Love, Unscripted Page 4

  “Those were her exact words?”

  I play with the glove box.

  “Not exactly. But that was the general gist.”

  The combination of her silence and her very hard stare makes me look at the floor as I reveal, “It might have been more like ‘I don’t love you like I should’ or something.”

  I look up to find Gabby waiting, like Oliver Twist, for more. After a lengthy pause, she realizes that’s it.

  “That’s it?”

  “What do you mean, ‘that’s it’? How would you feel if Andrew told you he didn’t love you? How would Andrew feel if you told him you didn’t love him?”

  “One, I’m not sure I’ve ever told Andrew that I love him. He tells me every day and to be honest it’s getting a little fucking irritating, after four and a half years. Two, saying you love someone differently isn’t the same as saying you don’t love them.”

  That Gabby has never told Andrew she loves him is a big fat lie. During her wedding, at which I got monumentally pissed, Gabby made sure I wasn’t drinking alone. This led to her banging down Jägerbombs and professing her love for her new husband more times than the lead singer of 2 Unlimited says the word “no” in the song “No Limit.”

  As for her second point, less love is still less love.

  “So this is just the start,” I say, “She loves me less and less over time and we become another one of those couples whose relationship gets increasingly weaker, until we either carry on in a loveless trance or break up. All she’s done with this declaration is fire the starting gun on the end of us being us.”

  I can’t quite read Gabby’s face, but I know she’s not about to agree with me.

  “You’re having a tiff about something stupid. I’m sorry you’re upset right now, but you’ll get over it.”

  “She’s already moved out.”

  “What?!”

  The volume of Gabby’s shout is loud enough to bring a rather concerned Andrew over to peer out of the window. He offers her an “Are you okay?” thumbs-up, and she shoos him away, like he’s a pigeon after chips.

  “Why has she moved out?”

  I shake my head, exasperated.

  “I just told you.”

  “No, you said she doesn’t love you the way she should…or something.”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  Gabby replicates my exasperation.

  “So why has she moved out if that’s all it is?”

  I take a deep breath, assuming it must be the pregnancy hormones having an effect on my formerly intelligent sister.

  “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “Evi-fucking-dently!” she yells, and I see Andrew making the curtain twitch again.

  I place a hand on the car door and look Gabby in the eye.

  “Can you tell Mum and Dad? Please?”

  “Tell them what?”

  “I have to leave.”

  NOVEMBER 5, 2008—1:08 A.M. GMT

  OBAMA 83

  MCCAIN 34

  270 NEEDED TO WIN

  “We have to leave,” I implored Ellie.

  My sudden need to abandon one of the best parties I’d been to in years stemmed from Ellie’s revelation that she was a photographer. We’d been talking nonstop for over an hour, and even though I’d made good use of the woman-snaring queries, and even though she’d revealed her dream was to work in New York, I’d neglected to ask what she actually did for a living. The answer was that she worked as a photographer for the Clapham Gazette.

  Once I’d stopped mentally listing all the cool photographers from the silver screen—Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window, David Hemmings in Blow Up, Alexandre Rodrigues in City of God, and I think you could get away with both Giovanni Ribisi and Scarlett Johansson in Lost in Translation, even if the latter just took photos of her feet during “a phase”—I decided that tonight had the potential of being such a momentous night that she’d be insane not to document it.

  “The diagnosis of insanity,” Ellie answered, “is a pretty steep leap for not wanting to do your job in your downtime.”

  “That is insane,” I countered. “If I didn’t want to do my job in my downtime, I’d never get to watch any films.”

  “Your job isn’t actually to watch films, though, is it?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve seen some films about it.”

  “Touché. I saw the trailer for Tarantino’s new one the other day. It’s called Inglourious Basterds and has some French actress playing a projectionist who kills a load of Nazis.”

  “That sounds awesome.”

  “Doesn’t it? Let’s go get your camera.”

  I offered her my hand and she took it. We were halfway to the door when a well-toned and ridiculously good-looking guy—who I would later learn was named Nathaniel—stepped into our path.

  “You off already, are you?” he asked in as hostile a way as he could.

  Ellie replied coldly and monosyllabically.

  “Yep.”

  She stepped around him and I followed suit, pausing only to hope that this new Adonis-like man in my life was anything but Ellie’s former or, worse still, current beau.

  I tried to imagine alternatives, especially to the idea that she might just be using me as a pawn in her present drama. Perhaps he was her landlord and she played death metal really loudly at three a.m. and he had to go to work early. Maybe they were work rivals and he was her photography nemesis, the Eddie Brock to her Peter Parker. He could just have a chip on his shoulder because they met each New Year’s Day at the January sales and she always made it to the best deals first.

  These hypotheses could last the long, cold walk to Ellie’s place, so as soon as we were out of the house and out of earshot of Hunky Bob, or whatever his name wasn’t, I summoned up the courage to ask.

  “Your ex?”

  She shivered in her coat.

  “Yeah.”

  “How long have you guys been…”

  “About a month.”

  “And how long had you…”

  “Two months, I think. In total.”

  I may have audibly “phewed” at that reveal.

  I have a rule that a breakup requires at least ten percent of the relationship’s length to get over. So, if you’ve been dating a few months, leave it a week to get the person out of your system. If you’ve been together five years, you’ll need a six-month recovery time.

  “Did you just say ‘phew’?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. I think I just exhaled a bit.”

  She showed she didn’t buy it by narrowing every part of her face. Her lovely ears included. “He was a fixer,” she explained. “Or an improver, at least. He’d try and get me to eat better, or try out the latest fitness fad. I think people should be left to figure themselves out.”

  This insight was the first moment I worried about our suitability. As someone who knows their own flaws and confronts their demons on a daily basis, I’d always believed that someone might come along who could make me a better version of me.

  I let go of the thought and said, “I suppose I thought he might be your boyfriend. As in present, as opposed to ex. And without putting too fine a point on it, I’m having a nice time and…”

  “And?” She looked put out.

  “I thought you might be hanging out with me to make him jealous.”

  She stopped walking.

  “Or something,” I added.

  “Back up there, champ.”

  The “champ” was a wonderfully condescending choice of word.

  “You thought I was trying to make my ex—who I didn’t know was coming to this party until thirty seconds ago—jealous by hanging out and talking to you for a couple of hours? Even though you approached me?”

  “It
was just a thought that popped in there.”

  “Well, pop it back out.”

  We walked in silence for a minute, my mind racing with ways to take back my false step. Ellie stopped walking again. This time she broke the silence in spectacular fashion.

  “Look. Listen. Look and listen. I hope—and think—the previous comment had more to do with your insecurity than some assumption I’d be cold enough to just be messing about with you in order to mess about with someone else.” She took a deep breath in the icy air. “But life is short and I don’t believe there’s time for games and mind-fuckery. So to hell with them. Now and forever.”

  She started walking again.

  I had the feeling she’d have kept going whether I followed or not.

  “Should I buy a replica of the statue from The Maltese Falcon?”

  “No.”

  “It’s only two grand.”

  “Do you have two grand?”

  I click off the eBay page and enter a different search. Seb looks up from his paperwork momentarily and shakes his head. It’s 9:45 and he was supposed to finish an hour ago.

  “I could buy a replica Millennium Falcon for just one grand.”

  “Nick.” He clicks his pen. “I’m trying to work.”

  “Not stopping you.”

  “You sort of are.”

  He checks out the display screen listing all the films we’re currently showing. The grand total of which is two. In an eight-screen multiplex, just two films vie for the audience’s attention: The Avengers vs The Dark Knight Rises. Marvel vs DC. Whoever wins, compelling and complex narrative cinema loses.

  “The ads and trailers are just finishing on Seven. Go sneak in the back, I don’t mind.”

  “Seen it. It was okay. I really can’t be arsed with all this spandex lately. We don’t get the new Wes Anderson, but we do get four copies each of Gruff Rhys Bale and Robert Downey Jr. acting like he’s back on the c-c-c-c-c-cocaine.”

  A few weeks ago, Seb would have high-fived me for the excellent Queens of the Stone Age reference. Lately, he’s just been work, work, work. To illustrate my point, he sighs heavily. “Then go home. Have the night off. I really don’t mind, but I have to finish this work.”

  “Can’t.” I enter “Replica Dude’s Rug” and hit search. “I need the money.”

  “For what?”

  I turn the computer monitor to him.

  “This sweet rug.”

  He clicks his pen off again, this time setting it down on his notes.

  “Nick. I know you’re in a shitty place at the moment, but promise me you won’t spend what little cash you have on anything stupid.”

  He has a look of genuine concern on his face and I start to panic.

  “Okay. I promise.”

  “And go home. I’ll clock you out on full pay. I can do the shutdown. I’ll be here late with this anyway.”

  Seb has always been good with favors, but never ones that are tantamount to defrauding our capitalist overlords.

  “You sure?”

  He nods, and while this is all most unlike Seb, I don’t wait for a second. I grab my coat and bag.

  “Cheers, brother. Double bill of Ashby tonight then. I ordered the fancy pants Criterion edition of Harold and Maude and Being There from my friend in the States.”

  The look of concern is back.

  “Worry not,” I say to soothe the beast. “They were on discount.”

  “Just don’t forget the meeting at the end of July. The thirtieth. It’s mandatory. Everyone has to be there.”

  “I know what mandatory means. What’s this meeting all about?”

  “You’ll find out in three weeks.”

  “You’re not going to let your longest-serving friend get the inside scoop, on the QT, very hush-hush?”

  “Just be there.”

  * * *

  —

  BUD CORT IS swinging from a curtain rope and Cat Stevens is wailing in the background when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, but it’s local. I light a cigarette before answering. One perk of singledom is being able to run back to my nicotine harlot without feeling like I’ve reneged on my pact with Ellie to at least attempt to be cancer-free. As far as I’m concerned, no Ellie means no pact, and so I’ve been mainlining Marlboros for almost a month now.

  “Hello.”

  The voice replies the same.

  “Can I help?”

  I take a swig of my gin and Dr. Pepper. It does the job.

  “It’s Terry.”

  “Okay?”

  “Your landlord.”

  I immediately stub out the cigarette and waft the smoke away, momentarily forgetting that Terry’s on the other end of the phone and technology hasn’t yet gotten us to the place of sending smells over 3G. Stupid technology.

  “Hey, Terry, how’s it going?”

  “I’m selling the house.”

  “Which house? This house?” I jump to my feet, spilling ash onto the carpet. I rub it in with my bare toes.

  “No. I’m selling one of the other houses I own. I just thought you’d appreciate an update on my property portfolio.”

  I wait for clarification of the sarcasm.

  None comes.

  “You’re being sarcastic, right?”

  “Clever boy.”

  “Prick,” I say under my breath, this time forgetting that technology has gotten us to the point of sending sound from phone to phone.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing. It was the TV. So how long have I got?”

  “You and”—I can hear the paper rustling in front of him—“Miss Ellie Brown have four weeks to move out.”

  Because he seems to be taking a great deal of pleasure from the idea of turfing me out of my home, I think about revealing that ha ha, the joke’s on him, as Ellie left a few weeks back. I only decide to keep quiet when I realize the reveal of this information would in no way constitute a win for me.

  “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  “Right.” I pause. “How quickly can I get the deposit back?”

  “I wouldn’t get too excited about that, Mr. Marcet. After all, our contract clearly stipulates that this is a no-smoking house.”

  “Which is why I’ve never smoked in it!”

  “So the ashtray I saw this morning, brimming over with cigarette butts, you were just looking after it for a friend?”

  “You can’t come around unannounced and go through my stuff!”

  Righteous indignation when I know I’m in the wrong is one of my strengths.

  “I called Miss Brown about stopping by to check the smoke alarms. Did she not pass on the message?” The glee in his voice is too much.

  “Prick.”

  “See you in four weeks, Mr. Marcet.”

  Because this information is both extremely pertinent to my life as a whole and the sort of thing that will lead to me downing the rest of the gin in front of me, I figure it might be a good idea to write the conversation down. If I don’t, there’s a good chance I’ll wake up thinking it’s a dream and be unpleasantly surprised come August 1.

  When I can’t find paper and a pen anywhere in the flat, I hollow-laugh at myself for ever considering the idea that I would one day be a writer. I told Ellie on that first night that I wanted to be a famous screenwriter, like my hero William Goldman. Not only did he write movies in every genre—Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Misery, All the President’s Men, The Princess Bride—he also penned a couple of memoirs about Hollywood that made me dream of one day following in his footsteps.

  Ellie encouraged me to pursue this dream on several occasions (sometimes nicely, the last time not so nicely), but I always found an excuse not to, despite wanting to so badly. My memoir would be titled The Inconsistency
of Mr. Marcet.

  Now, literally without the necessary equipment to even write a shopping list, all I can do is curse my naive literary notions and drink gin.

  * * *

  —

  THE FILM ENDED half an hour ago. The gin and fizzy Benylin ended ten minutes before that.

  I’m stuck in that drunk and lethargic state where I know all I need to do is get to the bedroom. But it feels light-years away. I could fall asleep here and wake up with a cricked neck and a belly full of booze at three a.m. Or I could just get to my feet, take ten small steps, and sleep soundly until noon.

  * * *

  —

  I WAKE AT 2:58 a.m., my neck feeling like André the Giant has had me in a sleeper hold for the past ninety minutes. I’m pretty confident I won’t throw up—praise the Lord I kept to one type of intoxicant—but I certainly don’t feel good, physically, emotionally, or ecumenically. Aspirin and orange juice. That’s what I need.

  But like my earlier search for pen and paper, I come up short, until a mild moment of epiphany tells me to check the bedside drawer on Ellie’s side. Inside, I find everything I’ve been looking for: a box of Tesco-brand dispersible aspirin, a pack of four blue Biros, a not inexpensive bound notepad, and a Post-it that reads: For Nick, in case you need them. Ellie x

  Even now, when she’s no longer here, she’s still thinking of me. My heart now hurts more than my head.

  I start to write a to-do list, beginning with Find new house. Then I cross it out and write something much more important. I give it the title Why Ellie Left, and at the top I write in large letters: NUMBER ONE. WE PEAKED TOO EARLY.

  My intention with this document is twofold. One, I want to make sure I don’t keep making the same mistakes over and over again. And two, I want to be ready. I want to be armed with actual hard evidence for the inevitable meeting between us. I want to have prepared statements and the truth on my side. I want to make her see the error of her ways, to make her see that I’m worthy of the best of her love.

  I place the pad in the drawer beside my bed, because this is where I do the majority of my lamenting. And also because I don’t want anyone to randomly come across a document so arse-achingly self-indulgent.