Five Days Apart Page 2

  “I don’t think my life will be really happy unless I end up with this girl.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” he said. “Don’t say things like that. Let’s just get a drink.”

  So we went into the kitchen to see what there was left in the fridge.

  “Are you still here?” Paul asked when he saw me.

  “I’m back,” I said. “My morning thing was canceled.”

  “That’s great,” he said. He was a sarcastic prick, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t worried about anything. I was going to make this happen.

  “What’s her name?” I asked Alex as he handed me a glass with something orange in it.

  “Camille,” he said, and in my head I said it over and over as we drank through until the morning.

  Chapter Two

  She never faded from my memory. The next time I saw her she was exactly as I remembered. Her eyes before everything else. A darkness that pulled me in. A rawness in the way she looked at me, as if she recognized something that she couldn’t identify for certain. Something that marked me out from everyone else, as if the two of us were some distinct breed. Her skin was pale, and her hair was black. When she smiled, she showed her teeth. Dark hair and pale skin and dark eyes and white teeth. I knew it all after our first meeting. The angles of her cheekbones, her tiny ears, the small birthmark on the right side of her chin, her mouth, the skin at the top of her neck behind her ear. In the weeks and months that followed I spent a lot of time away from her, but no matter how long it had been I could always picture her.

  She was my height, tall for a girl. One time early on when we were in a café, she looked up at me standing beside the table, her head held at an angle, and then without saying anything she got up and stood in front of me, so close that our noses were almost touching. She put her hand on her head and then on mine.

  “Five foot nine,” she said.

  “And a half,” I said, trying not to blush.

  “If you say so,” and she walked off without looking back. I watched her as she went, holding on to the table to stop myself from collapsing.

  Her legs. Her arms. Her arse. Her tits. To see her in a white T-shirt and linen trousers on a summer evening out the back of somebody’s house, smiling that wide smile that made me forget everything else, even when it wasn’t for me. You couldn’t help but love her. You would have to understand what it was about her that I saw that first night.

  I got Alex to make the call. It seemed better that he do it, since he was the one who had asked for her number.

  “This is all wrong,” he told me before he dialed. “She’s going to think I’m the one after her.”

  “No, she won’t. Tell her that we were wondering if she’d like to meet up.”

  “Just her and us? That’ll scare her.”

  “Maybe with her friend.”

  “What was the friend’s name?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “This is the one you said was a pain in the arse.”

  “She wasn’t that bad. You might like her.”

  He sighed.

  “Why can’t you do it?”

  “Because I can’t. I’ll get all confused and make a mess of it. It’s better if you do it. But make it sound casual.”

  “Casual?”

  “Yeah, like it’s all very relaxed. Just getting together for a few drinks or whatever.”

  “So we want to meet them, but if they don’t want to do it we don’t care?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s fucking stupid,” he said, shaking his head but dialing the number. “Straight to message.” He hung up and threw the phone back to me. “I’ve done my bit. If you want to arrange something, you’re going to have to do the work yourself.” I looked at him to see if he was joking. “Seriously. If you like this girl, then you make the call.”

  “But you were going to do it. You knew what to say. You’re better at this stuff than I am.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to get over that.” He stood up and stretched. “I’ll go with you and do whatever you want, but you need to take a bit of initiative.”

  “Initiative?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Initiative,” I said again, trying to work out if I’d ever heard him say the word before.

  That was the end of the conversation. For the next few days I kept meaning to do it, but every time I dialed the number, I imagined some horrible scenario—she wouldn’t know who I was and I’d have to explain that I was the friend of that guy she’d met at a party, or she’d tell me she had a boyfriend, or she just wouldn’t be interested in meeting—and I’d wind up lying on the floor with my head in my hands. I waited for Alex to raise the subject again, but he wouldn’t, knowing that I’d plead and beg and that eventually he’d capitulate. This unspoken battle of wills continued for another couple of days. And then one morning, still in bed, I picked up the phone and did it without thinking. Her phone rang. Before I had time to panic, she answered.

  “Hello. This is David,” I said. “We met you at that party in Paul’s house last week. Me and Alex.”

  “Oh yeah, hi.”

  “You remember.”

  “I remember.”

  “Great. Did I wake you?”

  “No. Well. Kind of. Yeah.” She laughed, low and growly. I pictured her in bed. “Hello?” she said.

  “Sorry,” I said. “If it’s too early I can call you back.”

  “No, it’s fine. I should be getting up anyway.”

  “I’ve been up for hours,” I said for no reason. It wasn’t even true.

  “Good for you,” she said.

  “I was wondering . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you and your friend like to meet up with us some time? Just for a drink or something?”

  “Which friend is that?” she said. “Fiona?”

  “Yes. Fiona.”

  “When are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know. This weekend, maybe? Saturday?”

  “Let me check. I’ll give her a call and get back to you, is that all right?”

  “Sure. Great, yeah.”

  “Ten minutes, okay?”

  I lay there in bed staring at the ceiling, happy to have made the call but realizing now that this was just the first of several stages I would have to go through if I was ever going to get any closer to her. The prospect was exhausting. The phone rang in my hand.

  “Yeah, that’s fine. She’s on for it.”

  “Brilliant,” I said. “That’s great.”

  “Where do you want to meet?”

  I gave her the name of a place near my flat, and we made the arrangement.

  “See you then,” she said at the end.

  I rang Alex straight away.

  “Are you free on Saturday to meet Camille and her friend?”

  “You rang her?”

  “I did.”

  “Good man. My God. You phoned a girl.”

  “Don’t patronize me. You abandoned me. What else could I do after? Are you on for it?”

  “Sure.”

  “The friend’s name is Fiona, by the way.”

  “Is she really awful?”

  “She’s fine when you get to know her,” I said. “Full of chat.”

  When the day came, I cleaned the flat. I changed the bedclothes, tidied my room, opened the windows, took the rubbish downstairs. I bought wine and coffee and food and tried to make the living room look all right. I wanted to give the impression of somebody tasteful but not too uptight. I spent hours trying to get it right.

  I talked to Alex, and we arranged to meet at a quarter to nine so that we’d both be there when they arrived, but he got delayed or something. It meant that I was standing on my ow
n at the bar when she came in. People noticed her. She looked beautiful, completely wrong for me. I was out of my depth and could feel my throat tightening. She smiled when she saw me.

  “Hi,” she said. “The others not here yet?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll be along soon. Traffic or whatever.”

  She leaned in to kiss me, and I put a hand on her arm, then took it away again as if I was afraid to touch her. I knew it was going to be awkward before it happened.

  “You look well,” she said.

  “Thanks.” I looked around for the fucking barman, but there was no sign of him. “So do you,” I said, five seconds too late.

  It wasn’t easy. I was worried that she might think that I’d arranged it so that it would just be the two of us, alone together. I heard myself say twice that I didn’t know where Alex was and then had to stop myself from saying it again. She was picking up on my nervousness, standing a step too far away from me as I tried to order. When Fiona arrived, it was a relief. I greeted her like an old friend.

  “Have you been here long?” she asked Camille.

  “Five minutes.”

  “Not even that,” I said.

  Then Alex arrived, and the tension faded away. Without him it would have been a very short evening. They all went and found a table while I stood at the bar to order. He came up after a minute.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Were you all right?”

  “I was fine.”

  “Shit. I don’t know what happened. The day just disappeared on me.”

  “Stop apologizing. Don’t worry about it.”

  I stood, trying to get the barman’s attention.

  “Are you all right?” Alex asked me. I tried to smile. I could feel my heart thumping.

  “I am fine.”

  “You seem a bit wound up.”

  “Yeah, well you know.” He nodded.

  “Nervous?” he said after a second. “About her?”

  “Her,” I said. “That’s it exactly.”

  He looked across at the two of them sitting at the table.

  “She is a fine thing, all right. I mean, the friend’s not bad, but Jesus, your one is something else.” I was staring at him when he turned back. “What?”

  “That’s not helping.”

  He shrugged.

  “Why?” he said. “I was just saying that you’ve got good taste.”

  “That’s not what you were saying. At all.” I tried to relax, but it wasn’t easy. The barman seemed incapable of seeing me. “Is there something wrong with this fellow? Has he had a stroke or something? Hello?” I called, waving.

  “Hello,” he said, waving back but not moving. Smart fellow.

  “Can you serve me?” I called. He came over and stood in front of me for a second without saying anything. I ordered, and he nodded his head back.

  “Calm down,” Alex said when he’d gone. “It would not be good to get thrown out right now.”

  “I’m calm,” I said. “It’s just this fucking guy.”

  I wasn’t calm. It was doubt. Worry. The distance between how I had hoped tonight would be and how it was turning out. I could have left. It seemed like a good idea at that moment. To just walk out without saying anything. Easier. But no. I was being stupid. She was probably nervous herself. I looked over and saw the two girls laughing. They were happy. We were all there now. The barman was putting the drinks down in front of me. I handed him the money, and he took it without speaking.

  “I think I’ve upset him,” I said to Alex.

  It was better after that. I talked to Fiona, or I asked her questions and she talked. She’d got over whatever had been eating her that night at the party and talked like she’d just been let out after twenty years in solitary. I didn’t know what the difference was. Camille was sitting beside me, facing the other way as she talked to Alex. I could feel the warmth of her body, her thigh touching off mine when she sat forward to lift her drink from the table. I could feel it but not see it as I looked Fiona in the eye and smiled and nodded and lost track of what she was saying over and over again. When it was Camille’s turn to go to the bar, she touched me on the arm.

  “What do you want?” she said when I turned.

  “What do I want?” I said, trying to be flirty but sounding thick.

  “To drink?” she said, almost smiling.

  “Oh. Right. The same,” I said.

  I drank slowly, half finishing pints and then pushing them away when a new one came. Fiona was getting drunk, and her stories started to ramble. I could feel Camille pressing against me, almost leaning back on me now, and I hoped she was drunk too. I didn’t move.

  When they stopped serving, we talked about where to go. There were names of places in town mentioned, but we couldn’t agree. Too many options, and nobody willing to make a decision.

  “We could go back to my place if you want,” I said. “It’s five minutes from here.”

  “Okay,” Fiona said.

  “If you’re sure?” Camille said.

  “Do you have drink?” Alex asked.

  “I think there’s some wine,” I said. There were three bottles in the fridge. Waiting. I knew where the opener was.

  We put on our coats and they got their stuff together.

  “Good night,” I shouted at the barman. He lifted his head and didn’t say anything. Alex and I laughed.

  “What’s that about?” Fiona asked me as we were going down the stairs.

  “He’s a lovely fellow,” I said. “We’re regulars.”

  Then it was me and her standing on the street.

  “What happened to the others?” I asked when I realized.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe gone to the bathroom or something.”

  “Both of them?” I opened the door and looked up. There was no sign. “Hang on there a second,” I said to Fiona and ran back up the stairs.

  At the top as I turned into the landing, I saw the two of them wrapped around each other. She had one hand on the back of his head and her other arm around his waist. For a second I didn’t realize what was happening, thought instead that maybe he’d been helping her put on her coat and they’d got entangled or something. I didn’t say anything, but they must have heard me as I arrived. They broke apart, and she smiled at me over his shoulder, a little embarrassed maybe but nothing more than that. Alex turned and saw me.

  “David,” he said. “We were just coming.” I left, ran back down the stairs, almost falling on the way, steadying myself against the paneled wall and then out onto the street again.

  “Are we going?” Fiona asked when I got outside. I stopped and looked at her.

  “What is it?” she said, and she took a step closer and touched my face. “What are they up to?” It was obvious now.

  “Nothing,” I said, pushing her hand away. “Look, I’m not feeling great. I’m going to go. I’m sorry, but maybe another time.”

  I crossed the road without looking back and turned a corner, then ran home from there. In the flat, panting, I opened one of the bottles, poured myself a glass, and flopped onto the couch. I drank it quickly, then poured another. The room mocked me, its order and cleanliness all wrong for me here alone. I threw an ashtray across the room and pushed a pile of papers off the coffee table onto the floor. It was idiotic. Was the passionate gesture supposed to impress myself? I went over and picked up the pieces of broken glass, then put them in the bin. I was sweating, still breathing fast after the run. I tried to think in short sentences. It was a stupid idea. This kind of thing would never happen for me. Had he known all along that this was where it was heading? Had she? Had I? I could blame both of them, or I could blame my own stupid self for believing a fantasy. Neither scenario would make me feel any better.

  I th
ought he would come over. That guilt or worry might bring him to the door. That he might want to tell me how it had happened in a way that would make it seem not so bad. He knew that I wanted her, what I was trying to do, and still he couldn’t stop himself. I closed my eyes and slapped the side of my head when I thought of how much I had told him. Had he even heard me, or had he been thinking all along about how he was going to get her? Like I had sat beside Fiona tonight, smiling at her and nodding and thinking how badly I wanted to be with her friend. I sat on the couch and drank and waited for the doorbell to tell me what was going to happen next. I woke there the following morning, sick and stiff and hungover.

  Chapter Three

  I’ve lived a life of building significance into the smallest everyday interactions with women. Smiles in shops. A coincidentally turning head. Eyes meeting in a mirror or in a car stuck in traffic. The hand brushing off mine on a swaying crowded train. Somebody walking beside me, turning into the same street. These incidents were the starting point for my fantasies. Over and over I went through the same process, imagining what could have been. I would return to these happy scenarios later as if they were memories, replaying the specific events even when the original girl’s features had become hazy.

  At fourteen in Irish college I sat on a beach with a girl that I liked, both of us waiting for me to do something, and eventually when I couldn’t think of what that was, I asked her where her parents were.

  “The Isle of Man,” she said looking away.

  “Do they live there?” I asked her then.

  “No,” she said. “Just a holiday.”

  I spent a year visualizing a world where I’d kissed her instead of killing the moment by speaking. It would have been easier to do it right. The bloody Isle of Man.

  There was a French teacher in school when I was sixteen whose voice sounded different when she spoke to me. Softer, warmer, less French. Alex noticed it too. On a school trip in a hotel in Madrid I went to her room at ten o’clock at night to ask her could I use the phone in my bedroom. She opened her hotel room door in a bra and tracksuit bottoms. I don’t know what she was thinking. I could have been anyone. I looked at the ground and forgot what I was there for, apologized, walked away. I never told Alex about it, but I thought about it for months afterward, trying to work out if she knew it was me on the other side of the door. If I’d got the question out, would something different have happened? Would she have reached out to me, told me to come in, closed the door behind me? Maybe. It was almost enough.