The Lesser Bohemians (26 page)

Then

Wait, he says Wait, I’m expecting a call. Don’t make me wait, it’s Saturday morning! That’s it now, he hops up Don’t move a muscle, I mean it, I’ll be right back. But roll on my front to watch him go. Hear him in the hall pick up the phone half laughing Be quick Nick I      Oh, and the door goes bang. Muscles itching, I sit and wait. Five minutes later there’s a door scrabble. Kick. When I open he’s saying Ah ha, and I see, but indicating Cigarette, to me. I get, give and go back in.

Who was that? for he’s white as I’ve ever seen a man. That was mmmm. Bring again of the phone. Fuck! He turns back round Hello? Yeah Nick, it’s me. Five minutes of odds flow through my brain but those silent eyes are history meaning. Who was it? I ask, as he comes back in. Ahhh Nick      you know he’s producing the film    we’ve got a meeting in   ah   Dublin. And the first call? That was, he says That was Gracie’s mother. That was Marianne.

Oh God      what did she want? Is Grace okay? His body sits down, lank over itself and hair hanging down. I kneel beside to touch it but I      am nowhere in this room. She’s not sick      she definitely said that      there’s nothing wrong with her       but that’s the first time she’s called me since they left         that’s
twelve years and      she wants to meet     whatever it is has to be done in     person apparently so ‘in principle’ would I agree? Did you? Yes, of course I did but      she’ll call with a date once she’s booked her flight. You never know, it might be something good? No no, whenever I’ve called that house every conversation has finished with I wish you were dead, so      whatever it is    it won’t be good. Are you alright? You look terrible. Yeah I’m      it’s just a shock      His face a picture of I don’t know what, shifting into Ah fuck her, of course she’d do it like that. Like what? Not just fucking saying what it’s about so now I’m left just      Left what? Just fucking wondering about what she’s going to make me live without next. What can I do? I say. Nothing      nothing, love. Cup of tea? Breakfast? Actually      What? Anything. I could really      I could really use that fuck now.

So take him down into me on the bed. Give and offer what shelter I have. At first we are only people in love, reducing all life to the measure between us. But others pass into. Lives break through, making him go elsewhere and I become. For allaying. My body is. Made the most of. Worked into and twisted. And he says no funny or filthy things, just imitates himself like I’m a lesson well learned – Remember, she likes this, and this – so I might best facilitate his shutting off the view. Not on purpose, I know. This is the day. But it lasts until it hurts and I miss him and say Please come now, you’re making me sore. And. He is irritated. Then he is Sorry     sorry     Eily love. Then does. Then lies down on top of me.

Strange day. And weather. And we are estranged. Standing on the Heath. Him looking away. Off to the left. I know his face but not what he’s looking at or the expedient body, calming itself, that somehow appears to be mine.

Hey.

His eyes close.

Hey.

Open again.

Sorry     what were you saying?

Nothing, just, it’s raining.

So it is      we should get in.

A pub. Pint me. Him soft drink. Why? Spot of Know Thyself probably won’t go amiss. But at least he takes my hand.

While the shower clatters, I read. He smokes and      looks at the paper and looks out the window and      time and      then I see something I’ve not seen before. Him. With a wandering eye. Tiny. Really. Very small but we are electrical so I get every volt. First, minute reactions to women walking by. The eyes lifting, barely. Soon though more. Soon every time. Then catching theirs and I go so quick inside

I wish you’d stop doing that. What?

You know. No, I don’t.

I’m eighteen, not blind. I don’t know what you’re on about.

Yes you do. Eily, honestly, I’m not looking at anyone else.

So I ask about borrowing a book, to distract. Your copy of Doctor Faustus but there’s a fine arse passing and Thomas Mann can’t hold a candle to that. When I stop mid though he looks up swift Doctor Faustus Eil? Forget it, and I head to the toilet instead. Day, why are you being? Can you not just let us slide?

Of course, back there, the arse’s owner’s in my seat, pawing my pint glass, moulting in it.

Hello? Oh hi, just talking to your mate. He’s not my mate, actually. We recognised each other Eil but can’t quite place
from where. Oh really? It’s true, sorry, is this your chair? Don’t worry, he says as I say Yes. Just grab that one over there Eily, this is going to annoy us. Oh yeah, I bet it is.

So I grab the chair and sit by him and tune for this next hour into The Tron? Don’t think so. Bristol Old Vic? Well that depends on. Apparently many things. Cue hilarious anecdotes of drink-sodden stints where paths surely must have crossed until they’re so bedecked in actor banter I can’t gauge what’s afoot. But tire of him falling for every flash of her tits and not holding my eye when I catch him at it. Then how she makes me a paragon to cut me out Oh I’m sure you wouldn’t be caught dead in a dive like that! You’re clearly made of finer stuff than us. Play-slapping his arm, which I know he hates but does nothing to shift from. I look at her nails. Her talented claws. Would he like them in his back? Does he think I don’t notice his ambiguity about what we are? Not holding my hand now. Not calling me love. Am I the unwanted hanger-on? Maybe. I know if I can smell the want off her he can smell it too. I still hurt from this morning, how he was. Has he already forgotten? But I’d let him do anything now, if only he’d send her away. So I look at him with all my love. Will him to see it and he does not. Just plays with her like he’s someone else, who hardly knows my name. Not until, camel though she is, she finally gets up to the Ladies, I say Please stop, I don’t like this game. What game? Please, you know what I mean. So you keep saying but, honestly, I’m getting a bit bored of your jealousy now.
Won’t look at me though, still won’t look.
Do you love me? Ah don’t start that, it’s been a long day. Do you? Come on, what am I supposed to say? That you love me and, hopefully, remember it yourself. Stop being so fucking childish, I haven’t the energy for this. Fine, then I’ll leave you and your fucking
friend to be grown-ups! I get up and. Eily don’t, he says. Don’t what? Don’t go     please stay. Why? To compete? No, please Eily      don’t leave me alone     not with her. But choking now in the weirdness and temper I go anyway. Eily, I’ll see you later, alright? Eily? Eily? Back at the flat? I keep going though and don’t turn around for fear of what I’d shout.

And I don’t go back to the flat. I go to Kentish Town instead. Flatmate lying on the sofa like he’s never left. Football on the telly. Wasn’t expecting you tonight, paradise on the fritz? Yeah, something like that. Well, go grab yourself a beer, I’m expecting a couple of mates.

By midnight, langered. Wound up and hot. Chucking chips at the ceiling because Fuck the bank! And I’m laughing all over but when the phone rings insist I am not here. Hello? Oh mate, you’re in the shit. No she doesn’t want to talk. No, if I were you mate, I’d leave your grovelling until the a.m.

Knock knock.

She says go away, it’s late. Tell her I want to see her and I won’t leave without.

Go on, go out to him, Flatmate says But keep it down, the neighbours are dying to call the cops.

Like glint webs his grey eyes lift up to the light. Every part of him. Every part of him I What did you do? Eily I. Did you come here from her? Can I come in? No and did you? I walked her home. And? Something interesting in his face. Did you fuck her? No, can I come in, please? I go back to my room with no stuff in. Black Kentish Town where curtains should be and

Did you kiss her?

Eily.

Did you?

I did.

And then?

She asked me up.

And you went?

I went.

And then?

She      Eily

She what?

Eily

Tell me

She offered     she started to

Oh god oh god oh God

Eily       Eily I’m sorry       and he reaches       and his hands look so thin and

Oh God how could you?

But Eily I didn’t   after a few minutes     I told her stop      then I left     Eily

Get out.

Get out.

I didn’t do it Eily. I stopped and

You’re a bastard.

I know but       I didn’t come I promise     I didn’t even get close

               Too late for late manners. My body falls out of light. Slips from its traces. Repeats

Get out!

Eily

Leave me alone!

Eily – grabbing hold of me – I didn’t do it, do you understand?

But you kissed her and you put your dick in her mouth

It was nothing Eily, she was nothing to me

Is that what you used to say to Marianne?

Oh God      it is but      Eily I mean it now.

Get off me! Get off!

Eily, I could’ve and in the past I always have but this time I didn’t. Eily isn’t that love? Eily?

But I slip him. Lie on the bed. Find what parts hate to cry and nail them to my front. As if every vein though has come undone the pain makes me anyway. Makes and forces. Almost scream into the wall. Oh God don’t cry, don’t cry like that Eil don’t     don’t      it’s not worth that      I won’t do it again      it was an accident Eily      Eily? But I do not respond. I look into the paint and its world beyond doing where all is white. Where all is nothing and wish I was that. So it’s a cold bed we make tonight and lie awake hours upon.

In sleep too, damage. Dreams of dreams. Animals fighting in my body. His, being obscene. Nightmare across to the early waking and remembering what he’s done.

Turn. His body lies half-naked and pearled. Inclining in towards mine. And further down, site of an old thrashing catching the sun. There is so much love. The eyelids flutter up and he smiles before remembering. Then just looks at me. Somewhere below though he finds my hand. Works his fingers in through mine. But the hurt is so fine I must torture it for more. I look at his mouth and imagine how he kissed her. She must’ve been pleased. How he is when wants you. How that makes you feel. Enough to get down in front of a stranger on her knees and how hard was he then for her? I hate you, I say. You love me, he says And I love you, and I did something bad but I swear I won’t do it again and I’m so fucking sorry. Get out of my bed. Eily. Out of my room. Get out of my flat. Alright, and he stands into
the six o’clock. Puts on his shoes. Shirt. Coat. He says Eily, later, please come to the flat. I’ll be waiting for you Eily. I say Then wait, and curl in on myself, leaving him only to leave.

Like rot it wrecks but, makes me ashamed. What he has spoiled. I wish her dead, or never been, with her well-done talents and creping cleavage. Warm bath moving round my head. Parts breaking surfaces by themselves as I play him between my legs. I wish we were back to that. And jog. And jog. And say his name. Wound and salve in the falling steam. Whatever my body wrings is for him, pitiless in its love.

Pointless. Pointless. The miss of him runs over everything else.

When I go into his room he is at his desk. Head on his hand. Smoking. At work. The sun making shapes, as he turns to look, all around what angles he is. I step into its castings. He unfolds himself and looks terrible, waiting for me. Are you staying? he says, and the pain shifts itself, even as I nod. I’m so sorry, he says. I know you are. Will you forgive me? I will. Don’t cry Eily, don’t. So I sit on his knee with my arms around his neck. I won’t do that again Eily, do you believe me? I do. Oh God Eily, this has been a fucking awful day. I agree. And with no more to say put my mouth to his. There now. There it is. We kiss then til she is gone and we’re turned back into lovers, freed from the monster. Saved from the abyss. Nunneries. Churchyards. Freezing lakes. Close shave. Day zero – we are at this, or it is what we choose.

And we are good to each other the rest of the night. Cautious around talk of her, or what happened. Trying just to be alright. To settle. Purge of the shock. Going to bed helps and, by the dark, we are almost as we were. But this is the start of
the strange for us, of that long night’s story doing its work in ways I now can see.

In the days after, we go calm and kind. Careful of each other around the mines of past, sex and To Be. It is the day’s not awful price. But I wake often by myself. Him sitting, staring into space. And cigarette. And cold. Afraid of what’s coming? Afraid how he was? That part of him caught us both off guard and maybe I’m not alone in the fear of his return – that man I didn’t believe in, who now I sort of see. Although I can’t quite fit him to the man I love, I still find myself at odd times panicking. That past he’s had, what does it mean? Just passing an eye over frightens me. Not what his mother did, though her shape’s right through his life. Not the drugs or the scars. Those are clear and sealed in time. It’s the after. The losing her. All the women stripped back to their secret flesh and ate. Since my love’s now proved such scant impediment paranoia picks up pace. Most evenings he’s out now with his producer mate, revising dialogue or preparing their pitch and if I am not rehearsing late then I’m on my own at his. Now is the first I’ve felt young in this. Too young to know if his eyes are keeping secrets. And these hours away from each other, the conversations we do not have – was Marianne so minutely set aside? – makes hard work of life. So when he comes in I am all for him and he is always pleased but often Tired Eily. By weeks we’re finding silences we didn’t know we had. Stuttering into. Hiding behind. The safety of London getting very thin, hollow with what’s going wrong and heavy, as it drags us down, like it were every truth. But nothing can put out all that light. The right joke or kiss and we’re off for the night. Yet even in those lax-limbed darks the canker is my doubt.