Love, Unscripted Page 2

  We’re a little behind the times. It’s 2012, and most cinemas are gearing up to be one hundred percent digital. We just have two digis, which replaced projectors Cary and Ingrid, named for Grant and Bergman. When all eight screens go digital, there goes the job as we know it. I have faith that since we’re a small(ish) indie(ish) cinema, the powers that be will keep it true for a good few years yet.

  For me, 35mm has a proper feel to it. Sure, it may cut the crap out of my fingertips, and I know that in later life I’ll have a hunched back from carrying films from booth to booth, but it’s real. It matters. Digital cinema is just code and bits. And digital cinema means no print check. No getting to see the latest release sometimes way before the general public.

  And real film will always remind me of Ellie.

  She’s etched on every inch of this place. When I look at the bench where we put the reels together, I see her hanging out with me on an evening shift as I wind on film. When I look out of the glass port down onto Screen 4, I remember the time that to keep ourselves entertained watching one of the many crap late-noughties Woody Allen films, we tried out every seat in the auditorium to see which one was the comfiest.

  Having an entire cinema screen to yourself and your loved one is arguably one of the greatest experiences life has to offer, whatever the movie.

  I would have hung around and joined Lizzie for her print check, but Lizzie is one of the most difficult projectionists I work with. I kind of dread shifts where we cross over, and I think Seb knows this, because it’s rare we’re scheduled together.

  We used to get on. When she first started, we’d talk about TV and film all the time. She even made me a mix tape of all the TV shows she loved burned onto a CD-R. But I must have done something to really piss her off, because now we barely speak. Which is a shame, because Lizzie is one of the few people who won’t talk all the way through a film or sit there feasting on the gross nachos we sell. She has fantastic post-movie observations too.

  There are five projectionists in total. Me, Seb, Lizzie, Dave, and Ronnie.

  Dave’s a great projectionist. His dad was a mechanic, which means Dave can strip a projector down to its bolts and put it back together. Blindfolded if needed. But he also has the worst taste in film imaginable. If Michael Bay made a film with Adam Sandler, Dave would be the first in line.

  The fifth projectionist, Ronnie, is like a sub. If someone goes on holiday or phones in sick, we call on Ronnie. He’s fiftysomething and a bit of a burnout. He has hair like Neil from The Young Ones and was the first person to introduce me to Powell and Pressburger, two British filmmakers who had a run of classic films from 1940 to 1951 that have not been matched in sixty years. He’s also incredibly intuitive to moods. If you want to be left alone, Ronnie instinctively knows. Sometimes way before you know yourself. But if you’re up for a deep, lengthy exploration of mind and soul, he puts the kettle on, sparks a fat one on the fire escape, and nods along happily to every THC-induced life-altering observation you make, observations that—while spectacularly profound in the evening air—shrivel and die in the cold, harsh reality of the morning.

  The ability to sense someone’s mood is crucial when working in a projection booth. The ceilings are low, the air-conditioning rarely works, and with each room less than nine square meters—with the noisy, dirty projectors taking up six of those—the setup can lead to a hostile environment, especially if you’re in a bad mood or, I don’t know, having relationship problems. It’s sort of a blessing then that Lizzie is on shift, because I know I won’t have to make much effort.

  I’m determined not to check my phone incessantly for messages from Ellie, so I’ve limited myself to an “on the hour” look.

  Still nothing.

  I’ve also agreed with myself that scans of her Facebook page are limited to every four hours, which means waiting until eight o’clock. Although, I reason, I’m halfway through my shift, so that milestone should sort of trump the four-hour one. And anyway, these are only guidelines, not rules.

  Nothing. Nothing for five days, when she uploaded some very cool photos of our Scrabble match, including the makeshift tiles we’d had to improvise because we’d lost one K, both Js, one H, and two Es.

  That might end up being the last good night we have together. And even that included a pretty heated argument about the points’ worth of the missing Js.

  She was right. It was worth eight.

  She was always right.

  Except about this.

  NOVEMBER 5, 2008—12:04 A.M. GMT

  OBAMA 3

  MCCAIN 8

  270 NEEDED TO WIN

  The house erupted in a frenzy of boos when the senator from Arizona took the early lead.

  Tom was livid, screaming at his guests, “You charlatans don’t even understand the electoral system. McCain was never going to lose Kentucky. Your idiocy appalls me. Keep this up and I’ll kick you all out before Iowa’s announced.”

  The audience’s jeers turned from the TV to Tom, with several miscellaneous snacks sent as ballistic missiles toward their host.

  I drank far too fast in the early part of that night and was already at the bottom of my third inexpensive, but not unpleasant, European lager from the local off-license. Ellie had barely started on the drink I’d given her. I panicked that my penny-pinching beer buying had given her the impression I was cheap.

  It would have been an accurate presumption. I worked as a projectionist. My parents were both in public service. I’d never had four figures in my bank account without a minus sign preceding them.

  After a momentary lapse in conversation, my paranoia got the better of me.

  “Is the beer okay?”

  Ellie took a sniff and a sip and swirled it around her mouth.

  “It’s good.” This time she didn’t lengthen the word. “Beery with a hint of beer.”

  I followed suit.

  “I’m definitely getting a strong taste of sixth-form college.” I took another sip. “A dash of unrequited love and…is that a soupçon of shame and regret?”

  She laughed and said, “You’re funny.”

  If she’d just said the latter without the involuntary former, I’m not sure I’d have continued my pursuit. People who don’t laugh, in my humble opinion, are the worst people in the entire world.

  With four years of hindsight, I know that if I’d voiced this insight Ellie would have said something like, “So, a man could drive a busload of orphaned kids off a bridge, and as long as he was chuckling to himself as he went, you’d give him a tiny bit of credit for his joie de vivre.”

  And I’d have said, “Well, yeah.”

  She’d have said this because she had—and still has—this magnificent way of downplaying hyperbole without making the other person feel like too much of an arsehole for over-hyping something.

  Me not saying anything about a lack of a funny bone being worse than fascism was also another of those moments that made that night so special. There were so many points where I could have said or done the wrong thing and everything would have turned to shit and I would have gone home alone and put on some Joni Mitchell and drunk cheap gin mixed with whatever was in the fridge.

  But I kept my inner monologue inner and instead said, “I’m Nick.”

  And she said, “I’m Ellie.”

  Then we shook hands. Like we were two normal people.

  And then she asked, “So what do you do, Nick?”

  And I said, “I’m a projectionist at The Royalty.” And I waited. I waited for one of four reactions.

  Reaction number one would be to offer some form of recognition that this involved working in a cinema and was therefore “cool.” It might be accompanied by an ask for free tickets. Which was always okay because I like people watching films.

  Reaction number two would be to ask what the hell a projectio
nist was. This reaction was always disappointing.

  Reaction number three was arguably worse than number two, if only for the number of times every projectionist has heard it. I was hoping with all my heart that she’d avoid this reaction, which was: “Do you ever splice single frames of pornography into family films like in Fight Club?” If she had gone with reaction number three, again there may have been no coming back, even with the cool hair and the spectacular eyes, and you know what, I really liked the downplayed outfit, it’s a thing in itself.

  Then there was reaction number four. I’d only ever received reaction number four twice. Once from an old Italian man who played squash with my dad, and the other time from a super-geeky guy called Barry who worked as an usher and really wanted to be a projectionist, but all the projectionists had agreed we definitely didn’t want to be locked in a small room with Barry all day.

  Miraculously, Ellie answered with reaction number four.

  “Like in Cinema Paradiso.”

  It was about then I fell in love.

  The house feels empty without Ellie.

  I find myself staring at her side of the bed, missing the way she sleeps.

  Having not slept with my—or anyone else’s—fair share of women, I can’t say for certain, but I’m pretty confident no other person on the planet sleeps like Ellie does. She’s always on her front, with her left palm pressed up against her forehead, like Homer J. Simpson in the middle of an annoyed grunt. Her right hand sits in the small of her back and her legs are bowed out, her crotch pushed up against the mattress.

  I wonder if she’s sleeping like that right now. Or if she’s sleeping at all. Or if she’s sleeping with someone else already.

  I was never jealous with Ellie. Like most completely rational men, if someone else made her laugh, then sure, a small piece of me would die inside, but I’ve never so much as glanced at her phone, and the anonymity of her drawers and belongings are rightfully protected under European law. As they should be.

  When I send her texts asking what she’s up to, it’s because I’m genuinely interested in what she’s up to. Not because I think she’s sleeping with Darren from Marketing.

  Ellie, it’s fair to say, was my first proper relationship. I’d had girlfriends before, but they didn’t last long. My insecurities and the bullshit possessiveness that comes with crippling self-doubt soon put paid to them.

  The relationship before Ellie was about four months long and ended because I was adamant she was sleeping around. I figured out later I’d convinced myself of her waywardness, purely in the hope that she would cheat on me and I could end things as the hero of the story, the heartbroken guy that everyone would set up on dates—“Yeah, his ex, she fooled around behind his back, so he’s a bit fragile. But he’d be great for you.”

  I admit this not for redemption but because I need to understand if it’s happening again.

  Because now, alone in bed, I’m sure Ellie is sleeping with Darren from Marketing.

  My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Ellie.

  How are you doing?

  She never uses text speak or smileys and always uses correct punctuation. How could I have ever let her go? I pause for the briefest of moments to think whether replying instantly gives her relationship advantage and am immediately reminded of her mantra the night we met. To hell with games and mind-fuckery. Now and forever.

  I’m okay. You? You want me to call? I type quickly and press send.

  When waiting for a reply from a partner you’ve recently split from—where the reason for the split is still a foggy mess of confusion—time crawls. It’s not like a conversation, where a pregnant pause can be uncomfortable. Silence over SMS is crippling. A watched phone never vibrates.

  As if to prove the point, it’s only when I glance up at the clock—11:21—that the message comes through.

  I’d rather just text if that’s okay? I hate speaking on the phone.

  That she feels the need to write the last line sends my mind spiraling down a rabbit hole of questions. Does she think I’m unaware she hates talking on the phone? Does she think I’ve not been paying attention these past four years?

  I can’t prevent some apt Paul Simon lyrics written about Carrie Fisher flashing to mind.

  I know, I reply. What do you want to text about?

  Us.

  Do you still feel what you said last week? Send.

  There’s barely a pause before:

  I do.

  I don’t have anything else to say. I don’t want to be with someone that doesn’t…

  I don’t know how to type the rest. If we were face to face, I’d leave it hanging in the air, both of us knowing what I meant. But typing it out gives it a finality. It marks it down as evidence. I delete everything up to the first I don’t and add know what to say.

  I’m sorry, she types. I wish I felt differently.

  The phone could have auto-completed the That makes two of us message I send. I know that will be the last one for the night, but still I wait for a reassuring buzz to fill the air.

  We’re supposed to be going to my sister’s house for Sunday lunch tomorrow. It’s my mum’s birthday. I can already predict the way everyone will stare at me, sitting alone.

  Everyone will wait to see who will be the first to ask, “Where’s Ellie?”

  One half of Simon and Garfunkel is singing about Princess Leia again.

  NOVEMBER 5, 2008—12:44 A.M. GMT

  OBAMA 3

  MCCAIN 21

  270 NEEDED TO WIN

  Ellie and I were sitting outside, smoking by the back door, when another cascade of jeers met the results from South Carolina and West Virginia.

  Again Tom was apoplectic that his guests were commiserating with each other over states he knew would be foregone conclusions, but his rage was falling on increasingly deaf ears as partygoers danced over the line of “nicely sozzled” to “utterly pissed.”

  I was heading in the opposite direction.

  With conversation flowing at a pleasant if not breathtaking pace, I’d slowed my drinking to a crawl. When my sobriety kicked in, so did my nerves, and I found myself suddenly jonesing for a cigarette. I knew the revelation of such a filthy, disgusting (see also: lovely, social) habit had the potential to put a swift end to any progress I’d made with Ellie thus far. But what sort of a relationship could be based on me hiding my vice, and after the Cinema Paradiso answer, a relationship was very much on my mind.

  Luckily, Ellie was an occasional smoker and saw tonight as an occasion to smoke.

  When we stepped into the garden, I used the only piece of arsenal in my Wooing Women handbook. Ask questions.

  “Where did you grow up?,” “How are you finding London life?,” and “Where are you living now?” had been responded to in turn with “Canterbury”—plus a rundown of the pros and cons of the cathedral city (pros: close to London and the coast; cons: poor music scene, nowhere to buy Converse)—“Tiring but fun,” and “On Silver Street by the Chicken Cottage, but not too close to the Chicken Cottage.”

  Silver Street was about a five-minute walk from the flat I was currently renting, so I was ecstatic at the close proximity of our houses and was daydreaming of how easily we’d be able to see each other in the early days of our absolutely-definitely-going-to-happen union.

  Ellie’s hair fell forward and she corrected it, presenting her ears again.

  “So, what’s your big, crazy, wave-a-magic-wand dream?” I asked, hoping she might come back with “meet a cute guy at a party and get married and have his children.”

  She didn’t.

  “Good question. I’m twenty-seven now and I always said that by the time I reach thirty I’ll be living in New York City.” She sang this last bit like it was the last line in the first verse of “Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters.”

  “And y
ou?” she asked.

  “Well, I’m only twenty-six, so I have much longer to work on my dream.”

  “Let me guess. You wanna be a filmmaker?”

  I shook my head with a hint of overkill.

  “Standing in front of a roomful of people telling them what to do? Nothing would fill me with more dread.”

  It was then that she sized me up, squinted her eyes, and had a eureka moment.

  “You write!”

  I nodded.

  “Screenplays?”

  I nodded again.

  “I can see that, with your hoodie and your aversion to shaving and that look in your big blues.”

  “What look?”

  “Like you don’t know.”

  I was about to press her further when a drunk girl in a Metallica T-shirt came running through to the back door holding a trainer filled with vomit.

  “Hey, someone just threw up into a shoe!” the reveler explained before hurling said footwear into the garden. Then she slumped down between me and Ellie and asked, “Do either of you know where I can get some ketamine?”

  It was then that I glanced down to see that the girl was only wearing one trainer and had almost definitely been sick in the other.

  “Not on a Wednesday morning,” I said.

  “There’s a primary school about two miles south of here,” Ellie offered. “You could try there.”

  The drunk girl leaned toward Ellie and stared at her menacingly. I was genuinely worried she was about to attack, and I’ll admit there was part of me that wanted to see how handy Ellie would be in a scrap. Mainly because on the lover/fighter spectrum I was way down the opposite end from Muhammad Ali and thought it would be great if my someday wife would be able to protect our family with her brute strength.