An Almost Perfect Moon. Jamie Holland

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СКАЧАТЬ I thought it was all going well and that you were really keen. Has something happened?’

      ‘No, no, nothing. Nothing at all. Forget it.’

      ‘Harry, I do think you’re jumping the gun a bit,’ put in Lucie. ‘I mean, you’ve only been going out a couple of months. Stop comparing yourself with other people and see how it goes.’

      ‘Yeah, you’re right.’ He force-smiled at them: Ben and Lucie, looking so comfortable on the sofa, despite Lucie’s pregnant awkwardness; and Flin and Tiffany, Flin’s hand loosely draped over Tiffany’s shoulder while he read the paper, she sipping more red wine, the very picture of contented togetherness. It had been a mistake to mention his doubts about Julia. It was obvious what they would all say.

      Ben, eyeing his friend, decided on this occasion to let it go. He’d call him up, arrange to go for a drink after football on Tuesday, and get to the bottom of it then.

      Flin meanwhile had gone back to his paper and was leafing through the previous day’s property section, when something caught his eye.

      ‘Tiff, look at this,’ he said, slapping the paper down in front of her.

      ‘What?’ asked Ben.

      ‘A house,’ Flin told him. ‘A bloody big house – four bedrooms, a couple of old outbuildings and seven acres of land. Jesus, I must be mad.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘And look at the price. It’s worth less than our flat.’

      Tiffany passed the advert to Ben.

      ‘I mean, when I see that,’ Flin continued, ‘I’m just so glad I live in a tiny two-bedroom flat on a seedy street in the arse-end of Hammersmith. Jesus. Makes me feel really quite ill. What the hell are we all doing here, for God’s sake?’

      ‘Yeah, but, Flin, who the hell wants to live in Northumberland?’ said Ben, passing the paper round to Lucie and then Harry. ‘I mean, it’s so bleak. And nothing to do unless you’ve a bit of a thing for sheep.’

      ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said Tiffany. ‘I think it looks nice.’

      ‘You like sheep, do you?’ asked Harry, handing the folded paper back to Flin. ‘It’s cheap for a reason.’

      Flin looked at it again. It seemed to be nestled in a small valley, although behind it, to emphasize the land that came with it, could be seen the empty Northumbrian uplands. Beautiful, but Ben was right – not exactly practical.

      ‘You’re right,’ he said at last, ‘but to think I could own that when I live in a glorified shoe-box still makes me feel a bit depressed. I mean, just look at all that space. The fresh air, no traffic jams, no graffiti, and yes, just the melodic sound of contented sheep bleating from the upper pastures. Maybe that’s the way forward. Get out of the madness of London and wind down for a while. Lead the simple life. De-stress. It’d be great, wouldn’t it? I’d get out of bed and be greeted by a vista of uninterrupted fields, instead of a mirror image of my own flat on the other side of the road. No Underground to scrabble through. No feeling grimy and soiled as soon as I got to work. Just clean, wholesome living.’

      ‘Wholesome but piss-boring,’ added Ben.

      Flin looked at the picture once more. ‘Yeah, maybe,’ he said. ‘It was just a thought.’

      

      As Harry left Ben and Lucie’s that afternoon, he was pleasantly surprised to note how the March days were slowly lengthening. He looked up to see a suggestion of clear blue lingering over the Common. The ground was wet underfoot, but the air felt dry and bracing after an afternoon spent surfeiting on food, drink and warmth. Feeling bloated, Harry decided to walk home. Anyway, he could never be bothered to wait for buses. Much better to be on the go.

      The walk back to Brixton took half an hour. Across the quiet, wide-open stretch of Clapham Common, then an amble down the genteel calmness of Abbeville Road. The boundary between Clapham and Brixton was unmistakable. As he turned onto Acre Lane, he was greeted with immediate bustle and noise. Not far away, sirens cut across the evening air; then a shiny four-by-four with blacked-out windows thudded past him, vibrating music pulsing tremors along the road.

      As Harry arrived outside his flat, he made his normal inspection of his beloved old Citröen, but, as usual, it was fine, not a blemish to be seen. His fellow Brixtonians seemed to respect rather than resent it. He sighed, feeling uncharacteristically low. On the cusp of thirty and a life that felt suddenly empty.

      He stomped up the stairs. In his kitchen, a faint odour of cleansing fluid still lingered around the sink and surfaces. His answerphone, neatly attached to the wall by the door, was flashing the message light. Underneath, lying equally neatly on top of each other, were two bills, two more final warnings. Harry cursed himself. He’d intended to pay those first thing on Saturday morning but had forgotten. That meant he’d have to phone the following morning and explain that he would pay them that day, as he was bound to have already exceeded his seven days’ grace. This was the trouble with being a self-employed artist: irregular pay which it encouraged irregular payment of bills. Still, nothing he could do about on a Sunday night. He pressed the answer machine.

      ‘Oh, Harry, it’s your father here. Need to come down to town this week and was hoping to bunk up at your place. How about tomorrow? Bye.’ His father often did that, always ‘bunking up’ or ‘bunking down’ armed with his old leather overnight bag and battered briefcase. Harry smiled; he loved the fact his father felt he could. The second was from Julia, her smooth Galaxy bar tones filtering their way through the distortions of the machine.

      ‘Hi, Harry. It’s Julia. Just wondering when I’m going to see you next. I loved last night – it was wonderful. Call me.’

      He would, but later. In his bathroom he undressed and ran a bath. Looking at himself in the mirror, he realized how tired he looked. It wasn’t surprising. There were just a few grey hairs amongst the otherwise light, soft mop that shaggily covered his head, and the beginning of a wrinkle at one side of his mouth; curiously the other remained unblemished. Nearly thirty and yet his life still felt utterly directionless. His other friends seemed to be leaving him behind. Nearly all of them were now married or living with their partners. Ben and Lucie were about to have a child. His parents had been twenty-nine when he’d been born, but there still seemed an enormous gulf between his present situation and settling down. He wished he could; he felt ready to in his heart, but he just didn’t seem able to find the right person to do it with.

      What was the matter with him? Was he so obsessed with finding his one true love that, like Mrs Danvers, he would slowly go mad, eventually setting fire to his flat and himself? He plodded out of the bathroom, his towel wrapped around him, put on some cheering music, and sighed once more, this time a little more heavily. At least he had his flat. That was something. Just his and no one else’s. He could be as selfish as he wanted without it affecting anyone. Slumping down on the sofa, he looked about him. His taste, his choice; the television positioned in the corner, or the painting by his mother next to the door, simply because he wanted them there. There was no one to compromise with over what video to watch or when to have a bath. No one to stop him farting if he felt like farting. He could eat what he wanted to eat, and not be chided for putting too much butter on his toast like Lucie did with Ben. And no matter how envious he might feel of his friend’s advanced situation in life, once the baby was born, Ben’s life would not be the same. Being an artist also meant he was his own man, with no one telling him what to do. Unlike Julia, or his other СКАЧАТЬ