“Not terribly,” said Mike.
Even through the door the smell was not good. He asked Mike if he needed any help with some trepidation, and heard Mike say “No” with considerable relief.
“Imodium,” said Jamie. “I’ve got some Imodium in the bedroom.”
Mike said nothing.
Several minutes later Jamie was sitting at the kitchen table with a selection of over-the-counter pharmaceuticals spread out in front of him, like a native trader waiting for the men from the big boat.
Imodium. Antacid tablets. Paracetamol. Ibuprofen. Aspirin. Antihistamines. (Were antihistamines intended for that kind of allergic reaction? He wasn’t sure.)
He put the kettle on and checked that he had all the requisite teas and coffees to hand. There was a good half liter of semi-skimmed in the fridge. There was no drinking chocolate but there was an unopened tin of cocoa from an abortive baking project.
He was fully equipped.
After ten or so minutes he heard the
A hand appeared on the door frame and Mike maneuvered himself into view. He did not look healthy.
Jamie was about to ask what he could offer in terms of medication and hot drinks when Mike said, “I’m so sorry,” and headed down the hall toward the front door.
By the time Jamie had got to his feet Mike had closed the front door behind him. Jamie paused. Being good meant looking after people. It didn’t mean keeping them prisoner. And obviously Mike could see now. Or he wouldn’t have left.
Would he?
Jamie went to the window and lifted the edge of the curtain to glance up and down the street. It was empty. He was fairly certain that blind people didn’t move at that kind of speed.
He went upstairs. The bathroom was spotless.
He was still too drunk to drive. He grabbed his keys and jacket and went out the front door, locking it behind him.
He could have rung for a taxi but he didn’t want to wait. It would take half an hour to walk to Tony’s flat, but he needed the fresh air. And if he woke Tony up, well, this was more important than sleep.
He set off down Wood Vale Gardens and over Park Road in front of the hospital. The rain had stopped and most house lights were off by now. The streets were full of a dirty orange glow and the shadows under cars were thick and black.
Tony was right. He’d been selfish. You had to make compromises if you wanted to share your life with another person.
He crossed Priory Road.
He’d ring Katie tomorrow. She was probably getting everything out of proportion. Which was understandable if she and Ray were having a rough patch. His father going crazy? His mother leaving? He didn’t know which was harder to imagine.
A drunken cyclist zigzagged past.
His father worrying too much and his mother saying she couldn’t take much more. That he could imagine. That was pretty much situation normal.
It would be all right. It would have to be all right. He was going to that wedding with Tony come hell or high water.
He was walking down Allison Road when a small dog came out of an alleyway. No, not a dog. A fox. That weightless trot. That bushy tail.
A car engine started up and the fox slid into an alleyway.
He reached Vale Road at half past midnight.
His mood had lifted during the walk. He thought about trying to look sad, then realized it was a stupid idea. He didn’t want Tony back because he’d had a horrible evening. It was the horrible evening which made him realize that he wanted Tony back. Forever. And that was a happy thought.
He rang the bell and waited for thirty seconds.
He rang the bell again.
Another thirty seconds passed before he heard footsteps. Tony opened the door wearing his boxer shorts and nothing else. There was a steely expression in his eyes. “Jamie…?”
“I’m sorry,” said Jamie.
“It’s OK. What’s happened?”
“No. I mean sorry for everything. Everything else.”
“Meaning?”
Jamie gathered himself. He should have planned this a little more carefully. “For making you leave. For…Tony, look, I’ve had a shitty evening and it’s made me realize lots of things-”
“Jamie, it’s the middle of the bloody night. I’ve got work in the morning. What is this about?”
Deep breath. “I miss you,” said Jamie. “And I want you back.”
“You’re pissed, aren’t you.”
“No. Well, I was. But I’m not now…Listen, Tony. I’m serious.”
Tony’s expression didn’t change. “I’m going back to bed. It’s probably a good idea if you went back to bed as well.”
“You’ve got someone in there with you, haven’t you.” Jamie was starting to cry. “That’s why you don’t want me to come in.”
“Grow up, Jamie.”
“Fuck.”
Tony started to close the door.
Jamie had assumed Tony would let him in at the very least. So they could talk. It was the same selfishness all over again. Thinking everyone would fall in with his plan. Jamie could see it now. But it was too difficult to say this in half a second.
“Wait.” He stepped onto the threshold to prevent Tony closing the door.
Tony recoiled slightly. “Christ. You smell of vomit.”
“I know,” said Jamie, “but it’s not my vomit.”
Tony placed the flat of his hand on Jamie’s chest and pushed him back down onto the step. “Good night, Jamie.”
The door closed.
Jamie stood on the step for a few minutes. He wanted to lie down on the little patch of concrete by the dustbins and sleep there till morning so Tony came out and saw him and felt sorry for him. But he could see straightaway that this was as stupid and self-indulgent and childish as the rest of his stupid, self-indulgent, childish plan.
He sat on the curb and wept.
57
Jean was going to have to arrange the wedding herself. She was clearly not going to get much help from the rest of the family.
Honestly. She loved her daughter. But for all Katie’s talk about women being as good as men, she could be heroically disorganized sometimes.
“Laid-back” was the term Katie used.
Coming home from university with all her clothes in black rubbish bags and leaving them in the open garage so the binmen took them away. Spilling that paint over the cat. Losing her passport in Malta.
Poor George. She did give him the runaround. It was like two creatures from different planets.
Twelve years arguing over toothpaste. George assuming she did it deliberately to wind him up. Spitting it into
