The Only Thing Missing Is You
“Is… Dave in?”
“Dave? Not right now, no, but he’ll be back soon,” answers a man in his thirties I’ve never seen before. What the heck he could be doing at Dave’s home in the middle of the night I just cannot imagine. “Why don’t you come inside and wait?” he suggests.
“Is that okay?” I ask as I enter.
“Is it ok? Sure it’s ok!” he answers, putting a hand on my shoulder and forcing me to accompany him into the living room.
“I didn’t want to disturb anybody, I know it’s late,” I try to explain, when it occurs to me that it’s not exactly visiting hours, “but I was a bit worried.”
“You did the right thing!” he reassures me, approaching the corner bar. “Whiskey?”
“No, I’m good.” I take off my coat and drape it over the back of a chair. He pretends not to be paying attention, but he casts the occasional glance at me as he pours himself a drink.
“Not even a drop of brandy?”
“No, really, I’m fine, and I don’t usually drink this late.”
“You’re right!” He nods. “Soooo… you were worried about Dave…”
“Yeah…” I look for a corner to perch on while I wait and end up next to the table, where I find an old acquaintance waiting for me, all wrapped up in gauze.
“Ouch – that was a nasty story,” murmurs the guy, approaching with the half full glass in his hand. “Poor Mr Onky, he fell with honour in battle.” He dedicates the ugly thing a moment of silence.
“I’m afraid that was my fault,” I confess, with some embarrassment. It’s not one of my proudest memories.
“Well, how about that…” he mutters, looking at me with renewed interest. “And so you must be Sam.”
“That’s right,” I say, as he chuckles to himself.
“The famous Sam.”
“Looks that way…”
“I can just imagine the scene.”
“What scene?”
“Erm…” He takes a sip of whiskey. “Nothing, nothing. Listen, take a seat, you don’t have to stand up,” and he drops down into the armchair, leaving me the couch. “We have so much to talk about.”
“Talk about? What?”
“About you, what else! Sam. Ah, Sam, Sam…” he says, repeating my name ecstatically. I don’t understand what’s put him in such a good mood. “You work at The Chronicle, right?”
“Not any more.”
“No?” he asks, looking at me in surprise. “Already?”
“What do you mean, ‘already’?”
“Things are a lot further on than I’d imagined.”
“A lot further on that what? Listen, look…” I’m starting to lose my patience, and I get up from the couch. “I don’t know what you think you’ve understood, but don’t…”
“Hey, Sam, no. Please, come on, calm down.” He walks over and gently pushes me back down onto the couch just as I was about to leave. “It’s late, you’re on your own, Dave’s on his way back. You’re not going to leave the playing field when you’re this close to a home run, are you? We’re nearly there.”
“I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Confused by his behaviour, I remain seated and watch him finish his whiskey, perched on the arm of the couch. He never takes his eyes off me, and that irritating smile of his returns to his lips.
“Poor old Dave,” he says, scratching his moustache. “Jeez. That explains why he was so worked up.”
“Is he ok? Is Dave sick or something?” I say, getting to my feet yet again.
“No, no, he’s fine!” He puts his hand on my shoulder again to prevent me from standing. “The worst is yet to come.”
“The… worst?”
“Yeah… Look at those big eyes. This is going to be fun.”
“Is there some danger of something?” I’m already imagining him surrounded by paramedics in the emergency room, at death’s door.
“Danger? No, not danger – absolute certainty! I can see him now.” He clicks his tongue and raises his hand as though he is watching the scene take place in front of him. “White as a sheet, hunched over… You know, all things considered, I think I actually will hang around.”
“Ok, buster, I’m done. And you need to see a shrink,” I say, with rare conviction. I’ve had enough of this guy’s bullshit and I stand up and head for the door, ignoring his attempt to make me stay sitting nicely on the couch.
“Why? I’m fine!”
“Yeah, I think you might want to get a specialist’s opinion about that.”
“Brian, would you mind telling me why you never close the damn bathroom doo—” says Dave, who walks through the door at that exact moment. As soon as he sees me, he freezes where he is, halfway between the living room and the bedroom. “Sam…” he murmurs, putting down his keys.
“Dave…”
“Amazing. Amazing.” Somebody starts to applaud. Who? The lunatic in Dave’s apartment, who I deduce must be called Brian, that’s who. “Great, now I can die happy!” he sighs, picking up a jacket from the couch. “For a minute there, I thought you’d actually got one over on me, you old fox!” he chuckles and, going over to Dave, he ruffles his hair. Dave doesn’t reply or move at all, he just glares at him. That’s not like Dave – that punch must have been harder than I’d imagined. Shall I call the ambulance? “And there was me thinking we’d love each other for ever,” says Brian, self-pityingly.
“You knew it couldn’t last,” says Dave. “You’re a Yankees fan.”
“Oh, that hurts,” says Brian sarcastically, putting a hand on his heart. “From now on, spray cream will never taste the same.”
“Okay, are you done?”
“Oh yes, I think that should be enough for now. By the look of things you don’t need me here any more.” He looks around and sees me. “Your head is still working, no permanent damage. Next time you get beaten up by a male model, call an ambulance. You can give me the details tomorrow, and by the way – a cheque will do fine,” he says with a smile as Dave seems to have trouble swallowing. One more smug smile, a pat on the back and then he turns to me. “Good evening, Sam,” he says, with a little bow. “Dave… Mr Onky,” he says, turning to the gauze wrapped object and touching his forehead in a gesture of a respect. “My work here is done. Remember to take precautions,” he says, looking at me. “Let’s give him a bit more time, he’s not ready to be a father yet,” and off he goes, whistling an old blues song.
“Is that guy crazy?” I ask Dave, as soon as we’re alone.
“No, he’s just an asshole,” Dave replies, glaring murderously at the front door.
“Well, he seemed pretty weird to me,” I say, “I could only understand about a tenth of what he said.”
“Sam, what the hell are you doing here?” asks Dave, turning to me and radically changing the subject.
“I was worried about you. When I saw Al hit you, I felt terrible,” I admit, my hands trembling and my face white. Clearly, the sight of me looking so worried doesn’t leave him as unmoved as he would like, because he tries to calm me down by telling me he’s fine.
“Really?” I push a lock of hair away from his eyes. He doesn’t answer. “Does it still hurt?” I touch the bruise delicately, trying not to make things worse, and Dave lets me without protesting. Without even realising it, he ends up taking my hand in his and squeezing it slowly, and with the same delicacy he raises it to his lips and, his eyes closed, kisses my palm. The moment I feel his mouth touch my skin, I stop being able to move. I can’t even think. I feel an almost unstoppable desire to throw my arms around his neck, but I just can’t, and instead of letting me go, Dave, who always likes to complicate everything, slides his tongue between my fingers in a warm, gentle caress.
“Dave…” I say, my breath halting. “Dave, I…” No, it’s not true, damn it! I don’t hate him at all. My heart melts, each little part of my body reacts as though it has just been awakened from a long sleep. Dave senses the slight tremor that goes through me, opens his eyes and, looking me straight in the face, takes the tip of my index finger between his lips and sucks it slowly.
“Dave, I don’t think…” I stammer, trying to find the words to free myself, but my attempt to escape is an invitation he cannot resist. So instead of getting out of there, I find myself with both wrists trapped behind my back and his mouth reminding me who’s in charge.
“Dave, wait…”
“No!” he says.
“Dave…”
“Did you go to bed with him?” he asks. It sounds like an accusation. With his mouth tightly shut and his eyes raging like a tempest, he pushes me towards the bedroom, trying to tear off my dress as we go.
“No,” I say, not trying to stop him.
“Why were you wearing his shirt?” He lifts up my skirt and, without giving me time to protest, grabs hold of the sides of the blue thong I wish I’d never put on. “Answer me, Sam!”
“We were in his bedroom, but nothing happened,” I say, but my explanation doesn’t seem to calm him.
“Because I arrived in time to stop you, right?”
He’s probably right. It was only because he turned up in time. We both know it and the only answer I can give to him is my silent admission, veiled with shame. I look away so as not to have to face it. Dave suddenly leaves my hands and moves away from the edge of the bed to take his shirt off.
“Dave,” I say, watching him as he strips, to try and make him understand. “we have to talk.”
“Later,” he decides for both of us before pushing me down onto the bed and standing between my legs. “We need to clear up a couple of things, Sam.” His hands return to my thong and pull it off. “First.” His hands come back to me and clutch my hair between his fingers. “If I say, ‘Sam, get dressed’, you go and get dressed. Right?”
I don’t say anything.
“I said, ‘right?’”
I ought to slap him, but instead my heart is beating like crazy. There’s no hope for me. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, I find myself nodding.
“Good. Second.” He bends down and rubs his lips on my nose. His voice grows hoarse and his touch more gentle. “If I say, ‘Sam, get undressed’, I want the same reaction.”
His scent is so inviting, and his hands are the thing that take me closest to paradise, but…
“Is that all?” I wonder, looking at the ceiling, because if I look at him I’m done for.
“I don’t suppose I need to add that I want to be the only one who can claim these rights.”
“And are we still friends?”
“Apparently not…” he declares, sounding deflated.
“So what are we, then?” I ask him, already knowing that I will regret it, but equally tenacious in my masochism.
“Whatever you want, Sam, you choose: friends, lovers, partners…” he says lazily, kissing my neck.
“What… Whatever I want.” I knew I should have kept my mouth shut. He’s so great at the practical part and so lame on the theory.
“Okay, get off me.”
“What’s the matter? What is it now?” he moves away and looks at me as if I had gone mad. “I’m telling you that it’s all fine with me and that I accept everything – what the hell’s the problem?”
“What’s the problem? Are you actually asking what the problem is?”
“Yes, I am!” he growls.
“Dave, if you don’t let me go, I will not be responsible for what my knees do.”
This turns out to be an infallible tactic, because he backs off immediately.
“What the hell are you doing now?” he says, following me around the room and watching as, for the second time, I bend down to pick up the most beautiful dress I’ve ever worn from the floor of a room that will never be mine. I’m amazing, really. I’m capable of being a failure on all fronts – that’s real dedication.
“I’m getting dressed,” I say, stating the obvious.
“Stop…” he murmurs, unconvinced.
“No,” I whisper, not looking at him.
“Stop!” He sits on the edge of the bed and tries to hold me.
“Dave, get off me.”
“No, not until you answer me. I call you non-stop for two days, and for two days you completely ignore me. I had to race to the Ritz to find you in the arms of another guy and wearing his t-shirt, and to stop you from making the biggest mistake of your life I even took a punch in the face. And now that I’m telling you that I’ll give you what you want, you’re leaving?” he protests, genuinely not understanding what’s wrong. In his anger, he gets up and grabs hold of me, the dramatic difference in height between us making me feel even smaller than I really am.
“I can’t handle this, I can’t,” I mutter in profound frustration. “You… you are the most selfish, vainest, lowest, most cowardly person I have ever met!”
“What?”
“Exactly. You’re ‘giving me what I want’? You?” I snap. “Who asked you to, Dave? Who asked you for anything?!”
“But wasn’t it you who said…” he stammers, looking at me in confusion.
“I said that I wanted someone to love me, not someone to ‘give me what I want’. I don’t need your pity, Dave. I don’t need your compassion and I’d like to remind you that you got punched because you offended someone who, unlike you, actually cares about me. And if I were a little smarter and you hadn’t turned up at that moment, I’d be in his bed right now and would have avoided making what was really the biggest mistake of my life, which was coming here to see if you were okay and hearing you say ‘we’re whatever you want’, because it makes no difference to you.”
“Fantastic!” he exclaims sarcastically, picking up his shirt from the floor. “Just great – now I’m the bad guy…”
“Yeah, and maybe one day you’ll realise that, but for now you’re too wrapped up in yourself to notice that there is a whole world around you,” I add, leaving the room.
“Hold on, I’ll drive you home,” he mutters.
“I don’t need you to!” I shout, slamming the door in his face and walking across the living room, hoping he’s not stupid enough to try and stop me. Absolutely furious, I look for my shoes, put them on without breaking my stride and head for the door, probably without drawing breath.
“Oh very mature. Very mature, really,” he mutters behind me, pretending to be calm to try and show that he’s the reasonable one of the two of us.
“Oh, look who’s talking!” I explode. He can’t really believe I’m going to fall for that. Some tricks might work fine with Madeleine, but not with me. I’ve known him too long and I know him too well. “And while you were planning this magnificent declaration, I was sitting crying in a taxi,” I murmur, trying to hold back my tears and cursing myself, “hoping that nothing had happened to you. Why did you just leave like that, without even telling me if you were okay. But what do you care? When have you ever cared about someone who wasn’t you?”
“Sam… Sam, wait, calm down a minute.” He comes over to me, and his usual arrogance is gone for the moment. “Sit down.”
“No.”
“Sit down,” he whispers, pulling me to him. But it’s a mistake, because I can’t bear to feel his hands on me. It hurts. It hurts a lot.
“No, Dave, I don’t want to sit down, I don’t want to stay. Don’t you get it? I don’t want to have anything to do with you any more!”
“Can you explain why you always have to act like this?” he says, losing his temper again and running his fingers through his hair. “Why is nothing ever good enough for you?”
“I’m going, Dave. Say hi to Tom for me,” are the last words I say, as I look into his eyes, before saying goodbye for good.
“At least come back to work!” he shouts as I leave the living room, but there is nothing at this time that would make me go back.
“I’m sorry, you’ll just have to find yourself someone new to exploit. I’ve decided to have a change.”
“By becoming a curvy model? Don’t make me laugh,” he says, as mockingly as ever.
“Bye, Dave,” I say.
“All your stuff is still in the office. If you really want to go, you could at least do me the favour of clearing out your desk!”
“Don’t worry. I’ll come by and pick everything up this week.”