Love, Unscripted Page 8

  She’d signed it: You’ll always be “Nick the Dick” to me.

  NOVEMBER 5, 2008—1:47 A.M. GMT

  OBAMA 103

  MCCAIN 49

  270 NEEDED TO WIN

  “You know, Nick the Dick isn’t that bad a nickname,” Ellie said as we left Vicky and her cohort to their post-club feast.

  “I am so sorry about that,” I offered hopelessly.

  “It sort of makes you sound like a virile motherfunster. Also”—she put on a silly radio-presenter-style voice—“when’s the album drop?”

  I stopped to bury my head in my hands, partly to cover up my bright red cheeks and partly to see if doing so would make the entire world go away.

  It didn’t.

  “What are the fucking odds?”

  “You tell me, lover boy. Might we bump into more of your conquests on the way to mine?”

  I was beginning to get testy, which I knew wouldn’t help the situation, but there we were.

  “Can we not? I do genuinely feel really bad about it all.”

  She looked at me with a mix of puzzlement and pity.

  “Then why didn’t you just call her?”

  “This will sound really up my own arsehole, but…I just didn’t want to disappoint her.”

  “Yeah, she would have been crushed, I’m sure.” Ellie stopped and put her hand on my arm. “Sorry, that was mean.”

  I didn’t want to say anything in case she removed her hand.

  “It’s okay. I think I’m learning that sarcasm is your default setting.”

  She removed her hand and said in a stupid helium-filled voice—think a mix between Christopher Lloyd at the climax of Who Framed Roger Rabbit and Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but quite a bit less racist—“Oh right. Sarcasm is for losers, yeah?!”

  I smiled and giggled and smiled some more and forgot all about Vicky and guilt and everything else in the world. Ellie simply looked proud that she’d made me laugh. Happy in my happiness. She glanced up at the house we were standing outside.

  “This is me.”

  * * *

  —

  MOMENTS LATER, I was in her room, and it was a glorious splurge of personality laid out on the walls and floor and furniture and bed. It gave me that comforting feeling, like I’d been there a hundred times before.

  I could have been placed in this room without ever having laid eyes on Ellie and still fallen in love with her. Everything in it was modest and makeshift and messy and her. I sat on the edge of the bed and took it all in as she excused herself for “bathroom reasons.”

  I contemplated sitting on my hands to make sure I didn’t touch anything I shouldn’t. The idea that she might walk back in and find me inadvertently fingering something forbidden brought me out in a cold sweat.

  Look with your eyes, not with your hands.

  It was safe to say that the room was notable for what it lacked as much as what it contained. There was no TV, no curtains, and no wardrobe. In place of the latter there were two rails of clothes—mainly hoodies and jeans—at the foot of the bed. The layout reminded me of a charity shop, and the floor—such as it was, with the rest of her outfits strewn all over it—a charity-shop changing room.

  As for plenty of people born after 1980, a large Mac monitor had replaced the standard telly. The screen saver cycled through shot after shot of amazing photography. I remembered thinking I’d happily stare at any of those images on rotation for hours, and that if they were hers she was insanely talented. I also remembered that a wave of doubt washed over me as to whether what I wanted to happen could actually happen. I was sure I could make myself an attractive proposition to someone who was good-looking or to someone who was talented, but not to someone who was both.

  I moved on.

  One wall was a Pollockesque mural of photos of different sizes and shapes and abilities. Ellie herself was in a small number of these pictures, so I deduced this was not a portfolio of her work.

  The wall to the left of the gallery housed two shelves above the aforementioned Mac, which sat on an equally untidy desk. One shelf was loaded with books on Adams, Arbus, and Avedon. The other was something I could initially only describe as a shrine. On it were four photos of a young girl, who I assumed to be Ellie based solely on her cuteness and eye color. I hazarded a guess that her dyed red hair came after she was seven. In each photo there was a little blond-haired boy. Two years old in one, maybe four or five in the other two. Again, completely estimating, I guessed the girl in the photo was a couple of years older and that they were sister and brother. I would have also said that Ellie was happier in these photos than in any of the others.

  Alongside the frames, hence the shrine description, were two candles and a teddy bear. It was also the only part of the room that seemed to be cleaned on a regular basis. I reached out to touch the bear, forgetting the rule I’d laid down to myself, just as Ellie reentered. I drew my hand back and faux-scratched the back of my head.

  I expected a line excusing the mess, but it never came.

  “I won’t be long, just need to grab some lenses and a flash. Do you really think this is a good idea?”

  “This is history. I think you’ll regret it forever if you don’t.”

  She shook her head at the exaggeration.

  “Yep. I can see that now. Ellie Brown. Born 1980. Died 2102. Lived a full life but really regretted never taking pictures at that party she went to that one time.”

  “Just pack your bloody camera, will you. They’ll have declared Georgia by the time we get back.”

  She lobbed a cushion at my head.

  “Where’s your music?”

  “On that.” She pointed to the Mac.

  “No CDs? No vinyl?”

  “No cassettes or MiniDiscs either. You can root through my playlists instead if you like. If, y’know, you’re trying to assess me as a human being or potential mate.”

  “I did that hours ago,” I said as I made my way from the bed to the chair next to the computer.

  I still didn’t know if the things I did to make sure I attracted the right partner were the same things other people did. Like wearing T-shirts with bands that I liked on them, or obscure film references. I knew the hope for me was that one day a girl would come up to me and say, “Cool band,” and I’d say, “Yeah,” and follow it up with “I saw them play Union Chapel a few years ago,” and she’d say, “Me too,” and we’d fall in love forever. But when I saw someone else wearing a T-shirt with a band I liked or displaying an obscure film reference, I had no idea if they’d picked it out with the sole purpose of ensnaring a partner or whether they just thought it was a cool T-shirt.

  Which brings me to Ellie’s playlists.

  They were a thing of wonder. Funny, well structured, cool but very uncool in the space of a few tracks. And as I studied them—with titles such as You forgot to buy coffee, you damn fool and Songage for a snoggage—I realized they were meticulously crafted, linked by themes and wordplay. Had she done all this just for the moment when some tall(ish), handsome(ish) stranger came to visit? And did it matter?

  “These are some amazing playlist names,” I said.

  “Thanks,” she replied in a way that was breezy enough for me to still not understand the intention behind said compilations. “They all have a story.”

  I read a few more. “ ‘You dumped me. No, I dumped you. Ad infinitum’?”

  “The perfect mix of depressing breakup songs and victory breakup songs.”

  “Some of these are a little hard to figure out, though.”

  She stopped packing and made her way to the back of my chair, leaning over me to read the screen. Our proximity made my belly flip. Her breath on my neck almost ended me.

  “What’s this one? Stevie Wonder, Ben Folds, Divine Comedy. They’re really nice songs for suc
h an in-your-face title.”

  “ ‘I’m sorry your genitalia had to go through that.’ That was for my friend who gave birth. All the songs are baby-making songs. But, y’know, not ‘baby-making’ songs.”

  “You have a friend who gave birth? How old did you say you were?”

  She picked up the recently thrown cushion and struck me with it again.

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “Pervert,” I replied. “Ensnaring a younger man in your lair of iniquity.”

  “I’m beginning to think you’re an idiot.”

  “It has been said.”

  I was getting giddy again, so I turned back to the screen to keep my cool.

  “And this one, ‘Sex noise’?”

  “That’s a playlist where a singer makes a sex noise at some point.”

  “Hence all the James Brown.”

  She went back to her packing.

  “Play ‘The Apocalypse Song’ by St. Vincent.”

  I did as I was instructed and was glad I did. A punky female singer with a throaty voice sang of “time” and “light” and “carbon” over a clangy guitar.

  “She’s good.”

  “She’s my latest hero. I saw her play the Roundhouse last month. She’s not just a great singer, she wails on the guitar.”

  I made a mental note to listen to every song this St. Vincent had ever recorded and get email notifications of any upcoming gigs. And there it was, following a line about “a little death,” an orgasmic tic.

  “Sexy, huh?” Ellie asked with just the right level of ridiculousness. “So, do I pass your music test?”

  “Tenfold,” I offered, perhaps a little too breathlessly. I cleared my throat. “I was hoping there’d be a DVD collection somewhere so I could judge you correctly.”

  “Nah. I don’t really like films.” Her smile grew broader as my face fell further. After a moment she put me out of my misery with a simple “You’re too easy!”

  I sat back down on the bed dramatically.

  “I was going to say, who doesn’t like films? Everyone likes films.”

  She studied me again, like an antique clockmaker figuring out the cause of the ticking.

  “Is that why you like films?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Cue the seventeenth broad, knowing smile of the evening.

  “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

  I studied her back. But she wasn’t half as easy to read.

  I wonder where we’d be right now if she was.

  I have rather successfully completely unpacked the basket of memories.

  In front of me lie hundreds of trinkets collected throughout our four-year relationship. From receipts from fancy restaurants to assorted Valentine’s gifts and all the sentimental souvenirs in between.

  Procrastination on this scale, to the point of fully doing the opposite of the task at hand, would not stand under the reign of Ellie. But now, as I rule my kingdom alone, I can do as much self-harm as I wish.

  This ill-timed poring through our treasure trove of keepsakes has, however, unearthed a trilogy of documents that add weight to my hypothesis that Ellie hightailed it because of my lack of drive.

  The documents in question are three lists of things we wanted to do before we died. We compiled them during a winter weekend binge of Grand Designs around two and a half years ago. Because of some silly off-the-cuff comment about how I’d like to build my own house one day, Ellie had questioned how I’d get to this lofty rich man’s folly when I was, at present, poorer than a church mouse awaiting payday.

  She passed me a piece of paper and a pen and took one herself.

  We compiled our individual lists and then merged them together for one entitled 10 Things to Do Before We’re Ashes and Dust.

  Top of mine was Build a house.

  Top of hers was Own a house.

  I wanted to travel the world.

  She wanted to visit San Francisco, São Paulo, and Tokyo.

  I said, I’d raise the next Coen brothers (or Wachowski sisters).

  She said, I’d have kids.

  At the time we thought it was great how our dreams and goals and ambitions synced up. Looking at it now, it’s just hard evidence—if hard evidence was needed—of how grounded she was and how…well, whatever I am.

  I scribble number 3 on the list of reasons why she left—PRAGMATISM (her) vs IDEALISM (me)—and pick up a diary from 2010. It holds even more proof of my worst fears, but my pilgrimage down memory lane is interrupted by a phone call from an extremely pissed-off Seb, who reminds me of the absolutely mandatory and not-to-be-missed-under-any-circumstances meeting I’m currently missing.

  I gather my things and run out the back door, wishing I hadn’t started smoking again as I start wheezing within seconds.

  I decide to walk—rationalizing that Seb can’t get any more mardy with me—and reflect on the contents of the diary I was reading moments earlier. It documented a very uneventful February in which Ellie and I did nothing because we were broke from a very eventful Christmas and New Year.

  It strikes me how little time we give to the normal and everyday. Entries mainly consisted of what shows we were bingeing in 2010—Spooks, Mad Men, etc.—and which pubs did the best Sunday roasts. I know I’d wanted to include wry observations about our life together, but the intention had only manifested in some choice dialogue of hers. Namely, “Do you think Morrissey secretly likes watching Man v. Food?” and “If there is a God, why did she make ants?”

  As much as none of the above is an insightful deep dive into where our relationship was after two years together, the banality of it actually speaks volumes. There were no entries complaining about things she’d done or said, no examples of me pouring out my heart and soul due to anxieties about where we were heading.

  Life was simple and simple was good.

  Maybe we should have fought more. Seb and his wife, Tracy, fight like cats and dogs, and not just since they spawned mini-thems. There was many a time I’d hear him either calming her down or riling her up over the phone down by the bin yard.

  And now they’re a family. Kids, cars, and a mortgage. That volatility has to be good for something, right? Me and Ellie, we were an even keel, a straight road, a monorail. Look where that got us.

  I arrive at the front of the cinema at 10:14, and Lucy, one of the team leaders (see: lackey given a title and an extra quid an hour to do the manager’s work for them), tells me they’re all in Screen 6 waiting for me.

  “Did Seb seem pissed off?” I inquire.

  She nods enthusiastically, with a smug half-smile.

  I enter Screen 6 to find Lizzie, Dave, and Ronnie sitting in silence in the front row, with Seb pacing up and down in front of the screen.

  “Sorry. Sorry. I’m being kicked out of my house. I forgot about the meeting, okay, can we forgive me and move on?”

  I throw my bag down next to Ronnie and give him the international “I’m scared I’m in trouble” face of open-mouthed gritted teeth.

  “Right,” says Seb, “now that we’re all here…”

  I raise my hand as if I’m in primary school.

  “Do I have time to get a quick coffee?”

  Seb’s look suggests I can find out the answer to that question at the same time I’m finding out the answer to the question of how much pain he can inflict on me with a wooden spoon.

  “Oooookay,” I say.

  He tries again.

  “Now that we’re all here, I have some news. Some hard-to-say news and some hard-to-hear news. But news that, if we’re all honest, we’ve known has been coming for some time.”

  He swallows hard and we all follow suit. My stomach does front flips and back flips in equal rhythm.

  “As of next month, we will be an all-digital cinema, with a full
y automated system. The last of the projectors will be stripped out by the first of September, and we will no longer be showing thirty-five-millimeter film.”

  He continues, “To coincide with this date, we have been asked to see if anyone wants to put their name forward for voluntary redundancy.”

  He looks sick from the guilt of being the one who has to ask.

  “The decision has been made that redundancies will be issued to all projectionists before the end of the year, but I’ve had assurances from Mandy and the managers downstairs that anyone who wants a job on the floor has one waiting for them. You’ll go straight in as team leaders…”

  Lizzie and Dave groan at the suggestion, but Seb plows forward.

  “…and your previous experience of helping run the projection booth will stand you in good stead for any management positions that may follow.”

  More groans.

  “Does anyone have any questions?”

  Ronnie’s hand goes up.

  “Who will run the digis?”

  “Until the end of the year, myself and whoever remains, but ultimately the intention is that the shows will be one hundred percent automated. The downstairs managers will be trained to make up playlists, upload files, et cetera.”

  Dave’s hand is next.

  “And what about maintenance? Lamp changes, lineups? The managers going to do that?”

  “Eventually, all technical maintenance will be carried out by off-site engineers. I’ve sourced some details of the companies we’ll be working with. Dave, I know you’d be just as good as any of them and would happily pass on your details with a glowing reference.”

  While I don’t doubt that Dave completely deserves this job opportunity, I’m more than a little jealous that my friend isn’t paying me the same compliment.

  Lizzie doesn’t put her hand up, just asks, “And you?”

  “As the floor managers will be trained to manage the digital projectors, I’ll be trained to do the floor manager’s position.”

  Seb does not appear thrilled at the prospect, but his sympathy and attention is firmly on the rest of us.