Page 5 of The Truth About You and Me
There is the thrum of a heated discussion climbing the stairs. ‘Great Expectations,’ Nell says in explanation. ‘Mrs Keller thinks Pip is a whining little?—’
I interrupt her before she can finish her sentence. ‘Well, respectfully, I disagree. Pip’s not only the…’ I’m trying to find the word that’s out of reach pro… pro… but the word doesn’t come; the pill is kicking in. ‘He’s the lead character and the narrator. It’s his words that shape the whole narrative. He’s caring, passionate and he might not make the best choices, but he learns from them and… what?’
She pinches my chin and grins at me.
‘Listen to me, Jack. You’re going to walk onto that stage and own the room. You’ll probably get laid too looking like that. How long has it been? Six months?’ I open my mouth and close it. ‘A year? Jesus, Jack, you’ll tear a wrist ligament. Will you promise me something?’
‘No.’ I fiddle with the collar again.
‘Fine, you don’t have to promise me but if you see someone you’re attracted to, will you at leasttry?’ I let out a breath, tired of Nell constantly telling me toget back out there. ‘You deserve to be happy, Jack; being on your own doesn’t suit you. It never will.’
‘You’re on your own.’
‘But I love my own space, Jack. You’ve always been part of a group – your family, your friends – your whole life you have been part ofsomething. It’s time to stop hiding yourself away from folk.’
As I say, Nell has zero filter. ‘Now come on, get a move on. If I get one more taxi notification vibrating in my pocket, I’ll be needing a post-coital cigarette.’ She grins and hurries down the stairs. I wait a beat. The pill begins to work its magic, and the man I have become awkwardly steps outside of my body, leaving the ghost of the person I was, inside the suit. I can do this. I can pretend to be the man I was, for the next four hours at least.
This award won’t fix me. Or repay the money Vicky took back when she left. It’s not going to unsign the loan papers either. But it will be good for business, and I desperately need that right now.
I grab my coat from the back of the door, and close it behind me.
The rain is hammering down as I head into the station. Platform four, I repeat over and over. As long as there have been no major changes to the layout of the station, I know where I’m going. I look up instinctively to the screen to check my train is on time.
I take a deep breath and head for platform four, just as the word ‘protagonist’ arrives in my thoughts.
4
MAGGIE
‘Just a few more minutes,’ I encourage Henry as I reattach his nose-hose for the third time as we turn into one of the many back streets forking away from the main promenade. ‘We’re almost there.’ I tug him along the last leg towards ‘Flicks’. Pausing for a second to catch my breath, I look up at the small two-storey shopfront. It’s set back from the road, two grey-tinted windows either side of the silver door. Above the door, the billboard promises one of my favourite love stories:Some Kind of Wonderful. Vanity lights surround the small billboard, and they glow onto the pavement. It’s like the puddles are trying to steal a small taste of Hollywood. I’m out of breath, but happy: we made it.
I lift Henry up the steps and open the small black box to the left of the door, pull off my gloves and tap the code into the keypad. The wind lifts again, then there is a small noise like a fizz. I grimace then punch in the number again and the door clicks open. I slide my gloves back on, and climb the stairs, pushing open the doors to the main foyer.
Five years ago, this small space used to be a sweet shop. Now the walls are a deep red velvet with gold-embossed panels. There is an eclectic mix of film posters fromGone with the WindtoMoulin Rouge. Slap bang in the centre of the square space is a booth that could be sitting in the middle of a casino. It’s gold, hexagonal, and the top rises and dips like the peak of a crown. Romy sits behind the three glass windows, feet up, giant headphones over her pink space buns. She licks her finger and turns the page of her magazine before clocking me and Henry. She pulls off her headphones and exits the booth at the back.
‘Holy Mary, what happened to you?!’ She goes to touch my arms but stops her movements instinctively. Romy had assumed I have OCD on the first day we met. I can see why.
I had been desperate to make a good first impression, while at the same time avoiding accidentally brushing her skin. It made for aprettyawkward interview and we ended up performing this kind of dance as she waited for me to walk into her office, while I took a step back making space for her to do the same. When we finally got into the room, the two chairs set for interviewing were mere centimetres away, and so I ended up moving the chair three times before sitting down, and desperate to impress, I continued to describe my enthusiastic love of cleaning by pulling out a tissue and wiping down the edges of the chair and door handle. Retrospectively, I can see that my actions were, maybe, a little too enthusiastic. It was no wonder that I did a Gwyneth-level acceptance speech when she called offering me the job.
On my first day, she mentioned a friend who had OCD. It was only by chance that I looked up and realised she was saying this to me with understanding and sympathy.
I wish I could tell Romy the truth. The only person who knows is Tess, but other than her, my attempted friendships, or relationships as a whole, crash and burn. But it doesn’t stop the edges of the lie sharpening itself against my conscience.
‘I dropped my car keys down the drain,’ I answer.
‘You poor thing!’
‘I’m fine, honest. I’ve got a spare set in my cleaning cupboard.’
Romy is in her early fifties and after divorcing her husband of thirty years, she bought this place, renovated the bottom floor into a small cinema and is embarking on her own sexual revolution: she is currently dating herself. Every Friday, she goes on a date: a table for one in a good restaurant, a bottle of decent wine, a new book and a set of double A’s for her vibrator. So, Friday nights, I clean, watch the last showing, and lock up afterwards; she goes on her date and gives me free entry anytime I want. It’s win, win. She’s also going through something of a fashion renaissance and currently looks like a cross between Tina Turner and Cyndi Lauper circa 1985.
‘I’ll dry off in no time and Henry is looking forward to watching the best kissing scene from any movie. Ever.’
‘Agreed. Here?—’
She returns to the booth and digs out a black lace shirt. ‘Pop this on until your clothes are dry.’ She throws it over to me.
‘Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.’
