Chapter 39 Amy
Cream dress dishevelled, long hair dripping, Flynn is chucking stuff on the bed when I step inside. My mind is in turmoil, the questions coming thick and fast. Was Tanya here to see me or Flynn? Why was she here?
‘What did she want?’
Flynn ignores my question, zipping up his washbag. I know he’s heard me.
‘Flynn?’
He doesn’t meet my eye. ‘Look, Amy, you said it last night, this is insane. We need to leave.’
What is he hiding? I’m used to him deflecting – he’s always waved away questions about himself – but I’m not used to not trusting him. ‘Why was she here?’
‘And I need to phone Bex and Karim or get you to and pretend to be me. They’ve messaged but I want to phone them, check on today’s events …’
‘Flynn, stop changing the subject …’
‘I’m not … it’s work.’
‘Forget work!’
He is measured in his response but I can see his fingers twitching. ‘Fine for you to say, when it’s not your work. I should never have let them do this weekend without me.’
I rub my eyes with my fists. ‘Flynn,’ I say softly, trying to temper my own voice, ‘Why was Tanya here?’
He pauses, his eyes almost comically sliding around his face.
‘She wanted to borrow … borrow something.’
‘What?’
‘A … some milk. They’ve run out.’
I throw up my arms. ‘You’re lying.’
He doesn’t argue with that.
‘Why are you lying? Do you want to leave because of her?’
His frantic look confirms this is the case. ‘No! I just think it would be a good idea to get checked out. We can go to the hospital, get the doctors to look us over. Maybe this has happened before? Maybe there are specialists for this stuff?’
‘Flynn, we can’t leave. Not now.’
The thing is, it isn’t just about Laura any more. I’ve felt a change, a newfound curiosity. This different body experience was terrifying and crazy, but if I am going to be stuck inside Flynn’s body I could at least try to work some things out. ‘What did she want to talk to me about anyway?’ I ask.
‘Who?’ he mumbles, like he doesn’t know.
‘What do you mean “who”? Tanya, your ex, the ex you didn’t mention was here. Your blonde, thin, stunning ex. Your ex who just left our room.’
‘She’s with Eddie,’ he says. ‘And this isn’t about her,’ he adds firmly, chucking his washbag on the pile.
‘Of course it—’
‘It isn’t about her,’ he shouts.
This makes me blink. Flynn rarely gets angry. I can count the occasions on one hand. When a man shouted at me in the street about our recycling bin and when a bouncer called me a slut. Never at me. Once I broke his laptop spilling tea over the keyboard and he still didn’t yell.
He rakes a hand through his hair, something he often does, but gets it tangled in my curls. ‘Ow. I just think we should get checked out,’ he says, turning to drag my suitcase over and putting things in it.
My frustration spills over.
‘We can’t leave,’ I say loudly, taking the things out the moment he places them in.
‘Stop it,’ he says, returning a hairbrush.
‘You stop it,’ I say, taking the hairbrush back out.
‘Amy, stop!’
‘You stop!’ I step forward and I’m towering over Flynn. He visibly flinches as he stares up at me. The shift unsettles me, the feeling of physical dominance completely foreign. I step back in surprise, breathing heavily.
Laura doesn’t knock, or we were arguing so loudly neither of us hear her. She’s suddenly standing there in the middle of our room glaring at both of us.
‘What was that before, Amy? Running off and—’ She stops then, notices Flynn, as me, packing his bag.
‘What are you doing?’
‘We need to leave,’ Flynn says, returning his washbag.
Laura lurches back. ‘Amy, is that a joke? Because it’s really not funny.’
‘Not a joke,’ Flynn says, trying to sit on the bursting bag to close it, legs wide in his dress, flashing my white cotton pants.
Panic flares immediately. This is the last thing I need now; Laura is already fed up and now her face is dissolving.
‘Ames, is this real? Please. Please don’t go …’
‘We’re not leaving, Laura,’ I assure her. ‘Fly— Amy is just having a … she is just …’ Why can’t I lie easily? What can I say? ‘We’re not leaving,’ I finish. ‘We wouldn’t leave your wedding weekend – would we, Amy?’ My voice is a warning.
Flynn is sitting on top of the bag with a glum expression. Laura waits. Then she swipes at her face, angry tears swimming. ‘Amy, I don’t know what your problem is, why you appear to be choosing this weekend to have whatever drama you’re having, but I need you to stop being a selfish cow. You knew I needed you to be here for me. I just want to get things right, make Jay and his mum happy, so … so …’
She is tearing at her hair and a well opens up inside me. I hate seeing Laura like this, so used to her being in control, being composed, giving me stern looks, older sister advice. Now she looks fraught and miserable.
I step forward, a meaty hand on Laura’s shoulder. ‘Hey, it’s alright. We’re here to help,’ I say, raising my eyebrows at Flynn.
‘Flynn,’ she shrugs off my hand, her look one of barely concealed disgust, ‘it’s not up to you to fix this situation, this is between me and Amy.’
My hand falls to my side.
‘Yes, but … Amy didn’t mean leave, leave, she just meant leave … soon for the flashmob practice.’
Flynn’s head snaps up, eyes round.
Laura’s eyes narrow as she stares at him, sniffing. ‘Amy … is that true?’
His face is a mess of emotions, lips quivering before he gives her a brief nod.
‘Right, OK,’ Laura says, turning to leave. ‘OK. I need you, Ames.’
I nod. ‘She’ll be there,’ I call as she steps out of our room.
Flynn stands up jabbering almost immediately. ‘I can’t do this, Amy. I can’t.’
His angst is discombobulating. Flynn never gives in like this and the change is alarming. I’m so unused to him asking me for anything, or fretting like this, that, despite my suspicions over the root cause, I find myself feeling sorry for him.
For the first time this weekend I really want to make this work. I put a pin in my other feelings. ‘If we can work together, we can pull this off,’ I reassure him.
The glum expression on Flynn’s face, my face, doesn’t shift. Is it something to do with being him that is making it easier to channel his enthusiasm and energy? ‘Come on,’ I urge him. ‘We can help each other. I’ll teach you the dance and you teach me …’
His eyes lift to mine. ‘Nine years of private tennis lessons.’
‘Well – we’ll think of something for that later. Come on,’ I say, offering a hand and surprised all over again to pull him up with one hand, the muscles in my arm flexing. ‘We can pull this off.’
‘Really?’
I nod decisively. ‘Absolutely.’
The tentative hope on his face makes me aware how rarely he asks for help and how rarely I offer it. I wonder momentarily whether our changing status is to do with our bodies – can I see his vulnerability because he is no longer bigger than me? Taller? Is it that simple?
He inches forward and I make a comical bow, holding out a hand.
‘Let’s dance,’ I say and pull him close, laughing at the surprised expression on his face. Normally he is the one instigating fun, he is the one loosening me up. This feels good.
For a wonderful second we’re back. Flynn and Amy. Amy and Flynn. The evenings in my Clifton flat, speakers cranked up, the random shuffle of music as Flynn grabs my hand, waltzes me across the carpet, brushing past our sofa as he spins me theatrically round. If I’ve had an exhausting day – a house sale fall through, a chain collapse, an unpleasant owner or viewing – those moments dissipate under the eaves as I’m reminded why this giant human Labrador of a man is my best friend.
Despite his air of chaos he is thoughtful, always washing up if I’ve cooked, bringing me tea with the absurd quarter of sugar I like. He seems always to be crackling with energy, bouncing on the heels of his feet when he takes calls. Recently I’ve been so focused on my worry that there is nothing more than the Fun Time guy, but as I hold his hand now and he smiles, I’m reminded of the wonderful bits of Flynn.
Here in front of me, tongue clamped between his teeth trying desperately to get this dance right, I feel a swell of love for him, my boyfriend trapped inside my body trying to get the moves right.
He looks up at me, mid dreadful attempt at a body pop, appraising him, suddenly strangely self-conscious. ‘Am I doing it wrong?’ His worry is clear, he really is trying.
‘You’re doing brilliantly,’ I say, and the way his shoulders drop and his expression relaxes makes my chest swell for him.
He can do this. We can do this.