CHAPTER 5
WHILE I’M IN the kitchen taking a breather, I hear a door shut. I return to find Arthur sitting alone, staring at his phone.
‘Where did they go?’ I ask.
‘Bianca had to show William something in her room.’ His euphemism hangs in the air like a bad smell.
Seriously, who does this? Is this some kind of a hostel dorm room where you have to put up with two horny goats who can’t take it to the bathroom stall? Surely we’re too old for this. We have mature dinner parties!
I’m suddenly painfully aware of my hands, and I’m awkwardly shuffling from side to side on the balls of my feet.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘So did you want to…’ Leave.
Please leave. Go home so I can put in my headphones and watch a movie in peace and try not to think about the boning occurring in the next room.
He plays with the sleeves ruched at his elbow. Those damn forearms again. ‘Actually, William and I came here together,’ he says.
Right, but do Ubers not exist? ‘Surely given what is almost certainly happening in there, he’s going to stay the night? Or does he turn back into a pumpkin at midnight?’
He gives me a look. ‘Doesn’t it go against chaperone protocol to leave without one’s chaperonee?’
‘So, what, are you going to sleep here?’ Wrinkled nose, obvious disgust. Take the hint, Artie.
‘I just feel a little weird leaving without him.’
‘He doesn’t seem to feel a little weird leaving you here so he can dick down.’
He has the audacity to look hurt now. ‘God, are you that desperate to get rid of me?’
Yes. I don’t say that. I half-lie. ‘It’s only like seventy per cent that. At least thirty per cent is just wanting you to not waste your time.’
‘Thoughtful.’
‘I know, right?’
He sighs, sinking further into the couch. ‘Okay, how about this. I give them an hour. If they’re still in there, I’ll leave the car for him.’
‘Why can’t he sort himself out?’
He lifts a shoulder. ‘Dunno. Seems like a nice thing to do. Also, if they are fucking in there while I’m waiting around out here, I’ll need enough alcohol to take me over the limit.’
I make my way over to the bluetooth speaker on the entertainment unit and turn it up—just in case.
Arthur lifts up his phone and waves it at me.
‘Don’t feel like you have to entertain me.
I’ve got downloaded TV shows and a pair of headphones.
’ He is giving me an easy out. I’ve made him feel like a burden.
Or he’s really not interested in talking to me.
Although if that actually is the case, he could have just left, which would solve the whole problem of ignoring me entirely.
‘Okay.’ I walk back towards the table and grab the empty glasses still resting there. Arthur didn’t use his coaster, and now there is a white ring forming on our table. Bee won’t be happy.
But then he’s right behind me, carrying the last serving platter. ‘Why are you doing all the clean-up now?’
‘I don’t want everything to crust on,’ I say.
‘Yeah, but why are you doing it at all? This is Bee’s night.’
‘She’s a little busy right now.’
‘You cooked the dinner, didn’t you?’ he asks, and I don’t know why.
‘It was a team effort.’
His face is unreadable. He whistles, low and pointed. ‘Must be good to be Bee. Getting laid and getting out of the washing up.’
I don’t reply to this, but at least he picks up a towel and starts drying. When the kitchen is once again clean, I throw myself on the couch opposite him and yawn, not bothering to cover my mouth. He is smart enough to bring his wine with him.
‘I told you that you don’t have to entertain me. Go to bed if you want,’ he says.
‘You’re a guest in my home for a dinner party. I’m not going to ditch you as well.’
He leans forward. ‘What, scared I’ll make off with the silver?’
‘Eh, it’s fine if you do. Anything of value in here belongs to Bee.
’ He laughs. Then silence, the music instead filling the space between us.
Arthur has his ankle resting across his other knee.
His head and the ankle bop along in time with the music.
He picks up his drink and turns to face me, gesturing with the glass to suggest I do the same.
He’s right; more wine is likely the best solution to our predicament, but I’ve washed up my glass.
I grab the neck of the bottle and take a swig.
After a long sip, he says, light as anything, like we’re buddies, ‘Have you ever noticed how “burn it down” and “burn it up” mean exactly the same thing in songs?’
That perks me up. ‘Yes! I have! It’s like being “up for something” and “down for something”. Like, they’re literally the same, especially in that they’re meaningless.’
Arthur turns to more fully face me, nearly sending red wine across the cream fabric couch. He looks ready to apologise, but I wave him off. He seems to understand that this means, ‘Don’t worry, it’s Bee’s.’
‘You get it!’ he says. ‘I have a lot of weirdly specific gripes about song lyrics.’
‘That’s not weird; that’s just good sense. I have an irrational hatred of songs that reference being a song within the song.’ Faintly, I can hear a rhythmic thudding. Might be imagining it.
‘What about poor grammar in song lyrics?’ he asks, and I think he’s speaking louder than before.
‘Hate it. Any time ‘The Way I Are’ comes on somewhere, I get physically ill.’
‘It’s not Shakespeare,’ he replies, solemn in the full seriousness of our discussion.
‘Although Shakespeare did invent a whole bunch of words…’
‘Doesn’t mean I have to like it.’
We stick in this safe conversation for a while longer.
Or rather I subject him to my Ted Talk about how ‘As Long As You Love Me’ and ‘Blank Space’ are fundamentally the same song.
‘He doesn’t care who she is or where she’s from?
He only cares about her as long as she loves him—that’s his only requirement?
She could literally be any woman, completely interchangeable.
In other words: he’s got a blank space.’
‘I don’t think that’s what the song means, Gertie…’
Another bottle cracked. The pours more generous.
I get my own glass this time. The laughter louder.
The language a little sloppier. The bottle is half empty now.
Spice World is his favourite movie: ‘It’s the greatest piece of absurdist art of the twentieth century.
I will die on this hill.’ I want to go to Albania: ‘I wonder if it’s because I’ve just been hit with a huge amount of targeted Instagram advertising about it.
I just really want to know what it is about me that screams Albania to the algorithm, you know?
’ Art tries to turn the conversation to sports and I swiftly turn him all the way back around.
We find common ground with The Last of Us, since gaming basically is a sport.
It certainly gets my heart rate up to the unhealthy zone…
just like a run. The playlist has long since run out, and the wine is nearly there too, but it goes unnoticed.
Only when Arthur’s phone, now settled between us on the couch, lights up with a notification does either of us realise that more than two hours have passed since his one-hour deadline.
‘Shit. It’s getting late,’ he says. He drains the last of his wine.
‘Safe to say I am discharged from chaperoning duties for the evening.’ He groans slightly as he pushes himself to standing.
I follow him around as he gathers his things, and I realise it looks silly, his little drunken shadow.
But I don’t really know what to do with myself.
What are we now? Our frenemish acquaintanceship has drowned in a vat of wine and bad hot takes, but the look of revulsion he turned on me at that football party is the cockroach that will survive Armageddon.
I don’t know how to act in this no man’s land.
At the door, I can’t help myself, and I blurt, ‘Why did you come tonight?’ Why can’t I just act normally and say thank you?
His eyes are glassy and a little unfocused.
His phone pings in his hand. The Uber is here.
He sighs and admits, ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to say no when Bianca asked you.
I guess I just didn’t want you to be lonely.
’ The driver is calling him now. Can’t he see the light on and the door open?
He is right there! ‘Thanks for tonight,’ he says. Then he leaves.
Leaves me holding the bomb he just dropped.
The moon is mocking me. Stupid moon. Sitting square in the middle of my skylight.
Yes, I know it’s two-thirty. Yes, I am in fact acutely aware of this because I’m checking my phone every five minutes, hoping that I’ve miraculously fallen asleep and three hours have passed.
When I realise I haven’t, I doomscroll. The moon stares back at me, unblinking.
Blinding me with light, not allowing me to hide from its judgment. Get stuffed, moon.
You wouldn’t be able to say no.
I didn’t want you to be lonely.
I knew.