Authors: Mike Gayle
His 'n' Hers (11 page)
Sunday, 1 May 1994
11.39 p.m.
I’m lying in bed when I’m woken by the sound of someone throwing lumps of soil at my bedroom window. I open my curtain, peer down into the moonlit street and see Jim on all fours in the front garden. He’d told me he was going out for a drink with the boys. I wasn’t expecting to see him until tomorrow night when we’re supposed to be going to the cinema.
I open the window. ‘Jim,’ I say exasperatedly. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Looking for stuff to throw at your window,’ he slurs drunkenly.
‘You’re drunk,’ I whisper hoarsely, in case he hasn’t realised. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want to tell you something,’ he says. ‘I want to tell you that . . . that . . . that I like you. I just thought you ought to know.’
‘Thanks.’ I sigh. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
I pretend to go back to bed but I stay and watch from the corner of the window as he stumbles out of the garden, across the road and spends five minutes trying to find the keys to his front door. As I get into bed I ask myself whether I would’ve accepted a drunken declaration of love. As I fall asleep I decide that something would’ve been better than nothing.
Saturday, 4 June 1994
2.28 p.m.
It’s a sunny summer afternoon. Jim and I are walking around the lake in Cannon Hill park. The warm weather has brought everybody out and there are mums and dads with prams, little kids racing around on bikes, older kids playing football. It seems like the whole of Birmingham has come out to play.
‘I’m going to ask you a question,’ says Jim, ‘but I don’t want you to infer anything by it, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I reply. ‘Fire away.’
‘Do you think it’s possible to love one person for the rest of your life?’
‘Yes,’ I say immediately. ‘Next question?’
‘That was it, really. I was hoping I’d get more out of you than a simple yes. I was looking for more of a discussion.’
‘That’s men all over. They like to argue about things just for the sake of it. The fact is, Jim, I do think it’s possible to love one person for the whole of your life. But at the same time I realise it’s pretty hard.’
‘That’s what I think too.’
There’s a long silence.
‘So, is that it, then?’ I ask. ‘Is question time over?’
‘Not quite. I’ve got one more. Have you ever told anyone that you loved them?’
‘Now, that’s what I call a proper conversation. The first person I told was Michael Pemberton when I was fifteen and we’d been together three days.’
‘Michael Pemberton? I like the sound of him.’ Jim smiles.
‘He was lovely. We were on a school trip to Cambridge and Michael ate his sandwiches with me rather than with his mates. I think that pushed me over the edge a little bit because in those days who you ate your sandwiches with on a school trip really meant something. I remember we sneaked off for a bit of a kissing session and in the middle of it I told him I loved him. He just looked at me blankly, then carried on kissing me.’
‘You know what that was about, don’t you?’ says Jim.
‘Of course I wanted some sort of reaction but the fact that I got none didn’t upset me because I think I liked the idea of saying it so much it didn’t matter that I didn’t hear it back. I was over the moon that day. I really was. The next day he dumped me.’
‘That’s got to have hurt.’
‘It did. He didn’t even say why. He just said, “I don’t want to see you any more.”’
‘Which is code for “You’re coming on a bit strong there.”’
‘Exactly.’
‘Poor fifteen-year-old you.’
‘Thanks. I was upset for a while but the fact that I’d told a real live human being that I loved them more than made up for my newly single status. It was kind of losing my I-love-you virginity, not the best experience of my life but I was hoping it would get better as I got older. Plus Michael’s reaction made the whole situation more tragic and that’s what I wanted in my life at the time – a bit of tragedy and drama.’
‘Who was next?’
‘After that I think it was Andrew Jarrett, who I went out with when I was seventeen.’
‘I don’t like the sound of Andrew Jarrett at all.’
‘Why?’
‘He sounds weaselly. Was he?’
‘Of course he wasn’t weaselly. He was gorgeous. So gorgeous I think I was in love with him before I started going out with him. It wasn’t just an obsession, I was genuinely in love with him. It’s funny, I can laugh about it now but I can remember sobbing my heart out night after night because I wasn’t his girlfriend. I hadn’t even talked to him at the time. But I tell you – and I’m not joking – I would’ve done anything for him. Absolutely anything. I got off with him at a party and I told him I loved him after all of three hours’ snogging him. I didn’t see much of him after that because he avoided me like the plague. It took me a while but I eventually worked out that it wasn’t the best idea to start declaring your love before the boy you’re with declares his.’
‘So when did you finally get a boy to do that?’
‘The summer before university. I met Steven Sanderson on holiday in Lanzarote. He was fantastically good-looking and very trendy and we had a great time. I was so pleased with myself that I had a friend take a whole roll of film of me and Steve so that I could send pictures to all my friends from school and sixth-form college – shallow, I know, but he was gorgeous. But even gorgeousness wears off after a while – I suppose you become immune to the effect. I wasn’t in love with him but I’m ashamed to say that I was desperate for him to be in love with me, if only to show that I was having some sort of effect on him. He said it about a month and a half into our relationship. He took me out to an Italian restaurant in town and we had what he thought was a romantic meal. The food was terrible, the waiters were hopeless, and Steven’s attempts at looking sophisticated were cack-handed at best. Over a glass of breadsticks he took my hand and told me he loved me. Refusing to learn the lessons of the past I felt bad that I’d made him say it so I said it back to him, and that seemed to make him happy. We lost interest in each other pretty much instantaneously after that and we didn’t so much split up as fade away.’
‘And number four?’
‘That was—’
‘Let me guess . . . Damon?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Fair enough. I mean, he was your boyfriend, after all.’ Jim pauses. ‘So how did he do it? Was it an all-singing, all-dancing, full-string-ensemble declaration?’
‘It was a bit sneaky, to be truthful. It took me totally by surprise. We’d only been together six weeks.’
‘Six weeks?’
‘Yeah, I know. We were on our way to a gig at the Humming-bird and we were walking along Bull Street when he just stopped and turned to me and said, “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. And I want to tell you that I’m falling in love with you.”’
‘So what did you say?’
‘It hadn’t occurred to me to be in love with Damon at this point but I hate being rude and couldn’t stand the prospect of him feeling bad all night just because I hadn’t said it back. So I smiled at him and said, “I love you too,” and his face just lit up and he was in a great mood all night. I felt awful about that because what I said wasn’t true, although it was true in the end.’
‘You really loved him, then?’
‘Yeah. It was different from all the other times, though. It was grown-up love.’
‘And how did it feel?’
‘It’s impossible to put into words. But when you feel it you know what it is straight away.’ I laugh self-consciously in an effort to change the mood. ‘Come on, then. I’ve confessed everything. So, what about you? How many times have you said, “I love you”?’
‘None.’
‘None at all?’
‘A big fat zero.’
‘I don’t understand. How could you have reached the age of twenty-three and not told a girl you loved her?’
‘I’ve never really been into the idea of saying, “I love you”,’ says Jim. ‘I mean, before the age of twenty-three there aren’t a great many occasions that a bloke needs to say those words.’
‘How can you say that?’ I ask incredulously.
‘But it’s true.’
‘But you’d had girlfriends before me. And you never told them you loved them?’
‘I’ll concede that I quite liked a lot of them but none of them inspired in me the desire I always imagined you needed within you to say those three little words.’
‘None of them?’
‘None of them.’
‘Did you ever even come close?’
‘Not really. I had girls say they were in love with me, though.’
‘And what did you do when they said that?’
‘I said, “Cheers.”’
I look at Jim, horrified. ‘Tell me you’re joking.’
‘With the gift of hindsight I can see now that it wasn’t the best thing to say but I’m afraid I did actually say it. I thought I was being polite.’
‘So let me get this straight. They’d say, “Jim, I think I’m falling in love with you,” and you’d reply, “Cheers, mate”?’
‘I didn’t call them “mate”, that would’ve been daft. But, yeah, that was the short and tall of it.’
‘You really must have been a charmer. The only good thing to come out of what you’ve said is to reassure me that I wasn’t the only girl in the world to have said, “I love you,” only to get the most ignorant of responses.’
‘The funny thing,’ says Jim, ‘is that the less you say those words the more important they become to you.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Well, look, it’s like this. It’s not like I don’t believe in love. I do. It’s just that I think I have a greater reverence for it than those people who just bandy it about in an everyday kind of way.’
‘You mean like me?’ I joke.
‘Exactly. You see, for me the words “I love you” are like one of those big red fire-alarm buttons behind glass that say, “Smash in case of emergency” – and in any case, if it isn’t an emergency, by which I mean the real thing, I’m not going to smash the glass.’
‘I can see how that could make sense to you.’
‘But what can I say? If I don’t feel it, I’m not going to say it just to make someone feel better.’
‘No,’ I say, sarcastically. ‘That would be too awful.’
‘Anyway,’ continues Jim carefully, ‘this brings me to my point.’
‘Which is?’
‘Well, remember how I asked you not to infer anything by this conversation?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, having given it a lot of thought I think you should feel free to infer what you like.’
‘But you told me not to.’
‘Well, now I’m telling you that you can.’
‘Why? You spent ages telling me not to read anything into what you were saying.’
‘Look,’ he says, ‘what I’m trying to tell you is that I think it’s time for me to smash the glass.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Jim laughs. ‘I know what you’re doing. Smithy.’
‘Do you?’
‘You’re trying to make me say it.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘So, why don’t you say it?’
‘Okay, I will—’
‘Ready when you are.’ I concentrate all my psychic energy on him willing him to say it.
Say it.
Out comes the first word.
Say it.
Out comes the second word.
Say it.
And then out comes the third word.
That’s it. He said it. ‘I love you.’ There’s no mistaking it. There’s no way he can take it back.
I watch Jim as he studies my face for a reaction. I give him my best poker face.
‘Did you hear what I just said?’ he asks.
I nod and grin back at him like an idiot.
‘So what’s your response to the first time I have ever said those words to someone who isn’t my mum?’
‘Cheers,’ I say eventually, and explode with laughter.
Sunday, 5 June 1994
10.45 p.m.
Jim and I are sitting in the Jug of Ale just as last orders are being called. The contents of his pockets are on the table: three bus tickets, balled-up tissues, Chewit wrappers, an old gig ticket and some loose change. I follow by emptying out the contents of my purse: a handful of receipts, a picture of me and Jim taken in a photo booth in Woolworth’s, tissues, lipstick, lip balm and some loose change.
‘This is so studenty it’s depressing,’ I say, rummaging through the overwhelmingly copper coins on the table trying to collect enough money to get us both a drink. I pick up my cigarettes and look inside the packet. There’s only one left. ‘And I’m down to my last fag,’ I say despairingly.
‘It’s all too pathetic for words,’ adds Jim.
‘I feel like time’s moving on,’ I say, lighting the cigarette. ‘My friends who went straight on to teacher-training courses have graduated now; all those types who joined graduate training schemes last summer are chalking up their first year at work. Even Jane’s a dogsbody at BBC Pebble Mill.’
‘Nick’s swapped his temp job to work for a construction firm on a new shopping centre,’ says Jim, picking up two ten-pence coins from the table.
‘And here we are. I’m still working at Kenway’s, you’re still at Revolution.’ I pick up several twenty-pence pieces. ‘It seems like everyone’s moving on apart from me and you. And do you want to know what’s worse?’
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