20

We go to the Happy Beer Garden.

It’s a popular spot. I went there with Jack the night after we took the photograph, and I know I shouldn’t be putting myself in a position to drag up old memories, but I wasn’t a fan of the craziness of the Khao San Road and I didn’t fancy shopping around for a decent bar with Justin. Too much pressure.

We get a little table outside, kind of a two-seater bench, facing the traffic flowing past slowly, tuk-tuks piled up. Neon strips and fairy lights hang above our heads. A young girl tries to sell us a flower and when we decline, she pulls out the wooden frogs. Justin buys two.

‘For my nephews,’ he says.

We order a couple of beers.

‘Are they in Canada?’ I ask.

‘My nephews? Yeah. Toronto. God knows when I’ll see them again, though.’

‘Of course – you said you plan to be travelling for a long time.’

‘I have to. I can’t function at home.’ He plays with the damp beer mat between his fingers. ‘I don’t know how to be without Sabrina. You know, the last time I remember doing anything before she became a major player in my life was when I went to the movies to see Toy Story. The first Toy Story! And even then, she was probably there, too, with her friends, because we were from the same town, went to the same elementary school. So, in the words of some terrible, mediocre philosopher, I need to go forth and well, find myself. Do I sound like an even bigger douchebag than before?’

‘Absolutely,’ I say, not leaving it too long before I add, ‘Only messing.’

Our beers arrive and the waitress asks us where we’re from and if we’re married. We bypass the first question and say no regarding the second.

‘Why? Why you not married?’ she asks, quite offended. ‘Be happy!’

‘We’re just friends,’ I tell her.

She rolls her eyes, tuts at us.

‘You want tequila?’ she asks.

‘Sure,’ I reply. ‘Why not?’

‘I hate tequila,’ Justin says. ‘I’m too old for that stuff.’

‘Fine, I’ll drink both.’

I’m thinking about what he said, about finding himself. I’ve never met anybody in real life who’s used the term seriously. Jack went on a gap year, like all the posh kids do, and he told me it was to find himself, but he was totally taking the piss. He was interrailing and getting smashed with his carefully saved allowance, his parents’ credit card tucked into his wallet if things went tits-up. The only thing he found that he previously didn’t know about himself was a tattoo on his left calf, of a pizza slice. But let’s be serious for a second here. If I wanted to find myself – because let’s face it, I’m pretty fucking lost right now – surely all I’d need to do is go home to Liverpool. Thirty-six-year-old Chloe Roscoe had been plodding along fine a matter of months ago. There was no thought of moving to the big smoke, no dead boyfriend to deal with. But would trying to erase the first half of this year be disrespectful to Jack? To what we had? Or would it be a smart move?

‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Justin asks.

‘Sorry. I’m terrible company. It’s a symptom of what happened … about six weeks ago.’

The waitress returns with two shots of tequila. Justin impulsively takes one and downs it, grimacing at the taste and sticking out his tongue.

‘Nobody forced you to do that,’ I laugh.

‘So what happened about six weeks ago?’

We’re in danger of having to slag off Sabrina if I don’t open up.

‘Okay,’ I begin. ‘Me boyfriend, Jack, died—’

‘Oh man! Chloe—’

‘Just let me unleash. You can give me sympathy later. Or more tequila. We’d only just moved in together. I met him in January and before the end of June, he was dead. Hit by a van. So the whole relationship never got a shot … I mean, say we were to break up – not that it was on the cards – I never got the chance to find out enough about him to dislike him, to hate him. His faults weren’t as obvious as they would be further down the line. And if we were meant to be together – you know, get married, have kids, well, that’s never gonna happen. Ever. So, where does that leave me? I’m not a widow, but I’m not fighting heartbreak or trying to convince myself I’m better off without him. I’m just … sad.’

Justin’s dark eyes narrow and he cocks his head to the side, intent on listening. An older Thai lady stops at our table and tries to sell us some trinkets from a basket hanging around her neck. He reaches into his pocket and gives her one hundred baht. She leaves a small garland of white flowers – or malai as I recall from chatting to a local last time – beside our beers.

‘Can I ask why you’re in Bangkok?’ Justin prompts.

‘Oh, yeah! The plot thickens … Well, I thought it would. But I thought wrong.’

‘Cryptic.’

‘Sorry. Jack and I came here together in March, and … hang on,’ I take out my phone and find the original photo to show Justin. ‘You’ve no doubt seen this sort of thing on cheap souvenirs, yeah?’

Justin nods, perhaps unsure.

‘Well, Jack took this photo, thinking he’d captured something unusual – funny.’

‘It’s kind of weird.’

‘Right! It’s so weird! And it’s hanging on our kitchen wall, massive.’

‘Cool.’

‘Yeah, that’s what we thought. Except we also thought there was more to it.’

‘Like, how?’

‘Like, the fella. Why was he sitting there? What made him rock up and get inside a trolley? Look – he’s staring straight down the lens. Jack loved the notion that there was something more behind the picture, a story etched into his face. You know how you invent silly things or obsess over stupid stuff when you’re in love?’

‘Of course. Sabrina and I were obsessed with the number fifty-four.’

‘Y’what?!’

‘Yeah. We’d only just started dating and we were saying how much we loved each other, all goo-goo. I said I loved her twice as much as she loved me, then she said, no, she loved me ten times more … and I blurted out “fifty-four!” It made her laugh. Like, really, really laugh.’

‘So, it became a thing?’

‘For sure. Every card we sent – birthdays, anniversaries – “I love you, fifty-four” and a string of kisses. It was our number, our stupid … whatever.’

‘I get it.’

‘And your thing was this picture.’

‘Yep,’ I jiggle the remaining beer around the bottle and knock it back. ‘I came here to find out what Jack wanted to know. And, well, the answer is nothing. It was a gimmick.’

‘I’m sorry, Chloe.’ He rubs his palm against his dark stubble.

‘It’s shit, isn’t it? I even feel sorry for me. For Jack.’

Justin takes the garland of flowers and puts it around my neck. We drink more beer and do a bit of people-watching: it’s a fantastic spot for it. It’s nice to have a mate. He’s easy-going and it doesn’t feel strange. I mean, this is what you do on holidays, isn’t it? You chat to strangers, you connect, simply because you’re both there, fish out of water. If it weren’t for the consistent twinge of pain running from my head to toe, the pain that’s been present since my towel dropped in front of Jack’s dad, I’d probably have moments here and there when I’d forget about Jack’s death, sat here, a spectator of Bangkok.

‘What did you hope to achieve?’ Justin asks. ‘By coming here.’

I heave a sigh. ‘Meaning.’

‘Okay …’

‘Vague, right? I know. But – if I’m not part of Jack’s future and not part of his past—’

‘But of course you are—’

‘Nah, you weren’t at the funeral. There’s no trace of me in his life; not according to everyone he’s ever known. I’m just this person who occupied his spare time for five months. I somehow thought that if I could find that man, show the photo to people in the area it was taken, track him down by his work uniform, I’d get the story of his life, find out something interesting, and – oh, my God, I realise how fucking round the bend I sound. I’m from an entirely different culture from this fella. I mean, what was I expecting? Us to have a cuppa? Be invited over for Sunday lunch?’

‘A good friend of mine from back home worked here in Bangkok for many years. He said his family became close with their driver, but their relationship was established over four, maybe five years. It helped that the guy was good at languages. Your guy might not speak any English, but I don’t mean to patronise. I’m sure you already thought about that.’

‘Me head’s a mess. I haven’t slept much, you know, since.’

‘All is forgiven,’ Justin smiles. ‘Look, I can’t judge. I’m backpacking like a nineteen-year-old in the hope of a new life presenting itself to me. I’m sure in reality I should go home, get my job back and move the hell on. Hurt; heal. But this – I dunno – this somehow feels easier.’

‘Justin, give yourself some credit. What you’re doing’s brave.’

‘It’s also called running away.’

‘Nope. A lot of people’d sit at home, get drunk and feel sorry for themselves and stalk their ex online.’

‘Oh, I’ve stalked. I still stalk.’

‘I don’t blame you. But you don’t need me to tell you that’s pointless.’

‘Sure. Why take a knife to an open wound? Human fucked-up nature.’

We cheers to that.

‘And Chloe, you need to give yourself some credit, too. Who gives a shit whether you and Jack were together five months or—’

‘Fifty-four years?’

‘Hey, don’t steal my thing!’

‘Haha, sorry.’

‘But, yeah. Who cares? You know what counts. You don’t need to start looking for a needle in a haystack in Bangkok to prove you loved each other.’

‘That’s the problem, Justin. I don’t know if Jack truly loved me.’

‘He never said it?’

‘He said he “reckoned” he loved me. Like a less serious version. He never just spat it out, said those three fucking words.’

‘And did you ever say them to him?’

I shake my head, disappointed in myself. ‘I copied him. Told him I “reckoned” I loved him, too. I mean, shit. He died not knowing that I was so in love with him, you know, as much as a grown woman can be after a few months. Tequila?’

‘Ooh, I can still feel the first one about here,’ he indicates his upper torso with his hand.

‘Good. Two tequilas please!’

Patpong market is on the opposite side of the road. It’s getting late now; the neon lights are in full glory, the haggling crowds growing by the minute. We’re handed paper flyers for ping-pong shows in nearby bars, as casual as a fast food discount.

‘Chloe, I think you know in your heart if Jack loved you,’ Justin says, kindly.

‘No, I honestly don’t.’

And there lies the answer to my quest. Or maybe not the answer, but the reason. I came here to give my short-lived relationship a higher status; a deeper meaning. If I couldn’t get the words out of Jack Carmichael, I was seeking reassurance elsewhere. Failing on all levels.

Naturally.

This quest is fucking bonkers.

I neck my tequila, clear my throat and put on a dreamy voice.

‘What’s behind the picture?’ I joke, taking the piss out of myself, then snapping back to normal. ‘Get a fucking grip, Chloe.’

Justin drinks his shot and for a moment, I think he might puke. Instead, he whoops.

‘Okay, okay,’ he says, drum-rolling his hands on the table. ‘I got a game for us.’

‘Oh no …’

‘Come on, gimme a chance. I just poisoned myself with tequila for you.’

‘Thanks for shifting blame, hun.’

‘I think this game’ll help. With our problems.’

I squint, noticing how bleary things have become. I’m drunk. And glad of it.

‘You tell me one thing you loved about Jack – OR – that he loved about you,’ he says. ‘And then, I’ll tell you one thing I hated about Sabrina – OR – that she hated about me.’

‘How the fuck is this gonna help us?’

‘Trust me. I’m old. Wise.’

‘You’re pissed as a fart.’

‘Come on …’

‘Okay, but I need wine. This beer’s making me burp loads.’

Justin staggers from the bench and calls for a large glass of red. I wanted white, but what the hell. I release another burp, covering my mouth, and feel instantly much, much better. I kick off the game.

‘I loved how Jack was a big, sexy bear.’

‘I hated how Sabrina wouldn’t let me touch her legs if she hadn’t shaved them.’

‘I loved how Jack’d sing all the time, any place, if a song jumped into his head.’

‘Surely, you hated that?’

‘No, I loved it. And he loved how I’d listen, or dance, sometimes join in.’

‘Okay, well, I hated how Sabrina could never talk on the phone, not even to the bank, unless she was in a room all alone, door closed. A master of secrets.’

‘I can be like that.’

‘That’s not the game.’

‘Okay. I loved how Jack painted me toenails for me when I pulled a muscle in me back.’

‘I hated how Sabrina would watch what I ate in restaurants and disapprove of my choice—’

‘Justin, I think it’s safe to say you’re better off without her. Game over.’

‘Do you feel closer to Jack?’

‘No, not at all.’

I don’t want tonight to turn awkward. Neither Justin nor I deserve that, so I giggle – the easy way out of a sticky situation – and call Justin a divvy for coming up with such a shit game. He admits defeat and all seems well.

‘I’m flying to Vietnam tomorrow,’ he tells me.

I stop giggling.

‘Jack was gonna take me there in October,’ I say. ‘Some place called Hoi An. He said it’s the most magical place, apparently.’

‘So come with me? Not with me – I didn’t mean to be so forward. But come. My flight’s to Da Nang, real close to Hoi An.’

‘No way!’

‘Yeah. I’ve been to Hanoi before, so I was gonna try out the south, make my way down to Ho Chi Minh, take another flight from there further east, maybe.’

Could this be an opportunity? What if this is what I was always supposed to do? Perhaps my trip to Bangkok was to lead me to Hoi An, to a special place Jack wanted me to see. When we’d discussed this trip as a possibility for October half term, my initial reaction had been that Vietnam was too far away for a single week’s holiday and that we should go somewhere closer. Jack disagreed, because he knew it’d be worth every single second.

Would it?

Is Hoi An where I can find peace? Say a proper goodbye to Jack?

‘Well,’ Justin yawns, stretching his lean arms above his head. ‘I guess I better head to my minus-five-star hostel, shower in the en suite bathroom I’m sharing with five or six others, and hit the sack.’

I realise I haven’t spoken for a while. The noise in my spinning head is making me feel quite sick.

‘What time’s your flight to Da Nang?’ I ask.

‘Noon.’

We split the bill and squeeze out of our bench. I open my arms wide to Justin and we hug it out, proper pals. God, it was good to find one of those, even for just one night.

‘One night in Bangkok …’ I start singing, in memory of Jack – the kind of thing he’d do.

‘Take care of yourself, Chloe.’

Off we go, in separate tuk-tuks. I adore the feeling of the warm air from the speed of the little engine. My hair dances all around my face. I fight to keep my eyes open, not wanting to miss a minute of the madness I’m in the thick of, a feeling that there’s more to this trip than sheer disappointment. When I get back to my room, I flop onto the bed and start drifting off into drunken slumber.

Maybe I will go to Vietnam tomorrow. Maybe …