Swimming Upstream Page 4

  “Me too,” I said, pleased.

  We hugged, and said goodbye.

  I pushed open the front door and walked into the living room, hoping irrationally for the habitually irritating sight of Larsen's jacket dumped on the stairs and his trainers under the coffee table. But - nothing. The room was empty and the magnolia and fawn-flecked carpet stretched ahead, unspoilt. I poked my head round the door to the kitchen. Instead of the usual sink full of plates and cups and the crumby work surfaces I'd been half expecting, the sink was empty and every surface still gleamed and sparkled, just as I'd left it that morning. I checked the answer phone machine. There were no messages from Larsen.

  I shrugged off my coat and began to heave myself shakily up the stairs. Half way up I became afraid I was going to fall back down. I decided it would be easier to leave the crutches behind and go up backwards on my bottom. Once or twice my foot thudded against the stair and a spasm of pain shot through me, causing me to squeal and stop and gasp for breath. At last I reached the top and, hauling myself up with the aid of the banister, I hopped heavily and slowly into the bedroom. I would have to get in to work somehow in the morning, I decided. Grab a taxi. I really didn’t want to miss my first chance at presenting on prime-time radio. In any event it was too late now to call and line up someone else. I shrugged my bag off my shoulders, set my alarm for 3.00 a.m., and pulled out the bottle of painkillers they'd given me at the hospital. The label said I should take one or two, with food. I swallowed three, undressed, and crawled under the duvet where I lay, cold and dejected, until sleep overcame me.

  When I woke it was daylight and the sun was streaming in through the window. I felt a fleeting, random burst of happiness; then I tried to move my legs and the gentle throbbing started up again. The memory of last night’s events crept over me. With a start, I remembered that it wasn’t supposed to be daylight; it was supposed to be 3.00 a.m. I reached out and pulled my alarm clock from off the bedside table. I groaned, and flopped back down onto the pillow. It was ten past eleven on Tuesday, as far as I could tell. I had slept through the Breakfast Programme. Not only had I missed my moment of glory, I was going to be in big trouble with my boss.

  I lay motionless on my back for a few moments. My arms and legs felt like lead weights. Eventually, I lifted my head. It felt heavy too. I flung myself sideways out of bed and landed on the floor with a thud. Pain shot and burned its way through my ankle and up into my shinbone. My entire body felt bruised and stiff. I crawled to the top of the stairs, and peered through the banisters, where I could see the answer phone machine flashing like crazy.

  Going downstairs was easier than going up. I could either hang onto the banister and hop, or slide all the way down on my bottom with my good leg as a lever and my bad leg in the air. I tried both. Sliding down won in the end, because it was quicker. I crawled frantically to the telephone and pressed the button on the answer machine. There were three messages, two from Phil, the station manager, and one that was just nothing except white noise and what sounded like music and people talking in the background. Phil wanted to know what had happened to me, and why I hadn’t turned up for work. He sounded concerned the second time. I deleted the messages and dialled Phil’s direct line number. It went to answer phone. I left an apologetic message and then spent the rest of the day sitting on the sofa, watching daytime TV, going over and over everything in my head and waiting for the phone to ring.

  At six I heard the sound of a key wriggling noisily in the door lock and the front door opening. I leapt up from the settee and hopped across the room. Larsen stood in the doorway, looking drunk and dishevelled. His eyes were cloudy and red-rimmed, his chin was covered in a couple of days’ worth of stubble and his long blond hair was lank and matted. He was wrestling with his jacket, trying to yank his arms out, but he was all twisted up. One arm sprang free and caught the doorknob.

  “Ouch,” he said, shaking his hand and sucking it. “Ouch, ouch, ouch.”

  Momentary relief that he was back was quickly replaced with the anger and frustration that had been brewing inside me all afternoon.

  “Shut up,” I hissed. “And shut the door.”

  “But it hurts,” Larsen whined. He closed the door and leaned against it.

  I remained standing on one leg in front of him, hanging onto the banister for support. “You’re drunk.”

  Larsen cocked his head to one side. “What are you implying?”

  “Look at the state you’re in! Where have you been?”

  “Erm. The pub?”

  “The pub,” I repeated, nodding.

  “What have you done to your foot?” Larsen said, suddenly stabbing the air repeatedly in the direction of my bandaged ankle, as if it was something I maybe hadn't noticed.

  “What do you care?”

  “Is it all right?” His eyes widened in sympathy.

  “No, it's not all right,” I said. “It's not all right at all.”

  We stared at each other in silence.

  “We had this little party, you see…” Larsen began.

  “Who’s we?” I said. “I thought you were in Manchester?”

  “Ah, and now that’s where you’re wrong.” Larsen wagged his finger. “You’re normally right, Lizzie, about everything in fact. I’ll give you that. But on this occasion…”

  “Where were you then?” I demanded.

  “The Juggler's to begin with, and then ...” He lowered his head. “Back at Jude's. C'mon Lizzie, don’t give me a hard time.”

  “Jude? Why were you at her house? What happened to the gig last night?”

  “Cancelled.” Larsen looked up at me again. “So we came home, went down the pub. Everyone was there. Doug and Marion, Brian...”

  “And Jude.”

  “Well…yeah..”

  “So what about me? Did you not think to tell me you were back? Why didn’t you come home?”

  Larsen was sobering up pretty quickly. “I tried to phone you, I left a message ...” He tailed off. “Didn’t I?”

  I took a deep breath. “Where did you sleep last night?”

  “At Jude’s, I told you. All of us. It was late…”

  “Where at Jude’s?”

  “Where did I…?” Larsen paused. “I need a drink.” He walked into the kitchen. I hopped after him. He pulled a carton of milk out of the fridge and swigged from it and, at the same time, switched on the kettle, which started to boil loudly.

  “So?” I asked, over the noise of the kettle.

  “What was the question again?”

  “Where did you sleep? I asked you where you slept. At Jude’s. On the sofa? On the floor? In her fucking bed?” I screamed at him. The kettle boiled to a crescendo and switched itself off.

  “No. No, of course not. I slept on the floor.” Larsen leaned towards me and took my hand. I pulled it away.

  “Are you lying to me?”

  “I swear.” Larsen pulled me towards him again. “Come on baby. Give me a break. We were all drunk. We just crashed.”

  “God, Larsen, I could have really done with you being here last night - and today. You’ve been back in Cambridge for twenty-four hours and you didn’t even think to phone...”

  “Fucking hell, I’ve had enough of this,” Larsen announced suddenly. “I’m going to bed.” He pushed past me and headed up the stairs.

  He re-emerged a few hours later. I was sitting in the living room watching the news.

  “I'm sorry,” he said softly, appearing in the doorway.

  “Dave phoned. He’s dropping your gear off tomorrow. I’m sorry the Manchester leg of the tour got cancelled.”

  “Yes, well at least we played Bradford and Leeds. So that paid for the petrol. Makes sitting in the back of a van for hours with Dave’s sweaty armpits and a drum kit in your back all worthwhile.” He paused. “D'you want a cup of tea?”

  I shrugged and stared at the telly. The Chancellor of the Exchequer had announced that high street spending was up by fifteen percent.


  “You been out shopping again?” Larsen smiled. I didn't laugh. He sat down next to me and took my hand. I let it flop in his, like a fish.

  “How's your ankle?” he asked.

  “Sprained.”

  “How did it happen?”

  I told him. Larsen looked shocked. “What the hell were you doing, crossing there?”

  “I don’t need a lecture,” I said. “It hurts.”

  He folded his arms and sat back, staring at the telly. A minute later he turned and smiled at me, leaned forward and promptly started kissing me. I was so surprised, I couldn't react for a second or two. Larsen took that as a green light, and thrust his hand up my jumper. I pulled back.

  “What?” He looked hurt.

  “This isn’t the time…”

  “It’s never the time,” said Larsen. “These days.” He stood up.

  I looked up at him. “Where are you going?”

  “To get a drink,” he said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

  The noise of the television suddenly became too loud. I picked up the remote and switched it off, lit a cigarette and looked around the room, trying to figure out something to say before he came back; something to make us both feel better. I looked at the walls - white with a shade of green - that Larsen and Doug had painted when we first moved in, and the framed oil on canvas over the gas fire that Jude had given us as a housewarming present. It was supposed to be a man and a woman embracing but it just looked like streaks of angry colour and meant nothing to me. I suddenly felt the urge to throw something at it. I wondered if I concentrated hard enough I could make it fall off the wall.

  Larsen returned from the kitchen with a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He looked from me to the painting and back again, and frowned.

  I said, “You don’t know how tired I get, doing a different shift every week. And I’m in quite a lot of pain, you know.”

  Larsen said nothing. He twisted the top off the whisky bottle and poured two generous measures.

  “Not everything can be solved by jumping into bed or downing a bottle of Jack Daniels,” I added.

  Larsen handed me a glass and I took it. “I can’t do anything to please you anymore,” he said. “I don’t have anything you want.”

  “Oh Larsen, that’s not true!” I protested weakly. “It’s just… different now, that’s all. Things have changed.”

  “Well, I haven’t changed,” said Larsen.

  I sighed. I realised he thought of this as some kind of plus point.

  “No, you haven’t,” I said. “You never change. You’re still exactly the same as you were when I met you, only you drink more, are at home less, and I’m sorry to tell you, Peter Pan, you’ve got a few more wrinkles on your face.”

  Larsen’s hand flew automatically to his cheek. He stood up and started pacing the room.

  “That's so bloody typical,” he said, angrily, and stopped to jab his finger at me. “You used to like me the way I was. You thought I was funny, even when I was drunk. I never pretended to be anything I wasn't.”

  “Well, it stops being funny after a while.”

  “And what about you?” he continued.

  “What about me?”

  “Well, if I'm Peter Pan, then you're bloody Wonder Woman. All you care about is reading the bloody one o'clock news and roaming around the countryside, chasing after the story that's going to get you that news editor job that you're after.”

  I took a large swig of whisky. “What's wrong with roaming around? I like roaming around. I want to go everywhere. You don't want to go anywhere. I want to go to Paris…Rome…I want to go to Africa. Bosnia, maybe.”

  “Bosnia?” Larsen looked up at me as though I were an alien. “You are kidding, right?”

  “It’s important, what’s happening to the people there. The Serbs…”

  “There is no way you are going to Bosnia!”

  “My problem,” I said, ignoring him, “is that I don't know where to go first. With you it's a choice between the Juggler's Friend or the flipping Dog and Duck.”

  “Oh that's great,” said Larsen. “So everyone's got to be a high flyer like you. Well maybe I like being here.”

  “But you never are here!” I spluttered, and banged down my glass. Larsen stared at me, wide-eyed. I bit my lip and said, more softly, “You're never here when I come back.”

  Larsen sighed and refilled our glasses. “If you're talking about last night, I'm sorry.”

  I lit a cigarette. Larsen looked at his feet. “I love you,” he muttered, eventually.

  I shook my head. “No. No you don't.”

  “What?”

  “You don't love me, not really. That's just something you say to keep me loving you.” Larsen opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again. “If you loved me, I'd feel it,” I added. “But I don't. I just feel…” I tailed off. “Tired,” I said, finally.

  “Tired? Tired of what? Tired of me?”

  “No. No, I don’t mean that.” I sighed. “Not tired of you. Just tired. Tired of being the strong one.”

  “I'm no good for you. You don't need me,” said Larsen.

  “How do you know what I need?” I sighed, frustrated. “You think you know, but you don't.”

  “Funny that, isn't it?” said Larsen, his voice loaded with sarcasm. “I've only lived with you for the last six years -”

  “- Seven,” I interrupted.

  “What?”

  “It's over seven years.”

  “Is it?” Larsen looked at the blackness outside the window for a minute, then nodded. “Yep, you’re right.” He turned and grinned at me. I smiled back, the tension between us broken. We both fell silent and sipped our drinks.

  “Bosnia,” said Larsen, half-smiling and shaking his head, as if I were child. “You don’t want to go to Bosnia.”

  “No, you don’t want to go to Bosnia,” I said. “I’m not you!”

  Larsen looked hurt. “Have you any idea what it’s like reporting from a war zone? It’s not just about getting your face on the telly, you know. People go missing, get kidnapped…”

  “I know...”

  “You know. You know it all, don’t you? You won’t be told anything!”

  “Well, why do you want to tell me everything.”

  “Because I care about you! That’s why!” Larsen got up and lit the gas fire and sat down in front of it with his back to me, staring into it as if it were a real one. After a while I got up and settled onto the floor beside him. He put his arm round me and I leaned my head against his chest. My face was pleasantly warm and the whisky was making me dozy.

  The telephone was ringing. Larsen stirred beside me, but neither of us moved. The answer phone clicked on and I could hear Phil’s voice telling me he hoped I was all right and that I shouldn’t rush back. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

  “Is that a good thing, do you think?” I asked Larsen.

  “They’re not going to sack you, Lizzie. They love you.” Then Larsen added, “And I love you, you know. I really do.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “But maybe,” he said, looking not at me but at the small blue and white flames that were dancing around in the fireplace. “Maybe we should break up.”

  I looked up at him. He was still beautiful. He smiled down at me and I could see in his eyes that nothing had changed for him. He still loved me in exactly the same way that he always had - too much, but not enough, at exactly the same time. He held me tighter.

  “Maybe you're right,” I agreed. “Maybe we should.”

  4

  Larsen moved out the following day. I sat helplessly on the sofa with my crutches and watched as he hauled three boxes and a suitcase down the narrow stairs into the living room and out of the door to Dave’s van.

  I hobbled to the doorstep and kissed him goodbye.

  “I still love you,” he told me, with what sounded like a question mark at the end.

  “I still love you too,”
I told him back, the same question hanging silently in the air between us.

  We locked eyes for a moment and both stood waiting in the doorway for the other to say that this was a mistake. Then Larsen grinned, ruffled my hair and leapt into Dave’s van. He reached out and shut the door as he had done so many times in the past. Only this time he wasn’t going down the M11 to London, to the Fulham Greyhound or the Mean Fiddler, or up North to Manchester, or round the M25 to Oxford. This time he was going just a few streets away to Brian’s house; but he was leaving our home. The familiar heavy metal slam of the van door echoed in my ears like the clunking of a prison cell door, only I was now locked out, instead of in, where I could have been - with him. Right now, at this moment, my newborn freedom felt hollow, cold and strange.

  On Thursday it was Polling Day but all I could do was to lie on the sofa and stare at the telly. I watched old movies: “Calamity Jane” and “The Way we Were” and cried for Robert Redford and Barbara Streisand and for everything they had lost. I desperately needed to talk to someone but there was no-one I could call. Except… Catherine. Maybe? But she didn’t know me, or at least not me with Larsen, and she was getting married and I was breaking my heart and none of it was right, or ripe for discussion.

  Doug rang at around tea-time, when he got home from work and asked if I wanted to come over; but, again, it didn’t feel right somehow, with him being Larsen’s friend first, before mine. Besides, I didn’t want to talk with Marion there. She had a way of looking like the cat that had got the cream when anyone else appeared to be having a bad time. Deep down I was wondering if Larsen would come back; pretend he’d forgotten something, say he wanted to talk. I waited up late into the night, while the election results rolled in, with one eye on the telly and the other on the door and eventually fell asleep on the sofa in the early hours of the morning. This must be the right thing, us breaking up, I reasoned with myself. All we ever did these days was argue. I wasn’t happy and it was clear that Larsen wasn’t happy. But I hadn’t expected it to be this sudden, this final, and this soon.

  By Friday morning the Conservatives were back in power, despite a severe recession, despite losing 38 seats, and despite all forecasts to the contrary. The phones would be ringing off the hook in the newsroom and I needed a piece of the action. I couldn’t bear the empty silence of the house any longer and, finding that I was able to both smile and walk with a degree of dignity and just one crutch, I caught a taxi to the radio station.