The hour isn’t late but the room is asphalt black. Konstantin’s odour has finally dragged itself out of the window so the lights are off and the curtains as tightly closed as Claire’s legs. I reach down and feel around for beer. On the fourth fumble I find a bottle that actually has some alcohol in it, but not for long. I lift it to my lips and drain it dry, sucking out the last drops. After Konstantin’s departure I needed a drink and in large quantities. All because there’s a heavy weight on my mind. A quick trip out to the off-licence had generated a threefold increase in the volume of Gadd’s chilling in my fridge.
Konstantin is obviously talking utter bollocks. I simply cannot believe someone has any reason whatsoever to follow me. I’m a boring bastard with an average job. No one would want my life, therefore I can only conclude Konstantin was completely off his tits on some Class A shit. I try to shelve his comments in a dark place in my mind with all the other useless crap. But it’s futile; the thoughts keep knocking at the door, wanting to be heard.
However, what’s really bothering me is Claire. She’s been an utter cow recently, treating me like a dog even though I can’t think of anything I’ve done wrong. One minute our relationship is running on at a steady pace then, out of nowhere, we’ve skidded, gone up a bank and hit a wall. It’s certainly not the first time. How many people do you know that manage to go more than a few months without a dust-up, never mind eight years? But this one is subtly different — I largely don’t care how she feels.
It’s said that everyone’s good at something, which implies that we’re terrible at lots of things. In my case clearly my downside is holding relationships together. Mentally I run back through my (relatively short) list of ex’s. I thought each was a satisfactory progression along the road we all seem doomed to take — marriage, kids, old age and death, with working all the hours in between to pay for it all. Although each stage should be forwards, I’ve long suspected (but never admitted) that meeting Claire was a reversal. As happens periodically, my memory takes me back in time to the first two years of my degree when I was madly in love with Claire’s precursor, Alison.
Alison. Wow, what a stunner (arse score 11). Everything about her made my heart sing and — even better — my head accompanied my beating organ in perfect harmony — that’s when you know you’ve got it right. We’d been on the same course (economics with management studies, yawn) and I’d been smacked between the eyes the first time I saw her, on day one of university. She immediately became my morning shower wank fantasy (day two). But never did I think my solo desires would become reality, and when, amazingly, we did get together I thought we’d never split up.
Sadly I was wrong.
One-and-a-half years of pleasure and fun and then the inexplicable snapping of the relationship just before the summer holidays. I still can’t remember why it happened and who broke up with whom. The final year had been tense. We had the same friends, most of who were couples now, and went to the same places, which made life difficult to say the least. In an effort to break out I’d gone to a new club in the initial couple of weeks back at university and met Claire. So to take my mind off Alison, I jumped into bed with her. I was soon immersed in Claire’s life and circle of friends. Alison, to my knowledge, stayed single. We graduated, congratulated each other, then went our separate ways. I’ve never heard from her since, although I think of her often.
I’m rudely jerked out of my melancholia by the chime of my mobile. No flash ringtone for me, just a double beep that indicates someone has sent me a text. I pick up my phone, which is easy to find because the screen is the only bright spot in the coffin lit room. It hurts my eyes looking at it. I tap a button to open the message.
It reads, “Fancy a beer? Jack.”
Ah.