Chapter 20
Eric sits at the snack table, eating Club biscuits and staring at the TV above the reception desk.
‘Hey.’
He swings his eyes towards me. ‘How was it?’
My stomach begins to liquidise as I peek at the cotton ball in the bend of my arm. ‘Fine.’
I’ve been a dutiful blood donor ever since I turned eighteen yet can only get through the experience by completely disassociating.
Kasie used to taunt me over it, grabbing my hand and making me feel her pulse, prodding with questions like, ‘Can you feel the blood drain out? Can you imagine what it feels like when it gets pumped back into someone else’s body?
’ I’d cover my ears and sing Spanish folk songs till she had mercy on me.
It’s not only that I’m squeamish, I also have a horribly low tolerance for pain; even the pinprick they do to check haemoglobin levels makes me well up.
I hover by the seat next to Eric then ask to switch so I don’t have to face the poster of the smiling black woman, which says, Your donation saves my life.
Eric hands me a cup of orange squash and points up at the muted TV, which is showing a farm based reality show. ‘They often shoot goats in the head. I don’t know why this one is having a lethal injection.’
We fall silent to read the subtitles and drink our squash.
This is my first time back at the clinic since Kasie died.
When I got the email reminding me it was time to donate, I was furious.
How dare they still want me to give when my friend couldn’t be saved.
There have been so many points over the last few months where I considered never doing this again.
It’s shameful, selfish and irrational, but it’s the truth.
I always donated blood for Kasie; in some weird way I felt like I was giving straight to her.
There’s a closeup on the goat’s eyes, with its strange rectangular pupils.
‘Why is the TV on this channel?’ I mumble.
Eric taps my shoulder gently.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Comforting you.’ He sounds like a hammy actor in a bad play.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You look upset.’ He removes his hand.
‘I’m not that upset about the goat. I didn’t see the start of the show, so I’m not hugely involved in its story.’
‘Not the goat,’ he says, irritated. ‘You can talk about Kasie. I’m not Mum. I’m not going to freak out.’
There’s a basket of stickers on the table, which I flip through till I find the one that says, I sat back, gave blood and saved lives.
‘You think about her when you’re here, don’t you? When you do this?’ He indicates down at my arm.
‘I try not to. This is the side of Kasie I’d rather not think of.’ I inspect the beige plaster wrapped around my index finger. ‘This is all needles and blood and appointments. It’s not Kasie. It’s not . . .’ I trail off.
‘Her illness was a big part of her life.’
‘Yes, I get that. But when I talk about Kasie, I don’t want to talk about this. She hated being seen as a sick person.’
Eric chucks his plastic cup in the bin, and I get up to pull it out and put it in the recyclables box. ‘We’re trying to save the Earth here.’
He stares at me curiously as if recycling were a new concept. ‘Can I tell you something about Kasie?’
The two of them rarely crossed over and when they did, they were both so introverted I would have assumed they sat silently next to each other.
‘She once set me up with someone,’ he says.
‘What?’ I come back to sit.
‘Yeah. We were out on the terrace at Mum and Dad’s anniversary party last year. You were off chatting up whoever.’ He scratches behind his ear in a way that makes him resemble our dad. ‘She was acting strange then told me she met this guy at church, of all places, who was also gay.’
‘Oh no.’ I put my hands over my face.
‘Both gay, both work in sales, surefire match.’ Eric gently pulls his shirt sleeve over the ball of cotton wool on his arm.
‘We had a date; his name was Jack. Bit boring, even for me. The next time I saw Kasie, months later at Christmas drinks, she was genuinely gutted; she’d been convinced it should have worked out. ’
These new stories, they’re gemlike. ‘I never knew that. It’s so her.’
Eric focuses on doing up his cuffs. ‘As close as I am to my friends, I’ve never had a friendship like you had with Kasie, so I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you over the last few months. Sometimes you seem good, and other times, like this week, you’ve seemed unhappy.’
‘Work is tiring,’ I say, ‘that’s all.’
‘You’re doing long hours.’
‘You too. It’s like we’re in competition for who has the worst work–life balance.’
Recently both of us have been working till around seven, then taking turns to make dinner, which we eat in front of the TV while half watching a traumatic true crime documentary.
Occasionally Eric will show me properties online, depressing little one-bedroom flats in zone 4 with no parking spots.
He’ll contrast this with how far his money could go if he moved out of London, before groaning about needing to earn more.
His focus on money has rubbed off on me, and I’ve taken on some freelance translation work.
It’s also been a great way of filling my time outside my actual work, leaving no room for anything else.
Not the community cooking class, which keeps emailing semi-aggressive reminders – Health is Wealth; Invest Now!
!! – nor the women’s park fitness group I paid upfront for, nor the university friend’s wedding I pulled out of last minute.
I don’t have space for any of it. Just work.
And it’s good to be consumed like this, because if I’m not, I find myself thinking about Cian.
I can feel Eric’s expectation that I say something else, that I justify my dip in mood over the last few weeks. ‘It’s not about Kasie,’ I admit. ‘Or work.’ I grimace. ‘Hmm. Can I bear to tell you this?’
‘You can tell me. Who am I going to blab to?’
‘It’s about Cian.’
‘Your colleague?’
‘He’s more than that. Well, no, he’s not and that’s the problem.
We’re friends. We were friends. Not anymore.
Now, we’re nothing and I’m constantly fighting against thinking about him.
And worse than fighting against thinking about him is fighting against wanting to see him.
Every minute. And aren’t confessions meant to make you feel better? Saying this is making me feel worse.’
‘What’s the reason you fell out?’
‘Basically, he’s out of a long relationship and he’s—’ I blow a big breath through my lips. ‘I don’t know what he is.’
‘On the rebound?’
‘Maybe, or maybe he’s never liked me in the same way I liked him.
Which is way too much. I really thought we were getting closer and then we bumped into his ex, and it was—’ I stop here, because I’m not sure what was more telling: seeing him with Vic, or what he said afterwards in the car.
‘I liked being with him so much. He made me feel less lonely.’
‘You feel lonely?’ Eric asks.
‘All the time. And it’s not like when I was with Cian, I didn’t miss Kasie or feel sad about losing her.
When I was with Cian, I still felt those things, I just didn’t feel so alone with it.
’ I catch Eric’s expression, his bottom lip protruding slightly, his eyes downcast. ‘I’m sorry, I know you’ve tried to be there for me. ’
He resets his face and gives me a flat smile.
‘It’s mad because I felt so close to him, yet we never so much as kissed and now we don’t even look at each other. I can’t believe I’m talking about this with you; it’s like you’ve finally become the gay brother of my dreams. What’s next, shopping together?’
Eric slyly flips me his middle finger then deliberates on which sticker to take from the basket. ‘I’m not quite sure what to say. Have you spoken to Mum about this?’
‘Do you speak to Mum about your relationships?’
He colours a little and frowns. ‘What would Kasie have said in this situation?’
I laugh. ‘Kasie would have loved this, me being besotted and useless. She would have been in her element.’ The conversations we would have had, the analysis of every text message and post-mortems on every meeting.
She would have liked Cian too, I’m sure of it.
‘Though if Kasie was here, she might have stopped me from falling in love and getting my heart broken like this.’
‘In love?’ Eric says. ‘That’s serious. Especially for you.’
‘First time for everything,’ I reply sadly as I select a sticker for him and press it to his shirt.
We sit for a few moments then a member of staff walks over and says, ‘If you’re well enough, you can leave now.’
The following night I busy myself making pasta from scratch.
I found a Post-it in the back of Kasie’s notepad and follow what I can of her messy, scrawly writing.
As I work, because that’s exactly what cooking feels like, I try to convince myself the weighing, mixing and kneading is therapeutic.
Though at every stage I want to give up and sweep it all into the bin so I can sit on the peeling floor tiles and ugly-cry alone.
As I attempt to remove the dough from between my fingers, I notice I’ve had a missed call from Cian.
I call him back straight away.
‘Hi,’ he says.
‘Hi. I didn’t hear my phone. I was doing something.’
‘Right.’ He takes a breath. ‘It’s not urgent or anything, I can call back another time if you’re busy—’
‘No, no. I mean I was going to start doing something.’ I step away from the mess on the counter. ‘I’m not busy.’ My heart feels as if it’s beating outside of my body.
‘Great. So. Yeah. I was calling to tell you about my social media clear-out.’ He says it formally and loud, like an announcement. ‘I, uh, I went through all my platforms and got rid of a lot of people. People whose lives I don’t need to see. People from my past.’
I wonder if he’s practised this speech, and if he went as far as to imagine how I would react to it. What I would say in return.
‘People like Reginald,’ he says.
‘Reginald?’
‘The guy who got fired for watching porn in one of the breakout rooms.’ I laugh before he reaches the end of the sentence.
‘So yeah, Reginald is gone.’ Cian’s voice lowers and he sounds more like himself.
‘As well as plenty of people I never see anymore, people from college and uni. Bunch of guys I was friends with when I worked at the bowling alley.’
‘You worked at a bowling alley?’
‘Yeah. I have stories about that. Can’t believe I’ve never told you.’
‘No. Never.’ Add it to the list with all the other things about you I have no knowledge of.
‘I cleared out people from work, too, as most of them are fucking irritating online. I don’t care about Danni’s seven-step haircare regime.
I don’t need to know Billy from Accounts is into anime and most likely underage girls.
And I’m not interested in Ikenna’s dog. Zoe, what is wrong with that dog? Is it meant to look like that?’
The dough dents and springs back as I poke my finger in it. ‘Why were you connected with Ikenna online?’
‘I was addicted to scrolling through his gym selfies and feeling bad about myself.’
This time, I turn the phone away, because I don’t want Cian to think he can do this, kick off at me and then say something amusing and it’s all good again.
‘And why is he always posting reels of planes?’ Cian continues. ‘What did you see in him anyway, apart from his highly defined deltoids and all that youth work he does?’
‘You’re an idiot.’
We both fall silent. I don’t know what to say. I will never tell him how I feel about him now; I can only work on not feeling it quite so much.
‘Have you been okay?’ he asks.
‘I’ve been . . .’ I scrunch a handful of dough in my hand. ‘I’ve been okay, depending on who asks me.’
‘I’m asking you.’
A lump forms in my throat. ‘Then, I’ve been a bit down.’
‘You want to talk?’
‘Not really.’
‘You sure?’
‘How’s your week been?’
He clears his throat. ‘Work has been nuts. We’ve been swamped trying to deal with a bunch of DDoS attacks.’
‘I don’t know what that means but it sounds stressful.’
‘It’s means I was at work till after eleven on Tuesday. What have you been doing this week?’
‘Nothing. I gave blood after work yesterday, so I took it easy.’
‘How can you do that? You’re so squeamish.’
‘Giving blood is important.’
‘I could never. Doesn’t it make you pass out?’
‘No.’
‘Why do you do it?’
‘Because it’s a good thing to do and also Kasie had sickle cell disease, so giving blood is kind of like an important thing to do.
She needed regular blood transfusions.’ I stop and try to get back to my point.
‘You should donate, Cian. They always need donors, especially from people with ethnic backgrounds.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know anything about sickle cell disease. Was Kasie sick a lot?’
‘She was careful about keeping well. Sometimes she’d have a sickle cell crisis – for her it was severe joint pain – and sometimes she could handle it at home, with painkillers, but occasionally she’d end up in hospital.
In May, she had a crisis and the pain seemed to spike really quickly.
She was admitted to hospital and a few days later she had a stroke.
I think her body was done with everything; it couldn’t cope anymore. ’
Cian sighs. ‘I didn’t know all that. I’m sorry.’
We’re silent, so I move back to prodding the dough.
‘I’m going to sign up to give blood,’ he says. ‘You can come with me and—’
‘Hold your hand. Yes, of course.’
‘I’m sorry I dumped my shit on you. You have enough going on. I shouldn’t be adding to it.’
‘That’s not how a friendship works,’ I answer, slightly annoyed.
He snorts. ‘Yeah, but . . .’
‘But nothing. You should be able to talk to me without me questioning you or throwing judgement. I shouldn’t have done that.’ Even the softest punch leaves deep imprints on the dough. ‘I don’t want you tiptoeing around me. You’ve never done it before; please, don’t start now.’
‘Deal,’ he says. ‘I do like moaning to you about all my woes, though maybe I’ll pick my topics more carefully.’
Just when I think the call is coming to a natural end, he asks, ‘Do you want to get recklessly drunk with me tonight?’
Yes, I think, so badly yes. ‘Do you really think it’s a good idea for us to get recklessly drunk together?’
‘Probably not.’ Then a breath. ‘Though I’d still like to.’