You Had Me At Hello Part 40

'It's not that I didn't mind ... I drifted. I avoided asking myself if it was enough and then the wedding meant there was no way of not asking myself.'

'The "happy ever after" lie has a lot to answer for,' Caroline says, staring into the middle distance. 'You're not happy ever after with anyone. You choose the person most worth persevering with, that's all. I mean, "disappearing off into the sunset together". Where everything is always bathed in a rosy glow. Am I the only one to notice the sodding problem the whole point of a sunset is you never reach it? It's never where you are?'

'Am I allowed to say yes?'

Caroline smiles. 'If I ever have a daughter, this will be a fairytale-free household, let me tell you.'

'I don't expect to be happy ever after. Just happier.'

'But it all comes down to what we call happy. I think we're the generation that's spent too much time thinking about what we haven't got instead of what we do have.'

This is not the time to tangle with Caroline, I realise. She looks over.

'I was jealous of you at uni, Rach. I still am in some ways.'

This almost makes me spit my drink.

'Me? Why on earth ...'

'You're fun. Men think you're fun. I'm not fun. I can't help it, it's the way I am. This is why you ended up entertaining Ben in a corner at your party while I talked stamp duty with his wife. Part of me thinks that's what Graeme was looking for. Not s.e.x. A laugh.'

'You are,' my voice thickens, 'an absolutely great laugh. Not right now, right now you're a half-p.i.s.sed weepy mess. But usually.'

'Thanks,' she says, through our weak giggling. Then: 'Will you think about what I said, about Rhys?'

I nod. 'I don't think things are ever as simple on the inside as they look on the outside.'

'I know. But Rhys loves you. Really loves you, and wants a future together. I know he thinks you're the only one for him and he'd do anything for you. From where I'm sitting, that doesn't come along all that often.'

Once in a lifetime at most, I know. I've had my quota. It's my turn to reach for the bottle.

59.

Rhys came round to call at my parents' house, unannounced, three weeks after I'd arrived back home from university. I was still clambering over boxes full of rolled-up posters, lever arch files and pots and pans, managing my mild depression at the anti-climax that was the end of a degree and the start of the rest of my life.

My dad let him in and their voices floated up the stairwell, Rhys having a beyond-the-strictest-call-of-duty length of conversation about the vagaries of re-tiling the downstairs bathroom. He always made an effort with them, I thought, in delayed grat.i.tude.

'h.e.l.lo,' Rhys said, when he finally appeared in the chaos of my unpacking. 'How're you doing?'

'All right, thanks,' I said. I was surprised and pleased to see him. I thought we'd made things clear not acrimonious, just clear the night of the ball.

I'd sat him down, by the side of the light-speckled dance floor, and explained that while I hugely appreciated his coming, it didn't fundamentally change anything. I left out the part where I'd fallen in love with someone else and s.h.a.gged him, judging it gratuitous cruelty. Not to mention indecent haste. He took this fairly well, though he meekly pointed out he'd had a pint on his way to the Palace, fancied another and would be over the limit, so would I mind him cras.h.i.+ng on my floor? I had a feeling that time was of the essence in finding Ben, but I ignored my overwhelming instinct to cut and run after him in favour of doing things properly. There would be a tomorrow. I said yes.

'How are you?' I asked, as Rhys loitered with intent.

'Yeah, good.'

'Do you want a cup of tea? Once I've done this shelf?' I was halfway through re-loading my books. 'Mind you, my mum will probably make one any second.'

Rhys came all the way in, pus.h.i.+ng the door shut with a click.

'I've been thinking about some of the things you said, about me taking you for granted. I suppose I have been.'

I nodded, unsure how to reply.

'What are your plans now?' Rhys asked, finding a box that was sufficiently solidly filled to perch on.

'I'm going to do this journalism course, then I'm going to move back to Manchester. Get a job on the paper there.'

'Yeah?'

'Looks like a few of my friends are staying on.'

'If you want to give things with us a second chance, I'll come with you.'

'What? What about the band?'

Rhys shuffled his feet. 'Ed's saying he's going to move to London. Even if he doesn't, I reckon the writing's on the wall. And not as if I can't come back for rehearsals.'

'You'd do that for me? I didn't even think you liked Manchester much.'

'Ah, it's grown on me. So, what do you say? Fresh start. Equal partners. Flat share strictly if you say you're keen on the idea. My macaroni cheese some nights for dinner, if you're very good.'

Rhys grinned. He undeniably looked appealing, with his tarry mop of hair and black Levi denim jacket and newfound eagerness for my approval. He was a welcome trophy of my grown-up years, amid the detritus of my floral-sprigged, pine four-poster childhood bedroom.

I thought about it. I thought about another person who, I had discovered the day before, had left the country without a goodbye. The night before the graduation ball had taken on a dreamlike, did-that-really-happen quality. Maybe it was what Ben said after all: a moment of madness, as politicians have it, high emotion and high hopes but not real life. Perhaps he realised his pa.s.sion for me was just fear of change, grabbing the nearest familiar thing to hand to steady himself. Grabbing it quite literally.

And Ben definitely wasn't sitting here, offering to shape his life round mine. His life was continuing on the other side of the world, very definitely without me. I had to face it. Whatever was felt and whatever had been said, the fact was, he was gone for good.

My mum shouted up from the bottom of the stairs that she'd put the kettle on, with the aim of discouraging any untoward activity. It was going to be difficult at home until I found my own place, and lonely when I did.

There was an easy path before me, and an infinitely tougher alternative. I ignored the instinct that told me which was the right one. I said yes.

60.

Rhys arranges to meet me at the Ruby Lounge, the venue in the Northern Quarter where his band is playing in the mid-week local showcase slot. We can have a drink, he explains, while he's waiting for the rest of the group to arrive for the sound check. It could seem as if he's fitting me in as afterthought but I appreciate what he's thinking. We both want to meet when the meeting will have a conclusion that isn't last orders, which could be fraught with risk: either loving or fighting.

Rhys is waiting for me outside, head leaning back, one leg bent and the sole of a shoe against the wall. For a moment I don't recognise him because of his hair he's grown the dark dye out and it's back to his natural brown. I've only ever seen that colour on his childhood photos. He hates it because it has coppery lights in it that he deems ginger. It was a month into dating before I discovered his Byronic locks came from a bottle. ('There are no cool ginger rock stars,' he used to say when I'd encourage him to go au naturel. 'Mick Hucknall?' I used to ask. 'I said rock, and cool,' he'd reply.) The Ruby Lounge is a wood-floored, low ceilinged bas.e.m.e.nt that looks great when lit violet by night, your ears filled with noise and senses clouded by alcohol. It's starkly odd and flat by day, like seeing a Folies Bergere showgirl with her hairnet and moisturiser on. The stage area is cluttered by a drum kit, guitars, snaking leads and a microphone stand.

I imagine staying to watch them. Seeing Rhys with his head bowed and guitar strap across his shoulder would body swap me with my teenage self, watching adoringly from the crowd, suffused with pride, almost wors.h.i.+pful. Maybe it all started to go wrong when he banned me from his gigs.

'Drink?' Rhys says, ducking behind the bar. 'Sit anywhere you like.'

'c.o.ke, thanks,' I say, as he produces a couple of gla.s.ses and squirts from a gurgling soda siphon.

I slip my bag from my shoulder, find a table and get that peculiar sense of formality with someone so familiar. Rhys pulls out a stool and sits down. I see he's got some stubble, has lost weight. He looks well. Very well. I'm not proud to discover that while I'm glad he's coping, it dents my ego the tiniest bit. It's one thing to tell someone they're better off without you, it's another to be presented with the hale and hearty proof.

'You look great,' I say.

'Ta,' he says, stiffly.

'Your hair really suits you like that.'

'Yeah, well,' he says. 'Can't pretend the Clairol is yours any more, can I?'

This begs a question about who's looking in his bathroom cabinets. I only repeat: 'I like it.'

Rhys launches into house valuations and we both find refuge in talking about tedious practicalities. I get the distinct feeling we're here so he can say something he hasn't worked up to yet.

'What was happening the other day then? When I called?' he asks.

'Oh ...' I still don't want to relive it. 'I feel as if I'm starring in the pilot of a show called Everybody Hates Rachel, hoping it doesn't get picked up for a series. You haven't acquired the powers of an omnipotent deity since we broke up, have you?'

'If I had, the Blades would have won the FA Cup and those two lipstick lesbians on our street would be asking me round for fondue.'

I laugh. 'Could happen.'

'Nah. The flat back four has been useless this season.'

We both laugh. In the wreckage of our relations.h.i.+p I can see the things we once liked about each other, the foundations we built the structure on. It was so long ago we're not history, we're archaeology.

Rhys glances sideways, hands clasping his elbows as he rests them on the table. He retreats from friendliness, a little.

'I've been thinking about us and I want to get something out in the open,' he says.

'Oh?'

'When things went wrong with us ... I'm not talking about the wedding, although I don't think the ha.s.sle of planning it helped.' He makes an I-haven't-finished-face as I open my mouth to object. 'It was before that. Long before that. Around the time you finished university. And with me, for a bit.'

My muscles tense. I wonder where this is going. I also resist the urge to point out this means he's admitting things haven't been right, which is a definite change in his position.

'I think I know why,' Rhys continues.

I try not to look very apprehensive.

'I don't know if you knew or what, but I was seeing someone else for a while.'

Whoosh. Right out of leftfield. 'What?! Who?'

'Marie. At The s.h.i.+p.'

'The big blowsy punk fan-girl who always flirted with everyone? The barmaid?'

'She was voluptuous.'

I ignore the ill-judged gag. 'When?'

'Last few months, before you came back from university. And a little while after. It was completely over by the time we moved to Manchester.'

'Why?' Might as well get the full set of the Ws Who, When, Where, Whatthef.u.c.k?

'She came on to me. I thought we were going to settle down after you graduated. I wasn't seeing much of you and I suppose it felt like my last chance to muck about. Which sounds s.h.i.+t, but there it is.'

I let this sink in. 'Did you love her?'

Rhys snorts. 'No. I'm not just saying that. Absolutely not.'

'Did you ever consider leaving me for her?'

'Never.'

'Why?'

'It wasn't anything. We had a future. Or so I always thought.'

'Is this why you didn't like me coming to your gigs? I cramped your style with groupies?'

'No, you really did put me off. One of the reasons I never told you about Marie before is I knew you'd start suspecting me of everything. I've got no motive to lie here, have I? There's nothing else.'

And there I was, arrogantly thinking I knew the nature of the beast better than Caroline.

'Why are you telling me this?'

'It was about time, that's all. I thought you should know. Sorry I didn't tell you before, but, you know ...'

'No, I don't. We've split up and you think now's the time to put this in my head?'

'I thought you might go ballistic and leave me. You've got that covered.'

'Oh Jesus, well if it's only about you and the effect on you then sure, throw it all in.'

So much for polite formality. I'd like to hurl one of the stools at him. He looks an odd combination of three-parts-mortified to one-part-gratified. As if he wanted proof I cared. It makes me even angrier.