Authors: Rowan Coleman
I zip up my boots and pull on my jacket. ‘Not at all, I can’t wait to see them.’
‘Well, you’ll have to until next weekend, and anyway, one of them isn’t even dry yet.’
As we walk out into the night air I’m pleased to see that the rain has subsided into a drizzle and that it’s light enough for me not to have to go back upstairs and get an umbrella.
‘And Selin? Couldn’t persuade her out?’ I ask tentatively.
‘Selin, no. She’d really rather just be at home right now, you know.’
The light and the warmth of the Rose and Crown beckon and as we walk into the large airy pub I look around. There are two old men and an Australian barmaid. But it’s only early, not quite eight, there may well be more of Stoke Newington’s young hip set – not quite as thin as Ladbroke Grove’s, nor as happening as Brixton’s, but generally attractively affable in a bohemian kind of way – about to arrive.
‘What are you having?’ Josh asks me and I go for a whisky mac, my favourite bad-weather drink.
‘I’d better grab a table – beat the rush,’ I say and slide into a comfy corner and remove my coat. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. The damp air has curled my hair up in exactly the way I least like and my mascara has run a little. I lick my thumb and pull it under my eyes but I can see little improvement when I check again.
Josh settles opposite me with a pint of Guinness and places my drink in front of me.
We look at each other.
‘How’s Dan?’ I say on impulse.
Josh rolls his eyes. ‘You’re not thinking about going there again, are you?’ he asks with exasperation.
‘No-oh! I’m just asking. I’m fond of Dan now that I’ve got over the horror of having … thinged with him. Yuck Yuck Yuck!’ I gag theatrically. Josh makes a squeamish face and sinks some of his pint.
‘He’s OK, working himself up into a tizz about Saturday. Basically, his whole piece revolves around him making plaster casts of bits of his body and reassembling them in a creative way, and no, I don’t know what he means either. But there is one body part he hasn’t quite got around to yet, keeps putting it off, can’t think why, can you?’
I almost choke on a mouthful of ginger wine and whisky and splutter. ‘No! Poor Dan. Perhaps he should ask you to do it.’
We both laugh and I ask myself if I really have just brought Josh’s private parts into the conversation. In any event, Josh has gone slightly pink and sinks another good portion of his pint, shifts uneasily in his chair and changes the subject by saying, ‘So, after the day you moved house we all thought Owen would hassle you big time, but nothing? Maybe he’s finally out of your life.’
I finish my drink and let it melt my chest before I answer.
‘Well, not quite. There were one or two e-mails, phone messages for a bit. But they’ve stooped now.’ I finish brightly.
Josh leans forward with concern. ‘What do you mean, emails, messages? When? Why didn’t you say?’
‘Oh, it was just before the accident. I would have said but it wasn’t really a big deal, just a typical Owen gesture. I had his e-mails blocked and he hasn’t texted me since. Probably just a last-ditch attempt to attention-seek, although I did think …’ I remember the two times when I thought I might have heard or seen him but decide I don’t want to sound too paranoid. ‘No, nothing really.’ I shrug and get up to go to the bar. ‘Same again?’
Josh nods, a frown of concern creasing his forehead.
‘You’re sure,’ he says as I return, ‘that that’s all it is? You don’t think he’s gone all barking like he did with that girl I knew?’
‘No, no. Really. I mean, I know him if anyone does, don’t I?’ I say, not feeling quite as sure as I sound and wondering how I can change the subject.
‘Still, maybe you should mention it to the police?’ Josh asks.
‘Mention what? A couple of cheesy e-mails and some stupid texts? I’ve deleted them all now, anyway.’ But looking at him I can see he is not going to let this go. ‘Look, I promise if anything else happens I’ll talk to the police. They’ll say I’m paranoid with an overactive imagination, but I will go, OK?’
‘OK then.’ He nods with satisfaction and both of us take a deep drink.
By the time the landlord rings time, a fuzzy warmth has seeped through my chest and into the ends of my fingers and toes. The warmth of the whisky and the pleasure of Josh’s company have cheered me up but still my good mood can’t quite suppress the undertone of chaos that my current situation seems to teeter on the brink of.
‘Come on,’ Josh says. ‘I’ll walk you home.’ Outside, the rain has cleared and the night has become chilly, so I tuck my arm into his and lean on him as we stroll down Albion Road.
‘Rosie’s got a theory about me,’ I say, apropos of nothing. ‘A theory about why I can’t accept her prospective reunion with Chris and why I basically stuff up all my relationships.’
Josh looks down at me. ‘This should be good, maybe it’ll help me stop stuffing up all of mine too. What is it then?’
‘She reckons that every man I get involved with is basically my father. Oh, and every man she meets, and Selin I guess. She reckons I’m incapable of trusting anyone and that I project my own insecurities on to the men I get involved with thus inviting them to treat me like shit. Which, frankly, I think is a bit rich.’ In fact, Rosie didn’t say exactly that but my own twisted theory has developed out of that conversation and several hours of night-time ceiling gazing. Josh tips his head to one side and bites his lip.
‘Your father? That’s a very specific theory and one I’m going to have a hard time applying to myself, although I might try it next time I’m involved in a break-up. “It’s not my fault, it’s Jenny Greenway’s father – he treated her like shit and now I just can’t be trusted by any woman!” Well, what do you think?’
I smile despite myself, the rain begins again.
‘I think it’s crap, probably. Don’t you?’ We turn into our road and Josh is silent until we reach the front door of the block. ‘Well, don’t you?’ I ask impatiently.
‘Well, I don’t think you or your dad are responsible for the crap that Owen put you through. I think Owen is. But maybe if in some way your past does influence your choices, well, maybe she has a point …
in a way
.’
‘Bollocks,’ I say fiercely and fling the door open. ‘Come up for coffee,’ I demand and march up the stairs in front of him. He acquiesces without argument.
‘I’ve got to say, if you’re supposed to be such a pushover I’ve yet to see any evidence for it,’ he says to my back.
‘Well, you’re different, aren’t you? I say. ‘You’re not trying to sleep with me.’
As we get into the flat I wipe the rainwater from my face and go into the kitchen, opening cupboard doors, forgetting what it is I’m looking for.
‘Are you OK?’ Josh asks softly. ‘You seem pretty angry.’
‘I’m not angry about Dad! I’m angry with Rosie for using that as an excuse to make it OK for her to get back with Chris. I’m not angry about Dad, I don’t care any more about all that. I put it behind me years ago – everything, everything … what … what … he … did.’ I finally get the words out along with a gut wrenching sob. Why did I drink whisky? It
always
make me cry, I know that.
‘Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ I hear myself saying as I sink on to the kitchen chair. ‘It’s the whisky, ignore me, I’ll be all right in a moment!’
‘Jen, come on now,’ Josh says softly, taking my hand and leading me into the living-room. He lets me crumple on to the sofa and sits next to me. ‘Don’t cry, darling, not over him. Not any more.’
‘I’m not! It’s the whisky,’ I protest as another wave of tears hits me. ‘I don’t mean to, it’s just that, it’s just that it does still hurt. The fact that he doesn’t want me any more, or my mum or my brother, even his grandchildren, not any of us. He just replaced us and that was it, like we never existed. Your dad is supposed to be the one man who won’t do that to you, isn’t he? Like your dad. Like Mr Selin. And maybe, maybe if my own dad doesn’t want me, well then, why would anyone?’ I listen to the whisky tell my secrets for me and I listen to my own tears rattle inside me. ‘Oh God, ignore me, I’m flipping drunk and weepy again!’ My voice hits another crescendo and I can’t seem to calm myself down.
‘Oh God, Jen. Come here.’ He pulls me across his lap and I collapse into his arms, unable to hold it back any longer. I bury my head in his chest and the smell of him, the smell of oil paint, Guinness and cigarette smoke. As I cry he rocks me gently, brushing my hair away from my forehead and letting it fall, brushing it back and letting it fall. After a while the tension and pain subside and I find myself cradled between his legs, my arms around his neck, his hands around my waist. I sniff and wipe my eyes, conscious of the black panda smudges that must now surround them.
‘Jen, you mustn’t see yourself in that way.’
‘I don’t!’ I say feebly. ‘I’m just being stupid.’
‘No, you’re not, you mustn’t let this hold you back. Your dad was a prick, a total prick for letting go of his relationship with you. A prick and a coward. You’re not to blame, it’s got nothing to do with you. You’re a wonderful woman, a beautiful wonderful funny woman and you’ve done that without him. Remember, I knew you when you were a podgy teenager and believe me, you’ve made an improvement. Most men would give their eye-teeth to be with you. Any man. Not just the sociopath types you seem to think you’re fit for. You should give yourself a break, aim a bit higher next time. You know, someone evolved.’ Finally he succeeds in making me smile. I rub my eyes with the heel of my hand.
‘God, I’m so sorry. The last thing you need is to be nannying me right now,’ I say, lifting my face to his.
He grins. ‘Actually, it’s a bit of a relief to get to look after you for a while. My macho image was seriously going down the bog.’
‘Macho image! What macho image, you’re a flipping girlie artist!’ We laugh more with relief than anything else.
But after the laughter something strange happens. As we watch each other’s faces, quietly searching for something else to say, I become acutely aware of his hand on my waist and the feel of his torso against mine. I can’t think of a more inappropriate feeling to be having about a more inappropriate person at a more inappropriate time. I begin to move away but his arms tighten around me. Before I know what I’m doing, I raise my chin so that my mouth hovers millimetres from his.
‘Josh?’ I manage to say before his lips close on mine and God help me I find myself returning his kiss, pressing him back into the sofa cushions with a fire burst of longing that has come from nowhere. With a surge of emotional release I find myself pressing deeper into his kiss, my back arching as his cool hands slide up under my top, his fingers kneading the small of my back. I can’t think, I can only feel, and as his embrace tightens still further I hear a low moan escape from the base of his throat and my own heart thundering in my chest.
It lasts for only a few seconds, hardly more than a minute certainly, but I am lost like Dorothy drugged in a field of poppies, caring about nothing but the present moment. Then it seems that, in the present moment, a snapshot third-person view of ourselves hits us simultaneously and we stiffen and spring part, reality catching up as suddenly as that moment of uninhibited passion engulfed us. I leap off the sofa as if I’ve been burnt, smoothing my clothes and hair as I do so and turning away from him to gaze out of the window that looks over Green Lanes. I can’t think.
‘Christ, fuck,’ he says angrily to himself. ‘What a bloody idiot.’ He is standing, too, having leapt from the sofa a fraction of a second behind me. Only when I’m a good few feet away from him do I realise that I moved out of his embrace that quickly because I so wanted to stay. But he moved just as quickly. What must he think of me, he must think I’m a stupid heartless slut.
‘Jenny, I
never
meant for that to happen,’ he says categorically, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair.
‘God, of course not. Just a moment of madness what with … everything and all. The whisky, the dad stuff. Ayla.’
‘I mean, you must think … I mean, I’m not like your dad or Owen. I don’t just want to … I mean, what I mean is, that I’m not the sort of bloke to take advantage of you when you’re down. And right now, with both of us so confused about stuff …’
I don’t really know what he is trying to say and I grab at words like straws in the wind. ‘Yes, I mean comfort sex isn’t really a good idea at the best of times, is it?’ His face fills with clouds and I mentally kick myself. We accidentally kiss and I bring up sex! Sex. It was never going to get to sex. It felt as though it could have gone to
sex
, but not SEX.
‘It
was
a mistake, but––’ he begins but I cut him off before he has to say anything that might embarrass him more.
‘I know, I know. Let’s just forget it ever happened,’ I say, as if reciting a tired mantra, sounding angry and cynical when I feel neither.
His chin sets, his eyes drop to avoid mine and he heads for the door.
‘Yeah, well, that would probably be best, given the circumstances. I’ve got to go anyhow,’ he says through tight lips, and turns down the hallway to the door, unable to get out of here quick enough. I so don’t want us to fall out, not us, not now.
‘Josh!’ I call out after him and he stops at the door, his back to me. I run to him. ‘Josh. Look, the last few weeks have been really hard. Something happened between us and it was …’ I don’t what to say. Sexy? Exciting? Thrilling? Confusing? Self-preservation stops me from saying any of these things. I can’t tell what was on his end of his kiss, if there was anything there at all except grief, pity, impulse and Guinness. I don’t want to make things worse.
His face flushes deep red.
‘It was wrong,’ he nods, finishing for me. Then he opens the door and is gone.
‘That’s not exactly what I was trying to say,’ I think out loud as I lean back against the door.
In the past I often tried to analyse first-kiss chemistry, and I know what I felt for the brief moments that we were kissing. It was all wrong and out of the blue but I felt, well, I felt passion. Real, deep,
emotional
passion. But I know only too well that feeling that way can be one-sided. I’ve been on both sides myself. I’ve agreed politely with someone who raved about how sexy we were together when I haven’t felt a thing. Owen told me off on more than one occasion for becoming too emotional in bed. In the end I learnt to lock emotions away, the really big scary ones, I mean.