The Harder They Fall (27 page)

“Really?”

“I’m OK now,” he clarified.

“Well, that’s all I’m going to say. I’m here if you need me. We both are.”

“Thanks. You’ve done more than enough already.”

“It’s the least I can do after you helped me out so much last year.”

“Well, I hear that’s what friends are for.”

“Yeah,” Kris said, rolling his eyes at the cliché. “But you’ve been warned, so don’t come crying to me tomorrow. Her feet really do smell.”

“Even after she’s had a bath?”

“Especially then,” Kris winked. George laughed and they each returned to their respective reading material.

The problem with knowing you’ve got a problem is that it doesn’t always follow that you know how to resolve it. The grout between the bathroom tiles was as white as it had ever been, and still he was fighting the desperate, almost uncontrollable requirement to take a hammer and chisel to it. The tiles were fine. They didn’t need replacing. Neither did the carpets, but it was a bit too late for regret when they were at the rubbish tip already. So
he
had been back to the house, and left wet clothes in the washing machine. Fair enough, he’d have had trouble drying them, when the tumble dryer was in the back garden, but that was beside the point. And he’d been in the ottoman again.

“MY ottoman, George,” Josh said aloud. His voice echoed around the bathroom and out into the empty, carpetless house. “In MY room. How could you?”

The fact that he’d been through George’s suitcase without his permission didn’t make it any less of an intrusion. He was in half a mind to go straight round to George’s mother’s and have it out with him. He’d lied about that too, and Josh had never revealed that he knew where they lived, to protect him from the cruel judgements of others. He’d have fought harder last night, when he declared that was where he was going, if he’d believed George would last more than one night away. He’d got that wrong then.

Josh looked at the tiles again, commanding himself to leave them alone, and felt his way out of the room, with eyes closed; the less he saw, the less likely he was to want to destroy it. He edged blindly along the wall and opened the door to George’s room, the only one left untouched, for it was the only place immune to this compulsion. He sat on the bed and stared at the wall. There had to be a way to make this go away again. All that was required was willpower and a little thought adjustment. If they could just get through Ellie’s wedding. He lay down, resting his head on the pillows, inhaling George’s scent and trying to resurrect his crumbling resolve. His phone vibrated underneath him and he ignored it, clutching at the pillows and letting that scent take him over. Just a little bit longer, and he’d leave it behind him. Forever.

“Sorry it’s so late,” was how Sophie started her phone call to George. “Are you at home?”

“No,” he said suspiciously. “Why? What do you need this time?”

“Hey! I’ve only ever done that to you once.”

“Twice. Both times involving a cat.”

“All right. Twice, but anyway, I was just ringing to warn you that Sean’s on his way round to your place.”

“At eleven o’clock at night?”

“Yeah. He’s been drinking. By the state of him I’d say he’s been at it all day. He was drunk when I got here about three hours ago.”

“Oh hell. I’m actually staying over at a friend’s. Thanks for letting me know, Soph. You OK?”

“Yeah—a bit confused and stuck with this sodding cat again, but I’m all right. Are you?”

“Not really, but I need to go and find out what’s going on. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, yeah?”

“You mean you’re going to turn up for lunch this time?”

“Ah. Sorry. I totally forgot. I’ll see you at one tomorrow. Promise.”

Sophie hung up and George carefully pushed back the duvet. Shaunna was fast asleep and facing the other way. It was a very odd sensation to be sharing a bed with a woman, or indeed, with anyone at all. He threw on his clothes and picked up his shoes, creeping out of the room and along the landing as quietly as he could. A floorboard creaked underfoot, and he paused, listening out in the hope that he hadn’t disturbed anyone. Casper gave a small woof from downstairs, but otherwise the house was in silence. He left a note on the pad on the kitchen table, took his jacket from the back of the chair, and stepped out into the blustery night.

Sean tripped up the step into Josh’s porch, fell against the front door and laughed at himself.

“Saves knocking,” he said, standing back in the full expectation that the door would open at any second. When it didn’t, he looked around for a doorbell and couldn’t find one, so hit the door with the flat of his hand a couple of times. The noise made Josh jump awake and he sat up, startled and disoriented. He’d fallen asleep on George’s bed. Another bang on the door was necessary before he realised what had woken him, and he made his way down the stairs, lightheaded and unaware of how late it was.

“Sandison. Open the feckin’ door!”

Josh took a deep breath and counted to ten in his head. “Just bloody perfect.” He opened the door and glared. “What are you doing here? And how much have you had this time?”

“Enough to tell me that you and I need to have a little chat.”

“It’s…” he took his phone from his pocket, ignoring the seventeen missed calls, “…gone eleven. Are you insane?”

“I don’t think so. Am I?” Sean glanced past Josh and lost his balance. “I mean, is it me who’s ripped up all the carpets? And what else, Joshy? Have yer taken yer bed to pieces again, or no?”

“Oh please just go away. This is neither the time nor place to have this conversation.”

“There is no time or place for it. Did yer think I’d forget?”

“I hoped you might.” The dog next door was barking and a couple of lights had gone on across the street. “Come on. Five minutes. That’s all you’ve got.”

Sean staggered past him and fell against the wall.

“So, what is it you want to say?” Josh closed the door and absently flicked the snip.

“Well, that’s just the thing, isn’t it? I still don’t feckin’ know what I’m supposed to say,” Sean smiled, his eyes bloodshot and wandering on account of all the whisky he’d consumed.

Josh pointed to the lounge: “In there. Sit, before you fall down and do yourself an injury.”

Sean nodded in thanks and pushed off the wall, sending himself headfirst through the door opposite and half-falling onto the nearest chair. Josh sat on the sofa and rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t seen Sean this drunk for a very long time, thankfully, because he did have a tendency to ramble on about things that in the heat of a drunken moment undoubtedly seemed important, but meant little the following day. This felt a bit different, and, he supposed, if he did have to put up with unannounced visits with the house in this state, then at least it was only Sean who was seeing it. He examined his carpetless floor and folded his arms.

“A bit of regret there, Joshy? When did yer take ’em up?”

“This morning. They needed replacing.”

“Ah right, so. You got some new ones ordered already, have yer?”

“Not as such.” Josh turned away.

“I’ll have that cup of coffee now,” Sean said.

“I didn’t offer you one, but seeing as you’re in no fit state to get home again, I suppose I don’t have a lot of choice.”

“I could get home, no trouble at all. But I’m not going anywhere, not until you talk to me.”

Josh didn’t reply and instead pushed past him and went to the kitchen, where he filled the kettle to the top so that it took longer to boil, and stayed with it, taking as much time as he could to make the coffee. He didn’t want to do this now. He didn’t want to do this ever. As if things weren’t bad enough already. Perhaps it was some sort of conspiracy: let’s see how long it takes for Josh to crack. The anger crackled under his skin; he took a few slow, deep, steadying breaths, picked up the two cups and made his way back to the lounge. Another bang on the door and half the coffee landed in a brown puddle on top of the underlay. He took the cups to the lounge, dumped them on the table, and went back to the door, stepping outside and closing it behind him.

“George. Now’s not a good…”

“I know. Soph phoned to tell me Sean was coming round.”

“Yeah. He’s drunk, but I can handle him.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

George moved to leave, but then hesitated.

“It’s all fine, I swear,” Josh assured him. “Can we talk about it tomorrow? Try and clear the air a bit?”

George nodded and turned his back. Of course he would want to sort it out tomorrow. It was Ellie’s hen party tomorrow. Best not let anything as inconsequential as this ruin her fun.

Josh watched him walk away. “Oh, and George?”

He paused, with his hand on the gate.

“Could you let me back in?”

George huffed, came back up the path and took out his keys.

“What would you do without me?” he asked. For once he wasn’t fishing for more, because he’d already found all the confirmation he needed. Josh loved the attention, but he didn’t love him. The only thing left now was a hope that they could resurrect some sort of friendship out of this mess.

“I’d fall to pieces,” Josh replied earnestly. George was a little taken aback by this, but didn’t react. “And get really cold,” he added. George smiled and unlocked the door.

“See you tomorrow. Good night.”

This time he went for real, the sky maybe a little clearer than before, and Josh returned to the lounge to dispose of his unwelcome guest.

“Right, you. Drink that coffee and tell me what this is about.”

Two dates in as many nights: Rob insisted he had to go, as he had an early start in the morning. He would see her tomorrow night, anyway. Jess held on to him a little too long and he reluctantly dragged himself away. She stood shivering in the doorway, until the roar of the bike was no more than a distant hum, then went to bed, alone.

Mrs. Davenport’s fridge was, and had always been, an immaculate contraption, not to be adorned with magnetic letters, toddlers’ attempts at abstract or surreal watercolours, or shopping memos, which was, of course, why it now bore a twelve page list of ‘things to do’. With only two days until the wedding, she was as frantic as predicted, but it was the same kind of controlled panic in which Eleanor was expert, and she could maintain this state for several weeks in succession. She thumbed through her mother’s list, noting the names copied at the top of each columned page. Charlotte came up behind her and looked over her shoulder.

“See that?” She pointed at all the ticks in the column headed with her name. “How awesome am I, please?”

Eleanor laughed at her sister’s boast. “How frightened are you, don’t you mean?”

“Ha! She doesn’t scare me.” Their mother descended the stairs in time to catch this last declaration.

“Who doesn’t scare you?” she asked menacingly.

“Err…” Both of the sisters made themselves look busy.

“Is anyone putting the kettle on?”

“I will,” Eleanor offered, “since I’m not allowed to do anything else.”

Their younger sister, Tilly, had yet to arrive, and wasn’t going to be impressed by the number of tasks she had to complete before this evening; yes, the pages were also organised, not only by day, but by time. This afternoon, for instance, Tilly had to contact the reception venue and check that they knew how many tables were required. Eleanor took the milk from the fridge and glanced at Charlotte’s section of the list again.

“How have you done everything?”

“I just have.”

“No. Look. It says here ‘Friday, a.m.: contact florist to confirm drop-off time for bouquets’. Presumably you swapped the Beetle for a time machine?”

“Nope,” Charlotte said smugly and took out her mobile phone. She pressed the screen a few times and handed it to Eleanor. On display was the florist’s automated confirmation service, with live tracking of deliveries.

“Clever.”

“Told you I was awesome.”

Their mother had bustled off on yet another mission and could be heard shouting at some poor soul at the top of the stairs.

“All right, Mother. I’ll do it now, even though it’s only seven-thirty in the morning. The neighbours must think you’re bonkers.”

Charlotte scanned down the list of tasks under Teddy’s name. “He’s dead right,” she said, pointing to the relevant item. Eleanor leaned in to read it.

“He can’t do that now. It’s raining. Aside from which, the grass looks perfectly fine to me, and even if it didn’t I’m not getting married here, am I?”

“Ah, but you forget! The car is picking you up from here, which means the photographer will be snagging a few cheeky shots of the bride leaving the family home, which means…”

“The lawn needs mowing,” Eleanor finished. “He’ll electrocute himself.”

“I think I saw that on page twelve,” Charlotte grinned. “So, why are
you
here this early?”

“I just popped in on my way back from visiting a terminally ill patient. She’s holding out for her son to arrive back from Australia. Guess when his flight’s scheduled to land!”

“So, all this careful planning and you’re going to do a bunk in your wedding dress to attend someone’s death bed?”

“It won’t come to that, I’m sure,” Eleanor said optimistically, although she hadn’t thought about what she would do if it did. “I’m going now, anyway. Good luck. And if you need to escape for a while, there’s a perfectly good pub on the high street.”

“Thanks,” Charlotte retorted sarcastically. “See you tonight.”

Josh stepped out of the shower and yawned. It was a bit of a struggle to keep his eyes open—not surprising really, considering it had taken a full three hours to convince Sean that a) there was no whisky, and b) he ought to go home. In the end, he’d had to phone a taxi on his behalf and physically push him out of the house, closing the door in his face. Even then he continued babbling, as he meandered towards the road and presumably into the taxi, although for all Josh knew, he could have passed out on the pavement and not moved since. But at two o’clock in the morning, he didn’t care one way or the other, just so long as he was gone. The emotional interlude had wiped him out, and still his mind persisted in tearing around in circles, relentlessly seeking out aspects of his surroundings that needed changing. The curtains at the top of the stairs, the lampshade hanging from his bedroom ceiling—every object he passed brought with it a ceaseless surge of anguish and as he lay on the bed, staring at the suddenly offensive lamp above him, he gave up on the notion of sleep.