His 'n' Hers Read online

  Damn.

  Louise.

  What am I going to do?

  Louise.

  What if she’s spotted me?

  Louise.

  What if Alison’s spotted her?

  Louise.

  What am I going to do?

  There’s only one thing I can do.

  I remove the video box from my jeans and hand it to Alison. ‘Can you pay for it?’

  ‘You really know how to flatter a girl,’ says Alison, holding the video at arm’s length and wrinkling her nose. ‘Why don’t you pay for it yourself?’

  ‘I’ve got something to do.’

  Alison can tell I’m being evasive. ‘Which is?’

  ‘Checking out the happy endings in the new-releases section.’ Before she can say anything I’ve disappeared to find Louise.

  ‘Have you got the film?’ asks Louise, when I arrive. ‘I’ve been looking at JFK again and I didn’t realise it had Kevin Costner in it. I quite like Kevin Costner.’

  ‘This isn’t working,’ I tell her firmly.

  ‘What isn’t working?’

  ‘You. Me. This. Us. We aren’t working.’

  ‘You don’t want to go out with me any more?’

  ‘It’s not you. It’s me. We’re too different. I like French films with subtitles, you like . . . well, I don’t think you like anything. Let’s face it, it was never going to work, was it? Let’s just go our separate ways and try to remember the good times, eh?’

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ says Louise, almost tearfully. ‘Is this because I didn’t want to watch that Arnold Schwarzenegger film?’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s nothing to do with videos. It’s to do with us. We’re just not compatible. I feel awful. But believe me when I say this is hurting me more than it’s hurting you.’

  Overcome by anger Louise, with all the dexterity of a discus thrower, hurls the copy of JFK she’s holding at my head. Lightning quick, I duck out of the way and it continues across the shop floor until it meets a small child coming the other way and skids to a halt on the floor. The child bursts into tears, Louise runs out of the shop and I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

  ‘Did you see that?’ says Alison, appearing at my side some moments later with the offending article in her hand. ‘Some loony girl just hurled this at a poor defenceless child.’

  ‘I know,’ I reply. ‘What is the world coming to?’

  8.45 p.m.

  Jim and I are walking along a busy Kings Heath high street in the rain. All the pubs and takeaways we pass are overflowing with Friday-night revellers and somehow it seems strange that our Friday-night revelling will consist of an evening in front of a subtitled French film.

  ‘So, tell me,’ he begins, as I light a cigarette, ‘why didn’t you move to London in the end?’

  ‘I never agreed to go,’ I reply, and then take a drag on my cigarette. ‘Damon kept asking me and I kept telling him I wanted to stay in Birmingham. Not necessarily for the rest of my life but a little while longer at least. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. In fact, I still don’t. So I didn’t see the point of going all the way down there to do what I’m doing here – which is drifting. Anyway, a few weeks before he was due to go it suddenly hit me: if I loved him, really loved him, I would’ve gone with him in a second. You do that sort of thing if you’re in love, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘I suppose if it’s the real thing it wouldn’t even be an issue.’

  ‘See?’ I say, smiling. ‘You get it. You understand what I’m talking about. Real love isn’t just about all the romantic stuff when everything is easy and the hardest thing you’ve got to do is make up pet names for each other—’

  ‘You have pet names for each other?’ says Jim. ‘What are they?’

  ‘He calls me Grumpus, because I can be a bit of a grumpy girlfriend sometimes. At first I was secretly a bit offended but after three years I love it.’

  ‘And what do you call him?’

  ‘Housey – you know, because his surname’s Guest. It’s not a very good one, is it?’

  Jim laughs. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Anyway,’ I continue, ‘we’re getting off the point. What I was trying to say is that love isn’t just about the cute stuff—’

  ‘Like making up rubbish pet names?’

  ‘Yes, like making up rubbish pet names,’ I say. ‘It’s about the tough times when things get difficult. When it’s not all hearts and flowers. When it’s about two people staying together, no matter what. And the fact is Damon and I haven’t got that. And if I want anything from life it’s – a special kind of love. A love that can stand anything you throw at it. Surely that’s the only kind worth having.’

  Saturday, 27 February 1993

  1.05 p.m.

  It’s early afternoon and Nick and I are in the Jug of Ale in Moseley. We’re on opposite sides of the table, two half-drunk pints of lager between us, and I’m in the process of telling him about my encounter with Alison.

  ‘So did you get to watch Betty Blue?’

  ‘We never even got it out of the box.’

  ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘Well, we got back to the house and I think we both knew that we weren’t going to watch the video. And . . . well, I don’t want to go into the details but we started kissing in the hallway and then before we knew it we were in my room and you can guess the rest. So, anyway, I woke up this morning and she was lying next to me so I said, “Morning, stranger,” because I thought it would be a reasonably amusing thing to say. She didn’t reply. She just sort of sloped out of my bed, picked up as many of her clothes as she could from the bedroom floor and left the room.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound good at all,’ says Nick. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Well, I just lay there in bed, staring at the poster on the wall in front of me.’

  ‘The one of Bob Marley smoking a large “herbal” cigarette?’

  ‘The very same. So I asked the great reggae legend – who had observed everything that had happened in that bedroom in the last twelve hours – what he reckoned had gone wrong. He didn’t reply, of course, possibly because there was no need to. It was obvious what was going on. Alison’s guilt complex over Damon was kicking in big-time. I got dressed, came out and sat on the stairs just as she was shoving her right foot into her left trainer. It took a while but eventually she got them on the right way round and announced offhandedly that she was leaving. I didn’t reply. I had no idea how to play this. So I just sort of decided to let her get on with it.’

  ‘And she left?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Without saying another word?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Nick laughs. ‘Did she take the video with her?’

  ‘No,’ I say, barely raising a smile. ‘Maybe she feels really guilty about what happened; maybe she doesn’t want to call it off with Damon.’

  ‘You’re probably right. She’s been with him a long time. Right through university until now. It takes a lot of guts to end something like that, even if it’s not working.’

  ‘Good point. So, what do you think I should do?’

  ‘Do you like her?’ I nod. ‘Then you’ve got to do something that lets her know you mean business. Something that says this wasn’t just about one night. It was about her being the One. Something that shows you’re going to be around for a long time to come.’

  ‘I know exactly the thing,’ I say, as I pick up my pint. ‘She’ll love it.’

  2.55 p.m.

  I’m lying in bed still thinking about what a mess I’ve made of things when someone knocks on my bedroom door.

  ‘Ally?’

  It’s Jane.

  ‘I’m asleep,’ I reply, from under my duvet, ‘Come back later.’

  Jane comes in and sits down on the bed next to me. ‘Where were you last night? I was really worried when I got back from mum and dad’s.’

  I pop my head up from under the covers. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I reply. �
�I should’ve left a note or something. I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘Anyway, I just thought you ought to know Damon called this morning.’

  ‘Did he ask where I was?’

  ‘I told him you’d got food poisoning and that you’d been throwing up all night and were sleeping it off.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have just told him I was out?’

  ‘I didn’t know when you’d be back, did I?’ says Jane, reasonably.

  I sigh heavily for my own benefit. ‘You’re really good to me, you know that?’

  ‘Yeah, I do. So where were you last night, then?’

  ‘At . . . at . . . Jim’s.’

  ‘As in Jim Owen?’

  ‘I bumped into him last night. Typical, really. We wanted the same video. And guess what? He lives across the road from us. You know the house with the Jim Morrison poster in the window? Number thirty-six? That’s him and Nick.’

  ‘And you still both fancy each other after all this time?’

  ‘I don’t think I ever stopped liking him.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘He suggested we watch it at his place . . . and, well, you can guess the rest. Thing is, I was really awful to him this morning. I felt guilty about Damon and left without saying anything. He must hate me now.’

  ‘He doesn’t hate you, believe me.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Well, I can hazard a good guess because he knocked on the door just now and left something downstairs for you.’

  I let out a scream of excitement. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know but it’s in a Walkers’ crisps box in the hallway and it’s moving.’

  Jane and I race downstairs to where my other housemate, Mary, is standing in the hallway watching my parcel.

  ‘It’s got a letter attached to it,’ says Jane, unsticking it from the side of the box and handing it to me. I open the envelope and read aloud:

  ‘Dear Ms Smith,

  I was trying to think of the most inappropriate gift that I could possibly give you and this is it.

  Lots of love,

  Mr Owen (from across the road) xxx’

  I open the box carefully – because by now whatever it is is hurling itself around noisily – and look inside. I can’t believe my eyes. Peering back at me with huge green eyes is a tiny tortoiseshell kitten.

  ‘Now that is cute,’ says Jane. ‘Did you tell him you wanted a kitten?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you tell him you like kittens?’

  ‘No, to the best of my memory kittens have never entered any of our conversations.’

  ‘So why’s he given you one, then?’ asks Mary.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘But I’m going to find out.’

  4.20 p.m.

  The kitten is wriggling in my arms as I walk across the road. And when I knock on Jim’s front door it nearly leaps out of my hands. After a few moments the door opens and Jim appears, wearing a plain white T-shirt and jeans. ‘I thought you’d never come, Ms Smith,’ he says.

  ‘I’ve just got one question for you. Why have you given me a kitten?’

  ‘It’s not just a kitten. Her name’s Alan. She’s six weeks old. And she’s yours.’

  ‘If she’s mine how come she’s called Alan?’

  ‘I called her that because I couldn’t think of any suitable girls’ names and I didn’t think she’d mind because she’s a cat. Anyway.’ he adds, ‘I didn’t think you were the sort of person who’d be into giving kittens names.’

  ‘If you didn’t think I’d be into giving kittens names why would you give me one in the first place?’

  Jim steps outside and sits down on the doorstep. ‘Because I thought if I could change your mind about keeping the kitten then maybe I could change your mind about going out with me.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, flustered, ‘that’s all well and good but you can’t possibly think I can keep Alan. I mean the kitten. I don’t even know if my landlord will let me have pets.’

  ‘Fine,’ he says, holding out his hands, ‘give me Alan back and I’ll get you a box of chocolates from the garage up the road.’

  Instinctively I pull the kitten closer to me. ‘You can’t give me a kitten and take it back minutes later.’

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘Look, Mr Owen, if we’re going to get along you’re going to need to learn to read between the lines a bit more. I want the kitten. You’re not having her back. She is mine. I just want you to know that you shouldn’t go around giving girls you like kittens, okay? A kitten isn’t just for Christmas, you know.’

  ‘It’s not Christmas.’

  ‘And it’s not for wooing women either.’

  ‘Wooing?’

  ‘Yes, wooing. Cats aren’t for wooing, they’re for life, and don’t you forget it.’

  ‘I know,’ he says quietly.

  There’s a brief awkward silence as we both realise the implication of what he’s just said.

  ‘I love this kitten,’ I say, regaining my composure, ‘but I can’t call her Alan because that’s too stupid for words.’

  ‘So what are you going to call her, then?’

  ‘Disco.’

  ‘Disco?’

  ‘Or to give her her full name Best of Disco Volume Two. It’s my all-time favourite album.’

  ‘It’s your favourite album?’

  ‘Actually it’s the only one I’ve got.’

  7.30 p.m.

  I’m sitting on the stairs looking at the phone. I’ve just had the most difficult conversation of my life with Damon. He told me that he’d been expecting something like this to happen for a long while because ‘It’s nearly impossible to make the long-distance thing work.’ The last thing he says to me before I put down the phone is: ‘I’ll always love you, you know.’

  Sunday, 28 February 1993

  5.01 p.m.

  It’s now late Sunday afternoon and I’m standing in the ridiculously draughty hallway of my house, staring at the phone.

  ‘What’s wrong, mate?’ asks Nick, wandering in from the kitchen. ‘You look a bit freaked out.’

  ‘I am a bit freaked out. I’ve just been speaking to Alison and . . . well, I’ve sort of agreed to do something that I don’t really want to do.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘It was like this,’ I begin. ‘Alison called to tell me that she’d told Damon it was over. Even though I was immensely pleased at this news I knew there had to be a certain amount of decorum about these things so rather than yelling. “Wooohoooo!”, I made lots of appropriate sympathetic noises to let her know I wasn’t completely lacking in finesse. I do feel guilty about doing this to Damon. I really do. I even contemplated calling him.’

  ‘What? To apologise for stealing his girlfriend? I can’t see that conversation happening, can you?’

  ‘No, my point exactly. I think the guilt must have been clouding my judgement because we ended the call like this: Her: “Do you want to go out tomorrow night?” Me: “Tomorrow as in Monday?” Her: “Yes.” Me: “Monday?” Her: “Yes, Monday. Have you got something else on tomorrow?” Me: “No.” Her: “I thought we could go for a drink in the Jug of Ale.” Me: “That sounds great.” Her: “Good. Shall we say around eight? I’ll knock on your door and we can get the bus into Moseley.” Me: “Great. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Her: “Are you all right?” Me: “What? Sorry . . . yeah. I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”’

  ‘A Monday-night date,’ says Nick. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  ‘Monday night is officially the worst night of all to go out with a new girl.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Everywhere’s empty and the contrast between all that emptiness and the buzzing atmosphere of the Saturday night when you first met will be too much to bear.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Tuesdays are okay, Wednesdays are better, Thursdays are probably ideal, Fridays and Saturdays are okay at a push but they’re
officially the weekend and, let’s face it, the expectation behind a weekend date is so high few can pull it off. Sunday dates are okay if you want your night out to be quiet and homely, but Mondays? Never.’

  ‘I know all this,’ I say to Nick. ‘What am I going to do? I really wanted this to work with Alison. If I have a bad first date on a Monday I know I won’t get the opportunity to have a second date on any other day of the week.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell her?’

  ‘She wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘You’re in a right mess,’ says Nick. ‘Have you ever actually been on a Monday-night date?’

  ‘Twice. The first one was in 1987 with a girl called Katie Jones. It resulted in us sitting in an empty cinema watching Teen Wolf, which neither of us enjoyed as we both had a geography exam the following morning. The second time was in 1988 with Gina Marsh, who I met at a sixth-form disco and insisted on a Monday-night date because the rest of her week was so busy. We ended up going for something to eat at a curry-house, which was so empty the entire waiting staff had nothing better to do all evening than watch our disastrous date unfurl before their very eyes as if we were an afternoon soap opera with the worst kind of wooden acting ever.’

  ‘I think you’re knackered,’ says Nick, laughing. ‘There’s no way you can get out of this one.’

  6.45 p.m.

  My housemates and I are sitting in the living room in a post-Songs of Praise pre-Last of The Summer Wine Sunday-evening slump playing with Disco. She’s already become one of the family and we’ve taken great delight in buying catfood and various treats for her from the corner shop down the road. In return Disco entertained us all afternoon rolling around on her back on the floor, getting scared of inanimate objects for no apparent reason, using her claws to climb the curtains in the living room to dangerously high levels, and even clichéd kitten stuff like playing with a ball of wool. I’m just about to stand up and get her a treat from the bag on the kitchen table when there’s a knock at the door. ‘Are we expecting anyone?’ I ask my housemates. ‘Because if we are I’m not dressed for visitors.’

  Everyone shakes their head. Quite often one of my housemates’ boyfriends drops by unannounced, which is okay if I’m looking half-way decent but not if I’m not. Right now I’m not. I’m wearing virtually the same outfit that I’d worn to Blockbuster on Friday night, even down to having the same elastic band tying up my hair. The only difference between Friday night’s look and tonight’s is I have a smear of baked-bean tomato sauce on the front of my hooded sweatshirt.