Page 48 of Total Dreamboat

Felix

My flight touches down at Heathrow on a cold, rainy morning. The damp chill feels like my soul returning to my body.

I take a taxi straight to the Smoke and Gun.

Sophie is there, doing inventory in the back office. She startles when I walk in. “Felix!”

“Hi, sorry,” I say. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Jesus, mate,” she says, taking me in. “You look like hell.”

“Just tired. Long flight.”

“Yeah, maybe go home and sleep it off? You’ll scare away the punters.”

“I wanted to see if you needed a hand.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Coulda sent me a text for that, couldn’t ya? You wanted to come see if I sank the ship in your absence. I’ll have you know everything’s fine. Or fine enough that you can go home and take a nap.”

I sink down in a chair. “Well, I’m here. Have a minute to go over the books?”

She gives me a long-suffering sigh but slides over her laptop. We spend two hours reviewing staffing schedules, supply orders, P&L. Everything’s in perfect order. So much so that my ego’s a bit bruised by how little I’m needed.

I return to my carefully structured days and my rigorous routine. I return to micromanaging every last detail in my pubs, to Sophie’s obvious irritation. I return to Sunday lunches with the family, Thursday nights out with my mates, Arsenal games whenever I have the time.

I’m steady, yes.

But I’m also joyless. Stuck.

I try to shake off my malaise by adopting a dog. She’s a three-year-old Australian shepherd named Priscilla, which I didn’t choose but which suits my family’s penchant for giving their children bad “P” names. She enjoys long runs in the park and long naps at the pubs. I already cherish her.

But she has not solved the problem of my life.

Every day, as I slog through the rigid order of this existence I’m so protective over, I feel bored and unchallenged. I feel exactly what I accused Hope of being.

Hope, who liked me enough to risk asking me to be more to her than a fling. A move that was heartfelt and brave, and that I rejected out of hand. Out of fear.

I told her I needed to be stronger before I’m capable of being someone’s partner. But I feel more like I’m treading water than shoring myself up.

And then, one morning at a coffee shop in Hackney, I run into Annemarie.

I haven’t spoken to her since the day I canceled our wedding, on a phone call from rehab.

Her last words to me were “I hope you fucking die.”

I immediately turn around to avoid her, but it’s too late. She’s spotted me and calls my name. “My God, Fe, it’s been ages.”

“Hi,” I say slowly, because it’s disorienting to be smiled at by someone who welcomed your death.

“I’ve been wanting to get in touch,” she says. “I texted you, but I think you… blocked me?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say. “For obvious reasons?”

She grimaces. “Yeah. Hey, could we talk about that? Sit down for a sec?”

I look longingly at the door.

“Please?” she asks. “I won’t keep you, I promise.”

“Fine,” I say. “Let me just grab a coffee.”

I go and order a flat white, taking the time to steel myself against whatever she’s going to say.

When I get back she’s biting at a cuticle on her thumb.

She always bit her cuticles when she was nervous. She still has flecks of angry torn skin around the nailbeds of her otherwise beautiful hands.

She straightens up and puts her palms on the table. “Sit down?” she asks.

I sink onto a wooden bench across from her.

“How are you doing?” she asks. “You look great.”

“I’m good,” I say. “And you’re looking well too.”

She is. She’s gained a much-needed bit of weight since I last saw her, and her eyes are bright and clear.

“Yeah, I am well,” she says. “Certainly better than the last time you saw me. I’ve been sober for eleven months as of tomorrow.”

“God, Annemarie. That’s amazing.”

“It is, yeah. I’m really proud of myself. Best decision I ever made. But you know all about that. You’ve been at it how long?”

“Over two years now.”

“That’s so great.”

“Thanks.”

“Listen, Fe, the reason I tried to call you was to apologize. For the way I acted when you went into recovery.”

Her sincerity eases my tension. I see her kindness, the openheartedness I once fell in love with. And I know that I hurt her. An apology is long overdue.

“I’m sorry too. For everything,” I say. “We were both such messes back then.”

We have a long conversation. She apologizes to me for her lack of support when I went to rehab.

She said it felt like an indictment, like if I was declaring myself an addict then she must be one too.

She felt defensive and scared that our engagement would not survive such a profound change in my lifestyle.

Which, of course, it didn’t.

“I’m sorry it felt like I was abandoning you,” I tell her. “It wasn’t my intention, but I know it still hurt. And it was very painful for me to lose you.”

“You had to save yourself,” she says. “Put your own oxygen mask on first, and all that. But it did break my heart. I still miss you.” She gives me a wry smile. “Sometimes.”

“Same,” I say.

“I do have some news, though. I’m engaged.” She holds up her left ring finger, which is adorned with a beautiful opal.

“Wow!” I say. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

“Yeah, it happened fast. We met in AA. He’s been sober for six years.”

Conventional wisdom says that you should spend a year or two in recovery before venturing into a serious relationship, so this news makes me nervous for her.

“I know, I know,” she says, reading what I’m thinking in the way she was always so good at. “But I figure, in recovery I have to be strong in myself whatever life brings me—good or bad. And this man—his name is Amar—has brought me so much love. So why not take it?”

This philosophy resonates with me. It’s what haunts me every time I think about Hope.

Which is every day. Sometimes every hour.

“I’m delighted for you,” I say.

“Are you seeing anyone?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “I haven’t dated since I got sober.”

“Why not?”

“Scared to, I guess.”

“That’s too bad, Fe,” she says.

The genuine compassion in her tone moves me to say more.

“I actually did meet a woman recently. On holiday. I fucked it up though. Freaked out.”

“Why?”

“I was worried a relationship would make me relapse,” I say bluntly.

She widens her eyes. “Do you still feel that way?”

“I don’t know.” I sigh. “Maybe it’s like you said. Anything can be a trigger. You have to take care of yourself, but you can’t let fear be an excuse not to live. I regret it a bit, if I’m honest.”

“What happened to the girl?” she asks.

“I don’t know. We’re not in touch. She lives in the US.”

“You could call her.”

“I said some things that were out of line. I don’t think she’d be happy to hear from me.”

“You could… apologize.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

We hug goodbye and I take out my phone. I open WhatsApp to look at the last messages from Hope. They’re about meeting up for the magic show.

I start to type something— Hey, hope you don’t mind hearing from me. I was thinking about you and wondered if we could talk —but then I stop and delete it.

Because what would I say if I called her?

That my life is perfectly ordered, just like I wanted, and I’m miserable?

That I miss her every day?

That she was right?

What is she supposed to do with this information?

Save me by declaring her love? The same thing I told her wasn’t possible?

Hearing her voice would be like sprinkling water on a pot of soil with no seeds. Yes, the water is life-giving. But there needs to be something there to take root.

I was right about one thing: I have to create a life that I want before I can share it with someone. I need to take the same advice I gave Hope.

So instead of calling her, I call Ned. He’s a commercial estate agent, and also my primary partner in the pubs, albeit as a silent investor.

“Hey mate,” I say when he answers. “I have a proposal. What if we bought a hotel?”