I wander across to the freshly baked section. For some reason it reminds me of a lap-dancing club. All those brazen, larger than life simulacrums of real desire, saying ‘you know you want me’, but you really don’t.
No. I end up in the ice cream aisle. The choice is immense, but for me it’s always going to be about Ben and Jerry’s. ‘It’s what’s inside that counts’ – that’s their motto, James Stephens, and they’re right, James Stephens, they’re right. Ben and Jerry would never lie to Mrs Ben and Mrs Jerry about what flights they were or weren’t taking, and ruin their Christmases, and steal one of the last fertile years of their lives, thus ensuring that they will die alone, and won’t even get eaten by their cats because you can’t keep cats in a fifth-floor flat, can you, James Stephens …
The sooner I choose some ice cream and go home for my lie down, the better.
What! What’s this?
They seem to have at least 40 variants of Ben and Jerry’s, and that’s without counting the frozen yoghurt.
Brownie Batter? Mission to Marzipan? Cinnamon Buns?! I didn’t even know cinnamons had buns….
Imagine Whirled Peace? Imagine living in a civilised nation: America! Land of the free, home of the brave, where Too Much Choice is an inalienable human right.
After ninety minutes, I have narrowed it down to the following:
Brownie Batter
Crème Brûlée
Dave Matthews Band’s Magic Brownies
Neapolitan Dynamite
S’mores
Fairly Nuts
Americone Dream
Turtle Soup
and
Willy Nelson’s Country Peach Cobbler.
and
Half Baked.
After a further seventy minutes I have knocked out the following:
Peach Cobbler, as it reminds me of Willy Nelson, which reminds me of James.
Turtle Soup – even though it has cashews, my favourite nut – however, the name has unfortunate connotations.
Fairly Nuts – too close for comfort.
Dave Matthews Band’s Magic Brownies, because I’m choosing solely on the name, and actually I don’t even know any Dave Matthews Band records.
I line up the remaining six options in a row in the freezer and consider. I could buy all six and leave the leftovers for Mum and Lenny, but I always feel bad buying them unhealthy foods as they do such a great job of suicidal eating all by themselves.
Hmm. Give me a minute here.
‘Where have you been, we’ve been worried sick! I thought you’d been killed. You could at least have come back with a black eye.’ My mother always makes grossly inappropriate jokes when she’s anxious.
‘What time is it?’
‘Nearly 7pm.’ That’s like midnight round these parts, where people eat early bird blue-plate dinners at 4pm.
I seem to have spent more than three hours staring at the freezer section in the supermarket.
‘What’s in there?’ she says, eyeing up the Ralphs bag under my arm.
‘
National Enquirer
?’ I say.
‘What else?’ She snatches it off me before I can lie, not that I ever can lie to her.
‘Oh, Sophie! No!’
‘What? I’m only going to smoke what’s in that bag and I’ll stop immediately after.’
‘If you are going to smoke those filthy things then at least buy them at the airport.’
Aha! I intend to buy another two hundred at the airport. I’ll pack this carton in my case, get more in Duty Free and I’m sorted. And I will give up once I’ve smoked all of that lot because I haven’t had a fag in seven years, and I am not a smoker.
My mother drops me off at the airport for my 6pm flight. After telling me for the nth time that I’ll be too cold when I land (she forgets: I do live in England, I am thirty-four, I do know how to dress myself) we settle into a slightly frosty silence. I stare out the window at the cars weaving in and out on the freeway, all in such a rush to get home.
I consider never going home, staying out here, getting a job as a sassy waitress with one of those cool burgundy retro coffee shop aprons, meeting some surfer type, having a life of sunshine and flip flops and air-conned malls. Then I picture the reality: living with my mother and Lenny, getting shouted at for using her special crossword pencil to write a shopping list, watching her drip-feed Lenny to death.
As we’re turning off the I-405 towards El Segundo, just a few miles from LAX, she turns to glance at me. I can
feel her gaze and I want to turn my head even further away but I can’t get past 90 degrees.
She sighs. ‘I am your mother, Sophie. I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong. I’m not an ogre.’
I face forward and stare at my lap.
‘Sophie. What’s wrong, darling? Maybe I can help. You never talk to me. Is it that man?’
‘Mum, I really don’t want to talk about this.’
‘I thought so. Lenny noticed it too, he says you’re looking so terribly thin.’ She reaches out an arm to stroke my shoulder.
‘Mum, put both hands on the wheel. Look, Century Boulevard, get in the right lane.’
She takes her hand back. ‘I just want you to be happy,’ she says, ‘I worry about you.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, as I feel one big, fat salty tear drop off the side of my chin on to my seatbelt.
My mother nods. As she turns into the airport’s security check zone, I hear her sniff quietly. When we hug goodbye, I feel her face, wet as mine.
I’ve already checked in online, and while I wait in the bag drop queue I force myself to think about what I’m flying back to. I’ve left my mobile at home – the temptation to call James would have been too great, and I know that from now on, whatever happens, it has to come from him.
I can’t imagine how we can possibly get back together
unless he begs for my forgiveness and commits to having therapy. But if I give him a third chance and he does it again – and why the hell wouldn’t he – I’ll probably lose my mind.
He wants to ‘reflect’. He says he’s ‘confused’. Yawn.
I wonder if he’ll be at the airport waiting for me? Maybe he’s emailed Laura to get my flight details and he’ll be there when I walk through the gate. That’s what I’d do if I were a man. Maybe he’ll have written me a letter – it’s not really his style, but it would show some thought. Thank God he didn’t get round to buying the ring, and I won’t have to explain all this shit to anyone at work.
On the board, my flight says ‘Delayed’. Typical, a tiny bit of snow in London and everything grinds to a halt. I wonder what James is doing right now. His car’s not cut out for snow. He’s probably in bed, it’s midnight at home, I hope he’s okay … God, I need to smoke, but I’ve packed the Ralphs carton in my case, and I don’t want to go through to Duty Free airside if the flight’s delayed.
I head outside to the smoking area and spot two young guys standing nodding, sucking fags between thumb and forefinger and laughing.
I ask them for a fag, and they find it hilarious that I call a cigarette a fag, and within minutes we are all laughing and joking, and they’re lifting up their t-shirts to show me their tattoos.
I’d forgotten men ever fancied me. God, flirting with
hot guys is fun. The hotter of the two is Billy, a 29-year-old from Seattle. He is hilariously inappropriate – a total stoner, sells metal sheeting for a living, snowboards half the year, loves Kung Fu movies and has a giant tattoo on his stomach of a skull wearing a Viking helmet, with a missile where the eye should be.
Together, we are hilariously inappropriate – we head to the airport bar with his buddy, Eli, and Billy’s telling me I have a smile that lights up a runway, let alone a room, and how could any fool, let alone an old one, tell me my body’s not good, when I’m ‘slamming’, and how he’d happily impregnate me right now in the car park or the women’s toilets – the choice is mine.
Eli has even more ridiculous tattoos than Billy. We drink vodka and tonics, and Eli invites me to come and live with them in Seattle, and I say ‘you guys, come to London with me.’
‘I haven’t got a passport,’ says Eli.
‘Are you gentlemen on the run from the law?’ I say.
‘I’ve done my time,’ says Eli, and he and Billy look at each other and laugh because it’s true.
‘What for?’ I say.
‘Oh you’d be shocked,’ says Eli.
‘Was it anything you did to a woman?’ I say.
‘Hell, no.’
‘So fine, tell me!’
‘Let’s just say someone got set on fire and shot.’
‘And that someone wasn’t you …’
‘Correct.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘No, but he wishes he was.’
‘What did he do to you?’
‘Stole from me,’ he says, matter of factly. ‘Told you you’d be shocked.’
I’m glad I fancy the other one.
I look up at the departures board and see that my flight is now delayed till 10.30pm.
‘Bollocks!’ I say.
‘What is it, baby?’ says Billy, tucking my hair behind my ear. I point to the board. ‘That’s a silver lining, doll. See my flight – AA137 – two above.’ Delayed till 11pm. ‘We got time to do it in the car park and the bathroom!’
‘Very romantic to tell the grandkids,’ I say. ‘I first screwed your grandpa up against a toilet door …’
‘Girl, I love your dirty mouth,’ says Billy.
‘Give me ten minutes and it’ll be dirtier,’ I say.
I do not know what’s got in to me. Such lewdness, normally not my style. But I’ve been cooped up with Mum and Lenny, and have barely spoken to another human for five days, let alone hot male ones. I feel like a dog that’s just been let out of a car.
‘Eli, I fucking love this girl, I’m going to make her my wife,’ says Billy, kissing me on the neck. ‘Heck, why don’t we just drive to Vegas right now and get married.’
I reckon this proposal is no less sincere than the one I had a month ago. Who knows, we might make it work. He’s been more complimentary about me in forty-five minutes than James was in a year. Besides, he’s gorgeous: twinkly blue eyes, messy brown hair, perfect teeth, a dimple on the right. He’s young, he has a cool criminal sidekick, he’d never make me listen to Dido on his car stereo. I could get a matching Viking skull tattoo …
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ I say. ‘Eli, do you mind if I borrow him for a while?’
‘I’m not gonna stand in the way of my buddy getting laid,’ says Eli.
I grab Billy’s hand and head towards the Avis car park.
‘Left. That’s it … oooh, now right …’ I say.
‘You sure about this?’ says Billy.
‘Positive. Can’t you go any faster?’
‘Patience, darlin’, there are limits.’
‘God, I am drunk,’ I say. ‘There, yes … In and out … I can see it,’ I say.
‘Oh yeah, baby. In an’ fucking out, come on!’ screams Billy.
‘Shove it there,’ I say pointing.
‘You’re kidding, it’ll never fit,’ he says.
‘You could get a yellow school bus in there, it’s huge.’
He looks at me nervously. ‘I don’t want to scratch it.’
‘It’s not even yours!’
‘Yeah, but they’ve got my credit card.’
‘Oh, stop driving like a girl and just park the bloody thing – I need food.’
He turns the engine off and we stumble into the In-N-Out Burger. I’m much more drunk than he is – I haven’t really eaten for a week – and I order two cheeseburgers and fries. He orders the same, and we sit on the bench outside, eating fries and talking about the universe.
Back in the car we start making out, and it is the sweet, raunchy kissing of two people who fancy each other rotten and know they’re never going to see a sunrise together. It is so uncomplicated and wonderful.
At the airport gate, Billy puts his hands on my cheeks. ‘I think you’re amazing.’
‘I’m so not,’ I say. ‘I’m too fat.’
‘Girl, you have no idea what you’re talking about. Your appetite is so fucking sexy. You’re gorgeous. Maybe I’ll get on that plane and come home with you.’
I wrap my arms around him. ‘Thank you, Billy,’ I say. ‘For saving me.’
On the plane on the way home things clarify in my mind. I think: Wow, James is just a dick. It’s really simple. He’s an idiot. And Billy is lovely, and the world may be full of Billys, and all you have to do is talk to a stranger, ask them for a cigarette, and your world can change.
I doze on the plane and wake up an hour from Heathrow feeling like a piece of crap – bloated, hung-over, confused and miserable.
There is no James at the gate. There is no train on the Heathrow Express line (snow). There is no cash in the cashpoint near my flat to pay for my £70 cab, no ‘Please forgive me’ letter on my doormat, and I’ve run out of fucking tea bags.
I’m sick with nerves when I turn my phone on to see what James has said. Fifteen texts from friends saying ‘Happy New Year’, four from Laura checking I’m okay, two from Pete, one from Jack saying ‘let’s have a drink in the New Year’ and one from James: I miss you.
January’s always shit for everyone, I think. Suck it up.
Laura says: If you want to call him, don’t. Write him an e-mail. Don’t send it.
So I write him an email every day, and because Devron is in the Maldives, I spend the entire day staring at my
screen, crafting the email, changing the font, deleting, snipping, shaping, adding. I send none of them.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Jan 11th
Dear James,
Thanks for your message.
I miss you too.
I wish I didn’t.
I’m sorry I can’t see you at the moment but I need some time to think about things – I know if I say something now it will be from a position of hurt and I might regret it, and you might get angry, so it’s best if I say nothing.
S
X
Jan 12th
Dear James,
The more I think about it, the more I cannot understand what happened between us. I honestly think that if you could just have some therapy and understand yourself a bit better, we could work through this.