It's Not You It's Me (22 page)

‘What?’ he says.

‘Nothing.’ I sit down carefully on the covers, almost having a heart attack when the bed creaks. It’d be just like me to break something hundreds of years old. Something with a great history, that’s been sitting in here for centuries being used by all kinds of famous people, and then Charlie from Australia comes along. And that’s it. The end of its working life. I’m going to have to be extra careful, because something tells me that breaking something in here would cost just a fraction more than stealing a ninety-dollar ‘it’ll turn up on your VISA statement next month’ bathrobe from a Hilton.

I lie down on my back. ‘So…’

‘So…’ Jas comes and sit down beside me. ‘Guess I have some explaining to do.’

I nod.

He breathes out slowly before he replies. ‘Man. I can’t believe you spoke to Zed. Can’t believe you spoke to Zed and both your eardrums are still intact.’

‘Only just.’

‘So…er, how did you know? That I’m AWOL, I mean?’

I snort. ‘Most people on holiday don’t freak out when the phone rings. They don’t speak about their job in the past tense. And they don’t spend a lot of time talking feverishly in their sleep about their manager coming to—and I quote—“rip their balls off”.’

‘Ah, you didn’t tell me about that.’

‘No. So, no more Zamiel?’

Jas nods. ‘No more Zamiel.’

‘I thought as much. All that moaning and groaning about your job. And when you went psycho about the balloon with Zamiel on it and the plastic figurines, well, things started to fit together a bit.’

‘Really?’ He looks surprised.

‘That and the fact you seemed so weirded out that someone might spot you—like Sharon. It was more than just worrying about the media. People must spot you all the time, after all. So what’s the deal? What made you want to pack it all in?’

Jas shrugs. ‘Pretty simple, I guess. I hate my job. I hate my life. I’m tired of pretending I’m gay or bisexual or something, when I’m not, that I eat live animals, that I have sex with animals, that I worship the devil and all that kind of…’

I push myself up when I hear this. And then I freeze. My heart stops. I don’t breathe. I can’t blink. The second half of Jas’s sentence passes me by in slow motion and, as if my brain is a VCR, I start rewinding and playing the important bits from the first half of the sentence. Editing here and there as Igo.

I’m tired of pretending I’m gay.

I’m tired of pretending I’m bisexual.

I’m tired of pretending I’m gay or bisexual.

‘Charlie? What’s the matter? You going to be sick again?’ I hear Jas say from far, far away.

Things start to go fuzzy around the edges of my vision.

‘Charlie?’ Jas grabs my arm. ‘You sat up too fast. Lie down again.’ He pushes me back down on the bed.

I groan after a minute or two.

‘You all right? Looked like you were going to faint.’

I’m surprised at this. At almost fainting. I’ve never done
that before. How…Victorian. I unfreeze. ‘What did you just say? About your job?’ Maybe I was imagining things.

He looks at me strangely. ‘Said I hate my job.’

‘What else?’

‘Er, and my life. I hate pretending I’m gay or bisexual or something, when I’m not, and I—’

I hold up my hand when he gets to the important bit. ‘That’s what I thought you said. Don’t worry about me. I just need to lie here for a minute or two.’

Jas frowns, worried, but when I’ve convinced him I’m OK, and that I just need a moment, he walks over to the window and leaves me alone to start some serious internal swearing.

After a few minutes I sit up. ‘I think I’ll feel better if I get some food into me,’ I say. ‘How about dinner?’

‘Er, you go down. I’d better call Zed first. Guilt’s getting to me.’

I make a face. ‘Going to get an earful, are you?’ Zed had given me one that left my ears ringing.

‘Get and give some back, I think.’

This doesn’t sound like much fun. ‘I’ll wait for you downstairs,’ I say, standing up. I’m sure that Jas doesn’t want me listening in. ‘I’ll be at the bar.’

‘Have one for me.’

I shudder at the thought of alcohol. ‘I think it may just be orange juice.’ I’m in the throes of that old ‘I’m never drinking again’ stage.

‘Right. I’ll be down soon.’

‘Good luck.’ I close the door behind me.

I only get lost three times before I find the bar. It’s on the same floor as Reception, tucked away in a cosy nook beside the restaurant. I’m soon ensconced by the lovely stone walls and dark beams and sit sipping my orange juice,
feeling very, very safe, as if everything will be all right so long as I stay behind the castle’s defences.

Which reminds me. I’d better call Kath and Mark later, before they find I’m missing somewhere in Europe and both have aneurysms.

I have to say I’m glad that they gave me this trip. That they knew me well enough to figure out that every time I talked about booking myself a holiday I was a big fat liar and it was never going to happen. Or that Mum knew me well enough. I smile then. Even from the grave she knows what’s best for me. That’s mothers for you.

Looking back now, I can see I was just plain scared. I’m surprised I even got on the plane, to tell the truth, but Kath and Mark were smart. The whole giving me the ticket the night before the actual trip thing was a stroke of genius—that way I didn’t have any time to panic. It was simply a matter of packing, checking and double-checking, and before I could triple-check—or check my glands for the millionth time—I was in London.

I could never have done it myself. Gone into the travel agent, picked a destination, picked a date. It just wasn’t on the cards because, like I said before, I was scared. Scared to leave the safety of the hospital that was only ten minutes’ drive away. Scared to leave my doctors. Scared that everything would fall apart if I really tried to get on with my life. But now here I am, in Germany, in a castle of all places.

I’ve been putting off this trip for months for absolutely no reason.

Putting off getting on with my life.

And right now I feel fine. Sort of. Well, close to normal, anyway. I’ve been stupid—checking my glands every time I cough, every time I get a tiny bit cold. If Jas noticed I was
freaking out about getting sick, imagine how many other people in my life had? Kath and Mark must think I’m a complete nutter—no wonder they wanted me to get away from it all. I haven’t touched my glands for more than forty-eight hours now, and I’m going to keep it that way. I’m going to set a new record.

It seems I’ve been learning all kinds of new things on this trip. About me. And, surprisingly, about Jas. I can’t believe what I just heard. Jas isn’t gay. He isn’t bi. For a moment I worry I’ve missed something, and that there’s another option besides him being heterosexual. I don’t think so. And, the truth is, knowing this freaks me out. What does the worst sex in my life mean, if this is the case? And what was That Night about?

‘I’m done,’ a voice says behind me. ‘In several senses of the word.’

I swivel around on my bar stool. ‘That was quick.’

‘Quick. Not painless.’

‘Was it that bad?’

‘Let’s just say I’m glad we’re both in different countries.’ He takes a seat on the next stool.

‘So that’s it?’

He nods. ‘No more Zamiel. He’s dead. Couldn’t happen to a nicer person.’

‘He’s probably pleased.’ I pat Jas on the arm. ‘Just think about it this way—he’s with the devil now.’

Jas laughs.

Watching him, I see that his laugh this time is different. Speaking to Zed has obviously taken a weight off his mind, and for the first time this trip he seems truly relaxed. As I look at him, I’m reminded again of last night. But it’s not the worst sex in the world that I recall, but the almost tangible electricity that passed between us even before we
grabbed each other in the corridor of Atomika. I remember Jas leaning against my leg. His holding the cherry schnapps to my lips. I think back even further. To Magnolia Lodge. To the boat shed. And I realise the events of the past two years have changed nothing.

I am still completely, desperately, totally, devotedly, idiotically in love with Jasper Ash.

‘Charlie?’ Jas is shaking my arm gently.

‘Leather pants,’ I say dreamily.

‘What?’

My head jerks back. Oh, no. Did I say that out loud? ‘Um…’ My fingers grip the bar. ‘I was just, um, wondering if you’d have to give all your leather pants back?’

All I get is an odd look in return.

After Jas has a beer we move into the small restaurant, just a few steps away.

There aren’t many people in here tonight, and only a few tables are filled out of the twenty or so that are set. Despite this, it’s still just as cosy as the bar, and there’s a lovely log fire crackling away in the corner that lights up the stained glass windows set in the stonework. As soon as we’re left alone I get nervous. The talk’s coming—the thing he didn’t get to say before. I can feel it.

Thankfully, the waiter brings us two menus. This distracts us and we both open them greedily.

‘I think I’m going to be leaving here a lot fatter.’ I look up at Jas as I read what’s on offer.

‘Me too. Good thing those leather pants stretch, huh?’ He lifts an eyebrow over the top of his menu.

I raise mine to cover my face. I have
got
to stop with the leather pants thing.

A few minutes later I’ve got it all worked out. ‘I’m going
for the schnitzel with the sunnyside-up egg, gravy, potato salad and salad.’

‘Sounds good.’ Jas puts his menu down as well. ‘Want to share some of the smoked liver pâté to start?’

‘Why ever not?’ I don’t see how I’m going to fit everything in, but I can only try.

The waiter, who I don’t think has too much to do at this time of year, is beside us in a matter of seconds.

Jas orders for us both. ‘Might get some of those dumplings too,’ he adds as the waiter leaves.

‘You’ll be as big as a house if you eat all that and don’t get to jump around on stage any more.’

‘Rubbish. I’m a growing lad. Anyway, you
need
fattening up.’

Oh, sure. My jeans have been getting increasingly tighter throughout this trip, and my stretch pants have been stretching in directions they were never designed to.

Jas’s eyes narrow. ‘You do. You’ve got little stick arms, Charlie. So, are you going to tell me all about this cancer thing? Or do I have to pry it out of you?’

‘What do you want to know?’ I toy with my fork. I’ve been there, done that, and while I didn’t get a T-shirt I have the scars to show for it instead.

People don’t understand when I tell them I don’t feel like discussing my having had cancer in great detail any more, but the fact is I’m trying to stop thinking about it so much. Not in a bad way, I don’t want to forget it happened, but it feels like a chapter that’s coming to a close in my life. Like when you finish school, or university, and you think things will never be the same again, but finally you move, get a job and start developing new ways, make new friends, and forget about your old life. It’s time to move forward. That was part of the reason I was reluctant to tell Jas what I’d been
through—because for me it’s all finished. I just want to live a normal life again.

‘Tell me everything. From the start. When did you find out?’

So I tell the story one more time.

‘OK. I first felt the lump on my neck about a year and a half ago, I suppose…’ I start. I tell Jas about how, when the lump didn’t go away, I went to see my GP. Then I tell him about the tests.
All
the tests—the ultrasound, the chest X-ray, the blood test, the CT scan, the bone marrow biopsy.

I also tell him about the new hobby I picked up—collecting doctors. I had a radiation oncologist, a haematologist…the whole bit.

‘I liked the radiation oncologist the best, because he was able to explain things so well. It wasn’t until I got to him that I really understood what I was in for. He sat me down and told me what I had was around ninety-five per cent curable. But then he told me all the problems that could come with the treatment—that it could make me sterile and I could have a higher risk of developing other cancers and heart disease. He was great, though. I really liked that guy—he didn’t sugar-coat things. I knew he was the one for me when he used the “C” word. Everyone else had been too scared to.’

Jas pipes up then. ‘The “c” word?’

I see the expression on his face and shake my head. ‘Not that “c” word, you dolt. The big C. Cancer. Get your mind out of the gutter for a second.’

‘Right. Of course. Sorry. So what happened after that?’

I continue my story, taking him through my first chemo treatment. I tell him how I remember clear as day watching the first syringe of medication being pumped into my arm and wondering if I was doing the right thing.

‘And that was the stuff that messed with your hair? Why you had to cut it off?’

I laugh. ‘I didn’t exactly get it cut. It was the cheapest new do ever. It just fell out. Everywhere. Big handfuls of it—mostly in the shower.’

Our pâté comes then, and we both start digging in ravenously.

‘And the drugs?’ Jas asks. ‘Did they make you really sick?’

‘I felt tired, and I desperately wanted to throw up all the time, but with all the anti-nausea medication I’d taken I couldn’t. The only way I can describe it is like having every flu you’ve ever been through at once. I was exhausted even when I was sleeping twenty hours a day, and I completely lost my appetite. Even thinking about food made me want to be sick.’

‘That when you lost all the weight?’ Jas asks, handing me another piece of bread and pâté.

I take it and nod.

He pauses. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t know. When I saw you on the plane.’

I stop eating. ‘Know? That I’d had cancer? Why should you know? I don’t have a sign on my back or anything, do I? “Beware of the cancerous girl.”’

‘Don’t joke about it like that.’

‘Why not?’

Jas doesn’t say anything, but I know what he’s on about it. I’ve recently discovered cancer’s some kind of sacred thing in our society. It’s taboo. You’re not supposed to talk about it, let alone joke about it. ‘I’m no different from how I was before, you know.’