The Harder They Fall (22 page)

“Right, so everything’s in hand then?”

“If my mother’s in charge it’s more than in hand, I guarantee it.”

George nodded his understanding and finished the remainder of his coffee.

“Are you coming back?” Eleanor asked.

“Yeah. Not sure why you think it’s necessary, but I would rather keep out of his way.”

“All I’m saying is the way he storms off when he and Dan fall out is only a teeny, tiny taster—ask that lecturer of yours. He’s been here, done this, got the t-shirt and the leather elbow patches.”

“Sean?”

Eleanor raised an eyebrow.

“Oh really? Tell me more.”

“I don’t really know anything more than that. Josh turned up in Newcastle once, totally unannounced and in an unbelievably foul mood. He wasn’t exactly up for sharing, either. In fact, he hardly said a word to me the whole time. Sean arrived a couple of days later and they had one hell of a fight—not fisticuffs, obviously, although I did have to intervene on behalf of my flatmates—but they went home together afterwards, so I guess they must’ve sorted things out.”

George frowned thoughtfully. This sounded like it might have been the start of the on-going dispute between Josh and Sean, and probably wasn’t relevant to
his
current predicament, other than to demonstrate the lengths to which Josh would go in order to avoid confronting a problem. Nonetheless, he was still curious.

“And you’ve no idea what it was over?” he asked.

“None at all. I wasn’t allowed to mention it, but I think Josh just needed some space.” George looked worried and Eleanor patted his arm. “Look, I’m sure it’ll pass, eventually. A bit like really bad constipation.” She grinned.

“And on that beautiful analogy, I’m going. See you in a bit.”

Josh was still at work, so the coast was clear for George to grab his things and go straight back out, but he needed to know more about what Eleanor had told him. In fact, by the time he reached the house, the need was so great that he did something he’d never done before: he went into Josh’s bedroom.

It was an alien place to him and he looked around, trying to decide where he would be most likely to hide any keepsakes. The room was light and airy, with plain walls, curtains and carpet, all in the same shade of pale cream, with very little in the way of furniture: a double bed, a small bedside cabinet with a lamp, clock and a book, a bedding chest, a wall mirror and a shelf lined with bottles of aftershave and deodorant. Fitted wardrobes extended along one wall, with lift-up flaps above them; George opened each in turn, standing on tiptoes to peer inside. Most contained jumpers, folded neatly and piled one on top of the other. He pushed a hand in amongst them to see if there was anything concealed behind or within, but came up with nothing every time. Likewise, the wardrobes underneath contained only what one would expect, although the end cupboard was stacked with ancient psychology journals, and he lifted a couple from the top of the pile: they were copies of the
International Journal of Psycho-Analysis
dating back to the 1920s and probably worth a fortune. He carefully put them back, closed the door and pivoted to face the other way, biting his lip thoughtfully. The only other storage space in the room was the ottoman, which seemed too obvious a place to look, but he decided to do so anyway. It was locked and there was no key.

Now, at this stage, the right thing to do would be to leave well alone. He’d already trespassed into Josh’s personal space, whilst fully aware of what a privilege had been bestowed on him to be invited to share the house. Josh was very private and did everything he could to stay that way, sometimes to an almost extreme level. He wasn’t, for instance, the sort of person one might catch making a towel-clad dash back from the bathroom, not even when home alone; nor, as George had often found to his cost, did he appreciate personal belongings being left lying around shared spaces. So the right and most respectful thing to do was to leave the room exactly as he’d found it and never set foot in there again.

What George did instead was take out his keys and try them in the lock. None of them came close, so he searched the room again. He knew his friend well enough to also know that he was bound to have a spare key somewhere, but discerning precisely where that might be would take precious time he didn’t have. By now he was so obsessed that common sense was little more than a distant voice calling out to him to stop what he was doing. He needed to know what was inside that chest. He returned to his own room, took a hanger from the wardrobe and unbent the hook on his way back. He didn’t really have a clue what he was doing, but had been led to believe that a straightened length of wire could break most locks. Unbelievably, it yielded straight away, and he soon found out why. It wasn’t a proper lock, but a catch, which lifted when pressed, presumably because most bedding chests contain just that. This one was, on the surface, no different, with a few duvet sets and a pair of cushions at the top. George lifted the cushions free and peered into the space below.

This was what he’d been looking for: the letters, photographs, diaries—all the personal effects that might finally tell him what he needed to know. For it was no longer just about understanding how he had upset Josh. They’d been working and living together for the best part of a year, in almost every sense a couple. He had always worshipped him and always would, but he kept himself closed off—from everyone. OK, so he would freely tell them all that he loved them, and could positively gush with gratitude if he felt it appropriate, but the real, underlying emotions were carefully managed and contained, like the contents of the ottoman, and his current bad temper was only the second time ever that George had seen him on the brink of losing that control, the other being due to extreme sleep deprivation and stress. The mere existence of these photos and letters indicated he did care far more deeply than he was prepared to admit to his friends, but at this moment, what George wanted to know above all else, was what had happened between Josh and Sean. For now, though, the chance was lost, as Josh was due home any second, and a car had just pulled up outside. George quickly replaced the bedding and lowered the lid, quietly slipping out of the room and back into his own as the front door opened and closed again. He could feel his heart pounding and tried to steady his breathing, listening to the sound of keys being set down, the click of the kettle being turned on, all amplified above their usual volume by the excitement of almost being caught in the act. Josh came upstairs, and stopped on the landing.

“George?”

He panicked. He was supposed to have returned to Eleanor to avoid this happening. What was he afraid of exactly? This was Josh, after all. George cleared his throat and opened his door, feigning a stretch.

“Hi.”

“We need to be ready by seven,” Josh informed him. “OK?”

“Yeah. Cool.”

Josh nodded and went back downstairs. George quickly grabbed his bag of clothes and made a dash for it.

“I’ve got to go and see Ellie. I’ll meet you there,” he said and disappeared out of the front door. Josh carried on making his coffee. He’d expected George to have gone somewhere else to get ready and was surprised to find him home, but he wasn’t going to think about it. During the course of the day, he’d been able to gradually suppress his anger, and whether George was there or not, he was bloody well going to enjoy James’s stag night.

George was halfway between home and Eleanor’s apartment when she phoned to warn him that James’s mother and father had arrived unannounced, his father apparently having decided that he would like to go out with his son before his impending matrimony. He got the impression that what she was really saying was that he would be best not to come at all, if that were possible, so now he was really stuck. He couldn’t go back to the house when he’d fled so hastily, and a quick return call to Eleanor confirmed his interpretation, so he headed for the only other place he could think to go: Kris and Shaunna’s.

“You know what I was telling you on Saturday night?” George said by way of a greeting when Kris answered the door. “Well, it may have come to a head already. Can I get changed here?”

“Sure,” Kris stepped aside to let him pass. “You can use my room. You know where the bathroom is. Use whatever you need.”

“Thanks.” George dashed up the stairs. He had less than an hour to get ready and make his way to the jazz club.

Back at home, Josh was taking his time, and not because he was enjoying the chance to get ready in peace. His usual trick of redirecting wasn’t working and as a consequence he was so wound up that anything even remotely energetic was sending him into such an agitated state that he daren’t risk it. He sat and drank his coffee, checking the time every so often and trying to ignore the blank wall. Half an hour left; he needed to shower and change. Surely even he could do it in that amount of time? He plodded to the kitchen and rinsed his cup, then up to the bathroom to turn on the shower, and to the bedroom. On the floor, to the right of the ottoman, was a cushion. The vision turned him statuesque, as there were only two possible explanations for it being there. The first was that he’d left it out the previous night; the second, and this was not his favourite by a long shot, was that George had been through his things.

The possibility made him cold inside, but not angry. Perhaps it was simply that he couldn’t get any more angry than he already was, or that he had no grounds to complain, given he had done the same thing himself a few days ago. So now they were even. Josh knew George’s secrets and he knew his. That might make it easier to resolve the matter once and for all. He picked up the cushion and put it on top of the ottoman, too little time to go and get his keys, when the shower was running and he only had twenty minutes left.

There again, he mused as he left the house precisely twenty minutes later, a little adrenaline can go an awful long way. He climbed into the pre-booked taxi and arrived at the jazz club with ten minutes to spare. None of the others were there, so he bought a bottle of beer and perched on a bar stool, allowing the music to wash over him, like cool rain on a hot summer’s day. He was feeling much calmer, and only experienced a minor surge of annoyance when George came over.

“You were quick,” he said, taking the next stool along.

“Yes. I should get angry more often.”

“Hmm. Perhaps not.”

George ordered a beer and they sat, intermittently sipping at their bottles while listening to the female vocalist and pianist creating the low-key jazz backdrop. It was faked, the listening, a convenient excuse not to speak to each other. The singing was soulful, the singer a small, dark-haired woman whose voice rose from her abdomen in waves, each note urging on the previous, as it flowed out across the room. There was nothing wrong with the music; it was beautiful, but that sustained sense of control in the singer’s voice, as if she were holding back an almighty yell, mirrored George and Josh’s situation so closely that it was almost painful. James and his father made a timely arrival, closely followed by Eleanor’s father, uncle and brothers, but it was the two Browns who initially drew their attention and they were pleased for the distraction. Mr. Brown senior was a glimpse into James’s future; greying hair in an identical cut, the same squared chin and deep brown-black eye colour. They were both dressed in what they considered to be casual attire, and here again the choices they made were strikingly similar. As the Davenport men ordered drinks, Josh and George switched to watching them, noting the tiniest, most subtle hints of their friend seeping through the interactions of her male kin. Josh had met them all and knew Mr. Davenport senior very well, so had no problem identifying which of the twin brothers was Eleanor’s father, although George was struggling.

“Until you spot the more obvious differences, I’ll give you a clue. Ellie’s dad’s wearing the black sweater,” Josh told him.

“And their clothes are not a more obvious difference?”

“At the moment, maybe. You’ll see what I mean.”

James passed a tumbler to his father and indicated to an area in the corner of the room where there was enough space for their group to sit or stand. His father held back, waiting for James to make his way around the rest of the men, greeting each and pointing to the free tables, and so they all assumed their various positions for the evening, George and Josh taking the two chairs opposite one sofa, Eleanor’s brothers Ben and Luke taking the next two along, while her dad and her uncle shared a sofa with second youngest brother, Ed (or Teddy, as his family insisted on calling him). Peter, the youngest Davenport, sat next to James, whereas Mr. Brown chose to stand for the time being. George thought it might be to avoid sitting too close to other people and immediately offered his chair; Mr. Brown brushed the offer aside, although not in an ungrateful way.

“Too many hours sitting in the car,” he explained briefly, “but thank you.” He almost smiled.

A muted round of applause signalled a changeover of musicians, with this particular ensemble having been at James’s request, and consisting of a drummer, sax player, bass guitarist and the same pianist as before. With the exception of the saxophonist, the band were all older men, which somewhat depleted George’s optimism that things might pep up. If he’d been feeling a little out of place at the reunion, then he was positively irreconcilable now. He barely knew any of these people, and as the band started to play their first number, Josh moved over to the sofa to chat to James.

“Well isn’t this the best fun I’ve had in ages,” George muttered under his breath. Even Mr. Brown senior was absorbed in the music, leaving him feeling very alone. So much for having a hangover on Wednesday, he thought. He downed his beer and went off to the bar to buy another, choosing to stay there for the time being. He took out his phone and sent a text message to Kris: “Wish you were here.”

A few seconds later, the reply came: “Is it awful?”

He sent back: “Feel like a fish out of water - again!”

Kris had been invited too, but had declined the invitation, and his next message simply reiterated why. “I think James only invited me out of politeness. I don’t really know him that well. Drink more beer!”