Wish You Were Here (3 page)

‘Good,' he replied. ‘Really good. And you?'

‘Me?' I paused and thought about it for a few moments. Tom didn't know that Sarah had gone because I hadn't told him, although I reasoned that the situation would be pretty much self-explanatory once he saw the absence of furniture in the flat. ‘All the better for seeing you,' I concluded.

In the past few years I must have seen Tom only a handful of times at best. This had more to do with conflicting timetables than a lack of desire. As far as I was concerned, even if I didn't see him for an entire decade he would remain, along with Andy, one of my closest friends in the whole world.

One Saturday afternoon about six years ago, when we had both managed to get our schedules straightened out, we finally managed to set up a weekend to see each other. Sarah had gone away to see her parents in Norfolk so I'd driven up the M40 to Coventry to stay with Tom for the weekend. It had been a while since we'd had a proper chat on the phone and even longer since we'd seen each other in the flesh, so this trip was in a lot of ways long overdue. It was great to see him. We spent the afternoon visiting hifi shops because Tom was in the market for a new system and in the evening we'd gone for a drink at what I assumed was his local pub. Anyway, we'd been doing the catching-up thing over a couple of pints of bitter in front of a roaring log fire when Tom suddenly gave me this oddly solemn look and told me he had some important news.

‘I've become a born-again Christian,' he told me sombrely. ‘I just thought you ought to know.'

He then took a sip of his bitter and looked at me expectantly, as though this was my cue to tell him my reaction. And if I'm honest I really didn't know what to say. I couldn't help thinking that it would've been easier if he'd told me he was gay, because at least then I could've given him a great big hug and thanked him for confiding in me. I could've shown him how accepting I was of this new ‘side' to his personality by conjuring up a list of men that I reasoned I might be attracted to if I were that way inclined and had fun gauging whether there was any common ground in our ‘types'. But of course Tom wasn't gay. He was a Christian, which though I tried hard not to, I admit I found disappointing.

I'd always found born-again Christian types to be little more than a walking cliché. I didn't really much care about what they got up to in the privacy of their own churches but it bothered me greatly when it all came out into the open. I didn't like them in the news trying to affect the laws of what is essentially a secular nation; I didn't like them handing me leaflets proclaiming that the Kingdom of God was nigh; and I especially didn't like them knocking on my front door trying to palm off their literature on me. In short if I were going to choose a group of people with whom I would genuinely like to have no contact at all, it would be born-again Christians. And now, much to my dismay, Tom was one of them.

Part of my surprise at Tom's revelation was based on a key factor that I was sure excluded him from potential born-again Christianisation: at university he had been pretty much the king of casual sex and though I hadn't kept track with his private life of late I was reasonably confident that little had changed. Over the course of the evening Tom proceeded to tell me how it had all happened. One evening a few months earlier he'd been out with a bunch of work colleagues when he'd got chatting to a woman sitting with her friends at the next table. He told me that much of what happened next was a blur of alcohol and sexual tension but the next thing he recalled was waking up the next morning in this woman's bed. And although this sort of thing had been a semi-regular occurrence in his life what made this encounter distinct was that he didn't know this woman's name and never learned it. The guilt of the experience stayed with him for a long time. He told me that he realised that ever since his dad had died when he was nineteen, he'd felt he had a huge void in his life that he had desperately been trying to fill. A few weeks went by and then a chance conversation with a female colleague at work resulted in his accepting her invitation to attend an Easter service at her church. For the first time in his life, he'd found what he had been looking for.

My reaction was puzzlement. I was convinced that Tom was just going through a weird phase which he would eventually come out of. (Weird phases that had affected various college friends and associates in recent years had included interests in: militant veganism, druidism, Krishnaism, agoraphobia, burglary and suicide.) And so when he commented: ‘You think I've gone a bit mental don't you?' my reply, I have to admit, was: ‘Yes.'

Subsequently every time I saw Tom, I half expected him to have taken up dressing badly or I waited with bated breath for him to start trotting out stuff about God and Jesus in the middle of a conversation about transfer rumours at Chelsea. But he didn't do any of these things. Instead, he was just the same as ever, only he seemed less, well, . . . restless . . . I suppose. Definitely less restless than me . . . or Andy . . . or any of the people I knew my age. He seemed as though he knew where he was going and why. As if everything was going to always be all right for him. And he didn't start spouting Bible verses, singing hymns or being weird. He was simply less agitated.

A few months later Tom and Anne (the woman who had taken him to the Easter service) got together. A year after that they got engaged and the year after their wedding, Callum, their first kid, arrived swiftly followed by Katie, sixteen months later. And although I found it difficult over the years to stop thinking of him as being the victim of some sort of brainwashing conspiracy, over time that sort of stuff seemed less and less important and eventually I just went back to thinking of him as my friend Tom.

Back at the flat Tom followed me inside and I offered to make him coffee. He asked if he could sit down and I said, ‘Yes, of course, make yourself at home,' which was missing the point because I think what he was actually saying was, ‘Mate, why haven't you got a sofa any more?' I decided that it still wasn't the right time to go into the Sarah thing and so disappeared to make his coffee. He didn't follow me into the kitchen and instead sat down on one of the uncomfortable dining chairs to wait for me.

‘So how are tricks?' I asked, handing over his coffee on my return to the living room. It was a repeat of my greeting at the station but I was hoping that this time it would elicit slightly deeper answers that might shed light on why he had agreed to come on holiday.

‘Good, thanks,' replied Tom.

‘And Anne and the kids?'

‘Anne's great . . . and the kids . . . as always they're that odd combination of complete brilliance and nail-biting frustration. Katie's three now, and Callum's four and actually starts school in September – which really freaks me out. I mean, once they start school that's it, they're almost off your hands.' Tom paused and looked pointedly around the room. ‘So is this what you trendy Brighton types call minimalist living?'

‘Do you like it?' I replied. ‘My interior designer did it. She's very good. I'd recommend her to anyone although I do think that living with her for ten years is part of the bargain.'

Tom sighed. ‘Has she gone for good?'

I nodded.

‘When did she go?'

‘A while ago but she only took the last of her stuff this morning.'

Tom shook his head sadly. ‘I'm sorry to hear that. I thought Sarah was really good for you.'

‘Me too,' I replied.

‘I suppose there's no way you two could sort your problems out?'

I shrugged half-heartedly. ‘Not really. It's not like it was a mutual decision.'

‘Oh.' He paused and then asked: ‘But you're all right?'

‘Me?' I replied. ‘I'm a bit down obviously but it's nothing that can't be cured by a week in the sun.'

Tom nodded again and sighed as though drawing a line underneath the subject and then launched into a conversation about the flat which led to other conversations about mortgages, work promotions, getting older and getting fatter, old friends who seemed to have dropped off the face of the planet and policemen getting younger by the minute. The one thing we didn't talk about was the one thing I wanted to know most of all. So in the end, rather than wait for him to bring up the subject, I just came out with it.

‘So, mate,' I began carefully. ‘Not that I'm not glad you're here but what made you agree to this holiday jaunt of Andy's?'

‘I can always go home if you don't want me cramping your style,' replied Tom mockingly.

‘Of course I want you to come,' I replied. ‘It's just that . . . well when Andy came up with the idea I was pretty sure that you wouldn't be into it, that's all.'

‘Because?'

I shrugged awkwardly. ‘Because . . . you know . . .'

Tom laughed. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,' he said with a theatrical flourish, ‘presenting for your delight and delectation that world-renowned born-again Christian stereotype.'

‘Come on though,' I said trying to dig myself out of the hole I'd just dug, ‘you must know what I mean – a week in wherever Andy has booked us – well it's not exactly going to be Bible-friendly is it? I mean, I was pretty wary the second Andy called and my moral standards are pretty lax. I'm just wondering how he talked you round?'

‘He didn't,' replied Tom. ‘I wanted to come. The week before I'd been thinking to myself that I could do with a bit of a break and then Andy called and I thought, “Right, well that's that sorted”.'

‘So you're saying that Andy's phone call was a message from God?'

Tom smiled. ‘All I know is that thanks to you guys I get a kid-free week off work in the sun . . . which is exactly what I need right now . . .' He paused and looked around my empty living room, ‘. . . and I'm guessing it's probably what you need too.'

‘You're not wrong there,' I conceded amiably. ‘Well, it's good to have you on board because there's absolutely no way I'd go on this holiday with just Andy.'

‘Nor me,' he replied. ‘Although I'm guessing that it wasn't his idea to invite me.'

‘That's not exactly true,' I replied, as I attempted to fudge the truth. ‘You and Andy are mates; it's just the whole religion thing he's not into.'

‘Maybe,' replied Tom, ‘but I wouldn't call us mates. I mean, even at college Andy was always more your friend than mine.' Tom paused and smiled. ‘Is he still the same?'

‘Could he ever be any different?'

‘Hasn't he even mellowed a little bit with age?'

‘I think getting older has actually made things worse,' I replied. ‘Opportunities to let loose aren't quite as forthcoming as they used to be when we were younger. And now it's like he's constantly this huge ball of pent-up energy waiting for the chance to be released. Say he calls you for a drink, you can't just have one, it'll be six or seven and then he'll drag you to a club. Say you fancy some company while you watch a couple of DVDs. The DVDs won't get watched and your home will be turned over for an impromptu party. In between he's as right as rain, but I feel as though he's always looking for his next opportunity for excess.'

‘Is he still doing the painting and decorating thing?'

‘Yeah.'

‘I wonder if the people who pay him to paint their houses realise that he's got a first in Applied Maths?'

‘I shouldn't think even Andy remembers that sort of information. The good news though is that he and Lisa are finally going to get hitched.'

Tom raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘They're still together?'

‘She's what you might call long suffering. You know, sometimes I look at Andy and I can't help but feel as if the whole of his life is really fragile . . . actually forget that. What am I talking about? The whole of all our lives is fragile. Like the only thing holding us together is Sellotape.'

‘I think you're right,' said Tom. ‘But with Andy it always seems more obviously so. But he's always been a bit like that hasn't he? Even at college.'

‘But that's just it. We're not at college and we haven't been for a very long time. We've all moved on.'

‘Apart from Andy.'

‘Yeah. Apart from Andy.'

‘Anyway,' said Tom finally. ‘What about you?'

‘What about me?'

‘I know you probably don't want to talk about it. But, really, how are you coping? I mean with Sarah gone after ten years together you must find yourself really missing her.'

‘Every day,' I replied. ‘I miss her every single day.'

When the doorbell rang at about a quarter past eight that evening I knew it would be Andy. So when I made my way downstairs to open the door I was somewhat surprised to see his girlfriend Lisa with him. There was an air about Lisa, not of someone dropping off her boyfriend and then immediately going, but rather of someone who was coming in, possibly having a cup of tea and a general nose around and maybe a chat too. Childish as it might seem, I had been in a bit of a ‘no girls allowed' frame of mind for some time (they're all unhinged/don't know what they want/all on the same side – delete as inapplicable). Of course women had their place in the world but, I reasoned, at this particular point in time their place wasn't my flat, with my friends, spoiling our pre-holiday enjoyment.

There was no doubt that Andy had done very well in getting (and even more so in keeping) a woman like Lisa. Though he was reasonably good looking (slightly less so than Tom but slightly more so than me) there was no arguing that Lisa was in her own quiet way the more attractive of the two. Her long brown hair was so dark that in certain lights it looked black and it framed the delicate features of her face perfectly. In contrast Andy had light brown hair with flecks of grey at the temples. His features were dark and craggy, as though he had lived a hard life working in a coal mine and his eyebrows were so heavy that they cast a shadow over his entire face. But what lifted his looks were his eyes. They were an immediately striking shade of green mixed with grey.