Can't Let Go (4 page)

Did I bump into Zoey or did she bump into me?

Whose fault was it? Was it fate or just a clumsy
collision? The woman with the yellow T-shirt
was in front of me at the bar, her back to me. She turned
around and she didn't see me. That was nothing unusual.
I had spent my adult life perfecting the art of being
unnoticeable. She stumbled into me, or I knocked into
her. Anyway, one way or another, I found myself
standing at the bar with most of her pint glass of Coke
dripping down my T-shirt and jeans.

'Jesus, I'm sorry,' she said in an American accent. She
had wild frizzy hair and an offhand way of speaking. The
words spilled out, seemingly without any thought
beforehand. 'Christ. Look at you. You're soaked. My
God, I'm sorry. Look, listen, I have to run. I'm doing this
– this thing. Upstairs. It's my first-ever headliner. I'm
nervous. What can I say? I didn't see you there. I'm sorry.
Can you wash it out? Will it stain? Will you be okay?'

She patted me on the shoulder somewhat absently and
then darted off before I could say anything in reply. I went
into the ladies' toilet at the back of the pub and splashed
water onto my T-shirt to wash off as much Coke as I
could. I was glad it was such a warm night: it would dry
quickly. I was a bit annoyed but not unduly so. It
happened. I got bumped into, had things spilled on me. It
happened a lot. I never made a fuss.

The next time I saw her was an hour or so later, and
she was on stage. Her name was Zoey Spiegelman
and her hair was now even wilder. It exploded from her
head in dark henna-tipped Medusa spirals. Her bright
yellow T-shirt had some kind of logo on it, and she was
wearing it with low-slung khaki combat trousers and a
pair of red trainers with elaborate soles that looked like
they were springs. She wasn't particularly young, not as
young as you might have thought from her clothes. I
thought perhaps she was my age or a couple of years
younger, maybe early thirties. She was lean and athletic looking,
and she prowled the stage, microphone in hand,
with the barely suppressed bouncy energy of a gymnast
about to do the final vault that could snatch the gold
medal. American, of course, possibly a New Yorker; with
a crisp don't-mess-with-me tone to her voice. She was
very funny.

Not brilliantly funny, not earth-shatteringly funny, but
very funny; the kind of funny it was a relief to find on a
Friday evening that had been a bit of a damp squib until
then. I was sitting at a table in a sweltering hot smoky
room above a pub in North London with a bunch of
people, only two of whom I knew even slightly. Lesley
was there with her husband Mick, of course, a lovely salt-of-the-earth bloke,
a painter-decorator by trade; I'd met
him before. Then there was a thirty-something couple
who lived a few doors down from them, Gemma and Phil.
They seemed nice enough. There were a couple of Mick's
mates, and an old school friend of Lesley's, Jackie, who
she seemed not to have seen in years. And then there was
Andy, the available man who had been assigned to me for
the night. I hated it when people did that. I had told people
so often that I wasn't interested in being set up. But there
I was again, making small talk to a well-meaning but dull
bloke who worked in IT and had the vaguely creepy air of
a man who still lived with his mother. I should have felt
happy that I was out for once on a Friday night, like a
normal person. Left to my own devices, I would have
been at home in front of the television with a glass of red
wine and a bar of chocolate. But in fact I felt as if I was
being coerced into having a good time.

I didn't know whose idea it was to go to a comedy
night. Up till then, until Zoey arrived on stage, it hadn't
been a huge success. We had sat through nearly an hour's
worth of knob gags and limp jokes about George Bush
and Tony Blair, we'd sweated buckets and poor old Andy
had been picked on by one young comedian who'd asked
him what he did for a living. Andy had made the mistake
of giving an honest answer – cue a host of unfunny jokes
about I T stereotypes: anoraks and nerds and
Star Trek
conventions. So by the time Zoey Spiegelman bounded on
stage we were ready for something at least halfway
decent. And we were in luck. There was something
special about her. You could almost hear the audience
fizzing.

She had stage presence, that was what it was. You felt
confident watching her: confident that she was going to be
funny; ready to laugh. She talked about marrying a British
guy, coming to live in London, the marriage breaking up.
She did jokes about being an American in England and
knowing the art of when to say 'sorry'. ('Pretty much at
any point in any social encounter,' she said. 'You can
never go wrong with "sorry".') You wouldn't have
wanted to be her ex-husband, that was for sure. She told
us that the marriage broke up because of his stiff upper lip,
'which made cunnilingus a painful experience for me.'
Her facial expression cracked me up. I let loose a huge
explosive laugh, a few seconds too late, that nearly made
me choke on my drink. Beer spurted out of my nose and
dripped onto my already stained T-shirt. I struggled for
breath and Andy thumped me on the back. As I got my
breath back I noticed that everyone – including Zoey
Spiegelman – was staring at me. I felt myself blush and I
wanted to sink into my seat and disappear. I hated
drawing attention to myself like that.

After the show Lesley nabbed a table downstairs in the
pub and got a round of drinks in. I fought my way to the
back of the pub again to go to the loo, in the squalid
graffiti-covered hole of a bathroom where I had earlier
attempted to clean my T-shirt, and I found myself once
again standing behind Zoey Spiegelman. She turned to me
and did a double take. Then she smiled. I opened my
mouth to say something limp, like 'I enjoyed your act,'
but at that moment a cubicle became free. Zoey said
dramatically, 'Stay here! I mean, don't go. If you get out
before me, wait for me. I want to talk to you.'

I didn't dare disobey an order like that. I emerged from
my cubicle expecting to see her waiting, but there was no
sign of her. I washed my hands and then discovered the
hand-dryer was no longer working, and that the pile of
paper towels that had been there earlier had now gone.
Instead, I rubbed my hands dry on my jeans. I looked at
myself in the mirror and frowned at my reflection: tidy
brown shoulder-length hair, greyish eyes; a face that once
upon a time, seventeen years earlier and five thousand
miles away, had been described as 'elfin' and 'piquant' and
even 'pretty'. It now looked tired and ordinary and shiny
with heat, and seemed to bear the mark of every single day
of its thirty-five years.

There was still no sign of Zoey. I started to feel stupid
about waiting. She probably only wanted to apologise
again for spilling her Coke all over me. But just as I was
thinking that I should head back to my friends in the pub
she burst out of her toilet cubicle. She pointed at me and
said, 'Yay! You waited!'

She headed for the basin to wash her hands and then she
shook them dry. She peered in the mirror and plumped up
her wild hair. Then she came over to me, put her hands on
my shoulders and said, in what seemed like one breath,
'Listen, thank you for laughing so loudly. I really
appreciate it. I feel so bad about nearly ruining your night
with the drink-spilling thing. I was nervous. I was a klutz.
Stupid of me. What can I say to make it better? Can I buy
you a drink?'

Stunned, I looked at her for a few seconds, trying to
work out how to frame a reply. 'Jesus, have I been too
American again?' she said. 'What should I have said?

"I'm awfully sorry, but might I purchase you a cold
beverage?"'

Her English accent was so bad that it made me laugh
again.

'You're ignoring your boyfriend,' Zoey said with an
evil grin on her face as she settled into the seat next
to me.

I looked at Andy and then back at her. I lowered my
voice. 'He's not my boyfriend. He's the guy they're trying
to set me up with.'

'OK. And let me guess – you don't like being set up?'

She had green eyes and a very intense gaze, and the
body language of someone who was genuinely interested
in hearing the answers to her questions. She was sitting
very close to me, her shoulder touching mine.

I fidgeted with my beer mat. 'I've kind of opted out of
the whole relationship thing, to be honest. But no one ever
gets the message.'

Zoey raised her eyebrows and gave me a twisted smile.
She played with one of her corkscrew curls: winding it
around her finger, stretching the lock of hair so that it was
straight and then letting it spring back. 'You know, a
couple of years ago, in another life, I would have said,
"Why? My God, do you know what you're missing?
What are you scared of?" But now I say, "Honey? Join
the club.'"

'Because of your marriage?'

'Tell you what, let's not talk about it. Don't ask me
about my marriage and I won't ask you about whatever it
is that put you off dating. Your secret heartbreak. Whatever
it is. A pact, yeah? Let's shake on it.' She put her hand
out to shake and I took it. She grinned at me, and all at
once I felt safe. I felt like I'd known her for years. She felt
like a friend. It was an unusual feeling for me.

I don't do relationships and I don't do close female
friendships.
That was what I would have told her if she had
asked me any more questions. 'I've kind of opted out of
the whole relationship thing': that was just one of the
phrases I used. Others included:
I'm very single. Hike being
single. I enjoy living alone. I like my independence. I don't
need anyone else in my life.

So what on earth was I doing sitting there chatting to an
American female comedian who I had only just met?
People talked about falling in love but there was no
equivalent phrase for falling in friendship. That was what
it felt like. It was so unlike me. I recognised something
familiar in Zoey. Her mind seemed to run along the same
track as mine did. I was enjoying talking to her. I wanted
to talk more to her and to tell her things, and to hear her
tell me stuff too. I told her about being a teacher, what it
was like, how much I enjoyed working with the teenage
girls, what I found frustrating about the job. She told me
how she was studying for a PhD in Victorian architecture
and was working part-time as a barmaid – lunchtimes
only, so she could do comedy gigs in the evening – and
how exhausting it was, 'having, like, three jobs,' but fun
too. I liked the way she pulled at her springy hair and
watched it zing back into shape. I liked the way she took
up lots of room at the table, the easy way she rested her
elbows on the table and fitted right in. She made me laugh.
For a little while on a hot Friday night she made me enjoy
myself and she made me forget myself and everything that
was wrong in a life.

And there was something else. She reminded me a bit
of Lizzie, the girl I used to be. The buzz I had got from
watching her on stage: maybe part of that was imagining
myself – or at least my other self, my old self – up there in
her place. If I had still been Lizzie, maybe that's what I
would have been doing: standing on a stage, showing off,
having fun, making people laugh, not giving a shit.

And then, out of nowhere, I ruined the atmosphere. I
asked Zoey this: 'Where are you from?' It sounded
abrupt, almost rude, but I had a sudden need to know.

She seemed surprised at my question, and I braced
myself for her answer. I was suddenly convinced that she
would say San Francisco, the answer I was dreading. But
she didn't. 'Boston,' she said. 'What about you?'

'Oh, here,' I said vaguely. 'Well, sort of. Not far from
here. What's Boston like?'

'It's okay. Very historic. British people seem to like it.
You've never been?'

I shook my head.

'Ever been to America?' Zoey looked at me directly
with those green eyes that were striking against her
tanned skin. There was a thin film of sweat on her upper
lip. I was very aware that I was sweating like a pig, a broad
band of dampness making its way from the small of my
back up towards my shoulder blades. Did she mean
something particular by her question? Despite the heat, I
shivered and I could feel the coldness of my sweat against
my skin. She was staring at me. Did she mean anything by
that stare? The conversation was taking a direction that I
didn't like; a direction that made me nervous.

'No.' I lied badly, and I could only hope that she
mistook my inevitable blush for the flush of a hot face.
Rudely, I turned to the person on the other side of me,
which happened to be Andy, and I quickly absorbed
myself in another conversation. It was a variant on
walking away. I pretended I hardly noticed when Zoey
touched my shoulder and said goodbye a few minutes
later. But I watched her as she left, and there was a puzzled
look on her face.

Stupid, stupid, stupid,
I said under my breath as I let
myself into my flat later and flung all the windows open.

Of course she didn't know anything. That conversation
had not been heading anywhere dangerous. She was just a
random woman who happened to come from America.
And I had spoiled a lovely evening. For just a moment
there I had felt like I was tiptoeing out of my black and
white half-world into a Technicolor movie.

I gave her my mobile phone number. That was big.

That was huge. I never gave anyone my mobile
phone number unless I had to. But before I'd had
second thoughts, I had given Zoey my mobile phone
number. I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night
panicking about it. It was another sticky night, and I knew
I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep until I'd dealt with
it. I dragged myself out of bed and fumbled around the
living room in the dark until I found my courier-style bag
with my phone in it. I switched the ringer off. That way,
at least I could screen calls. If Zoey rang then I wouldn't
have to answer. I put the phone under a cushion on the
settee to muffle any vibrations if a call came. Then I got
back into bed, feeling stupid and uneasy. I hated the
feeling that someone could intrude on my privacy just by
ringing a number, especially someone I didn't know very
well. I didn't know what had come over me, how I had
managed to drop my guard. I'd had too much to drink, I
was too relaxed. I had been enjoying myself too much. I
was usually so careful with personal information.

I hadn't meant to give her my number. She'd been
showing me her phone, because it was one of those
BlackBerry-style devices. Except it wasn't a BlackBerry;
it was something else like it. And she'd been showing me
how she could access the internet and send emails from it,
and how it made reading and writing texts much easier,
and she'd said, 'Send me a text and I'll show you.'

So I had. I'd sent her a text, just a stupid message which
said, 'Hi. Nice 2 meet u.' And of course that had put my
number in her phone. And towards the end of the evening,
before I'd started ignoring her, before she had given me
that intense look when she'd asked me if I'd ever been to
America, when we were still chatting, she'd said, 'We
should hang out some time. I'll give you a call this
weekend, okay?'

And I had nodded, as if it was totally okay. A strange
American woman who could have been related to Rivers
Carillo knew my name and my mobile phone number. She
was probably going to give me a call.
Stupid, stupid,
stupid.

I spent the day avoiding Zoey's call. I left my phone
where it was, under a cushion on my settee, and I went
out for the day. I was avoiding Danny as well. I had
managed not to see him all week, not since he'd asked me
out, but I was afraid that if I stayed at home he might catch
me, and talk me into it; and I still wasn't sure if I was
ready.

The weather was hot again and I had no particular
destination in mind. I walked south, smelling the tarry,
slightly rancid scent of London on a hot day. I walked past
the Brunswick Centre and Coram's Fields, past Great
Ormond Street Hospital, and then I lost myself in the
Dickensian maze of little streets and yards in Holborn.

Sir John Soane's house was my favourite place in
London, and the basement was probably the coolest place
in the city at that moment. It was dank and dark, and full
of white stone and marble plundered from classical
buildings in Greece and Rome. It was a fantastic Gothic
riot of a place. There was a memorial to Soane's dog, and
a memorial to his wife, and a huge stone sarcophagus, like
a giant bathtub, dedicated to the Egyptian goddess Nut. It
was a basement full of columns and hidden corners, and
unexpected shafts of daylight; and because I knew it well
I had always felt safe there, half-buried underground. No
one could find me there; nothing could reach me.
Sometimes I wished I could stay there for ever.

I couldn't, of course. After a while the museum guide
started looking at me suspiciously. I left and walked out
into Lincoln's Inn Fields, blinking in the sunshine. I
crossed Kingsway, walked past the Freemasons' Hall in
Great Queen Street, and tried to lose myself in the
summer crowds in Covent Garden. I perched for a while
on a concrete bollard, eating an ice cream and watching
the buskers: there was a unicyclist, and a man who made
balloon animals. It was just my usual Saturday afternoon
time-killing. I often did it. But that day I had to admit that
I felt more than usually tense. Trying to relax – trying not
to be scared, trying to lead a normal life – was making me
tense. I felt as if I had dropped too many barriers too
quickly and by doing so had put myself at risk. I felt
naked. I kept hearing American accents around me. I was
convinced that I would turn around and suddenly Zoey
would be standing there, arm-in-arm with Rivers Carillo,
pointing at me.

Enough. This was ridiculous. I had decided to stop all
this nonsense. Friends were a good thing. Everybody
knew that. I'd been happy last night. Zoey was good fun.
There was no reason to be scared. There was no reason to
be suspicious of her. America was a huge country. There
was virtually no chance that she knew Rivers Carillo, or
knew of my connection with him. And she had already
promised that she wouldn't ask me about my past, about
what she assumed was my 'secret heartbreak'. We had a
pact. We'd shaken hands on it. What harm could it do,
making friends with Zoey Spiegelman?

I wandered home, hot and footsore. I had a long
shower, washed my hair and got changed into some fresh,
cool clothes. I went down to the newsagent's on the
corner and bought a paper and an ice-cold can of Diet
Coke. I lay around in the flat with all the windows open
and I read the paper from cover to cover. I was putting off
the moment when I'd have to check my phone for missed
calls. I sorted out some marking that I needed to do before
Monday, and I put it in a neat pile on my desk. I planned
what I was going to wear for the next week at school and
I ironed a couple of blouses. Then I ran out of things to fill
my time. Finally, I walked over to the sofa. I dug out my
mobile phone and I nervously checked it for messages.
Sure enough, Zoey had called.

I was expecting a friendly, breathless, full-on kind of
message, the way she had sounded last night. Instead,
when I listened back to my voicemail, what I got was this:
'Beth, call me. We need to talk.'

She sounded brisk, offish, abrupt, peremptory. Rude,
maybe. I thought about those words: 'We need to talk.'
They sounded ominous to me. What about? I barely
knew the woman. What did she need to talk to me about?
What could she possibly want to say to me? I wanted to
know. I didn't want to know.

I sat there for a while, rubbing the palms of my hands
up and down my thighs, paralysed by the pros and cons of
a simple phone call. Eventually the part of me that was
intrigued overpowered the part that wanted to run away.
I picked up my mobile phone, checked the list of received
calls and dialled her number with trembling hands. She
was there. She seemed pleased to hear from me. She
sounded friendly. We agreed to meet the next day, for
coffee and shopping and maybe some lunch. Sunday in
Camden with a friend: what could have been more
normal? It all seemed perfectly pleasant. Maybe I had
misread her tone of voice on the voicemail. Maybe she
wasn't good at leaving messages. But still I had a nagging
fear: why did she want to see me again? Why did she want
to spend time with me? Did she have a secret agenda?