‘It got me nowhere and …’ I trail off. I don’t have a clue where I’m going with this response, this feeling of fight. I so desperately want to be the man I envisioned myself being back when I was too young to understand the bite of reality. I could’ve been a journalist – even an editor by now – maybe living away somewhere, like London. Watching my sisters both rise from their working-class upbringing to achieve their dreams and ride off into the sunset set a benchmark, one that was filled with hope, the possibility of success. Only they did it before getting a toe stuck into the rut that I quickly became buried in.
Then again, look at Zara and the opportunities she’s had given to her on a gold plate. Those stamps in her passport. And yet where’s she? Still sat alone at Heathrow waiting to be told when she can get on a flight? God. How I suddenly want to hold her, tell her how I understand. Or at least tell her that I believe I might understand. I was pretty awful to her, wasn’t I? All she’d wanted was a friend. Someone to talk to. I could’ve easily provided that. Easily. For God’s sake, that’s who I am. Everybody’s bloody friend. And the girl who seemed to need me the most, even just for a day, well, I let her down. There isn’t much I can offer to people, but I could’ve offered Zara my friendship. It wouldn’t have cost a penny.
But I judged her. Scrutinised her every word, her every breath. Is it because I envy the privileged life she’s had? Or is it because she’s different to anybody I’ve ever met before?
‘Jim?’
Helen.
I almost forgot she’s here.
She’s got her car keys in her hand, jingling them in that way people do when they’re eager to leave, get a move on, get the fuck out of where they are.
‘Jimbo!’ she says, maybe for the third or fourth time, and claps her hands to snap me out of my daze. I sit down on my settee, pat the seat beside me for Helen to sit down, too.
‘Are you lost or found?’ I ask her.
Helen scrunches up her face.
‘What I mean – without sounding all hippy dippy and shit – is, do you honestly think you’re living the wrong sort of life, with everything you’ve got? Or do you believe that you’re exactly where you should be?’
‘Where else would I be?’ She shrugs, matter-of-fact.
I nod, her question a direct answer.
Putting her hand over her mouth, Helen starts to giggle, her whole face blushing. She makes some comment about not really knowing why she’s laughing, but I know why. She’s been caught off guard, sober. I place my hand on her knee to calm her and although it works, she leans in and I naturally follow. Then hesitate. No. Helen slips her hands and then her arms around me, squeezing me into the comfort of her woolly jumper.
She kisses me.
I pull back, but don’t resist enough. Helen launches herself forward and pushes me back into my settee, climbing on top of me, straddling me, kissing me. She reaches down and holds the crotch of my jeans. Physically, I can feel Helen. The shape of her curves, more substantial in recent years, her skin still as soft. Her weight comfortable around my hips, against my chest. Coarse strands of thick red hair tickling my forehead, my eyelids. Yet I feel nothing.
As quickly as it all began, Helen stops. She breaks away, stumbles a little, tripping over her Doc Martens, strewn on my living room floor. She pulls her woolly jumper down, stretching it towards her knees, then puts her hands to her cheeks, her forehead, finally resting them on the back of her neck.
‘No more,’ she says.
I sit still. Listening.
‘You’re not right for me, Jim,’ she says, that unmistakable lump appearing in her throat. ‘I thought you were, but you’re not. You were kissing me – fuck – touching me as if you were a stranger. Like you’ve forgotten me. You’re not my Jimbo anymore.’
‘I haven’t been for years, Hels.’
It’s Helen’s turn to laugh; just one short ha.
‘We both know that ain’t the truth,’ she says.
I stand up, ever so carefully, not wanting to upset Helen any more than I’d want to wake a sleeping baby. Fat, fast tears bring her silent sobs into the room.