Overdue

Thank you for reading this story. It takes place in the UK's record-breakingly long, hot summer of 2018 when everything felt unusual and old secrets long hidden were given up by the earth.

There's more story than sex in this one. Please leave a comment if you'd like to, as I really appreciate those of you who take the time to write them.

Everyone in this story is over the age of 18.

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The short hairs on her arms catch the yellow light as she busies herself with clearing the books and magazines that teeter ambitiously all over the big, square table. It's a significant task since the low table takes up perhaps a quarter of the floorspace of her generously proportioned Edwardian front room and every square inch of it is covered.

She's a voracious reader, both discerning and not. This week, I spy Austen, Greene, Haruf and Sebald, alongside the thrillers and romances she reads for fun, and the creased copies of 'Hello' and 'Grazia' which she refers to as her 'sugar fix', as she stacks them into neat piles for their imminent removal. I couldn't care less if she left the table as it is, but she likes to clear it up; a ritual that precedes our regular film marathons.

I watch her openly, her head bowed in concentration, her arms and hands flashing busily. It's one of the rare times I can watch her like this, since she's the one who's usually eyes up and wide open, drinking in every detail, filing them away for later reference. It's what writers do, she's told me more than once. 'We borrow, beg and steal the details of other people's lives. We are silent thieves, Mikey. Vampires.'

The first time she'd said it, I'd gone home and combed through her latest book (whether it was one of her prize-winning ones or not, I couldn't say) to see if I could find anything I recognised -- about me, or, more comfortably, details that reminded me of something we'd witnessed together. But either she's got a far better memory than me, or I'm not perceptive enough to know when she's writing about anything or anyone I know. Could be both, couldn't it?

"Sit down," she says, her voice full of some form of question. 'Why haven't you sat down already?', she's really asking me, even as she appears completely on-task, pulling piles off the table, re-positioning them on the floor by the radiator.

It's an excellent question. Usually, I'd already be sprawled out on the wide, lumpy couch, lining up our film choices and discussing our options for tea breaks and dinner because I'm attractively obsessive compulsive like that. I need to know the timetable.

But today, I'm not doing that. Today, I'm stalled in the doorway, captured by the sight of her.

Which isn't the unusual thing. No, the unusual thing is that my unreliable brain is choking itself on words I've been dying to say, and not say, for months and months, and which seems to have dire consequences for my ability to walk or talk. Thirty-five years old, and unable to command my motor functions. And if she seems a little bit more frenetic than usual -- or maybe there's a slightly distant, introspective quality to her today -- I'm not objecting. I'm doing my own hiding.

A bright white delivery van pulls up outside the window, throwing translucent rainbows of light over the walls of the room. It's always been one of my favourite places even though it's completely crammed with -- well, books, obviously -- but also her funny, old-fashioned furniture that ought to be uncomfortable, but isn't; the tall, dark carvings she brought home from her years in Kenya; the greetings cards tucked into the bookshelves like flags, and the giant, jumbly spider plant that lounges in the bay window and is called Sebastian. Yes, really.

If I surveyed all of this in the cold light of day I'd surely run a mile. As my last ex had rather dramatically proclaimed, 'I can't believe you can spend even a second in her flat, it's like at the very opposite end of the spectrum for you.' Which hurt me then, and still does now, actually.

"God, go get the keys for the window locks. If we don't get that window open I'm going to burn up. I can hardly believe it's only May. They say it could go on for weeks, this heat."

I don't move right away. Not until she looks up at me, her cheeks pink from her exertions, a slight frown pulling her eyebrows together.

"Michael, are you alright?"

And that does the trick. Social embarrassment churns in my gut and forces me to mumble something before backing out to search for the key. And despite the chaotic fullness of her flat, its unruly untidiness, I have a pretty good idea of where it'll be. I might know this flat as well as she does, since we always meet here, never at mine. Even in winter, when that gloriously tall bay window is rattling in the wind and we have to wrap ourselves in blankets to keep warm. Even then.

All the other rooms are tiny, completely out of proportion, because it's a conversion, just a slice out of what was once an elegant mansion, fit for an Edwardian entrepreneur, his family of five, and the servants. I stalk through it to the tiny kitchen, returning triumphant, key in hand, discovered in the glass tumbler on the shelf above the sink, and, this time, manage to cross the room and unlock the window in a mildly masculine, capable sort of way. I open both panes, top and bottom, because that's how sash windows work best, apparently, to let the air circulate.

"Yes, that's better. Thank the good Lord," she comments, flopping down to the couch, her hair looking like honey poured over the powder blue of the velvet cushions beneath her. "I love the heat, but here in London it feels as natural as plastic flowers, don't you think?"

I let my gaze skate over her, brain still knotting my words together too cleverly for me to speak.

"Like that, today, is it?" she teases. "Ok, silent man, do your thing and tee up our viewing pleasure while I grab us some water."

With that she springs up, full of a careless grace that always amazes me, her summer dress swinging with the momentum as she pads towards the kitchen. I bite back a groan, fumbling with the remote controls to fulfil my allotted role as master of all technology before she gets back and starts to really excavate my mood.

She returns with a full bottle, sweating with condensation, and two glasses, rounding the table and pausing in front of the plant.

"I'll just give Sebastian a swig," she hums, tipping some of the water into the plant pot, peering at it soaking into the soil before making a return journey around the table to sink back into the couch, flicking her legs to settle them on the tabletop, ankles crossed.

"Ok, good, what's on the menu for today then, Mike?"

"I thought we'd do some classic Jacques Tati, if that suits you?" pointing at the screen where I've cued up the afternoon's viewing.

"Oh, brilliant choice. 'Monsieur Hulot's Holiday', 'Jour de Fete' and 'Play Time'? What perfect choices for this weather," she smiles, handing me a tumbler and slopping water into it, some of it spilling over onto my shorts, before doing the same for herself.

I settle back, copying her relaxed posture, wondering if my thumping heart is going to flatline, or if it continues on this path to annihilation, whether she'll be able to feel its vibrations through the cushions we're sharing and will demand to know what the devil's up with me.

And then, slowly, gradually, the comic genius of Tati transports me to a different place, where mere mortals struggle to make sense of a modern world that's becoming increasingly surreal. Well, indeed. We both laugh, Rachel more prettily than me, and I fall in love with being here with her all over again.

It's halfway through our second film and our first bottle of wine, the light outside finally, slowly, softening to dusk, that she seizes the control from my hand and presses pause. My heartrate thunders back into life.

"Just need a pee. Want anything?" she asks.

"Only that you wash your hands afterwards?"

She snorts, giving me a short smack before leaping off the couch. I drop my head back, willing my body to relax, or at least to unclench enough that I'm not going to have strained muscles by the end of this evening. One of her neighbours comes in, the wide front door slamming and rattling the wall behind me, and I listen to him hefting his bike up the elegant staircase. I know it's Errol, since he's lived here almost as long as she has, and I've admired his arse more than once as he's hefted his pushbikes up the stairs.

"Hey," she breathes, plonking the wine bottle down between us.

I start upright, somehow completely caught out by her being back in the room already. Her fingers stop mine from pressing play.

"What is it, Mikey? Are you alright?"

"Um, I'm ok, yes."

"I'm not sure I believe you."

I turn to her, a slow dread building up inside, but unable to stop myself from asking, "Why's that?"

And that bald question yanks back the curtain to reveal the vanity of our pretence. She looks flustered, momentarily, but presses on.

"Why? Well -- because you don't seem yourself lately, that's why."

"Oh?" and I wish I could swallow that one word, to stop myself from baiting her into leading us to this treacherous place. Because we've been here once before, and it nearly finished us.

Dread tumbles through my guts when I catch that glint to her eyes. The one that means she's got some serious stuff to say and, what's more, dammit, she's going to say it.

"Mike, you've been wound up tighter than a very tight thing for months now. Is it just work? What's going on? Talk to me, Mikey, I'm worried about you."

"It's not work, Rachel," I mutter and at least that is true. And while my head and heart draw swords over what to say next, my mouth clamps shut.

"Not that big deal with Thingummyjig and Wotsit? That's all done and dusted now, is it?"

"That's all over," I agree.

Even now, in the depths of my self-obsessive thoughts, I smile at how she's just described the most difficult legal case I've ever worked on. It's taken out two years of my life, and has been making national headlines for some months now, but that doesn't matter to Rachel for the best of reasons. She cares for the legal implications, but not for the wretched politics that've dogged it, so she reduces it to nonsensical names to cut it down to size.

"So what is it? It's like someone's clipped your wings, or something. Look at you, you're all pale and unkempt."

"Unkempt?" my vanity screams.

"Well, for you, anyway. I can't recall the last time I've seen you in eyeliner, and you need a haircut."

"Fuck, you really know how to wound a man, don't you?"

But my humour is fake and she calls it straight away, her stare hard as nails. "You can't tell me I'm wrong."

I blink as slowly as I can but it doesn't blot out that look of fearsome intuition I know so well. "Maybe it's not something I can talk about with you."

Her face does something terrible before effecting a lightning-fast recovery, but sadness still fills her pale grey eyes. I've hurt her. Hell. Fucking hell.

She draws her mouth in, biting on her lips. "God, Mike, now I am worried."

I'm almost ready to crack, her gaze is so intense and concerned, when she suddenly tips her face to one side. "Don't tell me. Umm, let me guess. Waitrose has stopped stocking Whitstable Bay Pale Ale. Wait. No, that's too trivial, even if gravely serious. Hm. Let me think. You've had to sell your mother into a cult in Ohio to pay off your massive gambling debts with the Russians? Except -- except selling your mother would probably be making you happy, not tense and shabby," this last comment accompanied by a flick of her fingers at my hair around the back of my neck.

It works, sort of, and I manage a small, slightly stiff smile. And then she grabs my hand and squeezes it, leaving it there as we watch the rest of the film together. It's weird, but it actually helps to calm me down. That, and the lowering light levels, and by the time the film credits are sliding up the screen, I'm reclining as low as she is, our shoulders lightly touching, the skies outside a darkening, heavy blue.

I mute the telly, about to get up when she stirs, turning her face towards me, much closer than I'd imagined she was.

"It's not gambling debts, is it?" she asks, her voice soft.

"No. No, it's not that, Rach."

"What, then?"

I don't know what happens next. Not exactly. Only that my mouth opens of its own volition and, as if this isn't going to lead us directly into hell, it says, "It's you."

"Me? What do you mean?"

Perhaps because she doesn't pull away from me, the only change being a slight widening of her eyes, I don't shut myself up. I actually breathe in. Preparing myself for plunging into the abyss by stocking up on as much oxygen as possible.

"It's you, Rachel. I, um, well, I love you."

"I should hope so," she says tartly, perhaps her subconscious driving her to pretend this is a joke, to ignore the red flush she must be seeing on my neck by now. "After all, it's not for nothing you've been entrusted with several of Sebastian's offspring. And my spare keys. And my nom de plume," she adds, putting on a dramatic accent and eye roll.

When I don't reply back in similar fashion, something falters in her expression. An acknowledgement we're not on the firm ground she was hoping for. It yawns between us -- a silence full of so much. Seventeen years of so much.

She sits up, back straight but the rest of her is rumpled from slouching next to me, and a pang of sorrow needles me, knowing how much she's probably desperate to present her most dignified self at this moment. To shield her from what's happening between us.

"You don't mean it like that, do you?" her eyes sliding over me, then away.

I sigh. "Nope. I know --"

"No, Michael, that's just it. You don't know," she declares, her voice both strong and shaken.

I watch her pull her shoulders back and down, an achingly familiar gesture that makes me want to sling my arm around them and pull her close, to comfort her as I've done so many times before. I stop myself, because, of course, I'm ruining it. This. The most precious relationship of my life. That thought alone presses steel into my backbone, because if I'm really going to do this, to say it, I need to do it properly. Honestly. While I've got the chance.

"Look, maybe you don't know, Rachel, so hear me out, will you? Because perhaps I'm going to say some things that you really don't know," pausing for just long enough to give her time to stop me.

She doesn't, curiosity in her eyes now. Even her shoulders drop, just a fraction.

"So, look," I start up again, the jumbled words loud and confused and impatient to tumble out. "I love you more than I should. For best friends, that is. And," I rush on, pre-empting her imminent interruption, "and it's getting in the way of us. Our friendship -- relationship -- whatever the fuck it is. So -- well, and so -- that's why I've been so weird recently. Trying to work out how to ignore it, because I know it's going to make things..." I halt, searching for the right word and in the end settle for, "inconvenient," which is desperately English in its understatedness. "But I haven't been able to, so here I am, making it awkward as all fuck."

I pull up before the words run away with themselves too far. Rachel's gone red but doesn't say a word. Which I know bodes ill, because her world is full of words and she uses them all the time. Beautifully. She believes nothing exists until she's put it into words, and as soon as that thought happens, my gut contracts to a mean knot, convinced she's refusing to put words to this so it'll be as if it has never taken place.

"Rachel?"

I watch her struggle, her ribcage moving in and out, her neck looking increasingly blotchy.

"Why now, Mike, after all this time?"

"I don't know. A million reasons and none at all. I've finally grown up? I've survived the most intense two years of my life, and couldn't have done that without you? I've started to value the life I have instead of some imagined utopia? You're the best thing in my life? I don't know, Rachel, I don't."

She presses her lips together, her eyes flicking everywhere except me, and I feel as exposed and alone as in the bloody Royal Courts of Justice, trying to think of what else I can say to persuade Rachel of my absolute seriousness. But nothing comes.

"I wish I'd --"

"Oh, no you don't. No, not that, Michael."

For a few, terrible seconds, she holds my gaze before flinching away. In those fractions of time, I run through a breath-taking number of hopes and fears, horribly reminiscent of the rare moments with my mother when she'd seemed capable of grasping some semblance of reality before the brandy drowned it again and she couldn't recall if it was a school day or if I'd asked her for something to eat or if the bar staff had asked us to leave again before the hotel manager had to come down to reinforce the request. And yet I'd still had that hopeless hope she'd one day actually hear me.

And, as with my mother, I observe Rachel's face closing down, whether in denial or self-preservation I can't tell.

"Why now?" she suddenly repeats, the crack in her voice painful to hear. "All of these years, Michael, and now you sit here and tell me --"

"I'm sorry --"

"Fucking hell." She pitches the words into the room like spears, arms in sudden motion as she smacks at the cushions. And then another, "Fuck," almost to herself before her face creases in on itself and the very worst happens -- she starts to cry. Huge, full tears that course down her face without mercy.

The violence of it is a complete shock, and perhaps to her too. I reach for her wrist -- the nearest part of her, now she's moved so far away from me -- but she snatches it away, a reaction as painful as if she'd taken a knife to me.

"I think you'd better go," sounding as if she's talking around a rag stuffed in her mouth, her body in full flow now, her shoulders pulled taut.

"Shit, Rachel, I'm sorry."

"You're always sorry. Now get the fuck out of here, will you? Please."

It's the 'please' that finishes me. 'There's never an excuse not to use your Ps and Qs,' my mother would slur at me. And I've used them all right. With cabbies, croupiers and doormen and, a couple of times, coppers, inching us out of embarrassments if not outright dangers with my well-spoken Ps and bloody Qs, leaving a trail of nonplussed grown-ups in our wake. Because even a bottle and a half of brandy down, my mother still looked immaculately smart, and I'd learnt early to speak like the adult I wasn't to wheedle us out of whatever stupid situation she'd got us into.

And so I get out of Rachel's flat in nano-seconds, without a backward glance at her honey hair, her pink summer dress or her piles of beloved books. I walk out not knowing if I'll ever hear from her again and equally disbelieving that I'll never hear from her again. Because we survived this once before, why not again? Why not again, my heart begs.

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I sit in the dark, feet jammed in-between the seat cushions, my window a huge expanse of black, remembering. Thinking backwards, as if a forensic sift through the clips and flashes of memory will help me to understand. And to know what to do.

It had been a really long, difficult night already. Even now, it's difficult to remember everything that'd happened and that we'd talked about. God, me and Mikey used to talk for hours and hours and hours back then, with all the callow self-involvement of youth. And about everything. The rights, and mostly wrongs, of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan; the brass neck of London for even applying to host the Olympics; the tragedy of Kylie getting breast cancer so young. Stuff like that. Plus, whether we thought we'd ever fall in love with one person. Yes, that too. It'd seemed such a theoretical topic, as fanciful as talk of time travel and alien life forms.