This Modern Love

A short story

Harry had just lost to Paul at squash for the fifth time in a row. Harry didn’t like Paul and was unsure how their weekly arrangement, which had now been going on for six months, had started. Paul had just taken two days off work so he could get a new tattoo. Why couldn’t Paul have had his tattoo done at the weekend? Harry wasn’t sure whether Paul needed a new tattoo at all. With no ostensible theme, Paul’s upper body was already covered in mermaids, Chinese calligraphy and Celtic crosses. Paul claimed that ‘his guy’ was the most talented tattooist this side of the Pennines but Harry — admittedly not a connoisseur of body art — has his reservations about this dubious title. He thought Paul’s tattoos were shit.

Paul had designed the new tattoo himself. Over the past two weeks, Harry had noticed Paul scribbling skulls with roses coming out of their eye sockets on a pad of paper while he was on the phone.

When Paul took off his hoodie at the leisure centre, his thick forearm was wrapped in cling film, dotted with splatters of dried blood.

‘You’d better be careful today, mate,’ Paul said, scowling. ‘Don’t swing your racket anywhere near my arm.’

How could he promise that? Squash courts are small rooms. What did Paul class as near? Harry couldn’t get his eye in and lost 3–0, feeling a tight knot in his stomach when shaking Paul’s clammy hand at the end.

‘You weren’t at the races today, were you pal?’

Harry usually showered after squash but today he wanted to get straight home and clambered into his Fiesta wearing a drenched running top from a 2007 half marathon and sociably-short shorts. He didn’t remember buying the shorts. He looked at himself in the rear-view mirror. He looked rough. His pale, freckled skin looked blotchy, he needed a shave and his hairline seemed to be receding further every time he looked which was a cause for concern. He had a long, thin head which would not suit being bald. Not at all. Harry wanted a beer and a cigarette. Until recently Harry only smoked after four pints but now he occasionally had a cigarette with Sanjay on his lunch break.

There is nothing cool about becoming a smoker at 33.

He slung his squash racket onto the backseats, turned on the ignition and deliberated for too long about what to listen to on Spotify. There was too much choice now. He put on a playlist called Grime Shutdown. He thought this would complement his fury but, five minutes into the journey became embarrassed. He was too old, too white and too middle-class to be attempting to rap along to Stormzy with his windows down, wasn’t he?

At the next traffic lights, he fumbled around on his phone, his sweaty fingers leaving slug trails on the grubby screen. He was about to put on a Mellow Pop playlist when his phone vibrated. He’d got a new notification on Tinder. It was from Kelly. Harry had only just signed up to Tinder. He and Kelly had been sporadically messaging one another for two days. It had been mundane and he was not enjoying it.

‘What u up 2 this eve?’

‘Just finished work. Knackered. You?’

‘Me 2!! Lrge glass of wine methinks! lol!’

Kelly said lol a lot and Harry never understood what was supposed to be funny. She also demonstrated a blasé attitude towards spelling and punctuation but he was willing to overlook this. Kelly had giant breasts.

The message contained a photo of Kelly wearing a lacy red bra and French knickers. She was raising an eyebrow and pouting her lips. Underneath the picture, she had written:

‘Like what u see? Wanna see more?! lol!’

Harry was surprised by this development. Is this how online dating works? If you make banal small talk for two days, you receive pictures like this? In six years Steph had never sent him a picture like this. Paul and Gary sometimes spent entire lunchbreaks showing each other photos of girls on Tinder and saying things like, ‘Oh, mate!’ and, ‘That’s what I’m talking about!’ Harry was of the belief that showing each other photos on phones did not constitute good conversation and when these exchanges began, he would turn to Sanjay and discuss the football. Now that he’d received a photo of his own, he had to admit it was exhilarating. As his heart rate increased he was snapped back into reality by an angry honk behind him. The lights had changed.

Driving off, Harry looked down and, before he could talk himself out of it, typed his response:

‘Wow. Yes!’

Two minutes later his phone vibrated again as he was approaching a roundabout. When he was 15 he’d been knocked off his bike on this roundabout. Lucky to escape with a broken arm. After taking the third exit, Harry grabbed his phone and opened Kelly’s message. She was now topless. Her nipples were slightly uneven but nonetheless terrific and Harry’s felt an erection pressing tightly against his short shorts. What were you supposed to do now? Should he send her a picture of his dick? Is that what people do these days? Harry took a longer glance at his phone.

There was a sickening crunch and his head jolted forwards.

***

Steph was suffering from a dizzying hangover. The morning meeting — something to do with the next quarter — had passed her by in a dreamlike state and she couldn’t remember anything that had been said. Had she spoken to anyone?

She took a bite out of her lukewarm baguette and a sip of coffee. Too hasty with the coffee, she burnt the top of her mouth, immediately feeling a small flap of skin blistering. For fuck’s sake. How long would this cause discomfort for? Three days? She stared out of the window as the train pulled out of the station and gathered pace, the grey city scenery beginning to blur.

What had she been playing at?

She’d noticed him in the morning session during one of those team building things that nobody enjoys. A middle manager from the Birmingham office was running the show. He had gelled hair and, despite sitting at the back of the room, Steph was certain he would be wearing too much aftershave.

‘Okay guys, listen up!’ he said. Steph didn’t like it when mixed groups were referred to as guys. She was not a guy.

‘Everyone on your feet. Let’s look lively, guys! I want you to get in groups of six but here’s the catch; groups must have two people from the Leeds office, two from Birmingham and two from London. Thirty seconds. Go, go, go!’

Gladly for Steph, her friend Clarence who had no qualms with such tasks, grabbed her arm and began barking at strangers.

‘We’ve got two from Leeds here. Who wants to join the dream team?’

Clarence was wearing a salmon turtleneck jumper and had come to London the day before to go to Fabric nightclub. Clarence was immune to hangovers. Since she’d last seen him, he’d been on a sunbed.

Amid the commotion — the air smelt of coffee and cereal — Steph noticed a tall man in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had short back and sides with a neat quiff. He was clean shaven. Steph was sick of beards. When she glanced over at him for a second time, he looked back, raised his eyebrows and gave her a flat smile.

How old was he? 28? He turned to walk away but Clarence dashed over and grabbed his shoulder.

‘Oi, you, are you London? We need one more from the London office.’

‘Um, yeah,’ he said. He had a deep voice.

His name badge told Steph he was called Matt. Steph wasn’t wearing a name badge.

‘Time. Is. Up!’ shouted the middle manager. ‘Now, in your groups, find a table and sit down.’

They sat down. Steph was sat next to Clarence and a black lady called Carol. Matt was opposite, flanked by Darryl and Lorraine.

‘First activity, I want each pair to tell the others five interesting things about your office. Off we go!’

‘How fucking annoying is this guy?’ Steph said to Clarence, deliberately loudly. Matt chuckled. She felt a warm fuzz. If Matt wasn’t in her group, Steph wouldn’t have said anything. Each pair presented their five interesting things. None of the things were very interesting but when Matt said that the food in the London canteen was inedible, Steph had laughed, perhaps too hard.

The groups were split up for the next activity and Steph felt a pang of sadness that she was no longer with Matt, scarcely contributing to a debate about a plane crash and which items you should save.

‘The wire wool is definitely number one!’ A wild-eyed man called Ian was shouting, forehead sweating. The rest of the day was a drag. More team building, financial reviews, triangle sandwiches, orange juice with bits in, coffee, discussion about processes and a presentation about plans to open a Bristol office. There had been talk of opening a Bristol office for four years.

Steph walked out in a daze.

‘Drink?’ Clarence said, taking a drag on an e-cigarette, blue tip blinking.

‘Yes.’

Indicating the futility of the teambuilding activities, she found herself in the pub with Clarence and three of her colleagues from Leeds. Steph got pleasantly battered. She saw off a bottle of Prosecco in under an hour before moving onto cocktails. It was two for one.

Just after 9 pm, she had the awareness to call it a night. Getting drunk with work colleagues was a dangerous game. She had a habit of talking about sex when drunk, which was fine with her friends, but not fine with workmates.

Unsteady in gait, she returned to her bedroom alone. She was sharing with Clarence, who’d last been seen carrying a tray of Jägerbombs. Clarence was in a lot of debt. He’d told her this at Jane’s retirement do. Finding her phone, putting it on charge and entering the WI-FI password took fifteen minutes of squinting, swearing and scrabbling. She had a new friend request on Facebook. Matthew Francis. Who the hell is Matthew Francis? She clicked on him.

Oh.

She felt giddy. Pressed accept.

Three minutes later, she received a private message.

‘Fancy a drink? Hotel bar in ten minutes? x’

‘Ok x’

She put on a new dress which she’d bought for tomorrow and reapplied her makeup. Her dark brown hair was still in place, the curls framing her pretty face. She looked good. Was she viewing herself through beer goggles though? She glanced down at her hand, paused, took off her ring and put it in her handbag. It’s giving me dermatitis anyway, she told herself, and squirted a token squelch of moisturiser onto her fingers, rubbing it in.

Matt was sat on a tall stool. He had changed into a maroon t-shirt and skinny jeans. He was more muscular than she remembered. He was drinking a pint.

‘Evening. How’s it going?’ he asked.

‘How did you find me on Facebook?’

‘Well, y’know, I did a bit of digging.’ He tapped his temple and smiled. ‘What you drinking?’

Matt ordered her a gin and tonic. She looked at his biceps.

Because Steph was drunk, conversation was easy. They discussed the day’s events with mock excitement before moving onto flirtatious teasing.

‘How many hearts have you broken in your office then?’

It was trite but Steph was revelling in it. How long had it been since she’d had a conversation like this?

‘Fancy a spliff?’ Matt asked after they’d finished a second drink.

Steph hadn’t smoked weed since university.

‘Sure.’

Outside it was drizzling. Matt pulled a packet of Marlboro lights out of his jeans, opened it and took out a well-crafted joint. Steph suspected he’d prepared this specifically to share with her. They passed it back and forth, giggling. A pair of naughty school kids.

Back in the hotel, Steph pointed to a sign, saying Swimming Pool and Spa.

‘Shall we go in?’ she asked.

He laughed.

‘You’re nuts! Wait a second.’

Matt jogged to the bar and returned, looking pleased with himself, with a bottle of Prosecco. The doors were unlocked. Steph cracked her knee on a bench and laughed as they stumbled through the dark changing rooms and into the swimming pool area. The lights were off, the pool a glowing turquoise, the water still. Silence apart from the hum of a generator.

Steph kicked off her shoes and pulled her dress over her head.

‘Oi, I’m not going in on my own!’ she said.

Matt undressed. He had white Calvin Klein boxers on.

Steph pushed him. He wobbled, lost his balance and crashed into the water.

‘You bitch!’ Matt said, laughing when his head had returned to the surface.

Steph jumped in. It was colder than she’d expected. They treaded water and splashed each other, shrieking with laughter. After a few minutes, they clambered out and sat, feet dangling in the water, passing the Prosecco back and forth.

‘So, what’s your story then, Stephanie?’ Matt asked after a brief silence.

‘What do you want to know?’ She had to try hard not to slur her words.

‘Well…’

Bang.

‘What the fuck is that?’ Matt asked.

Bang.

Steph turned around to see Clarence stood, behind a viewing window, pounding on the glass. She gestured for him to come through to the pool.

Matt was unhappy about this development.

Thirty seconds later, Clarence emerged through the changing rooms. He was exceptionally drunk.

‘Oh my god!’ He shouted, then ran towards them, nearly slipping over on the wet tiles. ‘What the hell are you doing, Steph?’

***

Harry had gone into the back of a Peugeot 307. Seeing movement in the driver’s seat, he was relieved to deduce that he hadn’t killed anybody. A rotund lady in her forties opened the door and got out, looking more pissed off than injured. She had permed hair and was wearing a trouser suit. He looked down at his shorts. He still had an erection. Shit. What if the woman thinks he’s some kind of JG Ballard sicko?

She was at the window, tapping.

Harry put his head in his hands as if to signify injury, or shock. He predicted that if he maintained this pose for ninety seconds, his erection would cease.

The tapping continued.

‘Are you getting out or what?’ Thick Leeds accent.

‘Wait a minute, I’m just…’

‘I haven’t got all day.’

He opened the door, positioned his forearm to cover the fading bump in his shorts and got out. The woman didn’t comment on his unusual posture.

‘That was your fault,’ she said. ‘I need your details.’

He looked at his Fiesta. The number plate was smashed into pieces on the floor, the bumper hanging off. The back of her car was badly dented. The woman lit a cigarette. Harry asked if he could have one. She said no.

A miserable forty minutes followed. Exchanging details, calling the police, explaining what had happened despite not really knowing, lying when asked if he was on the phone, taking a breathalyser and being glared at by rubberneckers. All the while shivering in sweaty squash kit.

Finally, the police deemed his car fit to drive home and Harry left the scene feeling sad, guilty and disorientated. A sweet emotional cocktail.

***

By Huddersfield, Steph was feeling marginally better. Ibuprofen had helped and she was beginning to convince herself that she hadn’t done anything wrong. She was just having fun. She was entitled to that, wasn’t she? Even if Clarence hadn’t shown up, she would never have done anything.

She remembered something.

Shit.

Leeds station was packed. She slinked through the crowds, hopped into a taxi and asked the driver to stop at the supermarket. Flustered by the thought of cooking, she opted for a two for a tenner ready meal deal. Garlic mushroom starter, carbonara, moussaka and a bottle of red. She had no desire to drink alcohol.

***

Harry was a mile from home when he remembered.

Shit.

Today. Of all days.

What time had she said she’d be back? Six? He looked at his Casio. Ten past seven.

He parked outside a 24-hour convenience shop and took a deep breath. He hadn’t done anything too terrible, had he? He hadn’t cheated. He’d never cheated. When he was younger, Harry used to do quite well for himself. In Magaluf, he once slept with three girls in a week. He could only remember one of their names. Leah. She had a tooth piercing. Was Harry happier in those days? No, he told himself, he was not. He deleted Tinder from his phone.

Harry couldn’t find an anniversary card so picked one up saying Congratulations. It had balloons on it. On the way to the counter, he grabbed a bottle of red. Steph liked red.

Ten minutes later, he was pulling into his drive. The living room lights were on. Harry parked in the garage so Steph wouldn’t see the pranged car. He’d tell her tomorrow.

He opened the front door. A Norah Jones song was flooding into the hallway. He could smell garlic and perfume.

‘Hello?’

He walked through to kitchen. The table was set and Steph was lighting candles. She was wearing a black dress and she’d done her hair. When was the last time she’d worn that? Harry was very aware that he was still in his squash kit.

‘Hello you,’ she said, walking over and hugging him. ‘Happy anniversary!’

‘Happy anniversary,’ he replied, smiling. ‘I didn’t forget this time.’

He pointed to his carrier bag.

‘Ooh, well done! I’ve missed you.’

‘You too.’

‘Go and get changed then, dinner is nearly ready.’

‘Sure.’

‘How was squash?’ She asked as he was leaving the room.

‘I lost.’

‘Oh dear, you’ll beat him next time. You’re home later than usual?’

‘Yeah, we went for a pint afterwards.’

‘I thought you didn’t like Paul?’

‘I don’t. How was London?’

‘Usual shit. Boring. I’m just glad to be home.’

She took a long swig of wine. Hair of the dog.

*

Thanks for reading. Please give a recommend if you enjoyed it. This will give my ego a stroke and make everything feel worthwhile.

My debut novel, Bright Lights and White Nights was published by Proverse in 2015.

My new book, The Thing Is, will be out in November.