Five first chances, p.23
Five First Chances, page 23
“Ah, nothing much,” I say. “We’d met before, on a teachers’ night out, had a snog in the smoking shelter. I guess it was weird seeing him again. I was a bit spooked. You know me, I’m skittish, but there’s nothing for you to worry about. It was nothing, really, and then I went away anyway.” The words of my lie are thin and watery like skimmed milk. They slide down my throat leaving absolutely no trace. I tried to say what would help Yuki most, put her mind at ease.
She starts rearranging the beer mats so they align perfectly like tarot cards.
“Did it help?” she asks eventually. “Thailand? I’ve thought about running away, somewhere far. Starting afresh.”
“No. Yes. I guess it helped me with me. With my confidence.” It’s so weird. That conflict. Knowing I’ve done wrong by those I love but right by me somehow. Prepared myself for greater things. Built my armor, my resources. I’m ready now, finally, and I hope it’s not too late. “But listen,” I say, “there are good things ahead for you. Great things. You deserve so much better than what you’ve settled for.”
She smiles. “I’ve started seeing a counselor. I’m really trying to understand how I came to fuck up the way I did. She’s helping me unpick it all. Now I know there were things I couldn’t have known. I never had all the cards. Nick doesn’t open up much. As for Charlie… Well, I think it could have been a different story. I really wish.”
“Maybe it still could be,” I say.
“That’s why I got back in touch. I worked it out in my sessions. I’m trying to reach out to the people who used to treat me well, you know, not like a rotten banana.”
I smile. “Une banane pourrie.”
“Oui,” she says, smiling back.
“Lonely This Christmas” starts playing, and Yuki visibly cringes. Then she bends forward, patting my hand gently. I freeze, not knowing what to do with her warmth, the offer of connection that I feel I don’t deserve right now.
“You’re right,” she says. “Nick is dying. He refused treatment. He’s been in palliative care at his parents’ flat for a while. The nurses say he doesn’t have long. I’m not saying you should do anything, but I think he would like to see you, deal with whatever unfinished business there is. Whatever you decided not to tell me, to be kind to me.”
We blink at each other.
“Thank you, Yuki. I have to go. I’ll call you later, okay? About the flat? I promise I will.”
She nods. I grab my handbag, my coat, and I run out, shouldering my way through Christmas shoppers on St. Peter’s Street. I run to the train station, hop on the first train to Luton, searching for my way through the town center to Nick’s parents’ block of flats, following the recollections of a route he guided me through before, when we were together.
Somebody is coming out of the building; I run and they hold the door open for me. I climb to number 8, on the third floor. I wait for my breath to steady but not long enough that I’ll lose my nerve. The doorbell rings loudly, like a drill in my brain. Any second, I could run away from this, back down the echoey stairs, but Nick is dying, and I need to see him. He asked after me. He deserves an explanation, my apologies more than anybody else, before he goes. Unfinished business.
“Yes?” A nurse opens the door: young, petite, in her twenties, her brown hair pulled back. In her spotless blue scrubs, she exudes as much authority as a club bouncer.
“Hi, I’m here to see Nick, please.”
She shrugs. “Wait here.” She shuts the door in my face. Not taking any chances. I can’t hear anything going on in the flat. I can’t bear to think about what lies behind that door. I can’t bear to think I might not be allowed in.
The muffled sounds of two female voices draw near, and the door cracks open.
“What’s going on?” Nick’s mother asks. She’s wearing a soft peach cardigan. Her hair is impeccable, her face deeply tired. A whiff of deeply mum-like, comforting floral perfume reaches me, and my eyes start prickling.
“Hello, Mrs. Adeyemi. I’m a friend of Nick’s—” I start.
“I don’t recall meeting you before.”
I do. I carry with me the memories of her looking at me from a bay window, whispering something to Charlotte; of her disliking me because first, I was an impostor at her son’s funeral, then I let him down. Those memories are heavy, slowing me. I glimpse the nurse behind her, walking from Nick’s bedroom door, which is now slightly ajar, to the kitchen. I hear the sound of the kettle being filled.
“I…”
“Nick is very sick.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.”
“We’re extremely sorry too, love.” Her voice is strained.
I want to kick myself. But what else could I say? I feel around for the magic words, the ones that would open this door to me, if they exist. “May I see him, please?”
“No, you can’t, I’m afraid. Nick isn’t in a state to see visitors. I’m very sorry. Have a good day.”
My eyes are filling, but she isn’t looking at me. She starts closing the door.
“Please, Mrs. Adeyemi, I know it’s not—I know it’s not ideal, but please let me see him. It’s important. I’ve come all the way from—” All the way from where? St. Albans? Nick’s troubled past?
“I’m sorry,” she says again. The door shuts in my face.
I stand there, pressing my fingers into my eyes. Then a loud, shrill sound erupts on the other side of the door—like an alarm, a panic button having been pressed. Oh my God, Nick. Maybe he’s dying right now, on the other side of this door.
Maybe he dies every time.
I’ve hit the heart of it, and I lean forward, press my forehead against the door to consider the awful, hard truth: Nick dies every time, no matter what I do. The realization is like losing him all over again, the very thing I’ve tried to avoid this chance around.
It doesn’t matter if I shrink away from my life, if I answer Romain’s text, if I run to Thailand, if I meet Nick at the elephants. Regardless of my choices, he always dies.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the door. “I’m so sorry I abandoned you. I was such a coward. I was so, so stupid. I thought by leaving I’d make it better. I’m so sorry for putting you through this. But I know now. I know that having you in my life, even for a short time, is better than not knowing you at all.”
I press my forehead against the door, willing it to open, wishing too hard for what could have been, whispering that I’m ready, armed for what is ahead, coaxing it to let me in, now I’ve shown up. Soon my words start mixing up together, floating and dissonant, stumbling everywhere in the echoey stairwell, all the memories. Is Nick’s mum opening the door to call me in? Is Nick getting up and walking out with me, straight out the door into the sunshine, rushing through the summer streets because we’re late, but we can catch up, lying in his old bed, my head nestling in the crook of his elbow? No, he’s standing at the stove pouring mustard and barbecue sauce into the stir-fry.
“It’s burned. We need to throw it away,” I say.
“No, it’s not,” he’s saying. “It’s not too late. I can save it. Just you watch.” And we both laugh and scrape it all into the bin, and finally the door opens…
***
We go back.
Chance 5
Saturday, July 15, 2017
Bees rush in suddenly, my friends, the fuzzy softness of their sound making me dizzy. What I first take for coughing, wheezing, is actually somebody laughing so much they choke on their beer. I flick off the remnants of darkness, tangled in the fingers of my brain like cobwebs. I’m so glad to have another chance. I will never, never forget this feeling, I promise myself, this place where everything can start anew. I will enjoy it this time. I step out of the way and stay there for a little while, closing my eyes, breathing, patrons and waiters coming and going around me.
“All right, matey?” Yuki’s voice sings behind me. I turn to face her, my heart tense with anticipation, but she’s beaming, holding a pint in each hand.
“Happy birthday!” I drop my impractical present on the grass to give her the most effusive hug, and some cider spills on my back, soaking my shirt.
“Oops, sorry,” Yuki says, offering me one of the drinks. “Might as well take it and drink it.”
I shake my head. I will stay clearheaded for this. “Not drinking today, but can I carry it for you?”
“Don’t worry,” she says, nodding to the fruit basket. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full. What on earth is that?”
“Why, it’s a present fit for the occasion,” I grin.
We go and sit at the table, and she tears the paper open.
“That’s incredible. I really really wanted one of those!”
“For Lucy’s rotten fruit?”
Lucy scowls at me and says, “Excuse me,” but Yuki’s delighted.
“Yeah,” she says. “Exactly for that.”
This is perfect. The sun is stroking my back, and I’m struck by how clearly I remember my previous goes, exactly as my past research predicted. The more I go back, the clearer it gets. I can see it all now, panes of glass lined up on top of one another, some bits matching perfectly and some others completely different, and I’m giddy. Yuki and I haven’t fallen out, and for the first time, I realize how precious this is to me. And also, of course, I know Nick is here. What would be different this time? Me. I’m different, and I can’t wait to find him again. I can’t look yet, because I want to enjoy this moment before seeing him in the warm safety of knowing what will happen next.
Yuki is admiring the fruit basket like a piece of art while Lucy puzzles at it. There’s something I must tell Yuki, but it is taking a bit of time to resurface in my excitement.
“Shame we were planning an epic night out,” Lucy says, nodding to my gift. “You can’t exactly drag this monster with you to the club.”
“Oh, shut up,” Yuki tells her, grinning. “I’ll ask the pub to look after it for me and pick it up tomorrow.”
Epic night out? It comes back to me. “Yuki, stay away from Ben.”
“What?” She looks up from the basket. “What about Ben?”
“Yes, what about him?” Lucy echoes Yuki perfectly. A flash of her jingling bangles brushing Nick’s wrist, of her nasty gossip.
“He, uh,” I say, finding myself at quite a loss. Nothing I can say would make sense to them.
“He’s a good bloke,” Lucy insists. “What do you mean, Louise? Are you playing matchmaker now?”
“Better than you playing travel agent.” She and Yuki look so confused, but I’m proud that it makes sense to the people who can remember her pathetic seduction attempts in another life. I’m my best and only audience.
“Lou, I’m not wanting anything with or from Ben,” Yuki says.
“You did tell me you quite liked him on New Year’s Eve, though,” Lucy says, “so perhaps Louise does have a point, though I don’t see what would be so bad in that.”
As she picks up her cider, ever the meddler, the new sense of safety I felt, of knowing that nothing will ever happen in exactly the same way as it did in the past, shatters like a dropped pint glass. Everything is possible, and I want to find a way to help Yuki, encourage her back on the path she embarked on when we last spoke, finding what she really wants rather than whom she’s supposed to be with. I think I can do it all. I think I’m strong enough, insightful enough now. It’ll just take a little fine-tuning. But I also have Nick to worry about.
I can’t hold it off any longer, and I look toward Nick and Charlotte’s table. A quick turn of the head as Lucy teases Yuki about making out with Ben in a cupboard last New Year’s Eve. I want to feel that surge of happiness at the sight of him, an addiction strong enough to transcend time travel.
Except he isn’t here.
“See, Louise, not a chance in the world of that happening.” Lucy’s sarcasm calls me into their conversation.
“What?” I stare at the empty table where Nick and Charlotte should be. Two lads arrive, carrying beers and puffy bags of crisps under their armpits, and take a seat. This can’t be right. Where is he?
“Never mind,” Lucy says. “You’re clearly a million miles away.”
What if he…stayed dead? Or what if his heart stopped, or he got run over by a car on the way here? He knew me, last life; he seemed to know something about us. What else has he worked out? Perhaps he remembered I’d be here, and perhaps he’s the one who has decided to step away this time. To avoid meeting me. A new, fully formed fear takes over: Nick has met someone on his way here, and I was never anything more to him than a helper, somebody who would nudge him toward his true life. That’s what I wished for him last time, and it’s too late to take it back. What a fool I was.
“Lou?” Yuki’s face is concerned.
“Hey,” Lucy says, “I don’t know what I said to offend you, but—”
I shake my head. More people are joining us now, exclamations ringing in the air, birthday girl, thirty again, forever—forever—forever. I sit for a moment in the midst of it all. The panic is intense. Because I had hope, certainty, that I would see him again, and now I’m going to be sick, and I’d rather not vomit into the fruit basket.
I get up, fish my silent phone out of my pocket. 7:51. Somebody asks me about Brexit. I ignore them, mumble something about going to the bar, and walk past Nick’s table, wondering what to do with myself. The two lads are munching through their crisps. These seats are taken, I want to say, but clearly, they’re not. There’s nothing, no cardigan, no abandoned dog lead, not even any empties, no trace of the people I thought would always be there.
Inside, there’s a free stool at the bar where Nick and I sat once to spy on Charlotte and Yuki. I sit down, turning away so I can scan the room. Perhaps they’re inside. Perhaps Nick is, in this life…what is the word—frileux. Sensitive to cold. Even French escapes me now, and it’s not cold outside. My anchor in time, my mother tongue, my sense of self, my purpose. I want him so much that, for a second, I feel I could will him here, conjure him out of thin air, ready for this life I’m burning to start. With him.
“Excuse me,” a male voice says as somebody shoves their body against the bar next to me. The place is busy now, but still. The move is forceful and unwelcome in my space of loss. I glance at him.
“Ben.”
He turns to me, surprised, and I catch it, how the transformation from a troll into a lawyer is a conscious one, a process he has to activate.
“I’m sorry…”
“Louise,” I say. “I’m a friend of Yuki’s.”
“Oh. Of course, yes. Hi, Louisa.”
Some people don’t change. They never, ever do. No matter how many chances they get.
He’s waiting for the barman to acknowledge him. Clearly, being ignored bothers him. He’s put gel in his hair and stinks of aftershave—his tangy smell is as invasive as his presence.
“So what are you doing sitting here by yourself?” he asks. Talking to me is clearly a way to look like he’s not been made to wait. It’s only me and him in this room among lots of strangers, and Yuki is outside. I don’t want him near her. And I’m angry with fate or destiny or whatever normally gets a capital letter but doesn’t deserve one right now. If I can keep Ben from getting drinks for a little longer, perhaps Yuki will start talking to somebody else.
“Taking a breather, I guess. I was going to order more drinks actually, but it’s rather busy,” I say.
“Rather busy,” he repeats, mimicking my accent, and it takes all my scrambled-together sense of purpose not to smash a nearby empty glass on his head. I find myself wanting to whack men a lot these days. “Where are you from?”
Memories and instincts come back in bulk, but this time I try to be Lauren, all relaxed and open. I pretend I believe Ben is the kind of guy who would own a chalet in Zermatt. I go through the motions, wondering how long I can sustain this, spurred on by the way Yuki faded when she settled with him, the culaccini on her coffee table, the dusty quality of her face and existence. I think back to our first conversation, when I was wondering how I never managed to get those guys’ attention, and how little I care now. It’s empowering.
Ben’s eyes are on me, not on the barman anymore—he looks like he’s made a pleasing discovery.
“It’s a good accent. Not quite French but almost.” He smirks, shuffling a little closer to me. “My last girlfriend was Spanish.”
“Ah,” I say, wondering what this has to do with anything.
“Carla. Sadly it didn’t work out. You know the Spanish,” he says conspiratorially.
“No. Tell me.”
“Well, fiery. Demanding. I mean, she was stunningly beautiful, but…”
I wonder whether these people walking past us are here to see Yuki. They look familiar. If they are, surely that’s enough seats taken, danger averted?
“That’s a shame,” I say.
“Say that again?” He leans in closer. I have a quiet voice. I know that. But still. His overpowering cologne is locking me in. So thick I can almost see lime-green mist in the air around him, out of which I can’t escape.
“Shame it didn’t work out,” I lie. Good for Carla.
“Ah, that’s okay. Like I said, I’ve decided to change what I go for, you know, in that department.”
