Swimming Upstream (4 page)

“Zara?” called a voice from outside the door.

“In here!” Zara called.

The door opened and Doug’s head appeared. He
smiled affectionately at the pair of us, laying sprawled in the empty bath,
then helped us out one by one. Zara followed him out to the landing. He smiled
and put his hand on her arm, then turned and looked at me warily, as I came out
behind her. Standing next to him she looked even tinier. She could barely have
been five feet tall. She swung from side to side on her black stockinged heel
and they both watched as Larsen came running up the stairs.

“There you are,” he said to me. “Hello Zara.”

“Hi,” said Zara, who seemed to be moving
backwards, with Doug behind her.

“Are you okay?” asked Larsen, looking deeply into
my eyes, his face racked with concern. A door slammed behind us and we were
alone.

“I have to go.”

“Why? Don't go,” he pleaded. “Aren't you feeling
well?”

“Not really.”

“Come on, you need to lie down,” said Larsen, and
before I could protest he took my arm and manoeuvred me into one of the
bedrooms.

The room was dark. Larsen eased me down onto a
mattress on the floor, took off my shoes and sat beside me. I could feel the
vibrations of the music thumping underneath me. Moonlight streamed through the
bare window, which had no curtains, and my eyes adjusted slowly. Up on the
ceiling above me, a number of glow-in-the-dark stars twinkled down, reminding
me of my conversation with Zara. To my left, beside my head, a stack of vinyl
albums stretched the width of the room. An acoustic guitar was propped in the
corner next to a raggedy-edged poster of Jimmi Hendrix. The room smelled
vaguely of old cigarette butts.

“Is this your room?” I asked.

Larsen nodded.

I sat up uncomfortably. “What's your girlfriend
going to say if she comes up and finds me in here?”

“My girlfriend? What are you talking about?”
Larsen frowned and my heart leaped. “Ah, you mean Jude?” He laughed. “You
didn't think..? Jude's not my girlfriend. She lives here, that's all. She
shares the room downstairs with Bri.”

“Bri,” I echoed, and lay back down again.

“Brian. Her boyfriend. They're both artists -
those are their paintings downstairs, his and hers. Only he's not here; he's at
a lock-in in the Jugglers Arms, which is why she's pissed off. She's okay,
though. She's gone round Marion's.”

“Marion?” I added the name to my mental register.

“Doug's girlfriend. Her and Jude are best buddies.”

I was confused. “But -”

“Marion doesn't like parties,” said Larsen. He
shifted on the mattress beside me. “Now enough about Jude and Marion. Let's
talk about something more interesting, like - you and me.”

I looked up into his
eyes and he looked back into mine. He was so beautiful. He was the most
handsome man I had ever laid eyes on. But more than that, there was something
familiar about him. It was as if I knew him, already.

Larsen lit two cigarettes and passed me one.

“So why did you drop out of College?” I asked him.

“Failed my exams. Like I said.”

“You didn’t think of re-sits?”

“Nah.” Larsen shrugged. “What’s the point? That’s
just going backwards. I believe in going forwards.”

“No U-turns,” I smiled.

“Precisely.” Larsen smiled back and kissed me on
the cheek. I felt a shiver of excitement running up my back.   He took a puff
of his cigarette. “Besides, that was the old man’s dream for me, not mine. Get
a degree. Become a teacher.”

“A teacher?”

“Yeah. They’re both teachers. Academics. They both
lecture at the University.”

 “And that wasn’t for you?”

“No. My dream was always to play music.”

“Let me guess. They don’t approve?”

“My dad thinks I’m wasting my time.”

“And your mum?”

“She doesn’t even acknowledge that this is what I
do. Her eyes glaze over if I mention music. Unless it’s Mahler. Or Mozart. Or
Mendelssohn. She’s German,” he added. “She’s fluent in five languages. But she
pretends not to understand if you say anything she doesn’t want to hear.”

“Do all her composers have to begin with “M”? I
smiled.

Larsen grinned. “Something like that.”

“So you’re a closet academic. And middle class to
boot,” I teased.

“Like I said, it’s how you feel, not the family
you were born to.” Larsen sounded defensive, and I regretted what I’d said.

“It’s a shame about your degree, though,” I said. “A
degree can get you a long way.”

“I thought you were packing it in?” Larsen
challenged me.

“Well, I didn’t say that. I mean, it’s early days.
I don’t think it’s come to that yet.”

“Your call,” said Larsen, and shrugged. I sensed
he wanted to hear me say that I was leaving college, and I wondered why he
cared. I was strangely and secretly glad that he did.

I looked up at him. “Karen said you had just
broken up with someone.”

“Karen told you that?”

I nodded.

“Yeah. I have. It’s been dead in the water for a
long time now though.”

“How long were you with her?”

 “A few years. Five, maybe.”

“That’s a long time.” I paused, and then asked, “Is
there any chance of you getting back together?”

 Larsen looked at me as if I were mad. “I told
you. I never go back, to anything,” he said. “Once it's over, it's over.”

There was an awkward silence.

“It doesn't matter,” I said, uncertainly. “I’m
sorry I asked.”

“Time for another drink,” he said, and he jumped
up and headed out of the room.

I could hear people milling around on the landing,
and someone called out “Hey, Tyler” as he passed them on the stairs. I lay and
watched the shadows cast on the ceiling by the passing traffic, while the music
throbbed below. After ten minutes had passed, it started to dawn on me that
maybe he wasn't going to come back. Of course he would, eventually, since this
was his bedroom but I couldn't just stay there, not for much longer, not if he
didn't want me there. I wondered if Jude had come back from Marion's and was
once again crying on his shoulder over the elusive Brian.

I turned over and buried my face in the pillow. It
smelled sweet and musky, an indefinable aroma of sleep and shampoo and sweat,
of Larsen. I inhaled deeply, breathing him in. Five more minutes, I kept
telling myself. Five more minutes, then I'll go. But every five minutes was
followed by another. Eventually, I sat up and felt around on the floor for my
shoes. I was about to get up when the door opened and Larsen stepped into the
room, holding the remains of a bottle of vodka and two paper cups.

“Why, oh why, oh why,” he said, “do people bring
brown ale to parties?”

“Because it's cheap and no-one likes it,” I said,
almost laughing with relief. “And they’ll still have something to drink when
they’ve drunk what everyone else has brought.”

“Spot on. Bloody scroungers.” He looked at me. “And
where do you think you're going?”

“Nowhere,” I smiled and lay down on the bed again.

“Look, I got this. Took
me a while to find it.” Larsen kneeled down on the floor beside me and poured
two generous measures of vodka into the paper cups, and handed one to me. “So,”
he said. “Where were we?”

Several hours later I became aware that the music had
stopped and that the house had fallen silent.

Larsen leaned over, pushed my hair away from my
forehead and kissed me gently on the lips. His breath was sweet and warm.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“I dunno, three or four.”

“Do you think everyone’s gone?”

“Yep. Or crashed out.”

I propped myself up on one elbow and peered around
the room, blinking and trying to focus in the dark. The moon had shifted. All I
could see were darkened shapes and Larsen's silhouette above me.

“Do you think I should go home?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I think you should stay here, with
me.”

There had been many times in my life when I had
been indecisive, many times I'd felt ambivalent about things and unsure of what
I really wanted (especially when I got it). But I knew beyond a shadow of a
doubt that I wanted Larsen, more than I'd ever wanted anything or anyone in my
life.

Larsen sat up with his back to me while he unlaced
his trainers. I could just about see his shoulder muscles moving up and down
inside his t-shirt. With a deep-seated sense of foreboding I wondered if I was
going to have to pay for this at some point in the future, if the Gods would
get jealous, as the saying went; but I didn't care.

“How're you doing, are you okay?” Larsen was
leaning over me again.

“I'm okay,” I said. “I have to admit, horizontal
is good.”

“It's good for me too,” he confided, as he slid
under the covers and covered my body with his own.

Martin stood by the car in silence and held the back door
open.

“Uh uh, sprained ankles in the front,” said
Catherine, tugging at the passenger door and helping me inside. She climbed
into the back seat with my crutches.

Martin got into the driver’s seat beside me and
started the engine. He drove silently out of the hospital gates and out onto
the ringroad. Once or twice I caught him glancing in my direction. When I
glanced back at him, he looked back at the road ahead of him and smiled. I was
a little taken aback at his cheek. Here he was, engaged to be married, and yet
he was chatting up strange women at the swimming pool and inviting them for
coffee. Surely he must at least be wondering if I was going to tell Catherine? The
tension between the two of us was palpable. Catherine, however, didn’t seem to
notice anything and talked all the way back about school, telling various
anecdotes about the two of us for Martin’s benefit.

The strange thing was that I barely remembered any
of the events that Catherine was talking about.

“Do you remember that time I came over to your
house?” asked Catherine, as we stopped at the traffic lights on Hills Road. I
noticed that Martin was going the wrong way back, or at least taking a longer
route than necessary, but I didn’t like to comment. “We must have been ten or
eleven. Your dad threw your bike onto the neighbour’s skip because you had left
it on the path outside?”

“No,” I said, surprised. “I really don’t.”

“Go, on, you must remember. You promised to put it
away in future but he wouldn’t let you have it back. We sneaked out later to
see if we could rescue it, but it was gone.”

“I don’t remember Catherine, honest. I don’t even
remember ever having a bike.”

“Well, I guess you didn’t after that,” said
Catherine, quietly.  

I turned back and smiled at her. “It’s not you,
it’s me. There’s loads of stuff I seem to have forgotten.”

“Me too,” said Catherine, cheerfully. “Mind you, I
did miss a lot of school. Glandular fever. I had it every summer. And
bronchitis in the winter.”

“Sticky mattress more like,” said Martin, speaking
for the first time. “Your parents were too soft on you.”

I felt Catherine tensing behind me.

“You caught up, though,” I said quickly. “You
didn’t fall behind. That was amazing.”

“I was good at exams, that’s all. I knew the
formula. How to give the examiners what they wanted. I wasn’t naturally brainy
like you. Lizzie was the clever one,” she said to Martin. “She got five A’s in
her first year report and she was Student of the Year. I was so envious.”

“Hmm,” I sighed. “Now that I
do
remember. The
girls in my class buried me in the materials box during needlework and took it
in turns to sit on me.”

Martin let out a short snort of laughter. “Sorry,”
he added.

“That’s okay,” I smiled. “I’m over it.”

We turned right off Gonville Place into Mill Road.
The house would be empty and in darkness, of course, but since we had left the
hospital I realised I’d been harbouring a small and selfish hope that maybe the
tour would have finished early and that Larsen would be here. I really missed
him, I realised that now. Maybe we could talk things through, be honest with
one another, discover what was wrong and fix it - find a new bright way
forward, together. Telling Catherine about him at the hospital, talking about
how we had met, had reminded me of the passion between us, of how much he had
meant to me, and still did. It had reminded me of exactly how much I had to
lose.

“Which street is it then?” asked Martin.

“Sorry, sorry. Just here, turn left,” I
apologised.

Martin pulled up outside the house. I thanked him
for the lift. He shrugged by way of reply and nodded at the house. “No-one
home?”

“No,” I said. “My boyfriend’s away. Due back
tomorrow.”

“Pity,” he said quietly as Catherine got out of
the car to help me out.

I turned to look at him. What was a pity? That I
was on my own tonight? Or that I had a boyfriend who was coming back tomorrow? Martin
just looked back at me and smiled.

Catherine opened my door. She handed me my
crutches and helped me out of the car.

“Can you manage?” she asked. “We can help you
inside if you like?”

“It’s okay. I’m going to have to get used to these
things sometime.”

Catherine stared up at the house. “Are you sure
you’ll be all right on your own? I don’t like to leave you.”

“I'll be fine. Honest,” I smiled.

She held me steady while I hooked my swimming bag
over my shoulders and fished around in the side pocket for a pen. I wrote my
telephone number down on the back of her hand.

“I'll call you,” she smiled. “I really want to
stay in touch.”

“Me too,” I said, pleased.

We hugged, and said
goodbye.

I pushed open the front door and walked into the living
room, hoping irrationally for the habitually irritating sight of Larsen's
jacket dumped on the stairs and his trainers under the coffee table. But - nothing.
The room was empty and the magnolia and fawn-flecked carpet stretched ahead,
unspoilt. I poked my head round the door to the kitchen. Instead of the usual
sink full of plates and cups and the crumby work surfaces I'd been half
expecting, the sink was empty and every surface still gleamed and sparkled,
just as I'd left it that morning. I checked the answer phone machine. There
were no messages from Larsen.