State We're In (19 page)

I want to say something cutting, or better yet, something considered, because I am secretly impressed with his argument. Has he been thinking about that, or did it just come to him? However, the loo door swings open and an extremely tall and hefty guy emerges, practically knocking us over with his bulk. Dean and I do a little dance to avoid any further bodily contact. I really can't handle another jolt. I'm still trying to convince myself that the first one was static or something; I don't want to deal with evidence to the contrary. Plus, I'm aware of the hideous smell of an overused communal loo, and illogically, I feel embarrassed to be so close to Dean, who must also be able to smell the staleness. It isn't my pong, but it bothers me. Flustered, I can't think of anything funnier or more challenging than a slightly childish jibe: ‘And I bet you've never made a mistake in your life. I bet you are perfect.' With that I turn on my heel.

Standing inside the toilet cubicle, with the shockingly bright light glaring down on me, I wish that I'd brought my make-up bag in here too. I'd like to freshen up. I'm not trying to impress Dean; it isn't that I want to look my best for
him
, but I don't want to look my worst either, and I am pretty close to that right now. I look shockingly pale, any natural colour washed off by the high altitude and recycled air. My eyes are red and my skin is puffy. I splash water on my face and then roughly rub at the smudged mascara that frames my eyes. I pinch my cheeks as though I am some Edwardian debutante at a coming-out ball, and then I tut at myself for my idiocy. It really doesn't matter how I look now. When I get to Chicago I can have a facial, go to a department store and get someone to do my make-up. I might even treat myself to a blow-dry. By the time I see Martin, I'll look better. That's what counts.

Still, I pull my fingers through my hair.

C
lara had simply handed the letter to Tim by way of explanation. They were not in the habit of keeping secrets from one another. There were too many other people to keep secrets from; it was exhausting. So long ago, once they had understood everything about one another, they had decided that honesty was the only policy that could exist between them. Not that they ever divulged anything grubby and explicit, no details; they drew a veil, but they never lied or withheld.

Tim had taken the letter from her. His first thought had been that the paper was flimsy and cheap. Quite unlike anything any of their friends might send. Their friends were stylish and competitive. Even a thank-you note or an invite had to be doused in thought and oozing investment; it wasn't enough to tear out an A4 sheet of lined paper from a pad bought on the high street. He'd sighed and assumed he was being handed a blackmail letter.

Dear Clara,

Here it is: the proverbial blast from the past. Sorry to open a long-dead correspondence with a cliché, but I find my options are limited. Apologies for bothering you at all actually, because who needs that, hey? Few of us. Most of us – myself included – usually prefer the past to stay exactly where we left it, but – all that said – I found I had to write. I wanted to, and as you know, I've always tended to do as I want. There's no pretty way to say this, so I'll just get to it. I'm dying. Sorry, again, for the bluntness. Bloody hell, I've apologised to you three times in one short paragraph. I bet that's more often than I've apologised to any woman cumulatively in my entire life.

This letter isn't going to reveal anything astounding, don't worry. It isn't going to be a crass declaration of undying love (that would be ridiculous under the circumstance of me actually dying – under any circumstances, really). This letter is nothing more than a tip of the hat. A nod, a bow. Just don't call for an encore.

I find myself quite alone when I'm penning this. It's not an altogether surprising outcome, considering how I've lived my life and the choices I've made. I'm not asking for pity or anything mawkish like that. God forbid. I've done all right. I've had my fun. On the whole it's worked out as I might have hoped. It's just that I've been told to wrap things up. I wrote to my solicitor and to the funeral director, but there was extra paper left over. So I thought I'd write to you.

You see, lying here, waiting, I've had time to remember. I remembered that we burnt brightly. We did, didn't we? For that short time. Least, that's how I recall it. You made your choice and I respect that. I'm not trying to rake over old ground. I just wanted you to know that in amongst all this pain (and believe me, Clara, this bastard illness hurts like hell), I've thought of you – from time to time – over the last few months, and that has eased things. A little. I thought you might like to know that it is so.

That's all, over and out. Sorry for the interruption.

Best,

Eddie

Tim hadn't quite known what to think, beyond the fact that receiving a letter was so quaint nowadays; most people emailed. And a letter of this magnitude – a dying man's letter – was off the scale.

‘You can't be leaving me for him.' He hadn't known whether he was asking a question or making a statement.

‘Of course not.'

‘He's dying, Clara. Eddie Taylor is dying.' Tim said the name as he had always said it. Twenty-nine years hadn't altered the tone; the four syllables were still spat out with a mix of frustration, envy, scorn and fear.

‘I understand that. I said I'm not leaving you for him. I could have done that a million years ago if I'd wanted to.'

‘Then why are you leaving?'

‘A million years ago,' Clara had repeated, her vision blurring as a film of tears erupted, embarrassing and taunting her at once.

‘Then what's your point?'

‘When he thinks of me, I ease his pain,' she'd murmured. That was her point.

‘I read that.'

‘Isn't that romantic?'

‘That's a difficult question for me to answer as your husband. It's a difficult question for you to ask me as a wife.'

‘I don't think I've ever eased your pain.'

‘In many ways you have. It's different with us.' Tim had coughed. The conversation was impossible to navigate.

‘Too different,' Clara had stated baldly. What they had wasn't enough. How had it taken her so long to admit as much to herself? ‘I won't do this any more. I can't.'

‘You knew what you were agreeing to.'

‘No I didn't, not at first, not until we had three children, then what was I supposed to do?'

‘But in all fairness, I didn't know for certain when we first married. I thought I could keep it under control. I thought it was a phase, something I might curb.'

‘Tim, you are a homosexual, not a drug addict or a gambler. It's not something that should be curbed. You should be free to be who you are,' Clara had snapped. She thought she ought to be free to be who she was as well.

‘I work in the City, Clara.'

‘Other gay men do too!'

‘Not old queers like me; young hotties. It's different for them.'

‘No it's not; at least it shouldn't be. Times have changed.' Clara had put down her glass, focusing all her energy on her husband.

‘I'm too old for change.' He'd shaken his head forlornly.

‘
I'm
not! This is ridiculous.
We
are ridiculous. I'm a woman, not facial hair.'

Tim had been irritated by her weak attempt at humour. This wasn't a moment for fun; it was in no way a laughing matter. He'd looked at his wife, carefully, and was struck (as he always was) by the beauty and symmetry of her features. She had always been a pleasure to look at, quite especially aesthetically pleasing. Neat, slim, not in any way excessive. It had been her trimness (of body and mind) that had attracted him. She had an aura of old-fashioned restraint that he appreciated, needed. He wished he'd been able to love her in the way a man was supposed to love his wife. It would have been so much more orderly. ‘My career aside, what will the children say? My parents? Our neighbours?'

‘I don't care what they'll say.'

‘But you've always cared.'

‘Then more fool me.' Clara had held the letter close to her heart and started to gently rock backwards and forwards in her seat, as though she was nursing a child. Tim had had no idea why she was behaving like this.

‘Let me get this right. You're leaving me as a consequence of Eddie Taylor being given three sheets of A4 notepaper, rather than two.'

‘Oh, Tim.'

‘You know he only wrote to you because there was extra paper!' Tim rarely raised his voice, but anguish and humiliation had pushed him into new territory. ‘Our thirty-eight-year marriage is over because there was extra paper!'

Clara had stopped rocking, straightened her shoulders and responded to Tim's outburst with her usual composure. ‘It's funny how things work out, isn't it,' she'd commented with a tone that approached serenity.

D
ean watched her materialise from the aeroplane toilet. The attractiveness of her face was almost cancelled out by the anxious expression she wore. Almost. And he felt mean. An old-fashioned emotion, something he usually only associated with Zoe and their occasional childhood tiffs. On the rare instance he had become exasperated with Zoe's clinginess – and had tried to shake her off so that he could hang out with boys his own age and cause trouble, rather than be troubled with the responsibility of babysitting Zoe – he'd always found that any fun he was trying to have was hampered by the fact that he knew she'd be sat by the window, alone, waiting for his return. He generally felt too mean to really enjoy himself with his new friends and would invariably find himself returning early to keep Zoe company. He'd be greeted by her anxious face, which on spotting him would instantly light up with gratitude. This Jo woman looked similarly dazed and concerned, although for less cause, Dean reminded himself, and she wasn't his sister; he didn't have to try to transform her expression, it wasn't his problem. He tried to swipe away the guilt that hovered irritatingly, like a gnat. Bloody hell, as if he wasn't wrung out enough. He had plenty of his own crap to deal with; the last thing he needed right now was someone else to be concerned about.

Yet he found he
was
concerned about her.

Or interested in her.

One of the two.

He'd nudged her tit with his elbow and his cock had shuddered. How was that even possible under the circumstances? His personal upheaval and her obvious insanity ought to have immunised him to any lusty thoughts. He really didn't want to go there. She had disaster zone written all over her.

Despite how it might appear, and despite what half of Chicago's female population believed, Dean didn't go out of his way to hurt women; he wasn't some psycho misogynist. He did hurt them, of course, but that was because they didn't listen to him. When he said he didn't want to get involved, that he wasn't looking for a relationship and definitely didn't want a girlfriend, that was what he meant. But they rarely listened. Every woman thought she would be the one to change him, fix him, keep him. So inevitably they would try, fail and get hurt. But Dean did endeavour to treat women fairly. Coolly but fairly.

If this Jo had been some hard, gold-digging bitch, he might have been able to ignore her, but she wasn't. She was delusional and misguided, but it was clear she meant no harm (although she was certainly going to do some). When she'd spoken about this Martin bloke, she hadn't gone on about the lifestyle he could offer her, the size of his wage packet or flat; she'd used phrases like ‘meant to be' and ‘fated'. She'd talked about finding her soulmate and all sorts of other rubbish. Despite himself, Dean was intrigued. Could anyone really believe that stuff? It was mental. He wondered whether he could save her from herself, if he put his mind to it. He liked a challenge. Anyway, he hadn't been able to concentrate on a single word in the newspaper; his thoughts kept wandering; he kept thinking about Eddie Taylor and his grey skin and rasping breath. That was the absolute last thing he wanted. He decided that at the very least, this Jo woman would be a distraction. Once she sat down, he held up a packet of shortbread and a mini Twix finger.

‘Thought you might be hungry since I put you off your lunch.' She glared at him, clearly not yet ready to relent. ‘You can have first pick,' he encouraged. He was used to women being angry with him, and he was used to them forgiving him pretty quickly too.

He flashed his best grin and on cue she said, ‘I'll have the shortbread.' Sometimes he felt sorry for women; they were so predictable, so pliable, so malleable. He gently tossed the biscuits to her, but she muddled up the catch, trapping the treat between her right hand and left boob. The boob he'd nudged outside the loo. It was a good boob. They both were. He decided to pretend not to notice either the poor catch or the shapely tits. He stuffed the Twix bar into his mouth in one go, chewed, and then turned to this strangely frank but hugely imprudent woman. He was feeling oddly invigorated; mischievous to the point of delirious. Shock, probably.

‘Look, I'm sorry if I offended you. It's none of my business.'

She glared at him as she nibbled on her shortbread. He held her gaze until she softened. He'd decided it would take to the count of three. Before he got to two, she spoke. ‘Oh, it doesn't matter, I was just making conversation,' she said, as she swallowed the biscuit. Her eyes belied her pronouncement. Her confiding in him had been more than a conversation starter. It dawned on him that she needed support. He couldn't approve of her nonsense, but he didn't need to make her feel worse about her desperation. There was no glory in that.

‘Should we talk about something else?' he offered. ‘Start over?' She nodded eagerly, allowing her cute smile to shine through. ‘So tell me a bit about yourself,' Dean said, meeting her smile with one of his own.