Chapter 17
I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MYSELF
MICK
The room smelled like lavender and rose and reminded me of my mum. I didn’t say anything to Mick because he’d run me a bath and that was so thoughtful. I couldn’t bear to stay in it for long because of the bath salts. At one time in my life, that scent would have comforted me.
Now, it reminded me of home–no, not home, not anymore. It wouldn’t be my home ever again. Where would become my home? Was I homeless?
No, I was at Michael’s, and he’d said I could stay for as long as I wanted.
But not forever. I couldn’t stay here forever.
I’d just turned up on his doorstep without warning, and he’d taken me in.
Without hesitation, he’d invited me into his home and looked after me. He was a good man. A good friend.
My feelings for him were all mixed up. I’d only just realised I had a crush on him when all this happened. I couldn’t complicate things. I had to keep him as my friend.
I really bloody needed one of them right now. I had fuck all else in my life. A box of ruined books. Several ruined suits. A suitcase full of God-knew-what and the most gutting envelope I could ever have imagined.
What had she thought as she’d packed all those cards I’d made her into that box.
She could have just thrown them away; I never would have known.
It was as if she wanted me to know. She wanted me to know that I was nothing to her.
Not only that, but everything that I had been to her now meant nothing.
She was not only throwing me out, but she was rejecting twenty odd years of my love for her as well.
She was completely and totally excising me from her life, with no way back.
The lump came back to my throat, but I swallowed it down.
I couldn’t cry anymore. I just couldn’t.
I’d never cried this much in my life. I hardly ever cried.
My father always told me–and sometimes punctuated that with a smack–that crying was not a manly thing to do.
That was a laugh. I bet he would have preferred a son that cried once in a while rather than one who liked sucking dicks.
A bitter laugh fell from my lips. I had to stop thinking about it all. For now at least. Or maybe forever. What good was thinking about it going to do?
I stayed in the sweet smelling bath until the water got too cold to bear. I was putting off going back out there and facing Michael. I’d made a complete and utter twat out of myself. He was kind and caring and I knew he wouldn’t think too badly of me, but I still felt humiliated.
I’d held onto him and cried like a little boy, and I really didn’t want him to think of me like that.
Climbing out of the bath, I noticed another smell in the flat, overpowering the smell of the bath salts.
Tomato soup. Heinz tomato soup. There was nothing else like it; it was unmistakable.
Michael had made me soup. More tears fell.
For fuck’s sake, how was there any liquid left in my body?
They weren’t just sad tears this time, even though the smell did remind me of home. Of being looked after. After that feeling, swept one of surprising joy. Michael had made me soup. It was such a simple, caring thing to do, that it went some way to washing away the misery of today’s events.
Clean, dry, and starting to warm up, I padded into the kitchen.
Michael stood by the cooker, stirring the thick orange liquid with a wooden spoon.
On the table was a pile of buttered bread, and a teapot under a blue cozy.
It was so… domestic. But instead of making me miss my mum, it made me glad I was here, being cared for.
“You made me soup.” I said stupidly.
“Oh, hello.” A warm smile greeted me, and warmth spread through my belly. “Do you feel better?”
“Mmhmm,” I said. “A bit. Warmer, at least.”
“Good. This should help as well.” Lifting the wooden spoon, he used it to point at the saucepan. “I’ve made a pot of tea, too.”
“Thank you.” It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to explain what I felt. How fucking grateful I was. But it was a start. The crate of my things was nowhere in sight, and I didn’t ask about it. I didn’t want to think about it.
Michael poured the soup into two bowls and placed one in front of me.
It was such a simple thing, making me soup, and he probably didn’t think much of it.
To me though, it was everything. I’d just been kicked out of the only home I’d ever known by the people meant to love me no matter what, and I was terrified of what happened next.
But Michael was looking after me, and it made me think that maybe I could get through the worst day of my life–if I had him at my side.
“Shall I put the radio on?”
I nodded. I didn’t want to talk about what had happened. Not yet. Music would be a nice distraction.
He fiddled with the tuner until a faint sound of music appeared through the static. After a bit more playing with it, he managed a decent signal. Once it was clear, I realised it was a soul track. By a Black artist. The radio never played Black music.
“What station is this?” I was quite shocked. None of the stations I knew played much popular music at all. Let alone Black music.
“Radio Caroline. It’s a pirate station.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been able to get it home.” The word stuck in my throat. “We get it in the van sometimes.”
The use of the present tense about my job lingered in the air between us. Bless Michael for ignoring it.
“They broadcast from a boat, out in the middle of the sea. They have to stay there for weeks at a time. It’s supposed to be all wild parties and orgies. Sounds like hell to me.”
“Really?”
“Yes, well orgies are all well and good, but not after you’ve all been stuck on a boat for weeks. Can you imagine how rancid everyone was? Not to mention having to look everyone in the eye the next morning over your cornflakes.”
I laughed, and it felt good. Seeing the effect it was having on me, he carried on.
“And what about a hangover on a boat? My goodness, there wouldn’t be an inch of that thing that hadn’t been thrown up on at some point.” An over-exaggerated shudder added to the silliness, and I laughed again.
We ate the soup and drank tea in comfortable silence while the music played in the background. Occasionally the signal shifted and white noise interrupted the programme, but mostly it was clear.
Two helpings of soup and about half a loaf of Hovis later, we finished our meal.
I picked up the dishes and took them over to the small sink, running a basin of water and adding some Fairy liquid.
I half expected him to object and try to send me away.
Instead, he picked up a towel, stood next to me, and dried the few dishes as I washed them.
Neither of us spoke; there was nothing that needed to be said. I hummed along to the radio, and he smiled. It was so comforting. Considering how shit my day had been, I was amazed I could feel anything but misery.
The events of the day were still running through my mind. I didn’t think they’d stop for a while. The grief of what I had lost hung over me and the looks on my parents’ faces were seared into my memory.
Despite all that, standing next to Michael, cleaning up the dinner things after he’d cooked for me, I felt calm. Being near him made me feel safe.
It was probably a response to everything.
I was attaching myself to Michael like a kitten whose mum had died, and I should try and fight it.
Not get too comfortable. But I was tired and didn’t want to fight.
I wanted to melt into the comfortable feeling of belonging.
Sorting out my feelings could be tomorrow’s problem. It wasn’t like I had to go to work.
As if sensing the shift in my thoughts, Michael broke the silence.
“Do you want to watch a bit of telly when we’re finished?”
We sat on the couch and watched TV for a few hours. I wasn’t paying it any attention; there was too much swirling around my head. At about eleven o’clock, I noticed Michael was yawning a lot.
“You can go to bed, you know. I’ll be alright.”
His hands flew to his mouth.
“Bed! We haven’t talked about sleeping arrangements.”
“Oh? I thought you had a spare room.”
“There is another room, and there is a bed in there, somewhere. But it’s covered in junk. I completely forgot. I could shift things around a bit and try and excavate it from under all the boxes–”
“Don’t be daft. I’ll sleep out here. Do you have a spare blanket?”