Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

I knew that we were going to fight as soon as we met at Victoria station. Before he said hello, he ranted about an author who had been nominated for a prize, and something in my body signaled like an alarm. I hadn’t seen him for a while because of our schedules, and I’d missed him at the weekend because of Amy’s wedding. It had been hot for weeks, and the forecast kept promising rain; London was fat and overdue.

We went to a self-serve wine bar that Ruth suggested. Everything was good at first; he put his palm on my back, which was bare in a black halter top, and we tried samples of different wines and laughed at the “notes.” But then his voice and movements became bigger; his energy like a cat’s before it knocks something off a shelf. He noticed a couple with two full glasses of wine. The man was swilling the glass and wafting the scent toward his nose.

Marching to the Argentinian reds, he decanted wine from an expensive bottle, gargled it like mouthwash, and announced that it tasted like piss. The woman looked embarrassed. But I couldn’t tell who she was embarrassed for.

We’re ruining their date, I said lightly.

Fuck them. Who comes to a bar like this and has just one glass of one wine?

I looked at them: his hand was on her knee; they weren’t laughing but they were talking, nodding, widening their eyes. They were sweet, actually.

He tried a Malbec and said that it tasted like tomato juice. I told him that Amy’s dad got the wine for her wedding from France.

He moved to another bottle.

Oh, and I didn’t tell you! In his speech, the best man made a joke about her feet—

He said that he preferred the lighter reds.

So, you know that basic best man’s joke about a woman’s feet being small so she can reach the kitchen sink? Well, he actually made that joke. Like he had googled what to say at a wedding!

He said that for someone who apparently didn’t enjoy weddings I certainly enjoyed talking about them. I apologized, but he rolled his eyes and said that he was joking. Then he suggested the pub for a proper drink. I told him that I was getting a headache, but I knew that we shouldn’t continue drinking; I could sense the argument, like the rain.

We waited at the bus stop. It was still hot, but the wind was stirring. He got out his phone, and I knew who he was texting because when it rang, he didn’t answer. I told him that he could take the call, and he thanked me for the permission. Before the silence could sharpen, the sky burst. Water bounced off warm tarmac, and the smell was invigorating! It reminded me of rainstorms in Kenya. Something came over me and I grabbed his hand. Let’s go! But he took his hand back.

What are you doing?

Don’t you want to be in it?

No, I don’t want to be in it. Are you fucking mental?

Suit yourself.

I ran from under the shelter and held my face up as lightning struck the sky. It was incredible, and I was the girl in my book running into the rain at school; that emancipating moment before her school shirt turned see-through.

Enola, come on, he said. You’ll be hit by a bus. I held out my arms to him, hoping that he would shake off his mood, but he told me that my mascara was down my face.

I returned to the shelter and asked him why that bothered him, and he didn’t answer. Then he said that he wasn’t going to stay at mine anymore.

Why, because of the rain?

Don’t be silly. Because I need to write.

I told him that there was no way he would write tonight, and he frowned. What’s that supposed to mean?

Just that you’re drunk, I said as casually as I could. A car splashed past. He grumbled that it was illegal to splash people. I held his collar, but he didn’t take his hands from his pockets. I joked about how that couple ordered a cheese platter to go with their one glass of one wine, but he hummed like he had realized something.

I think you’d quite like that, wouldn’t you, Enola?

I let go of his jacket. What?

A nine-to-five. A boyfriend in banking. Big fancy wedding. I think you’d be happier with someone like that rather than a failed middle-aged writer. And you could have a nice job in admin. You’d like being told what to do and where to have the office party. Or be a stay-at-home mum.

Excuse me?

I’m just saying, honey, you never actually want to write.

I am writing!

Why haven’t you sent your manuscript to that agent yet?

I felt conflicted then, because I should have sent it off. I should have finished it. But every time I opened my laptop, I thought about him. He was working so hard. He had always wanted to be a writer. He should have this opportunity, but I did, and I knew how he felt about that. I wasn’t meaning to hold myself back but I just kept thinking if he could only finish his book first so that I could finish that little bit behind him…

I will send it, I said.

When?

When will you send yours?

Don’t do that.

Your book is brilliant and it’s ready . Why not now?

You really don’t fucking get it, do you?

That was it: the band that we had been stretching over the past few weeks snapped. I could no longer say that the last fight was the last fight; it was just another one and the next could be worse. I told him that he didn’t need to swear at me.

Oh no, oh god, not swearing , he mocked.

I started to cry, and he half laughed, half shouted: Oh, here we go again, poor Enola ! He lifted his arms, and I flinched. He looked confused, and then his eyes narrowed.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—

You actually think that I would hit you?

Excuse me, are you okay?

I turned to see a woman with a red umbrella, looking at me with a concerned expression. He raised his hands then slapped them to his thighs. She repeated the question. I nodded that I was fine, but she gave me this look before she left.

Great, now I look like the bastard! he shouted after her.

I hushed him and said that she was just being nice.

She was being a cunt.

She wasn’t. She really wasn’t. Please just leave it!

Because every man is the villain, right? You could never be the problem. He lit a cigarette.

Don’t, I said gently, because he had been trying to quit again.

But he told me to fuck off. Just fuck off, Enola. He walked away, flicking the unsmoked cigarette behind him.

I stood, numb, as he turned the corner, then started to walk home. The rain had lessened. It wasn’t invigorating anymore; it was just wet and I was a joke. I thought about calling Ruth, but she would just hate him even more than she already did. Amy was on her mini-moon. I obviously couldn’t call Mum. Would Dad have been someone I could have called? Oh god, I missed my dad. He wasn’t even a person anymore, he was just slices of grief. Cord slippers. Bottle opener. Reading glasses. I wanted to be in our old house in Nairobi. I wanted to run into the ocean. I wanted to be a child again, but I also wanted him to be there. Bigger than my pride was my desire to keep trying.

I called him three times but he didn’t pick up, so I sent a message telling him that I was sorry. I hadn’t meant to ruin the evening. I hadn’t meant to do anything wrong. He replied quicker than I was expecting:

Sorry. I’ll be there in ten just had to deal with Enola… x

I moved into the middle of the road.

When I was at school, I was in a toilet cubicle when two girls were at the sink. I heard one of them say that I was weird because I was a white girl from Africa. Then the other said that I was weird because my dad had died. That’s why she was kicked out of Africa.

Third person stings.

The headlights from a bus.

But another message would follow.

The bus got closer.

That message would allow me to forgive him.

The driver beeped.

That message would buy us another few weeks.

My phone vibrated:

Fuck, Enola, that wasn’t meant for you and it also wasn’t meant the way that I know you’re taking it. I’ll have a quick drink then come over to yours? Sorry for being a drunk twat. I’m just struggling with things at the moment.

That message was a lifeline.

I stepped back onto the pavement.

I T WAS HIS BIRTHDAY , and I was making him a card. I had drawn him as a superhero, and his superpower was his laptop. He said that he wasn’t a birthday person, but I pushed, and so he said that I could meet him for a drink after his shift. I needed the card to be perfect. This was his first birthday since we had been together, and he had made me that beautiful CD for mine.

Ruth rang and asked how I was feeling. She did that a lot at the moment, and I kept saying the same thing: I’m fine. Why? She said that she was just checking. But if I told her the problems we were having she would try to fix them, and her solution was absolute: End it.

I laid my clothes out on the bed. A denim skirt, crop top, and Ruth’s vintage leather jacket that she kept forgetting to collect. I would tell him that I had been out with a friend for dinner so that he didn’t think I had made the effort just for him.

I checked the time: I had a hair appointment at four. I put my elastic band around my wrist, grabbed my bag, and headed out.

T HE HAIRDRESSER WAS G LASWEGIAN with a platinum shag. I tried to look happier, because she was looking at me with pity. I told her that I just wanted a trim. You’d look great with a pixie cut, she said. It will lift everything and make you look younger.

Ruth was always changing her hair or getting a tattoo or a piercing, but I always looked the same. I wore the same neutral makeup, and my hair was always mid-length. I wanted to turn up to the bar tonight a different person. Someone stronger and sexier and funnier. Someone he had never seen cry or shout or run into the rain.

I told the hairdresser to do what she wanted, and she looked thrilled.

It’s going to be great, she said.

I WAITED IN S OHO on the stoop of a townhouse with a black door. He was fifteen minutes late, which was unusual. I called, but he didn’t answer. I held my phone out to look at myself in the camera. My hair was dramatically different. It was angular and tilted toward my chin, and the back looked like the back of a chicken (but when I said that to the hairdresser, she looked offended). I called him again, and this time he said, Hello? with an audible question mark. There was laughter in the background. I asked if he was on his way, and he said that he was having a quick drink with the guys from work.

Oh, okay. Shall I come to the bar, then?

Sure, if you like, or look, why don’t I just meet you back at yours later on?

But I’m in Soho already.

I just don’t want you to wait, honey.

An uncomfortable silence. I gripped my bag. Why can’t I come there? I asked, uneasy. He said that I could come, but that it was just the team. I snapped my elastic band. He said that the guys were getting him drunk. I said that I had been sat here for fifteen minutes. He said that it was his birthday, like I didn’t have a homemade card in my bag and a haircut like a chicken’s arse. I felt angry and stupid, but I agreed to go home. I hung up the phone and that small rebellion made me feel good, but then it made me feel the opposite. Instead of calling him back to apologize, I called Ruth. She answered like she had been waiting by the phone: Enola, are you okay?

I told her that I wanted her advice on this one thing. Please don’t say anything else though, Roo.

Okay, she said slowly.

I told her what had happened. I explained that I had a new haircut and had made him a birthday present—even though those details weren’t necessary. Ruth asked if I was afraid of his reaction. I told her that I didn’t want to talk about that. Fine, she said, he’s canceled on you last-minute for no good reason, he doesn’t get to have his cake and eat it. Birthday or not. That’s shitty behavior. Go home , Enola, and look—

But that was all I needed to hear. I fluffed my chicken hair and headed to the bar.

I TOLD MYSELF THAT I wouldn’t be me. I would be the woman with the new hair. I would be Steph. She wouldn’t wait for him on a stoop, but she wouldn’t go home either; she would demand fun.

He was alone at the bar with a half-drunk pint. I hadn’t seen where he worked before, and it only occurred to me now that that was strange. It was a small square with neon on the walls and a jukebox. It was what I imagined the bars in Nashville or Austin to look like. A seventies pop song was playing, and the air smelled like hops and urinals. I felt sick, but it was too late to change my mind, so I walked up to him and flung my arms around his neck. Happy birthday, gorgeous man!

He looked shocked. Enola, what are you doing here?

I told him that I wouldn’t let him celebrate his birthday without me. Come on, let’s get shots!

Honey, I thought we agreed that I would come to yours later?

I know, but—

I told you that I was here with the guys.

I looked around to see where “the guys” were, and when I looked back, he was frowning. Jesus. What have you done to your hair? Someone came up behind me, and it was then that I noticed the second drink: a Guinness and whiskey chaser.

Enola! I didn’t know you were joining us!

I knew that when I turned, I would see Steph, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from him. His expression was uninterpretable; then he said: Don’t start, Enola. She just came by for one. Steph laughed.

I turned around: Excuse me? She lifted her hands and said that she would leave us to it. Adrenaline flooded my body. How could you? I said. Where are the guys?

He told me to calm down. I don’t need this on my birthday, Enola.

I told him that it was only this because he made it this . He said that I was the one making a scene, and he kept his voice low to ensure that was the case. I turned to wipe my nose and saw Steph pretending not to watch from outside. She thought I was as sensitive and jealous and crazy as Jessica. But Jessica didn’t seem crazy. Jessica looked nice. Jessica knitted outfits for her sausage dog. Fuck. I should have gone home like Ruth suggested. But if I had, I wouldn’t have known the real reason he canceled. I would have showered, perfumed, and made myself a concubine for him to come home to after he had fun with her . I picked up his pint glass, but he grabbed my arm.

What the fuck are you doing, Enola?

But I didn’t know what I was doing. Or what I had been planning on doing with the glass. He downed the liquid and moved the glass down the bar. Then he told me to leave. I was sobbing now.

I don’t understand, am I even your girlfriend anymore?

Sadly yes.

Yes, what a fucking nightmare I must be for you, how fucking awful it must be to be with me!

He led me outside. Steph gave his arm a squeeze.

And you can fuck off! I shouted.

Just go home, Enola. He went back inside, shaking his head. Steph stubbed out her cigarette and followed him. I stood on the street, watching through the streaky window as they sat back at the bar and picked up their drinks. Then I turned and left before I could see them laughing.

I ARRIVED AT R UTH ’ S warehouse with mascara on my cheeks. She gave me a T-shirt to sleep in and hid my phone. I asked her over and over again what I had done wrong.

Why doesn’t he want me?

But she kept changing the question: Why do you want him ? I couldn’t think of anything specific; it was just an overwhelming desire: I wanted him. I needed him. I would die without him.

That’s what love is, isn’t it?

She shook her head and whispered that love should make you happy. I couldn’t remember the last time that we’d been happy, without the threat of unhappiness following like a shadow. I thought about Amy’s wedding; I had spent the day texting him details to show that I was cool and funny and “not like other girls.” The linen napkins. The foliage. The vows. But there had been a moment, watching Amy and David dance to a song with a key change, happy and unselfconscious, when there was nothing to joke about. I wanted to call and tell him that I missed him. He had told me that he was writing, but I knew that he was out with Steph. And so I didn’t call him because I didn’t want to have the confronting conversation where I either chose not to care and be that woman or chose to care and be the other. One I hated and the other he did.

I let Ruth comfort me, and I cried until my stomach ached. As I drifted off, the last thing I heard her say as she stroked my back in warm circles was that she loved my hair. I loved it before, but I love it now. You look beautiful, Laa.

In the morning, I hoped that it had all been a dream, but when Ruth gave me back my phone there was a message asking me to breakfast, and I knew that it was over.

T HE COFFEE MACHINE WHIRRED behind the counter, and a group were laughing down the table. He was calm, like someone had advised him how to handle me. He ordered chorizo and eggs, and I ordered avocado on toast that I felt too sick to eat.

Honey, I’m not saying that we should end things, but judging from last night, I’m not giving you what you feel you deserve.

His tone was sweet and his phrases sloped like mountains. He was breaking up with me but trying to make it sound like a compliment. Ruth had asked if there was a part of me that had gone to the bar to confront him. I wondered whether she was right, because this didn’t feel like a surprise.

I’m really sorry, but when I saw Steph—

He told me that Steph had surprised him, and he thought that he could have a quick drink with her before meeting me. Enola, I can’t have a night like that ever again.

Neither can I , I thought.

That wasn’t how I should have handled it, I said.

It’s okay, he replied, like I was admitting full responsibility. He took a bite of his food and a drop of chorizo oil landed on his chin. He didn’t wipe it away but I was too nervous to tell him that it was there. I asked if what he was really asking for was a breakup. He said that he just needed space. I have to focus on my book and I don’t want to resent our relationship, honey.

I’m really sorry that I ruined your birthday, I said.

Don’t be.

He still hadn’t said sorry for his actions. I thought about my own book. If that was the reason for the break, then shouldn’t I be the one demanding it? Diana asked for my manuscript weeks ago, and I was ruining the best opportunity of my career. And for what? So that he could feel less like a failure? He would never do that for me. I would never ask him to. But then again, he hadn’t asked me to do it. Or had he? His eyes were bloodshot. Maybe he was hungover, but maybe it was more. If only Mum had been more patient with Dad.

I told him to take all the time he needed, and he told me that he appreciated me understanding. He smiled, and my appetite returned.

He asked how my book was going. I lied and said that I should be able to send it off soon. He told me that he was proud of me. Thank you, I said, that means so much. He told me that he liked my hair. I said that the back looked like the back of a chicken, and he laughed. It was the best conversation we had had in weeks. But then he signaled for the bill because he had to meet a friend. Like breaking up with me was just the first task of the day. I wanted to snap: You’re not going to work on your book, then? But I had to wait until I was home to crack; if I handled the breakup perfectly then he might realize it was a mistake.

We stood outside the café on the pavement, half in and half out of our relationship. I thought about that night when he almost told me that he loved me. I had based so many justifications on the fact that he loved me. Yes, he was difficult, yes, he could be mean, but he loved me. The reality, though, was that neither of us had said those words.

Can I ask you something?

He nodded, so, with his permission, I continued: That night in Kenya, when we had that fight in the bar, you started to say something outside the beach house—what was it?

He blew out air. Fuck knows, Enola. Anyway, we could go over and over this and it won’t do us any good. He leaned down to kiss me, but I stepped back and asked what the rules were.

In what sense?

Can I call or text you?

He told me not to overthink things. We make the rules, Enola.

My throat was throbbing. Was I making the rules? It didn’t feel like I was making any rules. He tried once more to kiss me, but I held up my hand. Wait. Not yet.

He folded his arms. Come on, honey, you know how I feel about keeping people waiting.

I know, I just… I made you this. Happy birthday.

I reached into my bag and handed him the card. I wanted him to realize that he was walking away from someone who bought the good paper and colored inside the lines, but he just said thank you, then looked inconvenienced that it was so large. Actually, honey, do you want to just give this to me next time, as I’m out all day? He handed it back, and it was instantly a child’s drawing, strips of white where color should be and pencil markings that hadn’t been rubbed out. So, with no tricks left, I walked away like I had on the first night we met, only this time he didn’t summon me back.