The Art of Keeping Faith (13 page)

Tristan the Arse manages to sound equal measures of sardonic and sarcastic even when he is sitting in his pyjama’s reading the newspaper.

“I’m going for a run before lectures.”

I’m not really. Well, I may run to the petrol station for a take-away Costa but that is all.

“Going out with your new boy-toy?”

“I am not. And he is not!” I state.

Tristan has to be the only person in the entire world who can wind me up before it is even light outside.

Well, Tristan and my mum.
Go figure.

“So why did you not come last night? I think Meredith really missed you.”

I am sure that she did miss him for a little while, before she drank her crazy concoction in her flask and then started sprinting around the bonfire like she was doing a tribal war dance.

“Yeah she must have really missed me,” he grunts back at me.

Tristan is studiously studying the page of the newspaper which is holding his attention—I can just sneak a peek at what it is—the financial pages! Seriously what a bore! There is no way we are related.

“Well she did. So why didn’t you come?”

“Oh I don’t know, Delilah, I just don’t feel like hanging out with a bunch of drunk students all the time. It gets kind of repetitive.”

“Are you talking about me being drunk all the time?”

Tristan gives a little shrug. “Actually, Lil, for once you are the one more in control.”

Shit. If this is me in control, what on earth was I like before?

“What do you mean?”

“Well it’s just a bit annoying you know, having the girls constantly pitching up in party mode. I kind of feel that some nights it’s just nice to stay home.”

“Okay. I can kind of see your point,” I agree. “But, you have to remember that you knew Meredith was a student when you first met her and you were completely up for it. You are the one who has changed not her.”

Tristan gives a shake of the newspaper and raises it up so he cannot see me.

Arse.

“Just saying.” I head into the hallway to find my shoes ready for my moderate jog to the garage.

“She didn’t used to throw up hot chocolate cocktails all over me back then,” he calls after me. He always has to have the last word.

Arse.

Ah, yes, I remember that now. Tristan came to pick us up last night. Meredith snored the whole drive back home and then puked as soon as Tristan tried to get her out of the car. Not her finest moment.

“Oh, by the way,” I call back. “Have you heard from Mum and Dad?”

Tristan gives a little humph and I can hear him rustle the paper as he puts it down and stands up.

“Mum is driving Dad bonkers with her church committee competition.” Tristan leans against the doorframe, blonde hair standing on end, his pyjamas are crisply ironed which makes me believe he does not wear them to actually sleep in.

Yuck. Bad visual image.

“Oh, and she’s still not talking to you after you throwing her out the other week,” he adds.

“I did not throw her out exactly I just told her she could not have any more gin under my roof.”

“Same thing.”

“Whatever.”

I turn to exit the front door.

“Oh, Lilah, could you bring me back a Latte?”

“Kiss my arse.”

“Oh, come on.”

“How about you come and get one with me.”

“Okay, but I’m driving.”

“You’re going to drive two minutes down the road, just to get a coffee?”

“Yep, that’s why I own a car.”

Seriously. What a lazy shit.

“That’s why you’re a prick,” I mutter under my breath before saying louder for his definite hearing. “Okay pick me up down there.”

7th November

I am just settling in for some quality study/snooze time in the library when my phone vibrates on the desk.

I have escaped to the library because I am not overly thrilled about going home. I have no idea what is going on but the atmosphere sucks. Big time. Last night Meredith and Tristan ignored each other the whole night, still in their post fireworks display strop-off.

Great, a text from Meredith: What you up to?

Oh goodness. I love Meredith like a sister but I am not sure I can sit through another evening of strained silence and the banging of doors.

Especially not with the mood I am in today. For once I am in a fantastic mood and I don’t want it ruined. Ben and I had the best ever telephone date last night. I don’t know how but he managed to find a way to talk to me for a whole forty five minutes instead of our normal snatched ten, and it was great. For the first time since he left again the gap between us did not seem too far to bridge. He had me in hysterical giggles telling me about some of the antics Dave has been up to. Let’s put it this way; Dave is not wasting any opportunities, even if they are not particularly attractive ones.

Ben reckons he is going to catch some terrible disease soon or his knob is going to fall off from overuse.

So all in all last night was a good Ben night. I even braved a peek at YouTube clips (yes I know I am a scaredy pants) and I was astounded by just how well they are doing. Something I was only too eager to tell him with immense pride when I spoke to him later.

“Are you only looking at them now?” he chuckled.

I took the opportunity to admit my intense paranoia, which made him giggle even more.

“What did you think? That I was going to be kissing some girl on stage?”

“Maybe?” I admitted.

“You really are completely bonkers.”

“I know.”

There’s just no point denying it.

The phone call was made even better by the fact that I got home from campus to find a cordless phone charged and waiting for me on my pillow.

It had one of Tristan’s sarcastic Post-it notes on it: For the record, I am not Ben’s bitch but just call me Mr. Romantic. T.

I believe Meredith thinks Tristan is very far from Mr. Romantic. It worked for me though. Well, it made me think Ben was very romantic by managing to organise Tristan to go and get one. It made the phone call perfect, as I was able to curl up on my bed with Crazy Kit and talk to Ben without getting a numb bum sitting on the hallway floor.

Much better.

Right then. Study …

So there were once two Popes …

“There you are, I knew I would find you sleeping up here.”

I look up at Meredith who is bounding toward me with a determined zeal.

“I am not sleeping, I’m studying.”

”Come on. Let’s do something.” She starts to shut the books I opened for no reason other than to look busy.

“Like what?” I eye her cautiously. She is looking alarmingly happy and hyper.

“Tristan is here!” She squeals like she may explode at any moment due to extreme happiness. “He came to surprise me after class.”

“Really?” I can’t keep my own surprise out of my voice.

She picks up on it, “I know. It’s great, isn’t it? Maybe he isn’t such a grumpy pants after all?”

I don’t want to burst her bubble and tell her that he more than likely is. So I just humour her and nod my head instead, starting to pack up my belongings.

What’s one drink going to do in the grand scheme of things? I am sure I can maintain my mature dignity and not throw my name away again.

Also I really want to see what Tristan the Arse is up to.

8th November

7.00 a.m.

Urgh. God. My head.

That wine could not have been right? When will I learn that the Student Union Bar is not a good place to buy a decent glass of vino? Bloody old plonk.

It’s not just my head that hurts it’s my entire face.

Actually, I ache all over.

What on earth was I doing?

My phone vibrates before I can contemplate the situation any further.

Richard
: I’m gonna be five mins late. My head hurts. Meet you by the petrol station.

Oh shit, jogging.

More to the point, why do my legs feel like I have already jogged about five miles.

My phone again.

Richard:
It was dancing.

That explains it.

Well it would half explain it. It explains the ache, but it does not tell me why I was dancing in the Student Bar on a Thursday night.

Only one way to find out.

I’m going to have to go jogging.

8.30 a.m.

So kill me now.

My efforts to maintain my mature dignity involved the following:

Five glasses of Old Plonk with five Sambuca shots.

Tripping and spilling an entire pint of beer down Richard who then spent the rest of the night in a wet, rank smelling shirt.

Tripping and landing on my face right in front of the bar and bruising my right knee (this partially explains the aching this morning).

Having another dance-off. This time with Barbie. (This explains the rest of the aches this morning).

I nearly fell over again when Richard told me mid-jog.

”Please tell me the lights were dimmed?”

“Nah, sorry it was like broad daylight in there.”

Crap.

What is wrong with me? Seriously! There is no way I am going on campus today.

9th November

It’s been one year. One year since I did that super-duper brave (although slightly delayed) act of breaking up with John so that I could be with Ben.

Obviously it did not quite go to plan.

For some reason that I still can’t explain three hundred and sixty-five days later, I decided not to use the groundbreaking development in modern technology called a mobile phone, and call Ben to tell him how successful my evening had been.

I passed out and awoke hours later to find Ben in bed with a partially dressed Barbie.

And that was the undoing of everything. The position that I find myself in now, with the whole weird long-distance relationship and living with Meredith and Tristan (who are having sex very loudly again by the way), has all derived from that one night a year ago.

It’s really bloody annoying thinking back on it now. If I had known John was making moves on Annabelle I wouldn’t have fannied about for weeks building up the courage to dump him. I would have done it on the second day of Uni when I realised I had a major thing for the boy in the room next door.

Or, I would have done it after that first night at Fez Club when I realised I wanted to have sex with the boy in the room next door, quite badly.

Or, I would have done it after our first date when I realised that I was in fact in love with the boy in the room next door and probably always would be.

Instead, I waited and waited like the scaredy pants chicken that I am. Instead of living happily forever after, I am living this: A long distance relationship conducted over a telephone with me being the single parent of a crazy cat who has shredded every item of soft furnishing we own while his “dad” has his picture taken with near naked girls on a regular basis.

It’s a pile of shit. That’s what it is.

I may have to have a vodka to celebrate just how incredibly shit and ironic my entire existence is.

I am sure Baz will be happy with me celebrating the irony of life in the shop. What else is an alcoholic Saturday girl supposed to do?

Work

By the time I get to the shop I am running late and it is fair to say I am in a foul mood. My shower and morning routine (all five minutes of it) has been dominated by one repetitive thought. I AM A DICK and if I had not been such a dick a year ago then I would not be having conversations like this with myself.

Taylor Swift is belting “Stay Stay Stay.” And I am only too aware that for all the four letters words I like to use, stay, has never been one I have utilised enough.

The shop is in complete darkness and for a brief moment I have one of those euphoric moments where you think you are going to get an unexpected day off.

This is closely followed by the depressing thought that even if I did have the day off I would have nothing to do with it apart from mooch about at home feeling sorry for myself.

Then I have a moment of panic where I realise that I should probably open up the shop but cannot remember the last time I used my keys.

One of the pluses of always getting to work late is that I never have to worry about being the one to open up the doors.

I give a little air punch when I find them wedged in the corner of my bag. Although I do need to make a mental note to clean out my bag at some point, it seems I have an entire universe stashed in there.

One red lipstick—I don’t think I have ever worn red lipstick in my life.

One box of Band Aids—clearly in preparation for my relationship counselling role or for when I fall down drunk.

An entire handful of dried leaves which at first I think may be a stash of weed, (not that I smoke the stuff, but you never know, desperate times and all that) but then realise with intense disappointment that it is just a split herbal tea bag.

My tweezers—I have been looking for these for about six weeks, my eyebrows are taking over my face as a result.

Eight tampons, all unused but in various conditions and levels of being unwrapped.

A pair of knickers—Yes that is right. I have a pair of knickers in my bag that I have no recollection of putting there. Even I am a little shocked by this. Thankfully, they were clean.

Finally after twenty minutes of emptying my life onto the pavement I manage to get through the door to the shop. When I do I stop on the spot and then I have to check that I am in the right place because this looks more like a florist than a music shop.

I am not talking about a few paltry bunches dotted here or there. I am talking jam packed to the rafters with roses.

“What the fuck?”

I edge my way over the till and put my bag down on the counter and find a litre bottle of my favourite vodka with a gift card tied around the neck with bow.

“What the fuck?” I ask the bottle of vodka.

The card says: Happy first year anniversary—I know it’s not official but I am claiming it anyway. It’s mine and always will be, like u. B. x

The card is written in Ben’s hand, I have no idea how he has arranged this but it truly is a surprise.

A surprise that makes me cry like a big baby.

I stop my tears to send Ben a text: I love you.