Vietnam

Winner of The Fish Short Story Prize 2023 & shortlisted for The Bridport Prize, 2022. 

The day we met two things happened: I started going grey and my period came back after six years. It was as if my body woke up and said a-ha, here he is but at the same time oh shit.

The body always knows.

It was a Christmas party I’d forced myself to go to. I wore a red dress and felt too tall. You stood in front of the microphone and apologised for dressing like Alan Partridge. That was probably the moment.

We went for coffee a week later. I knocked mine over. You ate a chocolate slice with a knife and fork and when I asked you why you said you didn’t know. We talked for two hours. I tried to work out if I liked the strange timbre of your voice, the high pitch of your explosive laugh. I felt you looking through me, beyond the jumper, beyond the skin.

As the cafe closed, you made a casual reference to your partner. I felt ridiculous. We parted in the snow and I shut the box of you in my mind.

You unlocked it five days later with a text. All it said was Happy Christmas. I had a visceral reaction, a tiny explosion somewhere in my gut. I waited and sent one back: Happy Boxing Day. Twenty four hours later you replied. Happy Post Boxing Day it said, and I thought I see.

We kept finding reasons to communicate. A book recommendation, a creative opportunity. The smattering of texts became flurries followed by days of silence, most of which I spent berating myself for being so affected by it. I’d just about manage to shut the box again, when you’d send a new offering - a link, a question, a video of snow falling. I would vow not to respond, then draft replies in my mind as I paced the slushy streets of Sheffield. You were a scab I couldn’t stop picking.

We met again, this time for three hours, during which a silent negotiation took place: we would not mention Her.

I became a cliche overnight. I couldn’t eat or sleep. You frogmarched me out of my fussy little life into a kind of glorious hell. The texts came daily. Each one a shot of espresso. You sent songs. I listened to them repeatedly, googled the lyrics and tried to understand you. I had too much energy. I started dancing in the flat. I lost weight. People fretted. It was like a disease.

One Sunday morning, you sent a message asking if I would help with your stand up routine.  You knew my background, had seen the films. I felt important. You arrived, drenched from football, and wrestled your enormous bike into my tiny flat. I sat with my back against the oven and watched your set. I wasn’t sure if it worked but I couldn’t believe your bravery. I would never have taken such a risk in front of a potential lover and took it as confirmation that my feelings were not reciprocated.

But we are not all the same.

And there is no one quite like you.

We got into your Fiat 500 and drove to Clowne in the pouring rain, which you said was funny in itself. You were brilliant that night and I knew I was powerless. In the bar afterwards, all I wanted to do was touch the soft skin behind your ear.

You are so beautiful.

I became your director of sorts. It was strange being back on the circuit, rediscovering the world that almost buried me. I saw it anew, and it was not so terrifying with you in it. Something inside me stirred and whispered the lights, look at the lights.

On the way to gigs, we played Snap! with our life stories. Did we match? Could our lives tesselate? There was a certain freedom about being in the car - two people side by side heading in the same direction. I felt I could ask you anything, so that’s what I did. Excluding the obvious, obviously.

The goodbyes were abrupt and clean. You never touched me. Every time I closed the door, I felt absurd. I was terrified you could sense the depth of my desperation, smell it on me like cigarettes. But I am nothing if not proud. I didn’t linger in the doorway. I took my cues.

*

It was February when you invited me to a DJ night in Crookes. I turned up in a jumpsuit and you said I looked like a communist factory worker. We danced for hours. It was my first sober night out having ditched the drink two years before. I think you were simultaneously impressed and annoyed by my abstinence. I left at 2am and you sent a message asking why, then another, then another. They said everything and nothing. We’d crossed some sort of invisible line. We both knew it, but not what to do about it.

You ignored me for a week and I thought I might die.

When you finally got in touch, you asked if I would co-produce and perform in your comedy cabaret, which was going on a short tour. All my friends told me not to do it. But I didn’t have a choice, not really.

We met in the Dorothy Pax and made each other laugh for five hours, ad-libbing full blown skits and finishing each other’s sentences. The place filled up, day turned into night and you got drunk with a focus I hadn’t seen before. It was exciting. You poured it in, until it all came pouring out: the spats, the suspicion, the slamming of doors, the fact you could not sleep for I was in your head.

We kissed. And it was everything. 

But you did not want to feel this way. The guilt, the mess, the timing. We left and walked back to my flat, ice-air knocking the breath and bravery out of our lungs. Silently stumbling along the pavements, your drunken arm draped over my shoulder, the weight almost too much to bear. 

There was no discussion on arrival. You climbed the stairs with a kind of tired resignation. Inside - hands, lips, tongues and teeth, soft bodies smashing against hard surfaces, kisses interspersed with half-hearted attempts to stop and dramatic declarations. You wished I was ugly. You were useless at relationships. You would destroy it without knowing how or why. On and on it went, one hour, two. But then you unpeeled my dress, looked at my body and sighed. It was a disaster you said, a disaster. You kissed me again, the full inebriated weight of your 6’4 frame leaning down, down. My face reaching up, up. I thought my neck might snap but I held my ground. I took your weight and it was not so heavy. 

But you were drunk. It was late. I sent you home. 

Two days later, the same soft bodies against the same hard surfaces, only both of them sober, standing, not stumbling. I touched you and you came on my stomach. Suddenly silent, seething with something ugly, you washed your hands. Of me? I did not know and I could not ask. It was all so fragile. 

I have never felt so emotionally silenced by another person. 

The next morning, a text came asking if we could delete the last week. I fell through the floor of the cafe I was sitting in. You may as well have asked me to forget my own name. You didn’t want me to get dragged into your break up, did not want to hurt me. If we were to pursue things romantically, you wanted to feel excited and joyful about it, not guilty and sad. 

If? I thought. What is this if? 

When the aftershock subsided I realised it was a noble thing to want. I replied and told you no, I could not delete it, but I could give you time and space. I would go on my adventure, and we would wait and see.

The next day she contacted me on facebook and I felt sick. She said I was welcome to you, as if she and I were bidders at a meat auction. I’d finally been cast as The Other Woman, a role I have been studiously avoiding for my entire life, having watched my mother destroy herself playing it for the best part of fifteen years. 

It’s in the blood. Everything’s in the blood. 

Ironically, the message became the scrap that would sustain me over the coming weeks: you must have told her, which meant I was important. 

Now that was an assumption, and they are always dangerous. 

I didn’t tell you about the message because it was an off-limits topic. I knew this by osmosis. We were keeping things professional, huddled back under our trusty old umbrella of co-creativity. 

But the universe had other ideas. 

It was Friday, close to midnight. I was coming back from a party when I saw you walking towards me. We stopped and stared, both asking the same question at the same time. What are you doing here?

She’d thrown you out. You couldn’t or wouldn’t elaborate. I later discovered it was because she’d found the texts, not because you’d told her. Writing this, I imagine how she must have felt in those dread-filled days leading up to it, when she knew something was wrong, but you couldn’t or wouldn’t elaborate. 

I wonder if you’ll ever be able to communicate. 

You’d parked outside my flat but realised it would blur the lines so you were just walking and thinking. I was glad I was your first port of call, even if I was just a parking space. Perhaps you would sleep in your car you said. 

We both knew you wouldn’t. 

I made you a sandwich and you sang a song about swans. It should have been funny but the atmosphere was peculiar, uncomfortable. I suddenly felt I didn’t know you at all. I asked where you wanted to sleep. You said the bed would be fine. You cleaned your teeth while I put on the biggest pyjamas I could find. I did not want any of that desperation seeping out. 

In the dark, I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the soft skin behind your ear. Forty torturous minutes later, you pulled my arm around your ribcage. It escalated. Quickly, quietly. Too far, too soon. It felt wrong, robotic and cold. Half way through you froze. I didn’t know what to do. It had been a very long time since I’d been intimate with anyone. Perhaps I had forgotten how? Perhaps my body repulsed you? I lay down and recognised that slick, wet heat between my legs. I asked if you had come inside me, and you said yes. You asked if I was covered as if I was a car with an insurance policy. You didn’t hold me or talk to me or touch me. When I asked you to say something, you told me an anecdote about Beatrix Potter. 

There is no one quite like you. 

I lay there, listening to your laboured breath as you thrashed your way through the dregs of the night. I could feel the beginning of the end, like a butchers hook to the gut. The body always knows. You left at 5am. I cried in the tangled mess of sheets. Later I went to Boots alone and got the morning after pill. You never asked me about it. For all you knew, I could have been pregnant. I actually think I was, such was the aftermath of that small white swallow. 

Another thing we’ll never talk about.

*

Gone were the texts, the songs, the invitations. You treated me like a PA, ending emails with things like cheers. It was insulting and cruel. I suppose you thought I either did not notice or did not mind because I didn’t cause a scene. Well I did notice and I did mind.

At night I paced in the dark, wondering if I had imagined it all.

But the show must go on.

I channeled all my energy into making it a success by being an exceptional PA. I wrote press releases and got interviews. I spoke when spoken to and didn’t ask any questions. It was the most unfulfilling role I have ever played. I rebelled and booked a one way ticket to Vietnam. I didn’t tell you, because you didn’t ask. You never ask me anything.

One evening, I had to rehearse a burlesque number in front of you and you alone. It was the most exposed I have ever felt, with or without my clothes on. To put myself through it after you had rejected me so profoundly, was humiliating. But I did it. Because I knew how much the show meant to you. It was the only light in your newly, dark world. I understood that my creative currency was the only part of me you wanted or would allow yourself to have, so I gave it to you. Because that’s what love is - self sacrifice and insanity. 

But it wasn’t pure altruism: I’d missed the camaraderie of a rehearsal room, the thrill of being on stage. And besides, if I left, you’d know how hurt I was. And I am nothing if not proud.

*

The show came together and brutal though it was, we made an excellent creative team. I was good at feeding the cast and maintaining morale, while you dealt with technical issues and venues. Together we battled our way through the inevitable production challenges and  found something stronger in our shared goal - respect, friendship, integrity. We grew comfortable with each other again.

A week before the show, you went to Lanzarote and found it lonely, while I tried to get my head around Vietnam. I had five jabs in one day and vomited in a car park. I bought a head torch and a water-purifier, with no idea why.

The day you got back we rehearsed. You looked brown and better. You asked if I had plans that night. I did. I’d made very sure of that. I didn’t want to risk being that lame little dog again, silently begging for scraps of your time. You gave me a lift to the bar where I was meeting friends. On the way you said So Vietnam? I said Yes. You said When? and I said The day after the last show. You nodded and changed gear. For how long? I glanced sideways at your profile and said I didn’t know. 

It felt like a small victory. 

We staggered through opening night. It was stressful and shambolic, but it gave us a baseline to work from. It was my first time on stage in five years. I was home again and it was all because of you. I will always be grateful for that. 

The tour was a success, despite some major hurdles. The worst was Lincoln - your hometown. You rang and told me we’d only sold eleven tickets. I could hear the embarrassed disappointment in your voice. We went down a day early so we could flyer outside the venue. It meant we had to stay with your parents. And then just like that, we were back in the car again - me asking my questions, you ranting in all your sardonic glory. 

Side by side, heading in the same direction. 

When I met your parents, you finally came into focus. We stood in their modest kitchen while they gave you both barrels about your life choices, your chaos. I just stood there, holding a Tupperware box of flapjacks like the middle class idiot I am. It made me realise how hard it must have been growing up with parents who did not understand this thing, this essence of you. I felt lucky in comparison and wondered if you wanted to punish me for it.

Where’s she going to sleep? came the question suddenly. In my bed. I’ll go on the airbed. You replied. Your Mum looked at me then, with something like a question. 

We all ate together at 6 o’clock. Chilli and jacket potatoes, with fruit salad and cream for pudding. It was delicious. I asked your father whether he’d ever seen you perform. About fifteen years ago he said. And what did you think? I asked. Bit long. He said and you laughed. But I knew the impact of that butchers hook. 

The airbed squeaked like cheap shoes every time you moved and it gradually deflated through the night. This is silly I said at 4am, get in here. And you did. We did not touch each other - we did not have to this time. And we slept like kings. In the morning, we got the laptops out and did admin in bed. 

Side by side, heading in the same direction.

We flyered all day and managed to flog forty odd tickets for the show, but the band got stuck on the motorway and missed the first half. It was a quiet audience but you gave it everything you had. I could see your father’s poker face in the half light. 

You cried in the interval and I have never loved you more.

We flew towards the finish line from that point. On days off, we performed at spoken word nights together and watched Kenneth Williams documentaries afterwards. We didn’t touch or kiss or say the unsayable. You started asking questions about the trip. Was I all packed, did I have everything I needed. Almost, I said, almost. 

The final show came. We spent the day setting up in the usual way. It was unexpectedly sunny so we had a picnic, the air hot and heavy with the unsaid. You were tactile with me and I knew you were thinking about Vietnam. As we packed down for the last time, the anti-climactic sadness loomed, threatening as the sea. 

That night, we went to Hagglers Corner. I broke my abstinence because I knew it would make you happy and it did. As the alcohol flooded my veins, my body sounded alarm bells. The body always knows. But that’s what love is. Self-sacrifice and insanity. The night wore on, taxis were called and we got in one together.

Back at the flat, I could almost feel the minutes ticking away until I would be on a train to Heathrow, a plane to Hanoi. Eventually we ran out of jokes and just stood there staring, willing someone to say something. But you are a coward. And you never ask me anything. 

What I need to know I said, is whether I am going away to get over you or get ready for you. You couldn’t answer and I was too tired to cry. We went to bed, fully clothed. I turned on my side and blinked into the abyss. 

But you found me in the night and undressed me, and it was good and pure and right. We were slow and careful with each other. I kissed the soft skin behind your ear and you told me I was rare. My heart was so full, I thought it might explode and fill the flat with butterflies. When I allow myself to think of it, it makes me cry. You left in the morning but came back with croissants and a half-wrapped present - a cash belt and microfibre towel - the two things I’d forgotten. How did you know? You’d written funny, beautiful words on a card. I am looking at it now from my balcony in Con Dao. 

It’s been a month since your last message, which was clipped and cold. I’ve been here for six weeks now. I’ve thrown myself down waterfalls, trekked the mountains of Sa Pa and got a tattoo. I’ve driven a motorbike, been sick on a boat and slept under stars. I’ve kayaked through Halong Bay and karaoked in Saigon. I’ve eaten crickets, drunk weasel-shit coffee and started smoking again, nursed jellyfish stings and nosebleeds and sunburn. It doesn’t matter how many drinks I drink, you are still there, refracted in the wet glass at the bottom. 

I am not proud anymore.

They say the right partner finds you in pieces and leads you to peace. The wrong one finds you in peace and leaves you in pieces. 

I know which one you are. 

And now my phone is ringing. I know I shouldn’t answer. 

But there is no one quite like you.