My Legendary Girlfriend (23 page)

Just before I reached my road I spotted the pale light of an off-licence, tucked behind a row of shops that I had somehow managed to miss on my Get To Know Your Locale tour of Archway. On a whim I entered and purchased the following:

I paid for the booty on my credit card, because the man at the till didn’t have one of those swipe machine things, so I figured that he wouldn’t be able to tell that I’d reached my card limit. Anyway, save for the thirty-seven pence change I’d received from Archway Kim Wilde, I didn’t have any real cash on me.

Plastic bags in hand, I made my way to 64 Cumbria Avenue, where I was welcomed by the cheery glow of a naked electric bulb emanating through the net curtains of the front ground floor flat. Peering through the window as I walked along the front path, all I could distinguish were the vague outlines of a man and woman sitting at a table, possibly eating.

Inside my flat nothing had changed. The answering machine had no answers on it and the flat, with my clothing strewn everywhere, looked like the community centre jumble sale from hell. I turned off the lights and fell onto the bed, hoping beyond hope that the day had been sufficiently exhausting for me to fall asleep before my brain could kick into gear again. Meanwhile, some twelve feet underneath me, the man in the flat below whom I’d seen dining turned his quiet meal for two into a very loud meal for two. I listened as a record needle was dragged across side one of Led Zeppelin’s
Houses of The Holy
. (I recognised it immediately. Once when Simon’s parents kicked him out briefly after they’d caught him smoking dope in his bedroom, he’d slept on my bedroom floor for a month until they took him back.
Houses of The Holy
was the only record he listened to.) When the ‘DJ’ finally left the needle to rest, Jimmy Page’s amazing guitar-smithery was immediately interrupted by a slow, steady knocking – the unmistakable sound of headboard against wall. With nowhere to run or hide, I resigned myself to depression once more. I felt around on the floor in the dark until I found a mug that at some point during the week had contained Vimto, and after locating my tequila poured some of it in. I took a sip, switched on the radio and turned up
The Barbara White Show
until it was loud enough to reduce Mr Doing-it Downstairs’ sexual workout to no more than a gentle thud.

Barbara was as amusing as ever. Thanks to her, within five minutes of listening I felt considerably better. There were a lot of people out there (and I do mean ‘out there’) who were in a far worse state than I’d ever be. Her first caller, Mary, was undergoing a course of chemotherapy for breast cancer while coping with the recent loss of a husband from cancer of the throat. On top of that she was worried about her teenage daughter who she feared was agoraphobic. I had to give Barbara her dues, even the hardiest of agony aunts would’ve been fazed by a caller so obviously without hope, but not she. Without pausing for breath she set her empathy zap gun to ooze-factor ten and swamped Mary in a sea of sympathy. But that wasn’t her job done, by any means. In a world where there are so few certainties, Barbara, unlike politicians, wasn’t afraid to put her neck on the line and say she had the answer. She was definitely growing on me. She advised Mary not to feel guilty for worrying about her own problems and gave her the phone number of a bereavement counselling group. As for the depression, she advised her to see a doctor, extolled the virtues of Prozac, herbal tea and soap operas and finished off by telling her to give her daughter a jolly good talking to. I was impressed.

I switched off the radio.

Silence.

I switched it back on and listened to an advert about a new Eddie Murphy film.

I switched it back off.

Silence again.

I poured myself another tequila, turned on the light and reached for my phone book, scanning through the lists of numbers as if they were meals on the menu of a Chinese takeaway. I found the number I was looking for and dialled. An answering machine clicked on, there was a crackle and high pitched squeal before a section of film dialogue played: ‘Life moves fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while you might miss it.’ It was Matthew Broderick in
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
. Simon was so predictable. ‘Hi, you’re through to Simon and Tammy,’ continued the tape. ‘Leave a message after the beep!’

A deep breath and a swig of tequila and I was ready.

‘Simon, you’re not in right now but I’d like to leave a message,’ I gurgled quite magnificently. ‘I hope you’re horribly maimed in a terrible car accident. What’s more, I hope you catch a gruesome tropical disease that causes your genitals to dry up like the seaweed in a Chinese restaurant, and that what you’re left with crumbles and blows away in the wind. I wish every kind of nastiness I can think of and while I’m at it give me back that twenty quid you borrowed from me last May.’ Tears worked their way into my voice. ‘Give me back that twenty quid, you sodding sod and everything else I ever lent you. Give me back that twenty quid. Give it me back now!’

It wasn’t until I’d finished my rant and wiped the tears from my eyes that I realised I’d been cut off. Most answering machines stop recording after thirty seconds. I knew this, because I once drunkenly tried to leave the lyrics to The Velvet Underground’s ‘She’s My Best Friend’ on Aggi’s mum’s answering machine. I hadn’t even managed to finish the first verse.

I called back and finished the message.

‘This is me again. What was I saying? Yes, that’s it. Give me back my twenty quid, you git. You’ve had my girlfriend and now you want my money? Give me back my twenty quid or I’ll phone the police. I’m not joking, you know. Poking my girlfriend might not be illegal but theft is!’

I slammed the phone down and laughed. I’d stopped crying now and felt a little bit better.

The journey to the kitchen from the bed – once only a few jaunty steps away – had now become a long and dangerous expedition, requiring me to stumble drunkenly into the few pieces of furniture I had, banging my shins hard enough to make the left one bleed onto my jeans. Ignoring the pain I searched through all the cupboards until I found what I was looking for: the equipment I needed to make the mother of all tequila slammers – a Tupperware beaker and a salt cellar. Racing back to my bed I poured a quarter of my tequila into the beaker, added a generous dash of lemonade and shook the salt cellar near the rim. Drawing a deep breath I covered the beaker with my left hand, raised it to shoulder height and then, leaning over the edge of the bed, slammed it down onto the carpet. Tequila spilled all over my jeans. I laughed maniacally and took a huge gulp from what was left.

It was not long before I was well and truly on my way to not knowing what planet I was on. My next mission, I decided, was to open two of the packets of Hula Hoops and endeavour to throw their contents, hoop by hoop, directly into my mouth. I scored four direct hits and crushed the rest under my feet, forming a huge powdery desert of reconstituted potato. Still hungry, I opened the third pack, barbecued beef flavour, and consumed them in the conventional manner – but only after I’d worn every single one of them on my fingers, waving them in the air. This was good. I felt happy. I was Forgetting. Only one thing could make me happier. I turned on the TV and put
Star Wars
in the video. When Simon and I had first seen the film at the age of six we thought it was real. We used to talk about Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker as if they lived at the end of our road rather than in a galaxy, far, far away. This strong belief in the film had lingered with me throughout my life, to the extent that I even involved it in my final year dissertation:
Star Wars
–
Better than Shakespeare?
Eight months’ research, 15,000 words written in the six days prior to the deadline with only twenty-three hours’ sleep, and all Joanne Hall, Head of the Film Studies faculty, gave me was a 2:2!

Fast-forwarding to the scene where the Imperial Guard are attempting to board Princess Leia’s ship, I pressed pause just as she was about to put her hologram message for Obi-Wan Kenobi inside R2D2. Carrie Fisher looked gorgeous – she was vulnerable, trusting, desperate, lonely. All the things Aggi never was.
Princess Leia needs a hero but Aggi doesn’t need me.

The phone rang.

I ignored it, I was having a Princess Leia Moment. The picture was perfect – The Viceroy and First Chairman of Alderaan frozen in time and space.
Princess Leia
, I thought,
I love you.

The phone continued to ring.

Grudgingly, I answered it.

‘Hey, Will, it’s me.’

I pressed play on the remote control without saying a word. My Princess Leia Moment was gone. Soon storm troopers would arrive and spoil everything.

‘Will, I know you’re there,’ said Simon, ‘I’m really sorry, man. It was a really stupid thing to do. It was really stupid. If I could have my time again I swear I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t go anywhere near her.’

I didn’t know what to say.

‘Will, come on, talk to me.’

‘What do you want, Simon?’ I yelled hysterically. He must’ve thought I was well and truly off my rocker. I calmed down. ‘What could you possibly want from me now? You’ve had it all, haven’t you? You’ve had my girlfriend, what else do you want?’

‘Look, it wasn’t like that,’ he said, trying to be earnest.

‘It wasn’t like what?’

‘It just happened,’ he said, clearly uncomfortable that I wasn’t making it easy for him. ‘It only happened the once. And neither of us wanted it to happen again.’

At the back of my mind a question was lurking. Every second it loomed larger on the horizon, but I knew I had to resist it, because I didn’t think I had the guts to gamble everything I believed in just so I could hear something as nebulous as The Truth.

‘When did it happen?’ I asked. My hands were shaking. I didn’t want to hear his answer.

‘When I came to stay with you at university.’

He was being vague on purpose. ‘You came to stay a lot of times. Which time?’

‘At the start of the second year when I came up to see U2.’

I should’ve listened to my instincts. My brain immediately flashed to that fantastic scene in
A Few Good Men
where Tom Cruise demands to hear The Truth from Jack Nicholson. Nicholson in full menacing mode looks Cruise straight in the eye and tells him he can’t handle the truth. I was in the same boat as Mr Cruise. Aggi had got off with my best mate five months into our relationship. It hurt.

‘How did it happen?’ I asked, more to myself than to Simon, as I knew he’d never go into the details.

Surprisingly, he answered my question.

‘Do you remember that night?’

I had to say that I did, but not all that much of it. I’d been drinking all night with my mate Succbinder (whom I haven’t seen or heard from since I graduated) because we didn’t really like the band, but we thought it might be a laugh anyway. Aggi and Simon were really into the music so they went off to the front of the stage while Succbinder and I propped up the bar at the back, sipping expensive watered down lager from plastic cups.

According to Simon’s version of events they’d tried to find me and Suc at the end of the gig but we hadn’t been where we’d arranged to meet, which was in front of the merchandise stall at the back of the hall. Bored of waiting, Aggi and Simon had decided to go to 42nd Street, a club in town, and it was there that they first kissed.

They’d got a taxi back to mine and Simon admitted that he’d tried to persuade Aggi to sleep with him but she’d said no. And then they started kissing so passionately that ‘No’ turned into ‘Will used the last one yesterday’ and when a team of wild horses couldn’t have kept them apart, Simon had sprinted to the all-night garage up the road in three minutes, shaving a good thirty-two seconds off my own record for that desperate dash. They did it on the sofa downstairs. Twice. Afterwards, Aggi had crept upstairs and slept on the floor in my room, because I’d been sick on the bed and was lying across it fully clothed.

In the morning I woke up in my underwear and remembered the horrific journey home and the ten pound cleaning levy the taxi driver had charged before he threw me out. I looked around, the bed had clean sheets on it and Aggi had even tidied up my room. I felt so guilty for getting drunk and not meeting her after the gig that I tried to be especially nice to her all day. I bought her chocolates, took her to see
Metropolitan
at the Cornerhouse and cooked her dinner in the evening. She in turn didn’t complain that there was sick in her make-up bag and bought lunch for the two of us. We must have been driving each other insane with guilt.

Simon finished unburdening himself by telling me that Aggi had told him the day after, that if he ever breathed a word of what had happened to anyone she would kill him. Not because she was scared I might be angry, but because she knew it would break my heart.

I could tell by the tone of Simon’s voice, as though he were confessing his sins to a Catholic priest, that he thought I’d forgive him there and then, as if the pain of being so frank about his treachery was penance enough. He probably was genuinely sorry, but I couldn’t help thinking that some part of him was enjoying this scene. Here he was getting to play the sterling role of the blackguard with a heart. I told him to write a song about it and slammed down the phone.

After five minutes swearing at the phone I ran out of expletives and tequila. I tried to call Alice again because now, more so than ever, I needed her. Her answering machine was still on. I left a completely incomprehensible message and searched for a diversion. An English exercise book belonging to Susie McDonnell which had fallen out of my school bag caught my attention. I picked it up off the floor and considered marking the whole of my year-eight’s class work. Although I probably would’ve got through them a lot quicker than usual I knew I’d only have to do them again in the sober light of day. Flicking absentmindedly through the back of Susie’s book I noticed a couple of badly spelt messages to her friend Zelah Wilson, who sat next to her in class, and quite a good sketch of Terry Lane, the year-eight Lothario, underneath which were the words: ‘Terry Lane! Give me one, please!’ I laughed and turned over the page, and there written in green Biro in Susie McDonnell’s unmistakable handwriting were the words, ‘Mr Kelly is a twat.’