Fuckers. I chuck my cell phone on top of the mess of dirty mugs and food detritus on the coffee table and sink back into the lumpy sofa. The weather can piss me off too, the bloody sun’s right in my eyes. I’d get up and close the curtains if I could be bothered. I can’t, though, so I just shut my eyes. I may as well go back to sleep, seeing as I’m now officially unemployed. That’s what happens when you get too cocksure and hand in your notice at your old job before starting your new one, then get blindsided by a guy who has a stroke at the wheel of his Volvo. At least I’m alive, everyone keeps telling me, look on the bright side, or some other equally trite shit. Where is the bright side of not being able to take up the job you’ve been working toward for your entire career? I went through endless meetings and interviews, had the handshake, all but signed on the dotted line, appointment to be announced in the press within days. My dream contract was in the post for me to sign, and then bang, I’m busted up in a hospital bed and Jonny Fucking Nobody can’t wait to jump into my shoes instead. I’ve fallen between the gaps, and now I’m the nobody, and the way it’s going I won’t even be able to pay my rent in a couple of months’ time. The doctors can’t even tell me if I’ll get my hearing back in my right ear. I don’t think they’ll be lining up around the block to employ a DJ who can’t fucking hear. What happens then? I move in with Sarah and that cow-bag of a woman she works with? That’s not even an option. Cow-bag would be right on to the landlord about illegal subletting; she already begrudges the fact she has to share with one person, and she seems to especially detest me. I’m sure there’s nothing she’d like better than to see me in a cardboard box by the Thames. I don’t think she’d even toss me the money for a cup of tea.
Oh, deep joy, I can hear keys rattling in the front door. I wish to God I’d had the forethought to stay in bed and put the bolt on. Billy’s away at a family wedding somewhere up north, and Phil, a sound technician from my now ex-workplace, is in Goa, which means there’s only one person it can be. Sarah. Sarah, with her ever-present smile and undiluted zeal for life, when all I want to do is plow my way through an out-of-date ready meal and watch the Saturday afternoon football. And I don’t even like football.
“Jack? I’m back. Where are you?”
“In here,” I say, as grouchily as possible. She appears in the doorway, all legs in a pink summer dress, and somewhere in the back of my head I feel ashamed at being slouched on the sofa in three-day-old joggers with curry stains. She’s been down in Exeter or somewhere on an assignment for a couple of days; if I’m honest, I didn’t think she was home until tomorrow. Bloody painkillers have fried my brain. I’d have changed my trousers, at least.
“You look as if you’ve been on an all-night drugs binge,” she says, trying for funny. “That or you’re reliving your student days. Which is it?”
Great, remind me of what I’m missing, Sarah. “Neither. It’s just me, the remote control, and a chicken vindaloo,” I say, not looking at her.
“Sounds like the title of an arty film.” She laughs lightly, gathering up the dirty coffee mugs.
“Leave that stuff, I’ll do it.”
“It’s no trouble.”
“All the same.”
She looks at me, that sunshine smile fading fast. “Let me take care of you every now and then? Please?”
Resigned, I close my eyes and lay my head back against the sofa as she clears up my mess, feeling like a resentful teenager whose mum just rocked up in his bedroom when he’d been about to knock one out. I can smell Sarah’s perfume, distinct and exotic, and it reminds me of nights out on the town, and even later nights in bed together. We haven’t had sex since the accident. In truth, we weren’t having all that much of it before it happened, either. I open my eyes as I hear her clatter the plates and cups into the kitchen sink. Her perfume lingers, layering over the smell of last night’s curry and my stale sweat. It’s not a good combination.
“I thought we could head out in a while,” she calls through, flicking the kitchen radio on. “It’s gorgeous out there today.”
I sigh, though not loud enough for her to hear. I feel rancid, and too worn out to bother doing anything about it. I don’t think I have any clean boxers left. My shoulder still hurts and my ribs still ache, probably because I’ve been neglecting the exercises given to me at the weekly physio appointments I sometimes attend. God knows why. My bones broke. They’ll mend. There isn’t any physio for my ear; the only thing I really care about them mending is the one thing that’s damaged for good. Oh, there’s talk of hearing aids and such stuff, but to be honest what’s the bloody point? The real problem is that my career broke, and there’s nothing the doctors can do to mend it.
“What do you think?” Sarah appears in the doorway again wearing the mint-green Marigolds she bought a few weeks back.
“That you look like a fifties housewife?”
She rolls her eyes. “About going out, Jack. Just for a walk to the park or something, get some lunch at that new cafe on the Broadway, maybe. Someone said it’s very Californian.”
What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Wheat juice and kale? “Maybe.”
“Shall I put the shower on for you?”
Irritation streaks through me. “What are you, my fucking mother?”
She doesn’t answer me, but I see the hurt settle in her eyes and feel like a cock again. I’m just sick of everyone fussing over me. If it’s not Sarah, it’s my mum turning up twice a week with food I don’t feel like eating.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Off day.”
She nods slowly. If I could see inside her head, I expect she’d be having a good old rant, calling me all kinds of well-deserved names. I can clearly hear her shouting “selfish bastard” even though she hasn’t said a thing.
“Just go and take a shower,” she says eventually, turning back toward the kitchen. I get up to do as she’s asked, and as I pass by the kitchen I consider wrapping my arms around her where she stands at the sink, kissing her neck, saying sorry properly. Then I hear the perky radio jingle, someone I used to consider a rival, and the acrid burn of jealousy wipes out any passing desire to be civil. Fuckers.