friends are a good
thing.'

'I get scared.' The words came out suddenly, and I
wasn't sure that I meant to say them.

'Scared of what?'

'I don't know.' I paused, and then retreated into a white
lie. 'Maybe that you'll realise that I'm just not that
interesting?'

She took a long slurp from her bottle of water and
frowned at me. 'That is not even close to being true.'

I was about to protest, or to say something else to
change the subject, but Zoey held her hand up to stop me.
She looked over her shoulder, a sharp frown creasing her
forehead. She was looking at something – someone? – in
the distance and I followed her gaze, half-expecting to see
Rivers Carillo sitting there grinning at me.

'What is it?' I asked.

'Oh, nothing. Thought I saw someone I knew, that's
all. But I didn't. Hey, let's walk.'

And she got up briskly, with the assumption that I was
going to follow her, and I did. We were browsing through
racks of tie-dyed T-shirts and vintage jeans when she
resumed the conversation. 'Now, where were we?'

'You told me I was incredibly rude, and then that I was
lying.' I said it flippantly, a smile on my face.

'Oh yeah! And now I've just been every bit as rude as
you were, walking off like that while you were talking. So
I guess I'd better forgive you.'

'Actually, the real reason was that I thought I had a
migraine coming on.' Migraines and marking: my
favourite excuses. Both of them did occur in my life, just
not as frequently as I told people.

'And my grating, loud American voice suddenly
became too much.'

I laughed. 'Something like that.'

'Okay, you're still lying to me. But that's okay. It's
intriguing.' Zoey stroked her chin theatrically, like a
psychiatrist in a comedy sketch. 'Tell me what migraines
are like. I've always wondered. Is it just a fancy word for
a really bad headache?'

I was relieved at her sudden change of subject. Here
was something I could talk about without any difficulty.
'A migraine is like the absolute worst hangover that you
have ever had: the headache, the sickness, the loss of
balance, the visual disturbances and the feeling that you
really would be happier if you were dead. Except, unlike
hangovers, you have none of the fun stuff first.'

She laughed, suddenly and loudly. 'Oh, that's good,'
she said. 'That's good. I could probably use that sometime.

Would you mind?'

'Use it? What do you mean?'

'Material. You know, on stage. Jokes. Comedy. Gags.'

'Sure.' I was flattered. 'That's me: Beth Stephens,
purveyor of fine material to the comedy trade.'

I looked at her, and she was looking at me and we were
both smiling and suddenly everything was okay. We were
friends. I could do this. This was easy. It was like riding a
bike or falling off a log.

We found seats in a little cafe for lunch, and I asked
Zoey a question I'd wanted to ask the night before. 'How
did you get into doing comedy?'

She put her head on one side, as if she had heard the
question a million times before.

'Sorry,' I said. 'You must get fed up of answering that
one.'

'Well, at least you haven't said what most people say.'

'Which is what?'

'You haven't said, "Oh my God, you're so brave. It
must be so scary. I could never do it." '

That appalling English accent again. I laughed.

'No, really,' she said. 'That's what almost everyone
says. Everyone who asks me about comedy. That's the
first thing they always say. I'm quite hurt that you haven't
told me how brave I was.' She was smiling.

'Oh my God, you're so brave. It must be so scary. I
could never do it.'

Zoey laughed. 'Too late.'

'I didn't say it because you didn't seem scared. You
were obviously nervous beforehand, sure, you know,
with the Coke spillage . . .'

'Yeah, sorry about that.'

I waved my hand to show that it didn't matter. 'But
being nervous isn't the same thing as being scared, is it?
On stage, you looked completely at home. You didn't
look scared at all, so I figured you weren't. I guess
different things scare different people. I don't think
there's anything brave about doing something that
doesn't scare you.'

'That,' she said, 'is almost profound. And it leads me
back to the question I asked earlier. What scares you?
What scared you off last night?'

I had walked right into that one. She put her elbows on
the table, rested her chin on her hands and turned those
intense, searching eyes on me. Immediately I was, of
course, scared. I could feel myself physically shrinking
away from her. What scares me? Why did people keep
asking me that? Zoey had me pinned in place with her
stare; she wasn't going to be happy until I answered her
with something at least close to the truth. I was supposed
to be changing my life. I was supposed to be taking risks,
making friends, living like a normal person. I took a risk
then. I breathed deeply, leaned forward and twisted my
hands between my knees. 'This,' I said, gesturing at her
and me. 'This scares me. This whole making-friends
business.'

'Oh my,' she said, clearly believing me. 'That
is
interesting.'

The velvet jacket was hanging on the back of my
bedroom door. I fingered it to feel the soft,
luxurious fabric. It was a deep, dark green. The
colour was redolent of a pine forest. Zoey had made me
buy it. ' Try it on,' she'd said. 'It'll look beautiful on you.'

All that Sunday afternoon she had tried to get me to
buy something that wasn't black, grey or white. She'd
dragged me all around the markets at Camden, grabbing
armfuls full of brightly coloured blouses and tops and
skirts and holding them up against me. I had to be firm
several times with her, to avoid being thrust into something
flouncy in salmon pink or lime green. Then she
steered me into a vintage shop under one of the railway
arches, as if she'd just had a brainwave, and that was
where she'd found the jacket hanging on one of the
rails.

Now, back home in my flat, I fingered the jacket again.
The pile on the velvet was wearing through in places, but
it was still thick enough to stroke. The jacket had beautiful
silver buttons, embossed with a pattern of flowers. I ran
my thumb over the buttons, feeling the pattern with my
thumb's fleshy tip. I put it on again, enjoying the way it
fitted me perfectly. Not only that, it looked right. The
colour did something to me. It lifted my complexion and
made my greyish eyes look clear blue. And yet it was dark
enough to be unobtrusive, to blend with my wardrobe full
of blacks and greys. It was beautiful and it was theatrical
and yet it was totally wearable. It was a luscious jacket, the
kind of item I would never usually have allowed myself to
buy. I hadn't been able to resist it.

It was far too hot to be wearing velvet, but nonetheless
I left the jacket on for a while, admiring myself in the
mirror. I shook my hair and ran my fingers through it,
plumping it up so that it looked big and wild. I pulled out
a lip-gloss and smeared some on, and then smiled at
myself in the mirror. I looked very different. I wondered
if this was the me that I would have been, the person I
would have grown up to be, if only things had been
different. I made up my mind. Still wearing the jacket, I
knocked on Danny's front door. When he answered
I said, ' D o you still want to take me to that gig?'

His smile lit up his whole face. 'Yes, please,' he said.
'You look beautiful, by the way. Sort of . . . glowy.
Around your eyes. Really . . . nice.'

A guitar and a drum kit. That was all they had, those
two scruffy young American guys in T-shirts and
jeans. I couldn't work out how they could make so much
noise. It thumped and vibrated and I could feel it in my
ribcage and deeper, somewhere deep inside me. They
were playing some kind of electric blues. Danny had tried
to explain them to me: 'The Black Keys. They're from
Ohio. Dirty, scuzzy blues. Kind of like the White Stripes
but without all that fancy dress shit.'

I'd humoured him, pretended that I knew what he
meant. I was still asking myself why I'd accepted his
ticket, why I had agreed to go out with Danny. Was it
because spending the day with Zoey had been such good
fun that I didn't want to lose the feeling? Or was it because
I didn't want to stay in the flat by myself? It felt colder and
whiter and bleaker than it had before. I wanted to be
somewhere dark and noisy and safe, and full of people.

The fiction was that Danny had had a spare ticket, but
really he'd bought it especially for me. I knew that, and he
probably knew that I knew that. But neither of us said
anything, because that would have forced definition on
the night out together, and neither of us wanted to do that.
And besides, the Scala was just around the corner so it
wasn't exactly a date or anything. That's what I kept
telling myself, anyway.

The venue was packed: heaving with people, swaying
and pushing and shoving, all in time to the music. There
was something primeval and swampy about the beat. Each
song began slowly and then built to a climax, but all in a
rhythm that somehow seemed to match the beat of my
heart or my brain, or maybe the way I was breathing.
Danny was on my right-hand side, standing so close to me
in the tightly packed mosh pit that I could feel the hairs on
his forearm against my bare arm. I was watching the stage
through a small gap between two heads in front of me, my
nose almost buried in someone's sweaty shoulder. Every
so often the momentum in the crowd built into a surge of
moshing, or jumping, or pushing; like the wave in a wave
pool spreading across the auditorium. Danny looped his
arm around my waist so that we couldn't get separated.
He hugged me closer to him and it felt nice. Who would
have thought that I could have felt so safe and secure in a
hot, sweaty cauldron like that?

The band went off stage. We called for an encore. That
was what you did at gigs, apparently. You had to make a
noise and keep it going until the band came back on again.
That was the rule. We cheered and we clapped, and then
I just stood there stamping my feet because it was easier
and because my throat was hoarse. The Black Keys came
back out and played a few more songs, and there was more
moshing and jumping and pushing, and then it was all
over. But I could still feel my heart thumping madly
against my ribcage.

It took ages to get out of the theatre. The lights came
up, and I could see that the place was swarming with guys
in jeans and T-shirts, inching their way towards the exits.
I could see just a few women, mostly younger than me,
with sweaty faces and smudged black mascara and eyeliner,
clinging on to the guy with them, picking gingerly
over the beer cans on the floor. Danny took hold of my
hand. He didn't say anything, just grabbed my hand in his
as if it was the most normal thing in the world, and guided
me through the crowds and out of the theatre. His fingers
were long and strong, and it felt secure. I clung on to
Danny. I could barely stand. I was both exhilarated and
exhausted. All my joints hurt. I wondered if I was too old
to mosh. My ears were buzzing and I could hardly hear a
thing. All I knew was that I felt as if I'd just been in a really
tough, satisfying fight that I had won, or as if I had just
had really good sex. And that might have explained what
happened next.

As we walked down the side street off Euston Road
towards our block of flats I stumbled on a kerb. Danny
caught me by the arm, and then wrapped his arm around
my waist again. I let him. He pulled me closer to him. I
reached my arm around his waist and hugged him to me.
As we waited for the lift he looked at me, a look full of
meaning and questions. I nodded, to tell him 'yes' to all of
them. In the lift he stood facing me and put his hands on
my hips. He leaned forward and kissed me gently on the
lips. I responded, closed-mouth to start with, teasing him
a little. I put my hands on top of his hands, and kissed him
back harder. The lift arrived at the fifth floor. We ran
along the balcony holding hands, and by unspoken
agreement we went to his flat.

You learn interesting things very quickly when you
have sex with someone you already know. Danny had
very clean teeth and very soft lips. I ran my tongue across
his front teeth and enjoyed the smoothness of them. I
loved the feeling of rubbing my thumb over the stubble on
his head. As I pulled his T-shirt over his head I noticed
that he had a tattoo high up on his left shoulder, some kind
of Celtic-knot symbol. It was very pretty and delicately
drawn, the kind of tattoo I would have chosen myself, if I
had chosen to have a tattoo, which was unlikely. He had a
line of dark chest hair starting midway down his stomach.
He had the merest hint of a beer belly, a tiny soft little
paunch that he tried to suck in. He had freckles on the
backs of his shoulders. He liked to bite and knew where to
make it hurt in a good way: deep into the dip between my
neck and my shoulder.

The sex was nice. It was friendly and comfortable and
warm, and soft in the right ways. Afterwards we snuggled
together on the sofa and listened to music. Danny gave me
one of his shirts to wear, and he pulled on his T-shirt and
boxers and played DJ. As he'd done so often before, he
played songs that he thought I'd like, or that he thought I
ought to like, from CDs and LPs and even some vinyl
singles. He made instant coffee in chipped, stained mugs
and as usual I pretended to like it. He found some slightly
soft chocolate Hobnobs and we finished the packet. We
talked about the music he was playing, and then he stood
up and beckoned me over. He wanted to dance. I looked
at him standing there, tall and dark and much better looking
than I usually gave him credit for. Such a lovely
man. Such a good friend. The sex had been so nice. I
wanted him. I wanted to dance with him. I wanted to be
with him. I pulled the shirt around me, shook my head and
burst into tears.

'Hey, what's up?'

His voice was so gentle that it made me cry even more.
I shrugged my shoulders.

'What did I do?'

'Nothing. It's just me. I'm a bit emotional at the
moment.'

Danny frowned, deep in thought. I figured he was
probably about to ask me if I was premenstrual. I thought
that was probably what was going through his mind. But
instead, 'Is this because you "don't do relationships"?' He
did the inverted commas with his voice. He twisted his
face as he asked the question, looking like he was afraid
what the answer would be.

'Oh God, Danny, I don't know. Stop quoting me. I
don't know what I'm doing, all right?'

He stroked my arm.

'And stop being so bloody nice.'

He looked at me again as a sudden thought appeared to
cross his mind. 'Are you worried this might spoil our
friendship?'

I nodded. It was all I could manage to do.
Don't let go.
Don't let go. Mustn't let go. Keep these emotions in check.
Don't let him see how scared you are.

'I like you. You like me. We get on really well. This
has been fun. It would be nice to do it again some time.
This doesn't have to be a big deal.' Danny was talking to
me very quietly and simply, all the while stroking my
arm. 'Look, we're both a bit shit at relationship stuff. I
know there's something about you, Beth. I'm guessing
there's something that's made you scared. Maybe you'll
tell me about it one day. But I don't really need to know,
okay?'

I was shaking. He was being so sweet that I thought
maybe I was on the verge of telling him the whole story. I
was very tempted. How easy it would have been. I
wondered what he would say. But I knew I couldn't tell
him. I couldn't tell him the truth. Why the hell did he have
to be so nice? I pressed my lips together tightly to stop any
more words coming out. I set my chin firmly, reached out
my arms and hugged Danny hard.

'Stay the night?' he asked, gently, quietly; as if he
didn't want me to hear the question in case the answer
wasn't what he wanted.

Half of me thought it was a mistake, a dreadful mistake.
There was no way I should drag him into the awful mess
that was my life. But the other half of me thought that that
had already happened. I had already had sex with him so
maybe it was too late. All I could think about was how
much I hated my flat, and how white and empty it was,
and how much I didn't want to go back there; and how
lovely this hug felt, so I nodded. 'Yes,' I whispered. I
figured that I could deal with the fallout later.