The A-Z of Us (18 page)

What's wrong with me? I'm a real traveller in this age of sofa-bound indolence. Yet now, for the first time in my life, I can't bear the idea of being alone in an unknown country. My strength has been sapped. My confidence shattered. My armour stripped.

I glance at Gemma as she swigs her wine.

‘Should you really be drinking like that?'

She looks up, her small brow furrowed.

‘Why not?'

I don't answer. Gemma takes another sip of wine.

‘My mother's going to Antarctica.'

‘Really? It's amazing. Good for her.'

‘She's going to see the polar bears.'

‘There aren't any polar bears.'

‘I told her that. She wouldn't believe me.'

I laugh. Gemma takes another swig of wine.

‘We had a row. I stormed out. She told everyone in the restaurant I was pregnant.'

I feel panic. It's true, as I suspected. Gemma is pregnant. My heart thumps. This means everything will change. And I don't want everything to change.

‘Poor woman,' Gemma continues. ‘She wants me to be just like her, the happy housewife.'

‘So… are you pregnant?'

Gemma looks at me.

‘Jesus, not you too!'

We sit in silence for a while.

Then Gemma speaks, her voice loud and more than a little drunk.

‘Do you think I'm good-looking?'

‘Gemma…'

‘Come on, Ian. Play the game…'

‘You're a stunner.'

‘Do you think men will still want to shag me, even if I'm… ?'

‘Pregnant?'

‘Divorced.'

She looks away, pain on her face. I'm surprised how ugly and blatant the ‘D' word sounds in this empty space.

‘Don't be silly, Gem. You're gorgeous.'

She looks at me, and for a brief moment I'm terrified she's going to suggest that we have sex right here, right now, if only to prove a point. She shakes her head and waves her index finger at me.

‘You, my friend, say nice things. But they aren't necessarily true.'

‘Any man would give the lot to be with you.'

She looks at me, a little girl quizzing.

‘How much?'

‘A million quid… About two hundred million yen. I think you'd be very big in Japan, they like blondes.'

‘Is that all?'

‘All right. Ten million pounds. Plus VAT.'

She smiles. I'm relieved. She picks up the wine bottle.

‘Yup. That's more like it. Gemma Cook, the ten million pound shag!'

She pours us each another drink, clinks my glass with hers.

‘God, I hate this house!' she declares, with sudden violence.

I'm not too sure how we've ended up on the small balcony set into the slanted roof. At no stage did climbing up the ladder to the attic seem like a good idea, but then I ceased to have the ability to divine good ideas from bad about the time Gemma made me finish Raj's Caol Ila whisky.

Now, standing on the terrace, which appears to be missing only its most vital component – a metal rail to prevent you tumbling fifty feet to the concrete patio below, I feel sick. There's a strange quivering in my
testicles – not a pleasant, sexual surge, but a fizzing discomfort. Is this vertigo, I wonder? Is it an instinctive, hard-wired fear of The Fall? My father could base a whole sermon on such a feeling of imminent obliteration.

Gemma was telling me about her plans for the house, about how she was so naive to think the renovations would bring her and Raj closer together. She threatened to go and find the plans to show me how over-ambitious and extravagant she'd been, especially with her idea to convert the loft space into a massive TV room, and then, before I knew it, we were climbing the worm-nibbled staircase to the fourth floor and then up a metal ladder (Gemma almost fell) and into the musty attic.

It was difficult with my plaster cast, but my drunkenness guided me as I crawled like a baboon across the joists, and out onto the three-foot-wide space the builders had just finished, before they stopped work to await more funds.

I have to admit, even through drink-blurred eyes, the view is pretty impressive. It's difficult to perceive from ground level, but Raleigh Street seems to rise up a small incline. From the roof level you can see out towards central London.

Beyond, the lights of the City flicker in the warm night like blue, white and red candles – the NatWest building, the shimmering dildo of the Swiss Re tower. To the left, I can just make out the ghostly white of St Paul's, and to the right the orange glow of Westminster, and the green shadows cast onto the wheel of the London Eye. It is, I think, a pretty nice view. It's not Paris or Manhattan or Hong Kong, but it's better than some. At night, London seems less sprawling, less randomly strewn.

‘Nice view.'

‘It should be, considering how much this stupid fucking balcony cost.'

Gemma starts to unscrew the top of the gin bottle she insisted on carrying up to the roof.

‘I don't think that's a good idea,' I say sternly, placing my hand on hers.

‘Fuck you, Ian Thompson, and your horse.'

Gemma smiles a wide sarcastic smile and I realize she's more drunk than I've seen her in a while. To my relief she places the bottle back on the balcony floor. She stands for a moment, perusing the London skyline.

‘Why did this happen?' she asks, softly. I look at her.

‘I don't know.'

‘Did we do something wrong?'

I can't answer. It seems that somewhere in my alcohol-drenched thoughts, I am worried that we have done something wrong, that we have screwed up, that I've strayed too far from the path that everyone else is following. But I can't pinpoint the moment, or the action that triggered the split. And anyway, I decide, burping loudly, I'm used to being off the beaten track. It's my job.

At my side, Gemma gazes out at the darkened windows of her neighbours.

‘Look at them all, sleeping so soundly. They've all complained about the work on the house. They hate us. We're too young to have a house like this, they think. We're too new. We're too… mixed!'

She bends down, and I wonder if she's going to be sick, but instead she picks up the gin bottle again and in one swift jerk of her forearm throws it, hard. It arches
gracefully and sails earthwards, for an instant flashing with light caught from a neighbouring window, before crashing onto the concrete patio below.

‘Bravo!' I say.

‘Whoops,' says Gemma. Several lights come on along the row of houses, figures appearing at windows, curtains twitching.

‘Hello, wonderful neighbours!' Gemma shouts, waving at the silhouettes, who vanish as swiftly as they appeared. She burps again and falls backwards into the attic.

I turn, hurriedly.

‘Are you okay?'

Another burp from the shadows. Then a giggle.

‘All right, Thompson. I've got a plan. You like plans, don't you?'

I reach down and she takes my hand and I pull her up, trying not to be afraid of tumbling backwards over the balcony edge. As Gemma stands, she begins to unbutton her jeans. In my blurred, dulled state, I wonder where this is going. I know I should be alarmed, but I'm too drunk and too tired to care.

‘What are you doing, Gem?'

‘Come on. You too.'

‘Please, Gem, don't take off your trousers…'

But she's pulling them down, or at least trying to, as the denim struggles to make it down her thighs.

‘Shit. Come on Thompson. We're going to moon the wonderful neighbours!'

I look at her.

‘Come on, Ian. Be a mate. Come on…'

Reluctantly, I unbutton my jeans, wobbling briefly,
afraid that the plaster cast will unbalance me, but I spread my feet further, regaining control. I pull the denim down and shuffle to the centre of the balcony. We face the slanting roof, bend down, and expose our buttocks to the residents of one of the more affluent districts of east London. Gemma slaps her posterior and starts to sing.

‘Blue moon…'

She shakes with laughter as she finishes the verse, and as she turns, her buttock flesh touches mine. It's cold, like marble.

‘Oh…' She's reaching to pull up her jeans, but she slips and topples forward, hands out, falling against the balcony door frame, and clinging on for a moment, like a sailor in a storm. I pull up my own jeans. She stands there, legs apart, trying to balance. I try not to look at the dark shadow of pubic hair visible through her panties. She reaches down and tugs her jeans upwards.

‘Wow. I think I'm really pissed.'

She sits down and then lies back in the balcony doorway, her feet reaching the end of the small terrace so her toes dangle into the black void.

‘Come on Ian. Lie here. It's really, really comfortable.'

With difficulty, I shuffle back and lie down slowly by her side. The asphalted roof terrace is still warm from the day.

We stare up at the orange-glow night sky. I breathe in and out, seeking an oxygen antidote to the alcohol in my stomach. Then I hear myself asking, ‘Do you ever hear from Neil?'

Gemma turns her head quizzically, suddenly more focused, more sober.

‘Neil Farrelly? My Neil? Ex Neil?'

‘Yeah. Do you know where he is?'

She waves her index finger, imperiously.

‘No, no, no. Bad idea.'

‘What if we found him? I bet we could.'

‘I haven't seen him in… what? Ten years?'

She shakes her head again. I wait, wondering what she's thinking – is she excited by the idea, or will she accuse me of interfering once more, of trying to find solutions where none are available? I have a sudden image of Neil and Gemma, in a church, getting married. I would be best man and everyone would praise my matchmaking skills.

Gemma turns back to me.

‘He's married. He's got to be.'

‘We could find out.'

‘How?'

‘On the net. Friends Reunited, or something like that.'

Gemma burps loudly, then giggles.

‘No. We shouldn't. I don't want to see Neily…'

‘We could just look…'

‘No, I said.'

It takes us five minutes. A site called www.oldunimates. co.uk allows us to register for free with an email address. Seconds later a password is emailed to us, we log on, then find Neil's year at Liverpool's John Moores University. And there he is. Neil Farrelly. With a short biography. It reads:

Following a couple of post-qualification years working as a vet in Canada's cattle country of Alberta, Neil returned to the UK to work in Bristol where he played a lot of rugby and lost a few more
brain cells to pints of scrumpy. He has since moved to South Coast Vets in Brighton, where he is a partner.

Gemma is quiet.

‘There's a picture. Do you want to see it?' I ask. She doesn't reply, so I click on the icon. Neil's picture appears. He looks older, more creased, just a little heavier in cheek and chin. But he's smiling in a way that's familiar to me, and, I know, to Gemma. It's a gentle, inviting smile, that says, ‘I may be six-foot-two and weigh sixteen stone, but really I'm as soft as feathers.'

‘He looks well,' I mutter.

‘He looks like Neil.'

Gemma seems energized. On Google she types in ‘South Coast Vets'. She clicks on the entry, the website loads, and there's another picture of Neil Farrelly, in a white coat, with three other vets, two men and a woman. There's an address – and phone number.

‘Do you think he's married?' Gemma whispers.

‘I don't know. You'd have thought he would have mentioned it on the uni website…'

‘Maybe he hasn't updated it.'

‘Maybe.'

She's silent once more.

‘You could call him?' I suggest, quickly.

Gemma looks up at me, eyes wide, her face white and glistening in the glow from the computer screen.

‘I think I'm going to be sick.'

The next day, she returns to the house in the middle of the afternoon, throws up in the downstairs toilet, tells me she hates her job and that she's not going back, and that
she can't call Neil in Brighton. Just as I'm about to protest she nods her head once and says:

‘I want to go there. I want to surprise him. If I see him, I'll know.'

‘What will you know?'

‘Everything.'

The day after a bad hangover is like the first day of spring. You wake feeling more refreshed than you've felt for weeks, as if all the lassitude and stress has been expelled from your body, along with your dinner. After a good fourteen hours' sleep you bounce out of bed, red wine and Chicken Tikka Masala replaced with joy and hope. At such times, you feel almost reborn. From this moment forth, you feel, you will do things differently (drink less, keep healthier, not worry about your body, men, or work).

I can't remember a post-hangover when I've felt more uplifted. Waking, clear-headed, shortly after eight, I open my eyes immediately and blink wide in the early bright sunshine. I shower, then make coffee and step outside onto the bare unfinished concrete, which is already warm under my naked feet. I feel like singing. It's a familiar, childish exhilaration, reminiscent of the joy that fills you at the beginning of school holidays. I haven't felt this happy in months.

It's as if none of the bad things happened. It's as if they have all been a bad TV dream, like Bobby in the shower in
Dallas
.

Now I have a plan. It's Saturday morning, the first of September, and I'm going to Brighton to see Neil. I'll meet him, and in the first few words we exchange, I will know everything. I will know my future.

The doorbell rings. I open the door, expecting the
postman. Molly stands there. Behind her is her new
5
Series BMW, bought with last Christmas's bonus.

‘Hi.'

She looks tired. She's wearing a pretty black skirt and sleeveless T-shirt. I smile at her.