Two Christmases (3 page)

He didn’t answer. I left a message.

“All right,” I said, my voice not sounding like my own, but like someone far older. “All right, you’ve won. I’ve messed up, and I’m the bastard you said I was after all. I’m sorry I hurt you before, and I’m sorry I’ve made you so angry because of what happened last week. You’re right and I’m wrong. Jake’s thrown me out. He knows everything. I’m not sure there’s anything else you can do, but whatever you want to do, that’s fine. You’re entitled. Whatever. The only thing I want to say is I’m sorry. And it’s over, Marty. Really over.”

I cut the call, switched off my mobile and kept on walking. And walking. One or two people jostled me—hookers maybe—but I didn’t pay them any attention. Just kept my head down and plowed on through.

Eventually, somewhere between midnight and one a.m., I found myself on familiar territory. Outside the office, shivering with the cold, I found the key in my pocket, opened the door, switched the alarm off, and walked in.

At night, the office seemed completely different than it was during the day. Everything was as it should be for the morning, but it didn’t feel like a working space. The desk looked menacing, and the computers seemed to be alien creatures waiting to be called back to their own world. I shook my head. God, I was sounding crazy. Even to myself. I desperately needed some sleep. It might clear my head. Maybe things would look better in the morning. They had to. I didn’t want to think it might be otherwise.

As quickly as I could, I locked the door, grabbed a handful of clean towels from the bathroom, and made a makeshift bed behind my desk where people couldn’t see me. I didn’t want to be arrested for breaking and entering my own office.

The last thing I remembered was wondering if I’d be able to get to sleep at all.

The next thing I knew after that was that someone was shining a vast light in my face and my shoulders hurt.

“What the hell are you doing?”

It was Robert. Who else? I blinked at him until my eyes focused and then glanced at my watch. It was 7:15 a.m.

“Are you drunk?” My boss stepped back from me, wrinkling his nose. “Honestly, Danny, you smell. What the hell have you been up to? Why aren’t you with Jake?”

I swallowed. The whole damn mess I’d made of things came flooding back. Right now, I was totally fed up with myself—with my thoughtlessness, with my ability to kick the man I loved in the gut, with my attempts to cover it up. It was all my fault, each and every sordid detail of it. Maybe then it was time to face up to the fact that I wasn’t really one of the good guys.

So, with that in mind, what came out of my mouth in response to Robert’s perfectly reasonable question wasn’t what I expected.

“I’m not with Jake because I’m an idiot,” I said, raising my head and staring right at him. “I fucked up. I slept with an old boyfriend last week, someone I’d already pissed off big time when I left him for Jake. I was drunk and… and high when I did it, but I know that’s no excuse. It’s my fault. He said he’d tell Jake and split us up. He wrote to him, to Jake’s office. I took the letter, tried to cover it up, but he told Jake about it anyway. Rang him. Of course. God knows why I bothered trying to lie. So. Last night, I told Jake I was sorry, but it wasn’t enough. He’d been going to ask me to be his partner. Some sort of romantic Christmas he’d got planned, but I’ve kicked him in the teeth with my own
bastard
decisions, and he asked me to leave. God knows but I can’t blame him. Why would he want me to stay? I walked for a long time, and then I came here. I know you’ll probably tell me to get lost—well, now that you know I do drugs, you will—but I didn’t know where else to go. I’m sorry.”

For a long moment, Robert did and said nothing. I held his gaze. Then he turned on his heel and walked away. Into his office. Slowly I got to my feet. My mouth tasted of dead cat and my legs felt weak. This was it then. This was the day I lost both my boyfriend and my job. Great, Danny, good work.

Robert came back in. He was holding something which he offered me. I took it and found I was clutching a few pages of A4 paper stapled together. There was a picture of a narrow brick house on the front.

“What’s this?”

My boss sighed, sat down, and waved his hand for me to do the same. I drew up a chair.

“You’re a good worker,” Robert said. “But I know you’ve got issues. As well as being a total and utter wanker of course. Now I’m not saying you have to be perfect—God knows, I’m far from that—and I know you don’t do hard drugs. But the soft stuff can be deadly too. So, a while ago, I printed out the brochure of the Drugs and Alcohol Foundation in case you should ever think you need it. They’re in London, not far from St James’ Park. Easy to get to. And maybe now’s the time to think seriously about it, eh? That is, if you want your boyfriend back
and
you want to keep your job.”

I looked up at him. Saw he was serious. Knew then what I’d have to do.

*  *  *

It took
me a year. It started with another difficult scene with Jake. Between that first Christmas and New Year when he found out what a shit I was, I stood in front of his house until he allowed me to speak to him. It took a couple of hours, and he was shaking when he finally opened the door. I think he’d been crying too, though he wasn’t the only one.

I didn’t come in. Not then, though later the two of us had to endure me clearing his house of the stuff I’d left there. Then, I simply stood at his doorstep and said what I needed to say.

“I’m not here to annoy you, Jake, and I’m not here to ask you to do anything you don’t want to do. I wanted to say I’m sorry. And you’re right about me, and I’m so very wrong. I’m staying at a hostel at the moment, and Robert’s giving me some help. I’m starting counseling sessions in January. To do with the drugs and other things. I don’t know if it might sort my head out, God knows if anything will do that, but I’ll try. I wanted you to know that and that I love you. That’s… that’s it really.”

I stood there for a moment, staring at his face, wanting to fix it on my mind so I wouldn’t ever forget it. He looked like he needed to speak, he might even have started to reach out for me before changing his mind and letting his hand drop. But I couldn’t see for sure. I was so caught by his eyes.

Then I turned and walked away.

Of course, I wondered if he’d follow me, ask me to come back, but life wasn’t like the films. Not ever. So I kept on walking, and blinking hard to keep the tears at bay. I kept on walking right into the most difficult year I’ve ever known.

Being me, you see, I thought it might be simple. I thought I’d stop smoking the weed, cut down on the drinking, binge or otherwise, go easy on the sex, and then after a couple of months or so I could go to Jake, beg him to take me back, and we could start all over again.

As if.

My counselor, Adrian, didn’t let me get away with a thing. Ever. I found myself, over the weeks and months I spent with him and in the groups he suggested I join, talking about a personal history I hadn’t thought of in any real sense for years: my father and the family I never talked to now, how sex made me feel, what the drink and the cannabis really did for me. He let me talk about Jake too, and what I’d done with Marty and why that might be.

It helped a lot. Keeping the job with Robert helped, too, gave me a focus and stopped me thinking all the time about Jake and how difficult it was being sober. And clean. I found I enjoyed the job more; I even managed to sweet-talk a couple of new clients onto our lists. After a while, sometime during the summer, Robert began to mention taking on more staff, maybe putting me into a managerial role one day. It made me feel nervous. Excited too.

During that year, I met Jake three times. The first time, I bumped into him in Sainsbury’s, of all places. He was with some slim dark-haired guy. We both said hello, shook hands even. I said it was good to see him and he smiled. He introduced me to the new bloke, but I forgot his name at once. That night I rang Adrian when the wanting to drink myself to oblivion got too much, and it was okay. In the end.

The second time, it was at a London Pride event. I couldn’t believe it—in the middle of so many people, someone patted me on the shoulder, I turned ’round, and it was Jake. The sight of him set my mind buzzing, and I couldn’t think of what to say. But it didn’t matter. We walked along, not really looking at the people or the stalls, and we chatted.

After a few minutes, I asked about the Sainsbury’s bloke, and Jake shook his head.

“I don’t see Pete anymore,” he said. “It didn’t really work out.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Which was only partly a lie. I didn’t want him to be unhappy.

He shrugged. “No need. We were just mates, really.”

When we parted, he leant forward and kissed me lightly on the cheek. I didn’t know whether it was where we were or the people we were with or if it was something he actually wanted to do, but it felt good. I watched as he walked away, unsure how things were between us now but more than anything not wanting to push it. That night I dreamed about him, and for the first time that I could remember it didn’t end badly.

The third time we met up was December, nearly a year after we’d split and just two weeks before Christmas. This time, I’d rung him. It took me four attempts to actually make the call, but when I spoke to him, he was fine, even sounded like he might be pleased to hear from me. Unless I was imagining that, of course. Anyway, I asked if he’d like to go for a coffee, he said yes, and that was why I found myself the following Saturday afternoon sitting at Starbucks and feeling the heat in my face when Jake walked in from the packed street.

Somehow, I managed to smile. “What would you like? Is it still a tall espresso and leave room for the milk?”

He nodded. “Please.”

When I got back, carrying his order and my own cappuccino, he’d taken off his raincoat and was hanging it over one of the other chairs. I sat down opposite him. When I pushed his mug over, our hands touched. It might have been me, but it felt like he didn’t draw away that quickly.

There were things I wanted to say to him—the reason I’d called in the first place—but he got there before me. His words were low, urgent. Like he’d been storing them up for a while, and this was his one chance to set them free.

“I’m glad you called,” he said, reaching to take my fingers in his. “I’ve wanted to call you for a while, but I haven’t had the guts. I’m sorry we left it so long. I’m sorry for a lot of other things too. I don’t think I’ve treated you fairly. Yes, you hurt me—
really
hurt me—but maybe I should have listened to you, too, before it came to... what it did. Seen how it was. Maybe I just expected you to play by my rules when that was the worst thing I could have asked for. I don’t know. What I do know, Danny, is this: I don’t think it’s worth throwing away what we had. I know how hard you’ve worked at being clean this year and going easy on the drink. That’s more than I’ve done to sort myself out for a lifetime. You’ve got more courage than I’ve ever had. The other thing I know is this: I thought it was over, but I still have feelings for you. They won’t go away. If anything they’re stronger. So I need to ask you this before I lose my nerve. We both managed to mess up last Christmas, but do you think that if I play my cards right with you, then there might be a chance this one will be better?”

I blinked. Then blinked again. Put my other hand on top of his where he still held me. The cappuccino could wait. “How did you know about what I’ve been doing this year?”

He had the grace to blush, but he didn’t stop looking at me. “I speak to Robert every now and then. He didn’t tell you?”

“No.” I shook my head, making a mental note to confront my elusive manager at the next opportunity. “He didn’t.”

“Oh.” Then, “Danny, what do you think? About… about us, I mean?”

“I think,” I said, slowly. “I think I’ve needed this year. We’ve both needed it. I’m sorry for cheating on you. It wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I should have been more honest with you from the start. About me. I don’t want it to happen again—hell, I’ve not had sex with anyone apart from myself this whole year, though a couple of times it came bloody close. I think about you all the time. I don’t want what I did to happen again, but if I feel myself being drawn away, I swear I’ll tell you. Maybe we can help each other. As for how I feel about you, I told you straight up last year, and that’s still the same. I love you. I love who you are, I love how you make me feel, and I love how we are when we’re together. With the commitment you talked about or without it. I don’t mind. And even through the tough times too. So my answer to your question about Christmas, Jake, is this.”

Having spoken for way
way
too long, I let go his hand, moved the coffee mugs to one side, reached across the table, and kissed him. I made it short and sweet, as I didn’t want to frighten the shoppers, but I put everything I had into it too.

It turned out to be
exactly
the answer he wanted.

And Christmas? Ah well, it turned out to be one of the best ever, I swear it.

Got
Mistletoe Madness
?