Live Forever

Hello, I’ve lost something. Can you help me, please? What have I lost? Oh, just my boyfriend. He seems to have gone AWOL. Where did I last see him? Well, I haven’t seen him for a few days, but specifically I was on the phone to him half an hour ago when the line cut out. And I can’t be sure that it was the phone line, because he just bombed the first half of his A-levels. Whereas I, the apple of his eye, happened to do quite well. Unexpectedly well, I should say.
Thus is the internal monologue running through my warped head as I patter towards Dan’s house. The Spanish Inquisition couldn’t be more potent in interrogation than my own mind is; I ask myself questions, twisting possibilities until they entwine. Was it my results that annoyed him? Is he angry or upset, or both? Could it be the shattered, tiny Oxbridge dream that he once let slip to me? Or is it something else? Is his mum ok? I worry.
Then, on the other hand, I can’t deny that he’s been annoying me lately – things are tense. We’re sort of old now; it’s coming up to a year, and the strawberries and Yorkies have dried up along with the mystery. We just need to talk about it. That is, without being distracted by kisses when we can’t handle the truth. Because I still have the same feelings for him. They’re just slightly dustier than they were at the beginning. There are tiny scratches on it; scratches called Daisy, figurative scratches from the fight at Knebworth, tiny grazes in the shapes of body language and actions. The hanging-up incident is one of these. But no matter how battered it all gets, it’s still there...
I’m nearly at their house now, which in the distance is illuminated by the sun. The neighbouring gardens are in full bloom, flowerbeds full of sunflowers, magnolias and roses, whilst the grassy verges are surrounded by daisies... Just in time to prevent it becoming a Ground Force after-shot, there’s a dead bird in said daisies. Daisies. Ha! So white and pure, and then there’s Daisy Briggs, the least pure girl in the history of the world. One day I’ll tell Dan about her...
...about the way she slept with my brother on the day of Mum’s funeral. That’s right. She’d been his best friend and platonic +1 to the funeral, and she’d always rebuffed his advances before. And at the reception at our house, they’d disappeared – I presumed to cry and for her to give him an impromptu counselling session – but no, when Dad told me to get him, I went into his room and exited with a scarred mind and cheeks bright red. The worst thing, the part which is tattooed onto my mind permanently, is the way that she grinned at me, then the pile of black clothes on the floor, when I opened the door. Pure vehemence. And he was crying, and it was awful, and I’ve hated her ever since. I’ve never told Stella that part; you really had to be there to understand the desperation, but I’m sure Dan would see that you’d have to be a pretty awful person to take advantage of a recently bereaved friend...
Stella assumes it’s because I had a bit of a thing for Tony, pre-marriage and alcohol-fuelled breakdown, and Daisy only happened to pin him up against the corner shop wall after she’d overheard us talking about him at a sleepover. I don’t understand how the same DNA can produce such utterly different characters. Satan and Stella. No doubt there’s a cheesy American film-type reason for her being such a bitch, but I can’t see it, and I wouldn’t believe it if there was.
Linda answers the grand old door.
“Lyla! Darlin’! Sweetie! How are you, babe? Come in, come in! We got to catch up, it’s been a few weeks! How were your results, darling? Did you get the grades you wanted? Better than Dan’s? Cor, he really screwed up, did our Dan. Failed maths, he did. Well, it’s off to his dad’s business for him! No uni! Anyway, darling, I’m rabbiting. How did you do?” I’ve always appreciated Linda, despite Dan’s fervent loathing of her; she’s comedy gold, a maternal ball of neuroticism and excitement, and she’s often tried to adopt me as the child she never had. But right now I’m not in the mood for chatter.
“Yeah, yeah, I did better than him. Is he home? I need to talk to him. Is he upset about results?”
“Oh, definitely, darling. Kid was kicking up his room in a right old fury. But no, he’s gone out. Went to see someone. I dunno who, darling, he only ever goes to see you. I thought he had. Maybe Dan’s dad knows where he’s gone. Coffee, darling? Biscuits? We’ve got Garibaldis.” I’ve never seen a Garibaldi biscuit before, let alone tried one, but this landmark isn’t at the forefront of my mind. She is. I know he’s gone to see her. Has she reeled him in with the psychologist story? She’s not training to be a psychologist, it’s just her chat-up line, according to Stella. She’s actually a secretary for a primary school. I need to get him out of there, before it’s too late. “You alright, darling?”
“I’m fine – I’ve just remembered where Dan is. I’ve got to go. See you later... I hope.” I dash for the door, out of the drive, and then vomit in their next-door-neighbours’ hedge.

***

I run home and clean myself up. Toothpaste, mouthwash, the full works; I hope that the full works aren’t happening in her room. But I want to slap myself for distrusting Dan. Nearly a year, and I assume that he’ll cave in to Daisy’s alleged charms. What kind of a girlfriend am I?
But I know things are uneasy at the moment, and with the added stress of failure on his part... I speculate in my mind. Perhaps he’s bored of us, or maybe we’re bored of each other and he thinks it’s time to get out of it; maybe he wants a new start; or, possibly, I suppose, he could just be out of his mind. Pleading temporary insanity. But he’d still be guilty if he did anything with her.
I grab my key to Stella’s house; being a veteran to the Briggs’ house, Mr and Mrs Briggs gave me my own key several years ago, and it’s often been a lifeline in times of trouble. But at this point, the trouble is all situated there. Colin sees me panicking as I fidget with the key out of my own house, and his presence just intensifies the panic; I slam the door on him mid-sentence, because if I try to speak I’ll just break down. I run through three roads, past the little kids playing football in the street and squeaking whenever a car appears; and there it is, Stella’s house, in the shadow of Old Trafford, a few Manchester City shirted blokes sitting around a clapped out Ford outside the house opposite. I fumble with the key in the lock. The Briggs’s Ford Mustang is gone – I imagine they’re at work. And as for Stella, I don’t know where she is...
Her flip-flops aren’t there, which means she’s gone round to the shops to look at things she can spend her birthday money on next week. I remember her birthday is next week – I feel awful in the realisation that I’ve utterly neglected Stella in my own self-pity recently. Once I’ve sorted this out, I will buy her a present. The Menswear album that she wants, perhaps. I shut the front door quietly, having been frozen by guilt for a few minutes, and creep up the stairs. Thank God for padded carpets and non-squeaking steps.
I don’t think they’ve heard me – they’re talking. It’s a good start. They’re probably not doing it, unless they’ve already finished and are having post-coital cigarettes. I jar at the thought. Holding my breath the best I can, I listen from outside. I notice cuts on my arm from the hedge near Dan’s. It makes me want to throw up all over again. I listen to the conversation, hoping that their words won’t fracture my soul too much...
“...I hate the way she berates me for stupid things. It’s so patronising. She’s always got to be in control. I liked it at the beginning – well, I loved it at the beginning – and I have ‘til recently, she’s just so... tetchy at the moment? And as soon as she does well in her exams, she’s a bloody dream in attitude. And I’ve failed and I bet she’s gloating because I didn’t revise like I should’ve, and I know I should’ve revised, but she’s completely messed with my head this year and I couldn’t concentrate...” My God, she’s his emotional sponge. No wonder he’s rambling; we haven’t had one of these conversations since the half term after my birthday.
“So why are you here? Shouldn’t you be talking to her?” Every word resonates with poison. She’s so toxic that you’d think she’d been on holiday to Chernobyl recently. He sighs.
“I just needed to get it off my chest, y’know... I wanted to talk to someone. You’re really easy to talk to, you know. It must be the psychologist thing.” He laughs. I wince. “I just wish it would all go back to normal. Wish I could turn the clock back a few months and done things differently. These results are like a birthmark, I guess. She wants to be successful, she never shuts up about it, but that’s what everyone wants... I want it too... but she’s so dominant. I swear I’ve lost my balls this year.” I stifle my laughter, because it’s so inappropriate; I hope Stella doesn’t return too abruptly and give away my game plan.
Every word hurts. It’s like being a ghost and haunting your friends, then listening to them bitch about you; I have no control over it – I’m supposed to be invisible here. But I’d rather he got it off his chest, I suppose, even if it’s to an utter fiend. And every second that she isn’t obviously hitting on him is-
“So, you like dominant women?” No! Shit! I want to stop them, I want to scream, but I’ve lost my voice and it’s a test of his loyalty.
“No, I just like Lyla. Fuck, I love her, I really do, but she’s too good for me-” And with one sentence stopped short, everything – absolutely everything – collapses. They’re kissing. I know it. And my heart doesn’t break, it doesn’t really do anything except slow its beating, but I’m so numbed by pain that I wouldn’t feel it breaking in any case. Everything feels heavy. I want to slump on the floor. And everything’s so much worse with the one sentence. The only part of me that appears to still be alive is a tiny section of my head, the one that’s saying, “But he worshipped you!” Words... words can’t even begin to possibly describe this...
The best way to describe it is thus. Say Chelsea are winning 2-0 against a team – perhaps Manchester United. And it’s so astonishing, you can’t quite believe it’s true, and you know that it’s not going to last. Despite every pulse of your heart wishing that the final score will remain thus, you know it won’t happen. You know what’s coming; it’s so obvious that you’ve toyed with it in your head a million times during the half time break, and yet you still guard the hope. Ten minutes left to play, and there is at least a point salvaged, you’re sure – and then they score three in the last few minutes – and you’re so much more heart-wrenched than you would have been, because you knew it was coming, but you couldn’t quite let go of hope... I ramble, but it’s not a coherent feeling. Pain is an abstract concept. You cannot describe it in words.
Squeak. Squeak. The sound of bedsprings revive me – they’ve gone onto the bed, kissing, and I have to look now, or else I will never leave. So I turn my head, and at the moment that I hear the front door open, I see them and they see me. And there’s the same look of hatred that there was before on her face, and there’s the same desperation and pity on his, and I can’t help but feel I’m cursed to a cyclical life. He tries to push her off him, and I can see the awful apology in his eyes, and it’s too much to bear. Overwhelmed, I stumble towards the stairs – past Stella – out the door – into the street – and the Man City fans are still there, and nothing’s changed for them, but for me, it’s all over.
A tear-sodden mess, I am broken. And I thought I was above such soppy behaviour.