JACK: Saturday evening,
six days after the split
You are watching the television.
And I am pretending to watch the television, but really I am watching you watching the television.
Even from the side, I can see how hollow your cheeks have become, as if the air is being sucked out of them. There are black shadows under your eyes and you are chewing on a tiny piece of skin in the corner of your fingernail.
You do not look good.
There’s a stupid show on the television. About couples meeting up to go on dates. It is all set in a restaurant. I wonder if it makes you think about our first date. I took you to a French place that had just opened. I was shocked when I saw the menu. It was the most expensive restaurant I had ever been to, but I let you think it was all the same to me.
‘Have whatever you like,’ I said. ‘Have lobster, if you like.’
I chose that because it was the most expensive thing and I wanted you to see I couldn’t care less about the price. Afterwards, you admitted you had never had lobster before and you only ordered it because I had suggested it. And you didn’t even like it that much.
You can’t have forgotten it all.
The ads come on and you jump up as if you have just thought of something. You go into the kitchen and I follow you there.
You drag a chair to the far wall and stand on it so you can reach the high kitchen cupboard where we keep the alcohol. Where you keep the alcohol. You reach behind the collection of odd bottles we have built up over the years – vermouth, Malibu, a strange yellow drink we brought back from holiday one year. You bring out the bottle of vodka we keep in the cupboard for whenever people come round. You are not normally a big drinker. This is unusual for you.
Getting yourself a glass, you pour a modest measure of vodka. Then you look at it for a moment and pour in a bit more. You open the freezer and take out an ice tray, which is mostly empty. ‘Typical,’ you say under your breath. Managing to get two cubes of ice out, you fetch a bottle of Coca-Cola from the fridge and pour some in. The bottle has been there a few days and there’s no fizzing noise when it hits the ice.
You carry your drink back into the living room and sit back down on the sofa with your feet curled up underneath you. Then you take a big swig.
You frown, and take another.
Getting up suddenly, you storm back into the kitchen and get the bottle of vodka down again. You hold it under your nose and take a big sniff. Then you hold the bottle to your mouth and take a gulp.
‘Ben!’ Your shout is so loud your voice cracks.
‘Ben! Come here!’
There’s the sound of something heavy thundering down the stairs and Ben appears in the kitchen. He looks cross.
‘I was in the middle of something,’ he says. ‘What’s up?’
‘This is what’s up,’ you say, pointing to the vodka.
He shrugs.
‘I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘Someone has drunk the vodka and replaced it with water.’
‘Well, don’t look at me.’
‘Are you really going to stand there and tell me it wasn’t you? Haven’t I raised you to tell the truth?’
‘Truth? That’s rich. Coming from you.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? Ben, come back here!’
But Ben has already left the room. His feet thump on the stairs.
For a second you stand there with your mouth open as if you are about to call after him. Then you slump down into the chair, put your head in your hands and sob as if your heart is breaking.