Come Together Read online

  ‘YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT,’ he yells as he takes a swipe at Jack.

  I can hear the gasps around me as he misses and crashes on to the barbecue. He flails out one hand, and pulls over the table, sending burgers flying and coating himself in barbecue sauce. There is an almighty crash as the barbecue collapses under his weight, followed by the loud hiss of his leather trousers sizzling on the grill. He yelps.

  ‘You’ve really done it now!’ screams Sally at me, pushing me so violently that I fall back, impaling myself on a rose bush. She rushes over to Jons who is staggering out of the mess on the patio.

  ‘Calm down,’ shouts Jack.

  Jons shoves Sally away. ‘You fucking whore!’ he yells as he staggers upright. Then he grabs the barbecue fork and rushes towards Jack. The people behind scramble to safety. Jack picks up the plastic garden chair and they joust for a moment until Jack bats the fork out of Jons’s hand. Jack crouches and puts his hands out defensively as if he’s about to do a kung fu move.

  ‘Just calm down,’ he shouts again. For a moment Jons turns away. His hands fall to his sides and Jack stands up straight. ‘Let’s just talk about this,’ Jack says, advancing towards Jons.

  But he can’t see Jons’s face. I know instinctively what’s going to happen and try to run forward, but my dress is caught.

  ‘Watch out!’ I scream, which distracts Jack for a second. This, of course, is the second that Jons throws his punch. I watch as it lands slap bang on Jack’s cheekbone. I can hear myself screaming as Jack’s skin splits open under the skull ring before he staggers backwards on to the trestle table, knocking it over, sending bottles and plates into the air.

  Matt and Damien and Stringer rush in and grab Jons by the shoulders.

  I rip myself away from the thorns and scramble to Jack.

  Jons is still shouting obscenities as Damien and Stringer frog-march him to the gate. Sally runs after them and then the noise fades away.

  I crouch down beside Jack who is now sitting upright. ‘Are you all right?’

  He’s far from all right. He holds his face and waggles his jaw. I put my hand out to touch him, but he shoves me away.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ he hisses, with such viciousness that my breath leaves my body as I topple back on the grass. I watch him stagger up and walk inside the house.

  ‘Jack!’ He ignores me.

  I cover my face with my hands. Matt crouches down beside me.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘Give him a few minutes to calm down. He’s just been hit. He didn’t mean to do that.’

  Everyone is looking on stunned. Matt helps me to my feet and puts his arm around me as Chloe stomps over. She’s furious. Everything is wrecked. The garden looks as if a hurricane has passed through it.

  ‘Where’s Jack?’ she snaps.

  I nod dumbly towards the house.

  ‘Jesus!’ She rolls her eyes at me, before marching up the garden and into the house after Jack.

  Minutes later, I stumble into the bathroom and close the door behind me, reeling from the scene in the garden. I don’t know how long I sit on the toilet seat, but suddenly I can hear a soft knocking on the door.

  ‘Amy?’ It’s Matt’s voice. There’s another knock. ‘Amy, let me in.’

  ‘It’s open,’ I croak.

  He comes in and the look on his face makes me start to cry.

  ‘Don’t,’ he says, sitting on the edge of the bath beside me. ‘Come on, it’ll be all right.’

  He puts his arm around me and hands me some loo roll. I blow my nose.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I sniff.

  ‘Don’t be. It’s okay. Things like that scare the hell out of me too.’

  The door bursts open.

  ‘Oh, so you’re here,’ says Chloe, pursing her lips at me. ‘Just as well. You’re not exactly flavour of the month.’

  Matt and I stand up.

  ‘How is he?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m looking after him.’

  Jack appears in the doorway, his hand over his face. I can see his eye is already swelling. Chloe barges past Matt and opens the cabinet on the wall.

  ‘I’ve got some witch hazel in here,’ she says, before fishing out the bottle and pulling off a big wodge of cotton wool. ‘Come here, Jack,’ she commands.

  ‘I can manage,’ he says. He doesn’t look at me. ‘Will you leave us alone for a minute?’ He looks at Matt who nods and then at Chloe, who looks as if she’s about to stamp her foot. She stares at him, as he takes the bottle and cotton wool from her. ‘It’s a bit crowded in here, that’s all,’ he adds.

  Chloe glances at me as if I’m a bug she wants to squash before following Matt through the door and slamming it behind her. Jack walks to the door and turns the lock. He leans back against it and closes his eyes for a moment. Then he looks at me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to push you like that.’

  ‘You don’t have to be sorry. It’s all my fault. Oh God, Jack, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Come here,’ he says, and in one second I’m in his arms.

  ‘He’s such a wanker!’ he says.

  I look up at him. His eye makes me wince. I lead him to the bath and sit him on the edge. I take the witch hazel and cotton wool and kneel in front of him.

  ‘Does it hurt a lot?’

  Jack doesn’t answer. He leans forward and puts his arms on my shoulders and his forehead touches mine.

  ‘What a mess!’ he sighs.

  ‘It’s over now.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘Shh.’ I put my finger to his lips. He looks at me and I look straight into his eyes. And all at once it makes sense. Nothing else matters, not Sally, not Chloe, not Jons. Nothing except Jack.

  ‘I love you,’ I whisper.

  7

  Jack

  She Loves Me, I Love Her Not?

  NOT, I LIKE you. Not, I fancy you. Not even, You’re my friend.

  None of the above.

  Just, I love you.

  As sentences go, it’s a biggie. It’s up there with Before we go any further, I think you should know that I haven’t always been a woman … (Michaela/Mike to Matt, 1995); When I told you I wasn’t married, I wasn’t exactly telling the truth … (Graham King to Chloe, 1997); and I think it’s time we started thinking seriously about getting married … (Zoe to me, 1995).

  Not, in other words, something to be taken lightly.

  Various traditional evasion tactics are, of course, at my disposal at this critical juncture:

  a) The contemplative ‘Mmmmm’ (best accompanied by a slow nodding of the head and a constipated expression)

  b) The incoherent ‘I urgh you, too’ (the drunker, the better)

  c) The panicked ‘Oh Christ, I think I’m gonna puke’ (ditto)

  d) The therapeutic ‘Thank you for sharing that with me’ (follow-up hand-squeezing essential)

  e) The arrogant ‘I know’ (full eye contact, smug smile/sneer optional)

  But I’m not feeling tactical right now. I’m far too confused for that. I’m looking at Amy and I’m thinking that, yeah, maybe these are words I want to hear from her. I’m feeling flattered and I’m guessing that her telling me this translates into her having made some monumental female decision that I’m the right man for her. There’s a part of me that wants to stand up and be counted, take her hand and look her in the eyes and say, ‘Yes, I am your man. Yes, I do love you. Yes, I’m happy because you love me, too.’ I mean, that’s what everyone wants when it comes to the crunch: to love and to be loved. Just having one side of the equation doesn’t seem right.

  Right?

  But I’m thinking other stuff as well. Insecure stuff. Stuff I don’t like admitting, even to myself. Like, how well do I really know her? Enough to take her declaration of love at face value? Do I really trust her enough for that? And what happens if I do and I’m wrong? What happens if I let go now and take this mess of emotions I’m feeling for her and christen them Love?r />
  My past record on such matters, as with most matters, doesn’t exactly inspire me with confidence. For a start, I’ve only ever (relatives and pets excluded) said ‘I love you’ to one person. That was Zoe. It was at Heathrow Airport. We’d been stuck there waiting for our flight to Ibiza for six hours. Fatigue had set in three hours before. Terminal boredom. I was sitting on this plastic bucket seat, gazing at the information board, waiting for the letters to flick over to read, NOW BOARDING. Zoe was asleep, her head resting on my lap. I remember looking down at her, with her hair falling across my thighs and her eyes pinched up, and this huge surge of protection washing over me. She was beautiful, peaceful. I’d never experienced a comfort zone like it before. I leant down and kissed her forehead and the three magic words just came out in a whisper. I’d been seeing her for six months and I thought I meant every one of them.

  But today, here in Chloe’s bathroom, with witch hazel burning my cheek and my eye swelling into a dead ringer for the winner of a poached egg lookalike competition, I feel differently. I’m not a kid any more. Love isn’t a protective urge. Love isn’t comfort and complacency. Love’s a decision. It’s reaching the conclusion that this is it and there isn’t anything else. I’m not one of those guys who says it because it’s easier than not saying it. And I’m not one of those guys who’ll use it like some security code to gain access to a girl’s knickers. (I’ll say anything, but not that.) But, at the same time, I’m not afraid of it. I’ll say it when I’m sure. And looking at Amy now, I’m not sure.

  Bottom line: our future’s still an if and not a when.

  So, instead of taking her words and issuing her with the expected receipt of ‘I love you, too’ I walk the track beaten by indecisive men’s feet for generations: I wimp out.

  ‘Your dress is torn,’ I tell her, breaking eye contact, peering at the material.

  There’s a few seconds’ silence and I hear my heart beat and wonder if she can hear it, too.

  Finally, she asks, ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fucked off,’ I tell her.

  Thankfully, she realises I’m talking about what went down in the garden, rather than what she’s just said. ‘It was stupid of me,’ she says.

  I squeeze my arm tighter around her, pulling her into me, and kiss the side of her face. ‘No, it was stupid of me. Stupid of me to lie to you about what Sally looked like. Stupid of her not to tell Jons. And it was stupid of that crazy, coked-up fucker to lose it and try and knock my head off.’

  Amy’s head dips. ‘Yes, but you can understand why …’

  ‘Bullshit, you can. No one’s got the right to behave like that. Too much of this,’ I say, making a snorting sound and pointing at my nose, ‘and not enough of this,’ I add, tapping the side of my head. I hear my breathing coming heavy, Jons’s face suddenly in my mind.

  ‘What if you were in his situation? What if you found out someone was painting me in the nude? Wouldn’t you freak?’

  This is, of course, a reasonable question, but it’s not one I want to get into now. I shake my head adamantly. ‘No. I wouldn’t freak, because I’m not a prick. And … and because I trust you.’

  ‘Did you know she hadn’t told him? Before tonight, I mean.’

  I consider lying, telling her that I’d assumed that Jons was cool with the situation. But what would be the point? You only have to see Jons from a distance to know that he wouldn’t be cool with another guy sitting next to Sally on a bus, let alone anything more intimate. So I tell her the truth: ‘Yeah. She said he’d freak if he found out.’

  ‘Same as I did when I saw the painting.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I sigh, ‘same as that.’

  ‘It comes down to honesty, I suppose,’ she considers. ‘I was suspicious and assumed the worst.’

  I shift round on the edge of the bath to face her. Her eyes are puffed-up from when she was crying. I feel like it’s all my fault. And why not? It is.

  ‘Is that what you thought when you found the painting?’

  ‘What, that you were sleeping with her?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t cross my mind.’ I feel her running her hand through my hair. ‘It did. A lot.’ She cocks her head and looks at me. ‘Does it piss you off that I thought that?’

  ‘No.’ I’ve hesitated too long before I’ve said this.

  ‘Not even a little?’ she probes.

  ‘Okay,’ I admit, ‘a little.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s a jealousy thing. I do trust you, Jack. Completely. You know that, don’t you?’

  I’m feeling shit about this. And not just standard shit either. Something way lower than that. Something that you might find caked on a cow’s tail, or in a bluebottle’s underpants. Same as I have done since we patched things up in the studio after she found the painting. Now would be the right time to come clean and tell Amy that she was right to suspect that my motives for painting Sally were more to do with me being a tart than being into art. Just get it out in the open and move on.

  But what’s the point? Why should I be accountable to Amy for what I was thinking pre-her? Why cause more grief? It’s not relevant now. It’s Amy I’m into, not Sally. There’s no need for her ever to know that things were ever any different.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I tell her, sticking to the broader issue. ‘I mean, what makes your thinking that any different to what Jons thought just now? You reacted the same as him.’

  ‘I didn’t hit you,’ she says. ‘That’s got to count for something.’

  Despite myself, I smile. ‘I suppose so. And I didn’t fry your leather trousers. That’s got to count for something, too.’

  She grimaces. ‘It sounded painful.’

  ‘Awesome,’ I say, unable to prevent myself from grinning. ‘Like bacon in a pan.’

  Her voice goes all serious again. ‘This is something we’ve got to sort out, Jack.’

  ‘What, the trust thing?’

  ‘Yes. But not just that. The whole past. So there aren’t any secrets or lies. So we don’t go getting in a mess like this again.’

  And she’s right: we do have to deal with this. But not here. Not now. Not with our emotions running so high.

  There’s a knock at the door and I let Matt in. ‘You feeling better now, Elephant Man?’ he asks, wincing at the sight of my face.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, turning round and smiling at Amy. ‘Let’s get this party back on the road.’

  Baggage

  Tuesday evening and Amy’s already sitting at a table on the pavement outside Zack’s by the time I get there. We’re stopping here for a drink before moving on to some mate of hers’ party. Still a few yards away from her, before she’s spotted me, I stop and look at her. It’s a game I used to play with Zoe when I was going out with her. It’s called, Would I still fancy her if she wasn’t my girlfriend? I stand here and try to imagine that she’s a total stranger, and that I’m just some guy out for a stroll. Now that I’ve laid eyes on her for the first time, the pertinent question is, Would I like to lay her, too?

  The physical information’s processed first: hair, build, clothes. All are compatible with my type. She doesn’t have a wet perm, a shaved head, or a beard. There are no obvious signs of either a wasting disorder, lard addiction or anabolic steroid abuse. Clothes-wise, she’s not wearing fluorescent lycra leggings, stilettos or a Michael Bolton Fan Club T-shirt. She also falls within the correct age range: no more than five years younger than me (thus enabling cool nostalgia trips centring around cult TV programmes of the seventies and eighties – The Dukes of Hazzard, The Rockford Files, C.H.I.P.S., etc.), and no more than ten years older than me (thereby reducing the possibility of serious baggage – failed marriage, children, Pink Floyd/David Soul vinyls, etc.). So far, so funky. Next comes the peripheral visual information. She’s reading a glossy magazine (literate – good), wearing designer shades on the top of her head (expensive tastes – bad), and has two glasses and an iced bottle of wine in front of
her (meeting someone, possibly a boyfriend – very bad). Overall analysis: real potential; shame about the boyfriend.

  And if this was the first time I’d seen Amy, then I’d have to reluctantly walk away. But it isn’t the first time. And the fact that she’s got a boyfriend doesn’t bother me either. Because I am that boyfriend and that second wineglass has got my name written all over it. I walk towards her with a smile on my face, because the answer to my original question is a resounding Yes.

  The first thing I realise after I’ve kissed her and sat down and poured myself a drink is that the glossy magazine she’s reading is, in fact, a travel brochure. The second thing I realise, as she’s asking me how my day’s been, is that the travel brochure is for holidays in Hawaii. The third thing I realise, as Amy remarks on the fact that she hasn’t been abroad for two years, is that she’s labouring under the illusion that I’m filthy rich and probably hang out in places like Hawaii all the time. But the main thing I realise, as she points out that I’ve got yellow paint in my hair, is that I’m well and truly fucked.

  ‘So what do you think?’ she asks, turning the brochure round and showing me a picture of a particularly exclusive resort.

  What do I think? As in the truth? I think that after I’ve paid off my overdraft and my rent and my living expenses with the money from doing Study in Fucking Yellow for Dad’s company, there won’t be enough left for a bus ticket to Clacton-on-Sea, let alone anywhere more exotic. I think that it’s gorgeous and hot over here, so why bother going abroad at all? I think that, in an ideal world, Amy would have a mortal fear of flying and we’d just have to spend the summer chilling out in the UK. But Amy doesn’t want to hear the truth. Or, at least, I don’t want her to hear it. As I open my mouth to speak, it occurs to me, not for the first time in my life, that lying is rather like masturbating: once you’ve started, it’s pretty hard to stop. In spite of these thoughts, though, I amazingly manage to keep the look of abject horror from my face, and instead adopt a blasé, worldly tone, and say, ‘I don’t know. The trouble with Hawaii is that when you’ve gone there once, you’ve kind of done it.’