James Goss - Almost Perfect

‘God!’ he breathed. ‘Ianto! You nearly scared me to death.’ The girl looked genuinely alarmed. ‘Really? Oh, I hope not. I really hope not. Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.’

Patrick smiled. ‘You didn’t, eh? Then what you doing creeping up on me in a dark alley?’

Ianto looked bemused. ‘I’m surprisingly used to alleys.’

‘Is that so?’ He smiled again, and leaned closer. ‘So you really checking up on me, or just trying for a quick snog without Bren noticing?’

Up close, Patrick smelt of fresh hot oil and vinegar. Ianto realised he was breathing quickly. ‘Er,’ he said.

‘Yes?’ Patrick smiled, really amused.

‘Everything been all right? In the shop, and all?’ Oh god, I’m babbling, thought Ianto.

‘Yes. Fine. Couple of boys decided to kick off tonight, but I soon cleared them out. I’m so glad I played a lot of rugby at school.’

‘Yeah, always comes in handy,’ said Ianto. ‘Um. Girl’s rugby. Obviously.’

‘Obviously, yeah,’ Patrick smirked, and started to undo his apron strings. ‘So, is that it?’

Ianto nodded, eagerly. ‘Honestly, genuinely, just checking up on you. You’re alive, tick, good. Carry on.’

‘And?’ Patrick leaned back against the wall, smirking.

Ianto looked round, and slumped with defeat. ‘Oh all right, but just a quick snog.’

Gwen sat down and scowled at the man opposite her.

‘Hello, I’m Gwen,’ she said flatly.

‘Hello, ugly, I’m Rhys,’ the man said back to her. He was grinning like a smug cat.

‘And what do you do for a living?’

‘Aw, I break hearts, I do, darling. How about you?’

Gwen shrugged. ‘I work for a top-secret organisation that protects Cardiff from alien invasion. I like to think I’m bloody good at it. What about you? Moved any vans around in a timely fashion recently?’

Rhys grinned broadly. ‘Oh, a few. So. Single are you?’

‘Oh yes,’ nodded Gwen. ‘Well, more widowed, really.’

‘Is that so? Tragic.’ Rhys tutted. ‘What killed him? Was it your cooking?’

‘Noooo,’ Gwen assured him, brightly. ‘One day, he spent so much time on the sofa that it ate him.’ She swilled down the dregs of the third complimentary Bellini she’d managed to grab from the bar. She was getting a bit giggly. Probably from all the small talk.

‘You know,’ said Rhys, smiling back at her, ‘you remind me of my last girlfriend. Only she had less split ends, you know.’

‘When this is over…’

‘We’re getting chips?’

Gwen shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not. I’m being unpredictable. I’ve heard it adds spice to a relationship. Now – seen any psychos?’

Rhys shook his head. ‘Apart from my wife, no. Everyone’s been very sweet, actually. You?’

Gwen shook her head. ‘Let’s just say I’ve discovered I could do worse.’

‘That’s charming, that is,’ said Rhys.

‘Do you want chips on the way home or not?’

Helena tinkled a little bell, signalling time to change partners. ‘Aw, and I was having such a laugh,’ Rhys stood up. ‘So do you want to see me again?’

‘Not as long as I live,’ said Gwen.

Rhys left Gwen, grinning. It hadn’t, to be truthful, been a great night for the Williams ego. Not that he’d let Gwen know. No, as far as she was concerned, it had been all honey and roses. But it had also been a nasty reminder of what the world outside his little nest was like.

True, there were times when all he remembered was the fun of being single, that mad prehistoric time before he met Gwen. Those rare golden nights when it was way past booze o’clock, somewhere in between kebab and the last pint sinking like lead… that lovely, carefree moment when a girl would look at you across the Walkabout and her eyes would stay on you for a bit long, and Lottery Clive would nudge you on the shoulder and say ‘Wahey – you’re in there.’ And you’d pretend not to notice, but you’d look back, and she’d look back, and then…

Oh, the fun of it all.

As far as he could remember.

Compared to all those evenings in, waiting for Gwen not to turn up. Feeling a bit like his mum, waiting up for his dad to get back from a late shift, and trying not to flinch when he breathed beer over her while she laid out the tea things and straightened down the tablecloth.

Or those cold evenings alone in the flat, when Daveo was out, and Banana Boat was off on one of his Grail quests, and it was just Rhys and the TV guide, suddenly it all felt a bit wrong. So empty. So lonely. And then, eventually, normally a bottle of beer too late, the key would turn in the lock, and there would be Gwen, all big smiles and hurried apologies and bright, bright enthusiasm for whatever he could salvage from the risotto. And it would be like they were on stage, in a play. The Gwen and Rhys Show. Was it a comedy, or a tragedy?

And they’d lie in bed together later, and he’d notice that she no longer clung to him while she slept, and he’d kiss her sleeping shoulder gently and he’d think, ‘Is this as good as it’s ever going to get?’

And, now, here he was, discovering that for all those quiet nights in and all those times when they talked at each other – what they had was better. What they had was so much better.

Rhys stared down at the table for just a second before looking into the eyes of Date #12. He didn’t want to see the expression. He just didn’t. He’d seen four different versions of naked, fearful desperation. He’d heard six different nervous, self-deprecating laughs. One girl whose first word had been sorry. Then a woman who’d not even blinked, but just spoken in a dull, weary tone – not just bored, but despairing – both of Rhys and herself – without hope. And three women who gave it the full ’tude – all Valley pouts and aye-aye body language and bosoms which heaved above their dresses like whales on an ice floe.

After a tide of all it – all of that like me, hate me, ignore me but please want me, Rhys just felt psychologically battered. No one, not even Gwen, would have rushed to describe Rhys as sensitive, but if asked to point out the serial killer among the women, his response would have been ‘narrow it down, love.’

Frankly, though, what he’d seen of the men had dispirited him. There were a few nice, normal blokes. Bit on the sweaty side, mind, but tidy enough. A couple of nice chaps who were a bit pie-friendly, sure, and one guy who looked lost away from his computer (ponytail and a mobile phone on a hip holster. Nice). And then, frankly, it all got a bit oh dear. Rhys gazed into the bottom of the barrel, and the bottom of the barrel gazed back at him. Nylon shirts, Simpsons ties, comb-overs, dandruff and Simon Cowell trousers. It was all here and it was all mad. No wonder someone out there was wiping out the single men of Cardiff. They were probably mercy killings.

And so, with that peace made, Rhys stepped forward and sat down.

‘Oh. Hi, I’m Rhys,’ he said, trying not to boggle.

‘And I’m Emma,’ said the woman of his dreams.

Rhys didn’t know what to say next, but she leant over. He could smell her perfume, which was subtle and expensive. He loved how she was dressed – classy dress without being showy, sexy without being revealing. Great hair, a lovely smile, and just the sense that she’d stepped off a movie set. That smile – and the laugh in her eyes. It put him at ease, made him want her to like him.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, like she was letting him in on the joke. ‘No one knows what to say at these things.’

He shrugged. ‘“Hi, I’m Rhys. I work in haulage.” That usually about does it for me,’ Rhys admitted.

Oddly, she didn’t seem to be listening for a moment – but then her eyes lit up. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I got distracted by the music they play in here. I swear it’s the Top Gun soundtrack.’