Jamie Holland - An Almost Perfect Moon

‘What about “opposites attract”?’ suggested Ben. ‘And “darling”, he did call her “darling”.’

‘Yes, but in a patronizing way. He was always patronizing her. I’d have slugged him one, personally, but she was so bloody feeble and infatuated she put up with it.’

There was slight pause after Lucie finished her speech, and she interpreted this as confirmation of an argument won.

‘Well, if that’s how you feel,’ said Ben, yawning again, ‘at least there’s no chance of anyone accusing you of being wet, hey baby?’

‘Lucie, were you always this strident, or is it a side-effect of being pregnant?’ asked Flin, not looking up from his paper.

Lucie threw a cushion at him, grinned sheepishly, and then said, ‘Well, what do you think, Harry? I’m right, aren’t I?’

Harry, miles away, had only been half listening. Sitting on the wingbacked armchair, (his favourite spot whenever he came over), a leg dangling over one of the arms, he was staring up at the bookcases, filled with Lucie’s creased-arched paperbacks.

‘I’m afraid I’m with Luce on this one,’ he said at length, ‘they didn’t seem to have a lot in common.’

‘Thank you, Harry,’ said Lucie triumphantly.

‘Yes, but come on, Harry, look at Julia. She’s absolutely gorgeous. You can’t say that doesn’t help.’

‘Sure it does, but is it enough?’

‘Looking at those breasts and amazing legs of hers, I’d have thought so, yes.’

‘Ben!’ Lucie glared at him.

‘Darling, that’s nothing against you: I think you’re perfect, but from Harry’s point of view, Julia is a very attractive proposition.’

‘And she’s pretty well-off, isn’t she, Harry?’ added Flin.

Harry nodded wistfully.

‘So what’s the problem?’ asked Ben.

‘There isn’t one, I suppose. I don’t know. It’s just … well, I mean, you lot – you’re all so happy with each other. Ben and Lucie, you’re married; Flin and Tiffany, you might as well be. But I can’t see myself ever marrying Julia somehow.’

‘Why not?’ asked Ben. ‘You get on really well. She makes you laugh – you said so; she’s stunning; for some reason she seems to adore you. Sounds to me like you’ve got it made. Anyway, I thought it was all going well and that you were really keen. Has something happened?’

‘No, no, nothing. Nothing at all. Forget it.’

‘Harry, I do think you’re jumping the gun a bit,’ put in Lucie. ‘I mean, you’ve only been going out a couple of months. Stop comparing yourself with other people and see how it goes.’

‘Yeah, you’re right.’ He force-smiled at them: Ben and Lucie, looking so comfortable on the sofa, despite Lucie’s pregnant awkwardness; and Flin and Tiffany, Flin’s hand loosely draped over Tiffany’s shoulder while he read the paper, she sipping more red wine, the very picture of contented togetherness. It had been a mistake to mention his doubts about Julia. It was obvious what they would all say.

Ben, eyeing his friend, decided on this occasion to let it go. He’d call him up, arrange to go for a drink after football on Tuesday, and get to the bottom of it then.

Flin meanwhile had gone back to his paper and was leafing through the previous day’s property section, when something caught his eye.

‘Tiff, look at this,’ he said, slapping the paper down in front of her.

‘What?’ asked Ben.

‘A house,’ Flin told him. ‘A bloody big house – four bedrooms, a couple of old outbuildings and seven acres of land. Jesus, I must be mad.’

‘And?’

‘And look at the price. It’s worth less than our flat.’

Tiffany passed the advert to Ben.

‘I mean, when I see that,’ Flin continued, ‘I’m just so glad I live in a tiny two-bedroom flat on a seedy street in the arse-end of Hammersmith. Jesus. Makes me feel really quite ill. What the hell are we all doing here, for God’s sake?’

‘Yeah, but, Flin, who the hell wants to live in Northumberland?’ said Ben, passing the paper round to Lucie and then Harry. ‘I mean, it’s so bleak. And nothing to do unless you’ve a bit of a thing for sheep.’

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said Tiffany. ‘I think it looks nice.’

‘You like sheep, do you?’ asked Harry, handing the folded paper back to Flin. ‘It’s cheap for a reason.’

Flin looked at it again. It seemed to be nestled in a small valley, although behind it, to emphasize the land that came with it, could be seen the empty Northumbrian uplands. Beautiful, but Ben was right – not exactly practical.

‘You’re right,’ he said at last, ‘but to think I could own that when I live in a glorified shoe-box still makes me feel a bit depressed. I mean, just look at all that space. The fresh air, no traffic jams, no graffiti, and yes, just the melodic sound of contented sheep bleating from the upper pastures. Maybe that’s the way forward. Get out of the madness of London and wind down for a while. Lead the simple life. De-stress. It’d be great, wouldn’t it? I’d get out of bed and be greeted by a vista of uninterrupted fields, instead of a mirror image of my own flat on the other side of the road. No Underground to scrabble through. No feeling grimy and soiled as soon as I got to work. Just clean, wholesome living.’

‘Wholesome but piss-boring,’ added Ben.

Flin looked at the picture once more. ‘Yeah, maybe,’ he said. ‘It was just a thought.’

As Harry left Ben and Lucie’s that afternoon, he was pleasantly surprised to note how the March days were slowly lengthening. He looked up to see a suggestion of clear blue lingering over the Common. The ground was wet underfoot, but the air felt dry and bracing after an afternoon spent surfeiting on food, drink and warmth. Feeling bloated, Harry decided to walk home. Anyway, he could never be bothered to wait for buses. Much better to be on the go.

The walk back to Brixton took half an hour. Across the quiet, wide-open stretch of Clapham Common, then an amble down the genteel calmness of Abbeville Road. The boundary between Clapham and Brixton was unmistakable. As he turned onto Acre Lane, he was greeted with immediate bustle and noise. Not far away, sirens cut across the evening air; then a shiny four-by-four with blacked-out windows thudded past him, vibrating music pulsing tremors along the road.

As Harry arrived outside his flat, he made his normal inspection of his beloved old Citröen, but, as usual, it was fine, not a blemish to be seen. His fellow Brixtonians seemed to respect rather than resent it. He sighed, feeling uncharacteristically low. On the cusp of thirty and a life that felt suddenly empty.

He stomped up the stairs. In his kitchen, a faint odour of cleansing fluid still lingered around the sink and surfaces. His answerphone, neatly attached to the wall by the door, was flashing the message light. Underneath, lying equally neatly on top of each other, were two bills, two more final warnings. Harry cursed himself. He’d intended to pay those first thing on Saturday morning but had forgotten. That meant he’d have to phone the following morning and explain that he would pay them that day, as he was bound to have already exceeded his seven days’ grace. This was the trouble with being a self-employed artist: irregular pay which it encouraged irregular payment of bills. Still, nothing he could do about on a Sunday night. He pressed the answer machine.

‘Oh, Harry, it’s your father here. Need to come down to town this week and was hoping to bunk up at your place. How about tomorrow? Bye.’ His father often did that, always ‘bunking up’ or ‘bunking down’ armed with his old leather overnight bag and battered briefcase. Harry smiled; he loved the fact his father felt he could. The second was from Julia, her smooth Galaxy bar tones filtering their way through the distortions of the machine.