Forbidden Fruit &; Olive Ciabatta

"It just can't go on anymore, that's all," she said with a sigh of
resignation.
"That's all? So I'm not even worthy of a reasonable explanation?"
"It's not fair on&;#8230;" she began, but paused, looking into her
cappuccino as if the next part of the sentence was engraved there in
the thick creamy froth. "On him. It's not fair on him. And I simply
can't do it to him any more."
He looked at her sitting there all tight and withdrawn like a flower
afraid of the sun. Had anybody been watching the two of them talking at
the corner table in Starbucks they probably would've taken one look at
her expression and posture and decided that he was the bastard at the
table. "Why now? It was fair on him twelve months ago. It was fair on
me twelve months ago. So fucking fair in fact, that you didn't even
tell me about him until after I'd fallen in love with you. So what
about me? I take it it's perfectly fair to leave me like this?" he said
angrily. "You make me sick, Jenny. You're so full of shit. Just go
now."
She didn't move. She just sat there staring at him in disbelief, as if
he'd suddenly sprouted wings and horns. "I mean it," he shouted,
hammering his fists down on the table. "Just fuck off!"
Jenny pulled a tissue from her jacket pocket and dabbed theatrically at
her dry eyes. "I didn't want it to end this way," she said as she rose
from her chair. "I had hoped we could be&;#8230;"
"What Jenny?" he spat at her. "Friends? You're such a fucking clich?.
Just fuck off."
Jenny placed a set of keys on the table in front of him. They were
already separated from the bunch they usually hung on and Patrick
realised that she'd planned the whole thing. She'd just been waiting
for the right moment. The argument hadn't been spontaneous at all;
she'd engineered it. The keys were conformation of that. "I was going
to say, civil. I had hoped we could be civil about this," she said, and
walked out of the coffee bar.
He didn't turn to watch her leave. He knew he could catch a last glance
as she passed the window. And for a brief moment he saw her again.
Striding purposefully towards Finchley road with her head held high and
her long hair flailing behind her in the wind. His heart seemed to
falter and then stop. A feeling of panic overtook him and he jumped
from his seat and ran out onto the street oblivious to the stares and
whispers of the other customers. "Jenny!" he shouted after her as he
ran.
Jenny was hailing a cab from the corner by the bus station. There's
still time, he thought, willing the traffic to play in his favour.
Patrick ran as fast as he could, dodging cars and bikes like a slalom
champion. As he hit the central island on Finchley Road Jenny was just
climbing into the back of a black cab. Patrick lunged for the door
handle and tugged at it. "Fucking central locking!" He cursed when the
door remained stubbornly locked. "Jenny wait!" He shouted through the
half-open window. Jenny turned to look at him, her face holding no hint
of recognition, and then turned to the driver.
"Willow Road, Hampstead, please." He heard her say before the cab
honked once at a cyclist, pulled out into the road, and drove off up
the North End road. Jenny didn't look back at him. Straight home to him
then, Patrick thought. "That's just fucking lovely Jenny!" he shouted
after the cab, startling a young girl standing at the pelican
crossing.
Patrick walked slowly back down Golders Green road to the car. As he
slumped behind the steering wheel he suddenly felt deflated. Watching a
part of your life walk away never got any easier no matter how often it
happened to you. And this wasn't the first time it had happened to
Patrick. He pulled out his mobile phone and pressed 2 on the
speed-dial. "Hi Ali, it's me. Can I come round? Ok, thanks, five
minutes then."
Ali was Patrick's oldest and closest friend. They had grown up
together. Born on the same street, attended the same schools, and then
followed each other to Hull University where they had both read
English. After graduating they parted. Patrick secured a teaching post
back in Manchester and Alison chose London as the city upon which she
would endeavour to make her mark. Alison made her mark in a small but
growing publishing house while Patrick became increasingly
disillusioned with teaching and after only two years moved down to
London to stay with Alison until he decided what he wanted to do with
his life. Five years on and he was still deciding.
"So what's the bitch done this time?" Alison said as she let him in the
door.
"She's only fucking left me, that's all," he said throwing himself down
on the sofa and cradling his head in his hands. He could feel the tears
welling up and forced the heels of his hands into the sockets hoping to
staunch the flow.
Alison marched off into the kitchen and returned with a bottle and two
glasses. "Here," she said, handing him a glass with an over generous
measure in it. "Get this down."
"I'm driving."
"No you're not. You're staying here with me tonight. We'll get pissed
and watch a girlie video and then you won't feel so bad about blubbing
you soft git. Now drink it." Conceding defeat Patrick took the glass
and downed its contents in one. It was neat and took his breath away,
and for a second he thought he would vomit as the viscous liquor
treacled down his throat.
"Christ Ali! What the fuck is this?" he asked, coughing and spluttering
for all he was worth.
" Polish Vodka. An old guy in Hackney makes it on his allotment.
Smooth, huh?"
"Yeah, like burning asphalt!"
"He told me his father used to make it in the old country and they'd
drink it to forget about their problems. I've been saving it for a
special occasion but I thought now would be a good time to drink and
forget."
"You'd make a lousy councillor, Ali. Drinking isn't the answer."
"Ok, sorry. Pardon me for being so provincial," she said sarcastically
and screwed the cap down tightly on the bottle.
"Here, give me another," Patrick said, sliding his glass across the
table to her.
Alison reopened the bottle and poured out another large shot. "So what
happened then?" she said, sitting back with her glass cradled
comfortably in her lap. Patrick took another hit at the vodka and
cleared his throat.
"We went for dinner at the Italian place just up past the station and I
asked her to stay over this weekend. Then she flipped and we had this
awful row. Anyway, we went for a coffee to try and sort it out but it
just got worse."
"But how could she stay over Patrick?"
Patrick launched himself from his seat, spilling vodka as he did.
"Don't you fucking start! Christ Ali, I thought you'd be on my side at
least."
"I am, Patrick. I am. But come on, how could she stay all weekend? You
knew that she'd say she couldn't, so why force the issue?"
"Because I love her, Ali. I'm so tired of skulking about like a
burglar. I just wanted some real time together. Is that too much to
ask?"
"When she's married, yes."
"She's not married."
"As good as. Anyway, how did it get to the dumping stage?"
Patrick walked over to the window and looked out down at the bustling
street. It was only Wednesday night and yet the weekend seemed to have
already started for most people. It seemed to Patrick that there were
hundreds of couples walking hand in hand. He envied them their freedom.
All he wanted was a small piece of what they had.
"I don't know. She just started up about all sorts of stuff and before
I knew it she was throwing my door keys at me. She'd already taken them
off her keyring. She knew, Ali. The bitch knew before we even began
arguing. How am I going to get her back?"
"You're not. Bloody hell Patrick, you deserve everything you get! When
are you going to see that she was using you? You deserve someone who
really cares for you, Patrick. Someone who'll love you
unconditionally," she said. Someone like me you blind bastard, she
thought.
Alison watched him standing there at the window feeling sorry for
himself. She loved looking at Patrick. She always had. He wasn't
physically perfect by any means. Since university he'd put on a little
weight around the gut. His hair had thinned a little. And she'd always
thought he was perhaps a tad too short at 5'9'. But his face made up
for his shortcomings. He's got a really cute face, she thought. Kind
and open. Friendly and sincere. Handsome in an urban way. "Inner-city
rugged", he'd once described himself as. And he could be funny when he
wasn't being morose. He was pretty much everything she wanted. Sensing
the imminent danger of confession Alison flushed all romantic thoughts
away and called him over. "Come and sit down and have another drink.
The sooner you're pissed the sooner I can get to bed and get some
sleep. I've got a meeting in the morning."
Patrick reached over and poured himself another vodka. "I don't know
why we're even friends if you think so little of me," he said, slumping
back down on the sofa.
"Because we go back a long way, Patrick."
"Story of my fucking life that is. Going back. All I ever fucking do is
go backwards. I could have been a fucking general in the Italian
Army."
"Oh boohoo! Poor, poor me. God I hate you when you're so self obsessed.
Grow up Patrick," She said, and slammed her glass down and stormed off
to bed.
"And goodnight to you too!" Patrick shouted after her.

* * * * * * * * * *

"So what did you do?" Sharon asked excitedly.
"I screamed at him, I abused him, and then I stormed off to bed and
left him alone to stew," Alison replied.
"You did what? Are you completely off it? That was your chance for
fucks sake!"
Alison stared into the distance, lost in the fantasy she'd been
enjoying ever since Patrick had come to stay with her five years
earlier. In Alison's fantasy Patrick fell in love with her and they
spent the rest of their lives laughing together, drinking coffee in
chic bars, dancing the night away in dimly lit clubs, walking hand in
hand through parks in the autumn, cuddling up on the sofa and reading
each other interesting snippets from books and newspapers. And
indulging in a lot of shagging. There was only one thing in the world
that Alison loved more than her fantasy, and that was Patrick. But he
would never know that. "Are you listening to a fucking word I'm
saying?"
Alison mentally clicked the pause button on her fantasy and looked up
across the desk that separated her from Sharon. "Of course I am. My big
chance and I blew it, right?"
"Too right! God, I don't understand you at all. A prime opportunity to
sneak in under his guard and you let it pass. Well," Sharon said,
lighting a cigarette and blowing an arrogant plume of smoke across the
desk. "I don't expect to hear anymore sob stories about your unrequited
love. I just don't wanna hear it anymore, right?"
"Yeah, right," Alison said gloomily. "Not another word about it. I
promise."
For the remainder of the morning Alison set her mind to work. She had a
pile of manuscripts to get through and she figured that it was far
healthier to lose herself in the tragedies of fictional love rather
than drive herself insane thinking about the tragedy that was her own.
She plucked a manuscript off the slush pile. A secret Love: By Ellen
Hartley. "Fucking typical!" She said.
"What is?" Sharon asked, raising her eyes from Hello Magazine.
"Oh nothing. Don't let me distract you from your work," Alison replied
sarcastically.
* * * * * * * * * *

"So what did you do?" Steve asked excitedly.
"I ran after her but she'd flagged a cab. Pass me the cucumber."
"Here. You're a disgrace to your gender. You've let that slag walk all
over you for a year now and you still don't see it do you? Pass me the
sweetcorn."
"See what exactly? Here. We're going to need another tin
opening."
"That she was using you! Fuckin' hell mate everyone could see it. You
were a bit of rough that's all. An away-day shag. Should this one have
Olives?"
"I am not a "bit of rough"! Yes, but not too many they're expensive.
I've got a fucking degree and a teaching qualification. Tell me how
that makes me rough?"
"Well, I don't want to shatter your self image mate, but look at you,
you're running a butty shop. To someone like her that makes you a bit
of rough."
Patrick couldn't argue with Steve's reasoning. He knew he was right;
Jenny had looked down on him. And for all her protestations of love and
desire he knew that essentially he'd been a distraction. But that
didn't alter the fact that he loved Jenny. "I can't believe she's done
this to me. I love her, Steve, and she said she loved me. How could
she?"
"Probably found a new pair of balls to break. Or maybe hubby found out
and threatened to cancel her Harvey Nicks account unless she dumped
you," Steve said with a sneer of derision. "Rich birds are for fuckin'
not lovin'. I've told you that a thousand times but did you listen?
Nah, you were different, right? You two were "the genuine article" you
said. The real macoy, right? Real fuckin' nothin'! The only way you was
keeping that bird was to win the fuckin' lottery."
This was something Patrick had secretly been aware of. To the extent of
forfeiting ?10 every Saturday and Wednesday. "That's so much bollocks,
Steve! She loved me!"
"So why'd she fuck you off then?"
"Because&;#8230;" He said. But he didn't know why. He only knew the
reason Jenny had given him. It wasn't fair on "him". It wasn't fair on
the bloke she claimed had beat her and mentally abused her for years.
The bloke that she called "The Devil's Mentor".
Patrick didn't talk to Steve about it again for the rest of the day.
He'd known that he wouldn't get any sympathy from a bloke whose idea of
love was a really firm erection. But who else could he talk to.
Later that day, when the lunchtime rush had subsided and they were
cleaning up before closing, Steve broached the subject again. "So what
did you do after she, you know, did the deed, like?"
"I went over to Ali's. I couldn't face going back to the flat
alone."
"And what did she say about it? Glad I bet."
"She was&;#8230;she was very supportive if you must know," Patrick
said as he looked away.
"Yeah, right. She can't stand Jenny any more than I can. You know
somethin'? I never understood why you and Ali haven't got it together.
She's a darlin' that one."
"She's my oldest friend Steve and I wish you wouldn't talk about her
like that."
"But she's still a babe. Pass me the margarine."
"She's like my sister! You're sick. Really sick. Christ, I don't know
why I talk to you about anything. I must be mad."
"Yeah mate, my thoughts exactly. Christ! I mean, fancy missing a chance
to give that one!"
"That's it you filthy bastard!" Patrick said and threw a handful of
flaked Tuna at Steve.
"Oi! That's the fucking profit you're throwin' about. Sack it will
ya?"
"Then stop acting like a Neanderthal will you. Ali's a bloody wonderful
friend and we've been through a lot together," Patrick said.
"Besides&;#8230;it went badly when I got there," He added in hushed
tones.
"Jesus! Only you could fuck up twice in one night. What
happened?"
"I annoyed her and then she went to bed and then I got pissed and fell
asleep on the sofa. Pass me the cucumber."
"Here. I don't believe you mate. She's a darlin' that one. You missed
your chance there. Birds love a bloke when he's on a downer. Makes you
vulnerable, like. They go for that. You could have 'ad her! Fuck knows
I would 'ave."
"You repulse me. Tell me again why I employ you?"
"Because the office girls come in here to clock my arse and while
they're getting damp at the thought of rattlin' my bones they spend
their money on your poxy Goat's Cheese and Olive Ciabatta."
"Don't be so repulsive!" Fuck me, he's right though! Patrick
thought.
The week dragged out like a fat dog on a long lead. Patrick's nights
were spent tossing and turning in a seemingly interminable battle
against nightmares involving goat's cheese and Jenny and Steve in the
throes of unrestrained passion over the counter in the shop. These
nightmares not only ruined Patrick's sleep they also discoloured his
days. He found that despite his best efforts he was unable to look at
Steve without feeling a growing resentment and jealousy. He knew that
there had never been, and would never be, anything between Jenny and
Steve, and that it was only his emotionally fragile mind playing games
with him, but still he couldn't shake the feelings the nightmares
instilled. He hated Steve for his ready wit and the easy way he used
sexual banter with the female customers as if it was a blunt-tipped
foil designed to make them giggle rather than bleed. He even made a
fool of himself on several occasions by pulling Steve up for it in
front of the customers. He was having a bad week.
The evenings were even worse than the days and nights. He found he
couldn't stand Alison's caustic sympathy and over critical analysis of
his character and was therefore left to fester alone in his small
Crouch End flat. Nothing seemed to help. He tried watching TV but it
seemed that every channel had dedicated its airtime to a theme of Love
that week. He tried books and discovered the same thing applied to
literature. Music was unthinkable because he and Jenny had made love to
almost every CD he owned, and the memories were simply too painful. He
tried going for long walks and found himself haunting the places they'd
walked together; sitting on their bench, walking their route, stopping
to look at their views; and once, while hovering near some bushes on
the heath, where he and Jenny had made love in the heat of a glorious
and carefree summer evening, he was accosted by a young man enquiring
if he was interested in a blowjob. Of course he was, but Patrick felt
certain that the young man would misconstrue such an admission and left
the question unanswered.
On the Wednesday, almost insane with exhaustion and grief, he grabbed a
woman by the arm, convinced it was Jenny. At first the woman was very
understanding about it and then her boyfriend had stepped out of the
off licence and she screamed. The boyfriend chased Patrick the full
length of Hornsey lane before finally giving up the chase with a
terrifying verbal tirade delivered with such obvious conviction that it
left Patrick wondering if he actually was "a snivelling wanky little
pervert" after all.
Friday was a Black Day. Looking for underwear in the morning he came
across a pair of Jenny's panties in the wash basket and was catapulted
into a pit of despair and depravity as he sank to the bathroom floor
with her panties firmly pressed to his nose. There were two things he
couldn't shake all that day (three, if you count the obvious one
precluded by working with food); he couldn't shake the feeling that he
was turning into some sad pervert who would end up skulking around
gardens trying to catch a glimpse of women undressing at their windows;
and he couldn't shake the scent of Jenny from his skin no matter how
often he washed his face. He was convinced that everybody who came into
the shop could smell it too and became so concerned about it that he
resorted to a dab of balsamic vinegar behind each ear to hide the musty
scent of his true love's panties.
"I think I'm going mad," he told Steve during the Friday afternoon
lull.
"You only think? I know you are. You know Patsy from the dry
cleaners?"
"Yes? What about her?"
"You've just called her Panty."
"Oh fuck!"
* * * * * * * * * *
Alison was less than understanding when he later confessed the depths
his despair had taken him to. "Jesus Patrick! I'd never have thought it
of you of all people. Maybe of that sexist slug who works for you, but
you? Never in a million years."
"I know. I know. I feel terrible."
"And so you should. Christ, I hope you never sniffed my knickers when
we lived together," she said. Although I wouldn't have minded if I'd
been wearing them, she thought.
"Of course I didn't! Fucking hell, Ali, what do you take me for?"
"I begin to wonder, Patrick. You know what you need don't you?" she
asked. The idea only just occurring to her.
"What?" he asked, eager for any solution to his problems.
"Some uncomplicated sex. And as your oldest and closest friend it's up
to me to help you through this difficult time. Come on, I'm taking you
to bed for the good of every woman out there."
Patrick looked across at Alison with an expression of horror on his
face. "Oh that's just fucking great, Ali!" he said as he snatched his
coat from the back of the chair she was sitting on. "You just take the
piss like every other bastard, why don't you? I'm glad I'm such a
constant source of amusement for you all."
As the door slammed shut behind her, Alison suddenly felt very cold. Of
all the possible responses she could have foreseen that wouldn't have
been on the list. Like most women she had thought that there was only
one likely response to the offer of an uncomplicated shag. Could I be
any dumber? She thought.
"Oh fuck!" she shouted to nobody in particular. "Fuck, fuck
fuck!"
* * * * * * * * * *
Patrick hated storming off. Which was odd because he realised that as
he'd got older he seemed to do it an awful lot. "Maybe it's my way of
dealing with conflict," he said to himself. "Or maybe I just can't face
things anymore and it's easier to simply make a scene and avoid
it."
"I'm the same, mate," said a voice from his left, making him jump out
of his seat.
"Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing sneaking up on
people like that?" Patrick screamed at the owner of the voice.
The owner of the voice looked startled and amused. "Sorry mate. I
didn't mean to freak you out. I thought you were speaking to me. Didn't
you see me when you sat down?"
Of course, Patrick hadn't seen the man sitting on the bench and
immediately felt foolish. He made a quick assessment of the stranger.
He was about thirty years old and dressed casually in jeans and an
expensive looking leather jacket. His hair was thick and black, and
wavy in a Hugh Grant sort of way. "Good looking" Patrick would have
said, but such statements made him feel vaguely homosexual so he
didn't. He had an open, round face, and stubble that could have been
designer or simply lazy. He doesn't look like a nutter, he thought. "No
I didn't see you. Sorry. I over reacted. Seems to be my thing today.
Over reacting, I mean."
Patrick sat back on the bench and ran his hands through his hair.
"Woman troubles?" the man asked.
Patrick looked round at him. "Yeah, sort of." he said
noncommittally.
"Me too. I just stormed out on my girlfriend. Do you reckon it's the
weather?" he said with a feint smile.
Patrick thought it might be the weather. At least he was willing to
blame it on the weather and avoid any personal sense of responsibility.
"It could be, yeah."
"I just don't understand 'em anymore, you know. When I was a teenager
it all seemed so easy. You see one you like the look of, you talk, you
go for a few drinks, the movies, you get your first kiss and that was
it&;#8230;you're an item. No hassles until it was time to move on.
Now? Now I don't know what the fuck's happening half the time. Know
what I mean?"
"Don't I just!" Patrick said with feeling. "I got dumped last week.
We'd been seeing each other for a year and then out of the blue she
dumps me. I didn't have a clue it was coming. Not a soddin' clue. It's
like playing a game where you don't know all the rules. And now
everyone tells me it's for the best. She wasn't worth it. And it's like
I should be glad about it. But I'm not."
The man at the end of the bench reached over and offered his hand. "The
name's Dave. We should start a club; there must be loads of us out here
sitting on benches trying to find answers."
Patrick took the offered hand and shook it warmly. He was overwhelmed
by a strong sense of kinship. Here's a guy I can talk to, he thought.
"My name's Patrick, nice to meet you. Listen, do you fancy going for a
pint?" He asked.
Dave stood up and shook the cold from his legs. "Yeah, why not. It's
too fucking cold up here anyway."
They left Golders Hill Park and headed back towards Golders Green.
Without a word they turned in unison into the first pub they came to
and walked up to the bar. "What you having then?" Dave asked.
"Lager. Cheers. I'll get us a table."
Dave returned from the bar with two lagers and sat beside Patrick at
the table. "Quiet pub this," he said as the tension of the unfamiliar
began to tell.
"Yeah, quiet," Patrick said.
They sat in silence for several minutes as each tried to think of a way
to reclaim the feeling of camaraderie they had shared on the heath.
"So&;#8230;" Dave said, "Will you try and get her back?"
"There's no point. She made it quite obvious that it was final."
"I take it you didn't want it to end then?"
Patrick paused before answering. The initial feeling of kinship had
waned by now and the one thing he didn't want to do was open up too
much to a stranger. A male stranger at that. That route led only to
ridicule. "Well to be honest I'd have carried on seeing her,
but&;#8230;well&;#8230;when it's over it's over I guess. You have
to move on I suppose."
Dave took a long gulp of lager and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "I
wish I could be so pragmatic about it. I reckon mine's been playing
away from home you see. I told her I'd forget it and we'd work through
it but she's changed a lot and I don't feel like I know her anymore.
Truth is I couldn't live without her."
Patrick smiled to himself. He was pleased that his initial assessment
of Dave was proving to be correct. He seemed a decent guy and was
prepared to talk about "feelings", that dreaded word that most men
either avoided or shrouded in bravado and bollocks. Dave was growing on
him.
"Well," he began in a confessional tone; "the truth is I'm not really
pragmatic about it at all. I'm pretty cut up actually. Fooling myself I
guess. You know, put on a happy face and get on? Mind you," he laughed,
"I've even failed dismally at that. I've been a miserable fucker all
week and alienated the few real friends I have in the process."
"Apparently, you're supposed to grieve for lost relationships these
days. When I thought she was going to leave me I started reading all
her self-help books, and it said so in one of them. Most of it was
shite, but some of it made sense. It said that a lost love is like
having a friend die only there's no funeral. No grieving time."
Patrick thought that that made a great deal of sense. "So what are we
supposed to do? Wear black and sing a few hymns? Or maybe toss a
handful of soil on the connubial bed and chant some kind of
mantra?"
"It wasn't too clear on that point. You could try it and see," he said
laughing into his beer.
Patrick bought another round of drinks and settled down to talk with
his newfound friend. "What do you do then?" Patrick asked. "For a
living, I mean."
"Builder. Well, I own a small property renovation company. We do a lot
of contracts for letting agencies and the like. It's not much but it
keeps the wolves away. You?"
"I was a teacher but I run a sandwich bar now," Patrick replied.
"That's some change isn't it?"
"Yes&;#8230;I suppose it is. I came down to London to figure out
what I wanted after leaving teaching and never really found it.
Actually, I'm not sure I even looked. Anyway, I spotted this shop up
for let and just jumped in."
"Doing alright is it?"
"Like you say, it keeps the wolves away."
"Fucking making do! That's what it's all about these days," Dave said
with an air of regret.
Patrick considered what he'd said. Making do, he thought, yeah that's
what I do. I make do. Life, job, love, the fucking lot! I make do with
it all. God, I'm a lazy fucker. "It's weird isn't it the way a
relationship ending makes you ask all the questions you've otherwise
managed to avoid?"
Dave sat back in his seat thoughtfully. "You mean the big ones? Life
and Love and Death and that?"
"Yeah. So long as I had enough money to get by on and go out I was
fine. Now she's gone I've started to wonder. Maybe I'm just making do
with things when I should be out there hustling for a better life all
round?"
"She might've done you a favour then."
"She might at that," Patrick said.
The bell for last orders rang and Dave went to the bar to get a last
round in. Patrick sat deep in thought. Maybe she has done me a favour,
he thought. Maybe this is the signal to change my life. To get a life.
Maybe.
Dave returned with the drinks. "What would you do if your ex had been
playin' away?" He asked.
Patrick flinched. In essence that was exactly what his ex had been
doing. Only she'd been doing it twice. With himself behind her
boyfriends back and then latterly with the boyfriend behind his back.
But that was a confession he wasn't willing to make. And a confusion he
wasn't willing to face. "I don't know. I mean, it's difficult. I'd like
to think that if I really loved her I'd give it another go." Of course
I would, he thought. I put up with Jenny going home to her boyfriend
for six months and that's not so different. "Yeah," he added. "I'd give
it another go."
"Umm," Dave said.
By the time they were being ushered out of the pub door by a landlord
eager to lock his regulars in Patrick had already decided that he'd
like to keep Dave as a friend. It felt good to be able to talk to
another guy about things. Feelings. Maybe they'd never have the answers
but it would be nice having someone to bounce ideas off without
worrying about what he thought of him. Dave and he were very similar he
thought.
Dave stood on the curb and flagged a stray cab down almost immediately.
"Listen Patrick, here's my card. My mobile number's on it. If you ever
fancy a pint give us a bell, right?"
Patrick took the card. "I haven't got a card, but if you've got a pen
I'll give you my number. And I'll certainly give you a call
sometime."
Dave climbed into the cab and wound the window down, poking his head
out. "Look, thanks for the pep-talk. It's given me a lot to think
about. I hope you get yourself sorted," he said and blushed slightly.
"Listen to me! I'm turning into a fuckin' tart. Must be those fuckin'
books of hers. Do you reckon she'll like this New Man? Maybe give me
another go?"
"What's not to like?" Patrick laughed. "I'm sure you'll work it out
with her. Good luck, mate."
Dave closed the cab door and turned to the driver. The last words
Patrick heard him say were, "Willow Road, Hampstead, please."
They were the last words Patrick heard anyone say.

* * * * * * * * * *

? Andy Cobweb 2001