About Last Night - Chapters 13 & 14
'Lucky is now between us, licking our faces in turn. For a moment, I want to trade places with the dog. To learn how unconditional, unafraid love feels like.'
Dear gentle reader,
I owe you an apology, I’ve not sent out a chapter last week because I was in Romania, seeing my family and being a good citizen by voting in the presidential elections last Sunday. But now I am back and for your patience you will be rewarded with two chapters! How about that? Enjoy ;)
Catch-up on Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11 and Chapter 12.
July, 1998
Amy looked unrecognisable. She was wearing a mini tartan skirt and a black vest, Doc Martens boots she had acquired in secret in a charity shop, and her copper hair held together in a top bun with a velvet scrunchie. She was even wearing make-up. Silver eye shadow and dark lipstick. Her parents would have died on the spot if they saw her dressed like that.
‘I’m a bad girl,’ she said, narrowing her eyes, with an arm on her hip, trying to act as one, like Sandy in Grease.
‘So bad, that only yesterday you were drinking tea at home with your good friend Jane Austen,’ I said, mocking her.
She blushed. ‘What if I was?’ she said, a frown etching between her eyes. ‘I can still have fun.’
‘Ok, let’s have fun,’ I said, trying to placate her. ‘But remember we’re out in the real world, and anything can happen. Let’s make sure we stick together. And look out for each other.’
‘Whatevs,’ she said, trying to act all cool like the kids she’d seen in American teen movies.
‘Amy Bernadette Young,’ I said, squeezing her shoulders. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? Not everyone has good intentions. I just want you to be careful, okay?’
‘I can’t believe you called me Bernadette,’ she said, offended.
‘Well, it is your name,’ I said, with an evil smile I couldn’t hide. I knew she hated being called after Saint Bernadette of Lourdes.
Amy kicked a pebble on the ground with her Doc Marten. ‘I just wish people stopped treating me like I’m a saint made of fine china.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Pep talk over. Now. Let’s dance.’
We made our way towards the clearing and joined the people dancing. A DJ was blasting out a tune I recognised. We jumped as high as we could and threw our hands up in the air, under precise instructions from House of Pain. We felt free, weightless, suspended in a time bubble. I started to loosen up, thinking that maybe I had to stop being so overprotective. Why did I always expect for the worst to happen? Maybe we could allow ourselves to just have fun.
‘Whoa,’ I said, holding a hand to my heart and panting. ‘I need to pee. Let’s go.’
‘No,’ said Amy, as she kept jumping. ‘I don’t want to stop.’
‘But if you don’t come with me, we will lose each other,’ I screamed into her ear to overcome the music.
‘I’ll be right here, I promise,’ she said, breathing loudly, continuing to jerk her body in all directions.
I looked around, my legs crossed, struggling to convince her to follow me and control my bladder at the same time. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll look for the cotton candy stall. Don’t you dare move away from it. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
‘Okay,’ said Amy and carried on dancing as if possessed by an overactive spirit.
The queues to the loos were ridiculous and I worried I’d not find Amy if I was gone too long. Dozens of people appeared from everywhere, like mushrooms after the rain. I took the rash decision to go in the forest and pee. I had to go deeper into the woods not to be seen by anyone, but I found a spot. Perfectly hidden from the path, behind a fallen tree trunk, with tall, overgrown grasses that hid and muffled everything. I struggled with the button of my cut-off jeans before I squatted down in sweet relief. I was just pulling up my shorts when I heard a noise behind me. I emerged onto the path and my heart nearly gave out when I saw a figure I recognised.
‘Hello, poppet,’ said Trevor. ‘Funny finding you here.’
‘Oh, hey, Trevor,’ I said, gearing up for fight or flight.
‘Where is your little ginger friend?’ he said, his voice revealing that he was drunk.
‘Waiting for me,’ I said. ‘I gotta go.’
I tried to push past him, but he grabbed me by the hand. ‘Not before you have a drink with me,’ he said, taking a flask of spirit out of his pocket.
‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘I really have to go. Amy will be worried.’
‘Just a sip, come on. Don’t be such a party pooper.’
The path was suddenly empty and the noises of the festival felt far away. I didn’t realise I had come so deep into the woods. I was alone with him and, even though he was drunk, he was stronger than me. I had to try a different tactic.
‘Ok, one sip,’ I said.
‘Let’s sit down,’ he said and pushed me down next to him on the fallen tree trunk. ‘Here.’ He gave me the flask.
‘Where is David?’ I said, trying to keep him in a friendly conversation zone, while I figured out a way to get away from him.
‘Fuck if I know,’ he said. ‘David is a cunt.’
Screaming was not an option. Who would hear me with all that blasting music?
‘What makes you say that?’ I said, taking a very small sip from his flask and feeling the liquid burning my insides.
‘He thinks he’s better than me,’ he said.
My worry suddenly shifted. Amy. While I was biding my time here, Amy was alone in a crowd of strangers and anything could happen to her. She wasn’t like me. She didn’t know how to defend herself or how to talk her way out of trouble. She didn’t have a high threshold for pain.
‘Thanks for the drink, Trevor, but I have to get back,’ I said, giving him his flask back, my voice a little shaky.
‘More,’ he said and shoved the flask back into my hand. I took another cautious sip.
‘She’s a handful that Amy, isn’t she?’ he said, out of the blue, raising the hairs on my arms. ‘I’ll be shocked if someone doesn’t get into her knickers tonight,’ he laughed.
Just like that day in the school yard when my body acted against my better judgement, I raised a hand to slap Trevor, but he caught me and held me by my wrist.
‘Don’t talk about my friend like that,’ I hissed.
‘You little bitch,’ he said into my ear, droplets of spit landing on my face. I closed my eyes shut, looking for a safe place inside myself. ‘You ungrateful little bitch. Who do you think you are?’
He waved the flask in front of me and forced me to drink. He opened my mouth with his fingers and forced the flask down. His fingers tasted of nicotine and pee. I gagged and choked, the whiskey burning my insides like gasoline. He forced one of my hands behind me just like Fierce Ellie did and put his other hand at my throat. I struggled for air and fumbled with my free hand, trying to reach for Ma’ necklace. I remembered thinking I could not lose my necklace or I would be forever lost. And that was the last thing I remembered.
May, 2018
The venue is an underground theatre near the Old Street roundabout. I hold out the flyer Tom gave me to check I haven’t reached not another dead end. This should be the right one. The Courtyard Theatre. I go down the stairs through a narrow corridor and into a crowded bar that smells like sweat and perfume. I have to wait for ages to get a drink at the bar. People keep pushing me and talking loudly to each other, which normally doesn’t bother me, except that tonight it does. I just wish everyone can shut up for a moment, so I can gather the strength to order a lemonade instead of wine.
I plan to go and say hi to Tom after the performance. Which shouldn’t be too hard to do, given that we are friends, but for some obscure reason, I’m a little nervous. What’s he gonna say to his fellow actors when I go looking for him backstage? Meet Helena, my friend from AA? We have a dog together?
I take a seat somewhere in the middle while people shuffle in and around me, drinks in hand, chatting loudly until finally, everyone settles. The lights are dimmed, and a guy in black tights and a red cape around his shoulders comes on stage. He makes me think of the Devil.
‘Welcome to Drunken Shakespeare,’ he says, and people around me clap like mad. ‘Tonight’s performance is A Midsummer’s Night Dream.’ More clapping and some screaming. The guy keeps walking to and fro on the stage, talking to the audience: ‘The rules are simple. We pick a member of the cast and get him drunk. At any point during the performance one of you, esteemed members of the public, has the right to stop the play and ask the fortunate actor to drink.’ Applause and screaming and laughter mingle all around me. He looks whimsically in the audience. ‘But this can only happen three times during the course of the evening, so use it wisely. Use your power only when you see that he or she starts remembering lines.’ Thunderous laughter explodes. ‘For this purpose, you have this trumpet to blow when you want the actor to drink. Now, who will it be?’
I make myself smaller in my seat while the guy next to me works himself into a frenzy, desperate to be invested with the power of the trumpet.
‘Who will it be?’ repeats the man coming down from the stage. He walks up and down the aisle, scanning the audience with expert eyes in search of the right person.
I literally hide behind my neighbour, who manages, in his frenzy, to elbow me right in the face.
‘Oi, watch it,’ I say, irritated, blowing my cover.
‘How about you, madam?’ says trumpet man, walking straight at me and handing me the trumpet.
‘Me?’ I say, flabbergasted. It’s the last thing I want.
‘What’s your name, loverly lady?’
‘Helena,’ I say, self-conscious. I should have stayed at home.
‘Helena,’ he gasps. ‘Did you hear? Just like our character,’ he says, turning towards the audience behind him. They are all beside themselves.
From what I remember of Shakespeare’s play, Helena is in love with Demetrius, but he leaves her in favour of Hermia, whom he is due to marry. But Hermia is in love with Lysander, and the two lovers elope during the night. In the hopes of winning Demetrius back, Helena tells him about the lovers’ plan. But he goes after Hermia, trying to win her back. Just like me, Helena doesn’t have much luck in love or otherwise.
‘This is a sign,’ says the host. ‘A very good sign.’
‘But…’ I try to protest. The man is already back on the stage. He moves his cape around with dramatic gestures and, taking a step back, says: ‘Bring in the drink trolley.’
At this point, a man wearing a white shirt, a waistcoat and a bow-tie comes in bringing a brass drinks trolley.
‘My, my, what have we got here?’ says the host, going round and round the trolley. ‘Miguel, tell us what you have brought for us tonight?’
Miguel takes the stage and, clearing his throat, speaks with a heavy Spanish accent: ‘We have vodka, gin, beer and, of course, Rioja.’
Applause and laughter ensue again. ‘And can you make us a martini?’ asks the host.
‘Of course,’ says Miguel and puts his left hand over his heart, white napkin hanging and all. Then he leans down his trolley and rummages through, taking out an oversized inflatable olive. ‘I am professional,’ he says to the audience’s roaring laughter. By this point, I’m laughing too. It’s just like Tom to star in such a silly production.
‘Now,’ says the host. ‘Shall we find out who is getting drunk tonight?’
‘Yeeeeessss,’ says the audience. I find myself sweating at the thought of someone getting purposely drunk in front of me. And because of me.
The host produces a bowler hat from backstage and shows it to the public. ‘Inside this hat, I have the names of the main characters in the play. We will extract one name with your help,’ he says and points to someone in the audience. ‘You, sir. Will you help us pick a name?’
The man stands up and shuffles his way towards the stage. He is a rotund man with a very red face, whose wheezing I can hear from where I sit. He stands by the host and grins. ‘Will you be so kind?’ says the host and pushes the hat in front of the guy. He rummages through and eventually lifts a folded paper out of the hat and hands it over to the host with what I imagine to be a very moist hand.
‘Who will it be?’ says the host and carefully unfolds the paper. ‘And the winner is…’ he waits, just like they do at the Oscars. ‘Lysander.’
The crowd is in fits. ‘Let’s start,’ someone in the audience shouts.
‘Now, Miguel,’ says the host. ‘Let’s get Lysander warmed up backstage, shall we?’
The crowd takes a few minutes to settle. The lights have been dimmed and the curtain starts to move, revealing a bunch of actors wearing Grecian clothes. Flowers and the backdrop of the Acropolis adorn the stage. They start their performance with exaggerated gestures and intonations.
My heart warms when I see Tom amongst the other actors. He must be the main character, though he told me he was only supposed to have a small part. He wears a short toga that reveals his muscular legs, draped over one shoulder. I can see some of his biceps via the exposed side of his toga. His arms are sculpted. No wonder he’s not getting much acting done. He clearly spends all his time working out. Focused on admiring Tom’s body, I ignore what’s happening on stage until someone says Lysander and he starts speaking.
My heart starts beating fast. He’s Lysander? He’s the one who’s supposed to get drunk during the performance? And I the one practically pouring alcohol down his throat.
‘You have her father’s love, Demetrius; let me have Helena’s: do marry him,’ he says, a little flustered.
‘You mean, Hermia, scornful Lysander,’ says another member of the cast.
‘Yes, Helena, umm, Hermia…’ he says, trying to stay unfazed by the general laughter. ‘Of who I dream when I lie in my bed at night.’ He’s clearly going off script here, and the crowd is in delirium.
My heart beats a little faster. I don’t think he means me. He simply forgot his lines.
The first act passes in a blur. I can’t help feeling anxious about Tom. He’s in recovery, and he shouldn’t be drinking. I don’t know what to do.
‘Blow the trumpet,’ says someone in my ear, and I turn around with a murderous look on my face. The guy next to me is hungry for action.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Hand it over,’ he says.
‘No,’ I insist, and we fight over the trumpet. I’m pretty strong if I put my mind to it. The guy next to me is voluminous, but I’m not giving up. He is not getting his hairy hands on my trumpet. Oh wait, he just did. And he blows it in my face.
The play stops. The host returns to the stage, followed closely by the dapper Miguel and his fancy trolley.
‘The public has spoken,’ he says. ‘Lysander, it’s time to drink.’
‘No,’ I cry, broken-hearted, but nobody hears me as the crowd roars.
Miguel mixes up some beverages – we see some smoke coming from under the trolley, as a dramatic effect – and hands Tom a glass of gargantuan proportions.
‘Drink,’ says the host.
‘Drink,’ chants the public.
Tom takes the cup to his lips and downs the liquid in a few thirsty gulps.
‘I’ll have a cigar now,’ he says, wiping his lips with a corner of his toga. The crowd explodes with laughter.
‘Back to the play,’ says the host, and we hear a gong sound. ‘Don’t forget. We still have two more calls to drink before the play is over.’
My hands are in fists, and I look at my neighbour who still has my trumpet. I promise myself to claim it back and hit him over the head with it.
By now, Tom is positively inebriated and can’t walk straight. He also can’t remember any of his lines, keeps calling out my name (or the character’s name with whom he does indeed fall in love at some point due to being administered a love potion) and throwing in lines from other characters when least expected.
‘What is Pyramus? A lover or a tyrant?’ says a guy wearing a green toga.
‘A lover that kills himself most gallant for love,’ answers Tom from backstage, peering his head through, leaving the legitimate actor empty-handed. He rolls on the stage. ‘Forgive me, Helena, for I have lied to you,’ he wails as some of the other actors attempt to pull him backstage. The show is now a total mess, nobody really knows what’s going on or cares about Shakespeare’s narrative, but the public loves it. It’s the worst acting I have ever seen, but, were I not worried for Tom’s recovery, I would be laughing too. In fact, I almost forgot about the trumpet, until now, as my despicable neighbour has just blown it again.
The previous scene is repeated. Tom gets another goblet of God-knows-what, which he drinks diligently and returns to an even bigger mess. By now, both male characters are in love with Helena, and the more they profess their love, the more uncomfortable I feel. Especially when Tom is looking into the audience as he splutters his love for me. I make myself small in the chair. Now the two female leads are having a catfight, and something stirs within me uncomfortably.
I grab the edge of my chair, my hands white knuckled, until finally, it’s over. I manage to claim my trumpet back and avoid a third drinking call. My neighbour throws nasty looks my way and I reciprocate. He should consider himself lucky I don’t have a real weapon upon my person, or he would be in A&E by now. Probably so should Tom, judging by his exquisite state of drunkenness. He stumbles greatly towards the curtain call but has a huge smile affixed on his face. He attempts to take a bow to the audience but falls flat on his face.
I rush towards the stage and jump on it, helping Tom up. I am so focused on him, I’m not aware of the looks from the cast and the audience I am sure to be receiving. Tom smiles at me with all his teeth. ‘Helena,’ he says with a stupid grin. ‘You came.’
‘Shut up,’ I say and try to pull him up, but he weighs a ton. Another actor jumps in to help me, and we both struggle to get him backstage, where we plonk him into a destitute armchair.
‘I need to get him home,’ I say. ‘Where are his things?’
The actor leaves me alone for a second in search of Tom’s belongings, but the rest of the cast start pouring in. They talk amongst themselves, visibly excited.
‘Great job, Thomas,’ says one and ruffles Tom’s hair. I look up at him, and he must have seen murder in my eyes because he takes a step back. ‘Who are you?’ he says, eyebrows raised.
I am very upset with this lot right now. I would very much love to hit them individually with the trumpet over their heads. As for Miguel. The trumpet wouldn’t satisfy my thirst for revenge. But his fancy trolley might.
I stand up slowly and look at as many faces as I can. Chatting turns to whispering, and I now have their attention.
‘Shame on you all,’ I say with all the dignity I can muster. I take a moment to savour the looks on their faces turning meek as I deliver the killer blow. ‘He is a recovering alcoholic.’
‘No, I’m not,’ says a drunken voice, and I look down at Tom, who has spoken without opening his eyes.
Tea splutters through the air as I land the mug on the bedside table with a bang.
‘You lied to me,’ I say.
Tom scratches his head and groans. He’s lying in my bed, half-naked, and I know that because I took the trouble to take off his shoes and his toga. There was no way I could get him dressed in that state, but I did bring his clothes.
‘You deserve that headache,’ I say. ‘And I deserve a prize for carrying you here like the sack of potatoes that you were and offering you my bed.’
A look of remembering passes on Tom’s face, and his expression becomes sheepish. ‘You’re stronger than I gave you credit for,’ he murmurs into the mug.
‘I had help, admittedly. One of your actor mates. A sober one,’ I punctuate.
‘How was the play?’ he says, taking a sip of his tea. Lucky is wagging his tail and licks Tom’s toes, peering out from under the duvet. Lucky’s grown a lot in the last few weeks. He’s still got the puppy cuteness, but he’s already showing the Staffy shoulder and head broadness. You can tell he’s working towards a fierce look.
‘Terrible,’ I say, feeling my anger subsiding, despite myself. ‘I had to battle some awful guy for the bloody trumpet to stop you from irreversible relapse, my fake alcoholic friend,’ I say, using air quotation marks to make my point.
Tom slurps his tea. ‘That,’ he says, visibly striving to find the right words. ‘That…’
‘That what?’ I’m wearing a pair of pjs I bought in a charity shop, and my hair is wrapped up in a messy parcel on top of my head. I couldn’t look less threatening if I tried.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ he says simply, lowering his gaze.
‘Sorry? That’s all you have to say?’ I raise my voice, looking for something to say that would hurt him as much as his deceit hurt me. I can feel the blood throbbing through the veins in my neck. How could I trust someone who doesn’t understand how desperately I want to down a pint of vodka and disappear from the world just about now?
Lucky is barking and trying to jump onto the bed with Tom, knocking over his tea on the duvet. I’ve just managed to remove the last tea stain.
‘Lucky. No,’ I shout, too fierce and too harsh, and frighten the puppy. He looks at me with two innocent dots for eyes and starts whining. I feel a sudden loss of cabin pressure. I lie on the floor next to the puppy as he resumes his joyful state of mind and begins to lick my face.
Tom is out of the bed, and I see his muscular legs kneeling by my side. ‘H, are you okay?’ he says and takes my head into his lap. I close my eyes, and I drown newly-formed tears behind my eyelids. Why did he have to fuck it all up? I could have done that all by myself ages ago.
‘H, I’m so sorry,’ says Tom. I feel his breath on my forehead, his calloused fingers rubbing my temples. ‘I didn’t mean to lie to you. I was just,’ he stops, searching for words that don’t want to be found. ‘I’m sorry. I wanted to be close to you and so I kept going with the lie. I was afraid I’d lose you if I told you the truth.’
I open my eyes and see his face above me. He is beautiful, with dark circles under his eyes and unshaven, his copper hair a messy halo around his head. He looks so innocent, I could cry. I find myself overcome with an immense desire. His betrayal has filled me with anger and lust. And lust is the only way I know how to deal with the men who have let me down.
‘How could you lie about something like that?’ I say, piercing him with my eyes, giving him one last chance to prove that he’s not like all the other men.
He looks away for an instant. ‘The truth is,’ he says and takes a very long time before he continues, ‘I haven’t totally lied. I have my own problem with alcohol. When I was still in high school, my parents died in a car accident and my older brother and I were left alone to deal with the farm. He tried to stay strong, but he soon started to drink. Sometimes, he drank so much, he became violent. He beat me until I was left unconscious. One time he beat me so hard, I fell on an empty bottle that broke and lodged itself into my thigh. He drove me to the A&E drunk. He could have killed us both but he saved my life. Ironically, since he was the reason I was injured in the first place. When I recovered, I ran away to England and never went back. I’m not sure if he’s dead or still alive.’
I am stock-still for a second, a million thoughts going through my head, before I pull his head down towards mine and take his mouth like a starved lioness. I dig my nails deep into his back, wanting to both keep him safe and pull him apart. The rest happens so quickly, like in a dream. My hands find him and he is ready. He shudders when I touch him; my power over him scares me a little. I push myself onto him and it feels so good, it makes me want to cry. Instead I focus on the movement, with my eyes closed, until the release we had both been waiting for. I roll myself away from him, careful not to look into his eyes. It would break me apart into a million little pieces I wouldn’t know what to do with. And I’m afraid I’ve made a huge mistake.
‘I told myself that it was just research. For roles, you know,’ he says, minutes later, our breath barely back. We’re still on the floor in a tangle of clothes, half-naked, exhausted, and a little less mad. ‘Joining AA, pretending to be an alcoholic. Plenty of roles of alcoholics out there. But in reality, I wanted to understand him. To see and hear what people like him are without being afraid of being hurt. To find out how much of his evil is the real person, and how much is disease.’ His eyes are lost in the wallpaper on the wall in front of us and his words hurt. I too wonder, how much of my evil is real and how much is disease?
‘I thought that maybe… if I could understand him, maybe I could forgive him,’ he continues and, overcome with tenderness, I raise my hand and caress his hair. He turns to look at me. ‘I love you,’ he says, his hand resting in a familiar manner on my hip.
‘You don’t mean that,’ I say, taking his hand away. I don’t want to destroy him, but I’m afraid I might have already begun.
‘I do.’
‘Well, that’s too bad because I hate you,’ I say and turn my head away.
His mouth curls into a smile. ‘Still mad, huh?’
I’m still mad, angry, and hungry for more. ‘You bet your Irish ass I’m still mad,’ I say, but maybe it’s not just anger anymore. Maybe it’s a bit of everything.
‘I want you,’ says Tom. ‘I wanted you from the moment I saw you at the meeting. You looked so beautiful and vulnerable, in need of protection, and fiercely strong at the same time.’
I want to melt into his arms and let him care for me, but I know I can’t. Nobody is safe from me. I’m not safe from me.
‘I want to hold you like this for the rest of my life,’ he continues, his hot breath so close I want to suck it out of him, like the soul vampire that I am. But I need to put a stop to this.
‘Tom,’ I say, propping my head in my arm. ‘Don’t.’
‘Ahem,’ he says, not listening, and kisses my neck, sending pleasing jolts down my shoulder.
‘You. I. Well. I’m not good for you, Tom,’ I say, shaking him off me. ‘I’m broken.’
‘I know that,’ he says and looks at me from the depths of his soul. ‘I grew up with an alcoholic brother, remember? I know the drill. And I’m not scared of you. You are a recovering alcoholic. This means you have the strength my brother never had.’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ I say, pushing him away, the warmth and firmness of his chest making me want to melt back into his arms as I do it. ‘I’m really, really broken. Beyond repair.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ he scoffs. ‘Do you think there are any people out there who aren’t?’
‘You.’
‘Rubbish,’ he says, his Irish accent now unleashed. ‘I’m broken to the bone, and I have the scars to prove it,’ he says, running his finger over of an old injury above his belly button. ‘He made that with his belt buckle,’ he says and closes his eyes for a moment before he continues. ‘I could be angry too. I could be holding on to grudge for what he did to me. But I don’t let his disease get the best of me.’
Lucky is now between us, licking our faces in turn. For a moment, I want to trade places with the dog. To learn how unconditional, unafraid love feels like.
‘I don’t love you,’ I say, unconvinced, in a final attempt to put an end to this conversation.
‘I didn’t ask you to love me,’ he says, getting up from the floor and fumbling to put his trousers on. He slides his T-shirt over his head, his hair sticking out and gives me a look filled with so many things. ‘Just don’t push me away.’
He picks up Lucky’s lead from the peg. ‘Come on, boy, let’s go for a walk.’
Things are getting exciting, aren’t they? Join me next week for a new chapter!
Love,
Iulia xxx
