As usual, Connie had been drinking — we had both been drinking — and was dancing now with no clear intention of ever stopping. She was always an exceptional dancer, did I mention that? Self-contained, rather aloof. She had a particular face when she danced, intent and inward-looking. Lips parted, eyelids heavy. Frankly, there was something rather sensual about it. At a family wedding, I was once told by my sister that I danced like someone wrestling with a bout of diarrhoea, clenched and anxious, and so I had chosen not to light up any dance-floors since. Instead I leant against the wall and ran through a mental list of all the things I wished I’d said to Angelo. He was still there, of course, dancing with a champagne bottle in his hand and Su-Lin riding on his back.
It was time for me to go home. I crossed the floor to Connie.
‘I think I might head home,’ I shouted, over the clanging music.
She steadied herself with her hand on my forearm. ‘Okay,’ she said. Her make-up was smeared, her hair sticking to her forehead, dark patches on her dress.
‘D’you want to come with me?’
‘No,’ she said, and pressed her cheek to mine. ‘You go.’
And I should have gone, right then, and waited for her at home. Instead …
‘You know, just one time, you might at least try to persuade me.’
She looked puzzled. ‘Okay. Stay. Please.’
‘I don’t want to stay. I’m not talking to anyone. I’m bored. I want to go.’
She shrugged. ‘So go. I don’t see what the problem is.’
I shook my head and began to walk away. She followed. ‘Douglas, if you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I’ll have to guess.’
‘Sometimes I think you’re happier when I’m not around.’
‘How can you say that! That’s not true.’
‘So why do we never go out with your friends?’
‘We’re here, aren’t we?’
‘But not together. You bring me here then walk away.’
‘You’re the one who wants to leave!’
‘But you’re not exactly desperate for me to stay.’
‘Douglas, you’re an individual. Go if you want, we’re not joined at the hip.’
‘Because God forbid we should be that close!’
She tried to laugh. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand — are you angry because I’m having fun? Is it because Angelo’s here? Don’t walk away, explain it.’
We were in a concrete stairwell now, storming down the flights past furtive guests kissing or smoking or doing goodness knows what. ‘Why do you never introduce me to your friends?’
‘I do! Don’t I?’
‘Not if you can help it. When we do go out it’s just you and me.’
‘Okay then, because you wouldn’t enjoy it. You don’t want to go clubbing or stay up all night, you’re too worried about work so I don’t invite you.’
‘You think I’d spoil the fun.’
‘I think you wouldn’t have fun, which means I wouldn’t have fun.’
‘I think there’s another reason.’
‘Go on then.’
‘I think you’re embarrassed by me sometimes.’
‘Douglas, that’s ridiculous. I love you, why would I be embarrassed by you? Don’t I come home to you every night?’
‘When there’s no one else around.’
‘And isn’t that better? Just the two of us? Don’t you love that? Because I do! I fucking treasure it, and I thought you did too.’
‘I do! I do.’
We found ourselves out on the street, a wasteland really, the buildings in various stages of demolition. On the roof of the factory above us, there was laughter and music. Faces peered down. Perhaps Angelo was watching us too, down here amongst the breezeblocks and paving slabs, our argument losing its momentum and starting to seem foolish.
‘Do you want me to come round later?’ she said.
‘No. Not tonight.’
‘So do you want me to come right now?’
‘No, you have your fun. I’m sorry if I got in your way.’
‘Douglas …’
I began to walk away. The sky was darkening. Summer was over, autumn on the way. It was the last good day of the year and I felt, for the first time since we had met, the old inexpressible sadness of life without her.
‘Douglas?’
I turned.
‘You’re going the wrong way. The train’s in that direction.’
She was right, but I was too proud to go back past her and it was only as I wandered through the rubble, clambering over fences pursued by Alsatians, hugging the crash barriers of dual carriageways as lorries stormed by, hopelessly lost, that I realised our first argument had masked another first.
She had told me that she loved me.
It was the first time anyone had said the words without some qualifying clause. Had I imagined it? I didn’t think so. No, it had definitely been there. I might have clicked my heels with joy, the first person to have done so on the Blackwall Tunnel Approach, but I had bodged the moment, so tangled up in petulance and self-pity, so befuddled with jealousy and alcohol that I’d not even bothered to acknowledge it. I stopped and looked about me, trying to get my bearings, then began to walk back the way I’d come.
