Not About Him

The secure sensation of my friend's warm hands round my waist is hopelessly, irretrievably, forgotten as soon as I spot Him through the crowd. Still being herded forward by the mass of bodies pressed against us, suddenly all I want is escape. I unhand Richard and heave my way to the side-wall. I'm nearer Him now. Nearer the make-shift stage, that sweat-drenched shirt, those squinting eyes. The audience cheers drunkenly as the song comes to an electric close. I can't bear to be one of them - to applaud this absolute creep. Mesmerised nonetheless, I watch from the shadows. Meanwhile, my mind's racing to grasp the possibility of the conversation I've been conducting internally for a year finally being played out in reality. Oh shit. This can't be happening. Why here? Why now? Oh God... I hope to holy fuck I look hot.

The band lay their instruments down carefully, like mommas placing sleeping babes in their cots, and commence chatting. Glimpses of them can be gleaned from between the milling heads and I berate myself for simultaneously wanting to catch His eye and hide. Pressed against the cold brick, I'm sickened as I sense the light strengthen and crowds clear. The dingy disco becomes a rainbow of scarves and skin colours and a medley of accents replace the music. Soon He might actually see me. Thankfully, it's Richard's face that appears. He seems as relieved to see me as I am him. Mutual smiles ensue.

"There you are!" he yells above the din.
"Richard!" I enthuse.
"How's it...?"
I cut him off abruptly, mid-flow.
"It's Him."
There's a pause as his grin turns puzzled.
"Who?"
"Andy. Playing in the band. You have to save me."

I reach up and grab him by the shoulders, repositioning my friend to stand between me and the stage. He lets my hands move him but continues to stare into my eyes. I let him. We have this kind of relationship. Acting on an urge to look as gorgeously epic as possible, I glance down at my body to check my coral dress for creases or stains. Finding no obvious faults, I pull it down slightly to reveal a little cleavage instead. Richard's eyes are all over me, which pleases me inordinately. Hot enough for him is hot enough for Him.

"Do you wanna get out of here?" Richard asks with blessed sensitivity. Tempting as it is, I answer, "No. I'm OK. Why should I leave because of Him? Screw Him." He must recognise the trajectory of my tone, because he chuckles and shakes his head indulgently.
"A drink then, m'lady?"
"Why yes, good sir. A drink would be most appreciated." I curtsy sarcastically and we lock arms, heading for the kitchen-table-come-bar.

When we get there the choices seem somewhat limited: chunky Sangria from a massive plastic tub or cold cans of Carlsberg from a bucket filled with ice. He opts for the latter while I briefly compare alcohol content and select the former. Wine does funny things to me, but I'm comfortable with that tonight. The party seems full of people I partly know: acquaintances from the Forest cafe and some friends of friends of friends (of friends?). There are only a handful of places to sit, so when I spy a couple vacate their sofa and stagger away, I dive in before anyone else can, dragging poor Richard with me. It's a squeeze, but we fit.

"So which one is Andy again?" he asks with a mock-quizzical glint in his grey-green eyes. I smack his left shoulder with an open palm. "Shut up," I laugh. "The only one."
"The one who broke your little heart?" His jokey tone hurts; it must be written all over my face. "Sorry," he concedes with sincerity. "That... creep...? He really did a number on you then?"

Pretending to ignore him, I sup my Sangria. Tightly closed teeth deny slices of orange rind in favour of bitter red booze. The sofa seems intent on swallowing me, which wouldn't be too frowned upon right now. I adjust my ass, accidentally rubbing against Richard. Feeling embarrasment rise, I resolve to be enthralled by the cute girl swaying to my left. Her messy blonde dreads hang loose, teasing her tanned waist like brushstrokes. Andy's profile spoils the moment though, appearing like a flash in the distance before the throngs envelope him once more. I panic slightly, feeling that lurch of the stomach and subsequent sickness. There's nowhere to look except Richard or my knees. I opt for my knees. My hair acts as a curtain to my humiliation but feeling my friend's sympathy heavy on my curls, I turn back to face him.

"He's was my boyfriend when I went home." I admit.
"Back to En Zed?"
"Yeh..." Richard's face is open and patient. "When Mum died, I had to go home," I reluctantly explain, "he was meant to be my 'loving' boyfriend, totally 'in love' with me, but then the weeks became months thanks to my mum's asshole brother... anyway... his calls kept getting fewer and fewer and he kept making crap excuses for not answering mine. And then after like two months he disappeared off the radar for six weeks." Richard's reaction seems appropriately horrified, so I continue. "I was testing him, sort of. I wanted to know how long it'd be before he got in contact. How much he cared, maybe..? Well, the answer was, not much. After six weeks, I call to ask if he's alright, seriously worried that he's gone and died on me too, and he answers on the second ring, sounding all nonchalant! Says his internet's broken and he's got no credit. Talks about himself for ten minutes, then says he has to go. Doesn't even ask how I am. Out of sight out of mind, I guess."

Richard leans in and whispers forcefully into my ear, "What. A. Tool."
"Yeh," I agree, head low once again. "My friends were right about him all along. They kept saying he was using me for sex but I didn't want to believe them." I feel the need to make eye-contact for this next admission. It only feels right to give it the weight I, in my arrogance, think it deserves. "He was my first real love."
The cup in my lap contains only wet, dead fruit; luckily, more Sangria sounds like the perfect cure to such revelations.
"Anyway. I might get another drink," I add. Richard tries to grab my hand as I stand, but I brush him off and lurch into nearby bodies.

Another band's begun and the bulk of the crowd have vacated the bar area. Sweet, slow jazz fills the air; a sad saxophone and tinkling synths have tilted the mood from frenzied to relaxed. For some reason, the party's having an impromptu Happy Hour and the Sangria's only a pound a cup. I buy two for good measure. Remembering Richard, I pay for another, down one, and return to my friend feeling like I fooled someone, although whom, I do not know.

"So anyway," I say, as if the conversation was still going, "we haven't spoken since. I got back a year ago and I've seen him around a few places but we still haven't spoken. I hate his guts; I think he can tell."
Checking he's still listening, I find it's now Richard's turn to face away, looking subdued. I trace the line of his vision to the same cute girl with the paintbrush dreads, who's traversed the room in my absence. Fine, I think, aware of my own irrationality. Be that way.
"I'm going for a cig."
Waiting for a reply seems pointless seeing as Richard doesn't smoke, so I just leave, taking his full cup with me.

The stairs are alive with weed-smokers; damn, it must be raining again. Some mop-headed man cradles a guitar and an elderly chick huddles over a bongo drum: and then a Jam's broken out, trapping all the wasted hipsters with sultry, tribal beats. I join the tangled queue for the exit, downing both Sangrias as I make slow progress down the line. Feeling surplus to requirements, I avoid eye contact, leaving the sweet-smelling, smoke-filled stair-well to all the happy people.

Sideways rain lashes me as soon as I step outside, compelling me to hastily retrieve the umbrella and cigarette packet from my bag. The famously manic-depressive Edinburgh weather is evidently going through its depressed stage. This is what passes for Summer in Scotland? Move away, people. Move away. Then again, I decided to move here, twice in fact, so I'm being a total hypocrite. I build my shelter, then fumble for my lighter in the dark recesses of my bag. Before I can find it, a flame appears out the corner of my vision. I gratefully make use of it. About to voice my thanks, my eyes meet its owner. It's Him. Of course.

"Bob. Hey." he states earthily, a slow, caring smile gracing his lips.
I take a deep breath and look him up and down. He's soaked, even more so than when he was on stage; the energy of the gig continues to glitter on his skin. Tousled hair, a white shirt and tight trousers finish off the ultra-trendy look I remember it taking him forever to perfect - staring in the mirror for a long hour, twisting black strands with strong wax; pretensions to sloppiness; treasuring his reflection.

"Hi."
It's all I can manage at the moment, as both the heart-wrenchingly good and gut-stoppingly bad memories resurface in tandem, pulling me apart.
"How've you been?"
"Good, actually." My voice sounds so ambivalent that I'm actually impressing myself. "Just been back at college finishing my foundation. Did my end of year show the other week there. Yeh, it was good. Fun. You?"
His wet face is only getting wetter as I say this, allowing me to rejoice in not offering him shelter under my umbrella.
"Well, we finished the album a few weeks ago, so we've just been waiting for the production crew..." I can sense the start of one of his legendary exercises in technical jargon, so I do what I always did at times likes this - switch off. While he's rambling about mikes and amps and other such rubbish, I think back to when I considered this cute. An adorable foible. An imperfection that I loved so intensely, thereby proving my love for the whole person. Oh God. Was indulging his irritating self-involvement, the way he never even noticed when his audience had stopped listening... was this why I thought I loved him? Was I really that naive?

I zone back into what passes for conversation with Andrew McAvoy just in time to see an expectant raise of the eyebrows take shape.
"Sorry what?" I ask, not sorry at all.
"I was just asking if I could steal a bit of umbrella," he grinned. "My fag's getting soaked."
The answer's no, but instead of saying so, I choose to ignore the question in favour of confronting the situation. Sure, we could carry on being civil while all the time my blood boils. Or I could take the initiative. One lesson learned these last twelve months is that you should always speak your mind when you have the chance, or else you might just live to regret it.

"Look Andy, I can't just be normal with you like nothing happened. What you did to me was pretty damn awful. I was going through a really tough time; my Mum... and all that crap with Uncle Stazi. I really needed you. And where were you? Hm?"
He looks sunken, like he suddenly wants to be anywhere but in this conversation. Without giving him a chance to make an excuse, I continue saying what I need to say.
"You were here, playing gigs. Probably chatting up some other young girl. Getting drunk on cheap cider; sitting in the park with your idiot friends, categorically not ringing up your grieving girlfriend. Am I right?" I can feel the blood start to bubble, so take it off the heat. All that's left is pity and disdain. "God Andrew, you're thirty five years old. You need to grow up. I'm only nineteen and I know more about life than you. And you can wipe that scowl off your face as well." An apt picture springs to mind. "You look ridiculous; like Wolf dressed as Lamb."

He spits out a mumbled 'whatever' and huffs off inside. I'm shaking from the cold and heightened tension.
"Are you OK?" says a friendly voice in my ear, a warm hand encircling the opposite hip. "Was he bothering you?"
"Nah," I reply, "I'm sweet as."
I fold my hand over his and sit my chin on my right shoulder, so I'm looking up at him. Realising that the night was never about Andy; it was all about Richard, I close my eyes and lean in, finally ready for a gentle taste of reality.