Overdue

Until, one day, for me, it wasn't fanciful at all.

It'd crept up on me like my gran's dementia. Or, perhaps a better analogy would be my sister's leukaemia since that was happening at the same time, although we didn't know it then. At first, it was hardly discernible. A vague feeling of constant tiredness, on and off until it was more on than off and then, just constantly on, like an alarm buzzer. That's how Fliss'd described it to me.

And so it was with Mikey. At first, I'd started noticing things about him that, before, hadn't mattered. The bluntness of his fingertips or the way his mouth would tip up when I made him laugh. How he'd always stand near me at parties or in the pub, within easy reach. And, obviously, the way we could talk about anything under the sun.

Then, as Fliss had caught a succession of bugs and viruses, one after the other, her body valiantly trying to raise the flag, 'Hey, something's not right here. Take a closer look,' so, too, with Mike. I'd catch myself thinking about him when we weren't together, wondering what he'd be doing or thinking and who he was with, what they were talking about.

'Hey, Fliss, how are you? You look pale. Have you lost weight?' Yes, she was pale and yes, she was losing weight, and was finally doing her best to persuade our GP that she might not be the healthy twenty-three year old he assumed she was.

'God, are you sure you and Mike aren't at it? You're practically joined at the hip, Rach. Everyone just assumes you are, you know.' We'd been laughing off that sort of comment since we'd met at eighteen, and by the time we were twenty-one, thinking we were launching our adult selves into the wide world, we were well used to it, and it made as much sense as it always had. Not much.

Particularly since I was the one Michael had come out to first, back in the first year of our friendship. I was practice for telling his uncle, who he thought would deal with it relatively calmly, and his mother, where all bets were off.

"I like men, Rachel," he'd said, one arm dangling off the side of my bed, the other tucked under his head. "I mean, I really like them. It's taken a while to work it out, but I do."

Had I been disappointed? I can't honestly remember, but I expect so, in the way you are at that age, when you're so hopeful everyone might fancy you, even just a little bit.

"I take it from your silence you're not shocked?"

"Shocked?" I'd laughed. "Not really."

"Doesn't mean I'm giving up girls, though."

"No?"

He'd rolled over to face me then, that much I do remember. Maybe because it was one of those early moments, like Fliss's occasional episodes of unaccountable fatigue, a warning flag raising itself hesitantly above the parapet. I remember how his eyes had looked lighter. Warm. Excited, I suppose.

"No, because I like them too."

"Gosh, aren't you lucky? So much choice."

He'd rolled away, onto his back again. "Mmm. Maybe. Or just twice as much confusion. Anyway, there it is, Rachel."

"Well, how about another beer to celebrate your bravery?" I'd asked him, stretching out over my side of the bed to the miniature fridge just within arm's reach and plucking another tinny out. Two, in fact. One for him and one for me.

He'd taken his tin and rested it on his chest, unopened. And that's where the memory ends, as if we'd both taken it as lightly as that. I hadn't known how nervous he'd been until he'd confessed it to me, years after. Neither had I appreciated how much he'd struggled with the concept he could like boys and girls equally, thinking he should make a choice, to keep it simple.

Anyway, sorry, I'm all over the place, as that wasn't the long, difficult night at all. No, the long difficult night was three years later, when we'd reached that symbolic twenty-one, thinking the world was at our feet and hoping we'd know what to do with it.

When I'd reached my uncomfortable conclusion that not only was I an average heterosexual, but I really only had eyes for Michael. I'd stopped going out on dates and would do my best to ignore it when he was out. Dating. Fucking. Whichever. Those were the nights I'd write so hard and for so long my eyes would burn. And I sort of welcomed it, because great writers need misery, don't they?

So, the long difficult night started out with the worst news I'd ever had. Felicity's leukaemia diagnosis. Mike'd come straight to my room, still in his work clothes -- we'd lived in the same, enormous house then, forever referred to as Macek's House (yes, capitalised) in honour of our flamboyant landlord; us and about five others, the quantity constantly in flux -- all in our first adult jobs but still fighting over the cleaning rota and food thefts from the fridge. Anyway, he knew something was wrong as soon as I'd fled the hall where the old-fashioned telephone sat, slamming it down and thumping up the stairs all the way to my attic room.

"What's happened?" he'd asked, his face flushed from chasing me up all five flights.

"It's Fliss."

He'd sat down next to me, in the corner on the floor, pulling his legs up to rest his forearms on top of his knees. Him sitting that way had reminded me of so many student house parties with him and the stupidity of the thought had forced the tears.

"So it's bad news?" because he knew we'd been waiting for test results.

"The worst. Leukaemia," I'd said, pronouncing the word as if it had demonic properties all of its own.

"Shit. Fuck," and he'd grabbed my hands in his and tugged until we were hugging and he let me cry and snot all over his smart white shirt, because he'd got into a shit-hot law firm straight after graduation (also one renowned for its liberal and diverse values, so, you know, so typically intelligent of him), and kept saying those words, and, 'sorry, I'm so sorry, Rach,' over and over until I'd dried up.

It wasn't until he'd gone down into the kitchen and scared up some food, brought it up to my room for us to eat, still sitting on the floor, that I'd looked at him properly and remarked he wasn't looking all that clever himself and what was up?

"Anthony dumped me this morning," he'd said, his face smoothing over in a way I felt only I understood, a skill he'd perfected when needing to talk him and his mother out of another tight spot, even though he'd been the child. We'd joked about it sometimes, how he could surely have made an excellent spy, with his perfect poker face.

"Well that's fucking shit, Mikey. I'm sorry. And sorry you had to shoulder all of this too."

"S'ok. I'm with my favourite person anyway. And I wouldn't be anywhere else."

"How come? I thought it was going well with you two?" I'd thought this because I'd felt real jealousy over Anthony with his perfect fair hair and broad shoulders.

"Apparently not. No, that's not right. Definitely not, but I just -- you know --"

That he didn't finish his sentence told me a lot. I'd taken his hand then, which I'd stopped doing for some time by that point, because it'd felt too much of a giveaway. I'd been making efforts to disguise my feelings for him for quite a while by then.

"I'm sorry, Mikey, that must hurt."

"Yeah, that'd be an understatement. I knew it was coming, but I just didn't want to hear it."

"Bloody hell," I'd exhaled, fidgety with the unease and bleakness that was all around us.

"Yeah. What do you say we get shitfaced?"

I'd given him a sceptical look.

"Hey, girl, it's Friday night. Come on, what else are we going to do? Fuck, this is a terrible day for both of us. It's alcohol or drugs."

"Fine. Mine's the merlot," I'd capitulated without further thought.

"Nah. We're cracking into the tequila. Stay here, I'll get it."

I'd dug my toes into the disgusting, beige deep-pile carpet, unable to move from the corner until he'd returned, tumblers and bottle in one hand, a plastic box of ice in the other, still in his work shirt but wearing an old pair of jeans.

And that'd been not an early warning, but a big, fat, mature one.

Because he'd looked mighty fine as he'd dropped down to the floor, all legs and black hair like a new foal, his sophisticated aftershave brushing over me, his conspiratorial grin forcing my red blood to pump harder.

Six shots in, and we'd started to feel no pain. There'd been more tears on the way, from both of us, me teasing him for the black smears from the mascara he'd been wearing (not that he ever needs to wear it, since his eyelashes look false even without it, they're so full and even), him jabbing his finger at my computer screen at the search results for 'leukaemia survival rates' and reading out large chunks of text he felt would reassure me that Fliss hadn't necessarily been served a slam dunk of a death sentence at the age of twenty-three.

I've lost parts of that evening to the tequila, but there are blurred images of him brushing my hair out, standing behind me, facing the mirror, the brush and his fingers running through my hair with fascination; of me showing him a skirt I'd bought during my lunch hour that day, a panic buy to stave off the real panic about Fliss's test results; one of those long, flouncy skirts that were in style back then. Mike pulling it on over his jeans and me pouting because the colours suited him better.

Of course, this long, uneven narrative is leading somewhere, but I'm taking my time getting there, because. Because, because. It's one of the most awkward things of my life. So awkward I hate to put it into words.

But ok, enough procrastination, here it is.

It was really late. The house had fallen silent whilst we'd cried and raged and laughed and, inevitably, taken on more and more tequila until neither of us could remember we were twenty-one and striving for adulthood. We'd ended up lying on my narrow bed together. Not unprecedented (see above recollection about Mikey confiding his bisexuality when we were in our first year at college) but it'd become rarer as we'd moved from student to professional life, and, not coincidentally, as I'd become more aware of my annoyingly romantic feelings for him.

But there we were, lying next to each other, crammed onto the narrow mattress, Mike reciting Akhmatova in his beautiful, smooth voice, running through her work with his clever brain, when he launched into one of my favourites.

"I've written down the words

That I've not dared to speak.

My body's strangely dumb.

Dully my head beats."

"Oh god, I absolutely love that one," I'd breathed. Slurred probably, but my memory won't serve up that detail.

He'd rolled over to face me -- see how this is a repeating motif? -- and it was no early warning that time. It'd been like a drum roll. A flag unfurled, here on my bed next to me, on the worst day of my short life. I can't remember if the lights were on or off, but my memory sees his eyes, soft and brown and -- mine. I clearly and without equivocation remember that feeling seizing me -- that Mikey could be mine, if I could dare to speak it.

What were those few seconds? A feverish maddening, the culmination of emotional overload, too much tequila, the chemical rush of being horizontal with the man I'd been in love with for a year or more by that stage? Whatever they were, I'd opened my mouth and said those fateful words.

"I love you, Mikey."

He'd smiled. Smiled! Not laughed or grimaced or rolled away as fast as the momentum could carry him.

"I know, Rach," and he'd blinked with his ridiculously pretty, dolly eyelashes, still smiling.

So. So, yes, I'd leaned in until our lips were touching. Who responded first, or was it the simultaneous coming together of my rich fantasies? I can't remember (oh, tequila) that detail, but I clearly remember the feel of him in my mouth, of his thigh as it wedged itself between mine, somewhat hampered by the skirt he was still wearing, as we kissed and kissed, as if making up for all the years we hadn't got around to this glorious thing. His breath brushing over my face, his hands holding my head to his as if it was what he wanted. As if I was who he wanted.

And if he'd had a fair amount of sex by that time, I hadn't. Not really. The sweet, hesitant touches of my first boyfriend at school, followed by some less than sweet encounters with blokes of varying degrees of cluelessness at college, so Mike's kisses were a revelation. As wondrous as my discovery of Roget's Thesaurus, years before. A whole new vocabulary opened up the world for me, as he held me so lovingly and curled his tongue around and around mine until we were both panting, and our clothes had rucked and creased between us.

It wasn't until he pulled me on top of him, lifting his hips in a way that left me in no doubt he was as aroused as me, that it struck me how brave men had to be to reveal their excitement like that. It had never occurred to me until that moment. In fact, it'd usually irritated me, having their hard dicks pressed against me like it was supposed to be some sort of gift. And then, as Mikey had done exactly that, pressed himself against me, I'd flushed with happiness. I can still relive the rush of that feeling.

And then, then, as suddenly and fully and gloriously as it'd started, it was over. He'd lifted me away from his chest, his eyes wide and shocked. And groaned.

"Fuck, Rachel, we can't do this."

"What? What do you mean?"

"I can't," and he'd covered his eyes with a hand before levering upright and perching on the side of my bed, away from me. "I'm sorry Rachel."

"But, but I love you and I thought --"

"No, not like this," and, fuck, if he didn't leave me, my bed and my room without another word, my stupid new skirt swishing around his long legs.

That was how the long, difficult night slammed into its horrible conclusion.

I didn't leave my room until late the next day, by which time Michael had already gone out. Except he hadn't gone out, but gone down to the coast to visit his mother. When he got back, I was at home with Fliss and dad and I stayed there longer than I would have, if the long, difficult night hadn't happened, because I was hiding from its consequences. Hiding from Mike.

When I finally returned to the house, Mike had moved out without a single word to me. Not a single word.

I'd been working in Kenya for six months or more when I logged onto the internet one day in Doris's café with the hot metal roof and bossy resident chickens to find an email, entitled, 'I'm a dickhead, Rachel, but please read this because I miss you,' and my face broke into such a sad smile Doris came right over with a sickly-sweet instant coffee for me and stroked my hair, muttering about my right to happiness. Even before I'd finished reading his opening line, I knew I'd forgiven him.

+++

I'm scratching the stubble on my chin contemplating the possibilities of a shave in relation to my pick-up strategy for the evening, because I'm undecided -- man with more than a five o'clock shadow who could hook up with a boy or a girl, or smooth cheeks and some eye make-up for the boys only? -- when my phone starts flashing and jiggling across the counter with a vengeance. Because I'm that OCD I take my phone everywhere with me, even into the bathroom. Even when the thought of going out is as miserable as staying in, I still can't abandon my phone.

Rachel's name flashes bright. My hand hovers, brain flooding with every possible emotion. Fear, joy, hope and more fear. A lot of fear. It's been two weeks since she dismissed me from her flat, the credits for 'Jour de Fete' frozen on her TV screen, my pathetic declaration of love in shreds, and I haven't heard a thing from her. Not a thing.

It's been an absolute torment. I've repeatedly drunk my body weight in vodka, and dropped a considerable amount of my hard-earned salary at the poker tables just in an effort to drown out the horrible, desperate howling inside my head. I've even taken time off work, causing my assistant to call me twice daily to check up on me, without bothering to disguise her concerns for my welfare. In short, I've embarrassed myself and I couldn't care less, because I'm hurting so much. Tonight's pathetic, diversionary tactic was to find a hot body to spend a couple of hours with.

"Rachel?" my voice sounding unused and cautious.

"Mikey?" I listen to her apparently trying to catch her breath. "Mike, it's Fliss."

Horror bubbles up from my gut to my throat. "Ah, fuck, Rach. Where are you?"

"We're at Guy's. Can you come?"

Air catches at my throat, rendering me silent.

"Mikey? Please come. I need you here."

"Which ward? I'm coming, just give me twenty minutes, and I'll be there."

I pull on a jacket, shuffle my wallet and keys into my back pocket and am out on the bright as brass street within what feels like seconds, cursing the heat and yanking the jacket off again before I've even reached the bus stop. Every heartbeat feels like it's going to burst my eardrums for the entirety of the bus ride towards the hospital, the wonderful view as we cross the river for once passing me by in my maddened state of mind, frantic to reach Rachel. Because if it's about her sister Fliss, it can't be good. She's been fighting leukaemia for years now, practically since me and Rachel first met, and although the last I knew, she was doing ok, Rachel's call is proof things must have taken a turn for the worse.

I reach the ward, sweat pouring down my back, casting vicious curses at the urban heat pool effect, when the sight of Rachel's dad pacing towards me acts like a cold slap. He looks terrible. Greasy hair and a defeated slump to his posture.

"Christopher?"

He blinks several times before exclaiming, "Michael! You've come for Rachel? Thank god," before hauling me into a bony hug where his body heat feels unhealthy.

"What's happened?"

But he's just shaking his head and leading me back along the shiny corridor. "Please take Rachel for something to eat, or outside or something. She needs to get away for a few hours. Nothing's going to happen here for a while. I'll let Rachel explain."

"Christ, I thought Fliss was doing ok. What's happened?"

He doesn't reply before pushing against a door that opens into a private room, Rachel sitting to one side of an elevated bed that sighs and undulates as the air passes through it, keeping its occupant free of bedsores. Rachel looks similarly knackered, slowly stroking her sister's unresponsive hand.

"Rach?"

An almost animal sound escapes from her before she flings herself towards me and I only just catch her in time. She holds on to me with such ferocity my knees nearly give way until I pull myself together and wrap her up as tightly as I can.

"Thank you for coming. God, I'm so glad you came, Mikey. I can't do this without you."

I hold her, almost overpowered by the reality of her in my arms, her familiar scents and, bloody hell, the same pink summer dress she was wearing the last time I saw her.

"You two go on and get something to eat. I'll be here," her dad reassures us, his eyes working hard to communicate how much he wants me to get Rachel out of here as I stroke the back of her head and do my best to give the impression I can look after his daughter.

With just a little more coaxing Rachel lets me lead her out of the stifling room. She starts talking almost immediately, gaze fixed straight ahead as we walk along the corridors, as if this is the only way she can bear to tell me what's going on.

"She's suddenly been needing a lot more transfusions in the last few weeks because they just haven't been working, and her body's too weak to take much more. It's shutting down. She's dying, Mike. This is it. Finally. There's nothing more anyone can do for her. I'm actually hoping she goes quickly. That maybe she'll get an infection -- pneumonia or something -- and it'll take her quickly, because this is agony."