50 Reasons to Say Goodbye Read online

  Fifty Reasons to Say Goodbye

  Nick Alexander was born in Margate, and has lived and worked in the UK, the USA and France. When he isn’t writing, he is the editor of the gay literature site BIGfib.com. His latest novel, The Case of the Missing Boyfriend, was an eBook bestseller in early 2011, netting sixty thousand downloads and reaching number 1 on Amazon. Nick lives in the southern French Alps with two mogs, a couple of goldfish and a complete set of Pedro Almodovar films. Visit his website at www.nick-alexander.com.

  Also by Nick Alexander

  THE FIFTY REASONS SERIES

  Fifty Reasons to Say Goodbye

  Sottopassaggio

  Good Thing, Bad Thing

  Better Than Easy

  Sleight of Hand

  SHORT STORIES

  13.55 Eastern Standard Time

  FICTION

  The Case of the Missing Boyfriend

  Fifty Reasons to Say Goodbye

  Nick Alexander

  First published in Great Britain in 2004

  by BIGfib Books.

  This edition first published in Great Britain in 2011 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Nick Alexander, 2004

  The moral right of Nick Alexander to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-0-85789-636-0 (eBook)

  Corvus

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26-27 Boswell Street

  London WC1N 3JZ

  www.corvus-books.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  French Films

  A Loving Relationship

  A Beautiful Tart

  Dork

  Bus Dream

  Eric Cantona

  Gone Again

  Mum Knows Best

  Think of England

  Quick Moves

  My German Heroin

  Medieval Obsessions

  Roberto di Milano

  City of Angels

  Italian Duo

  Words Fail

  Chic Girls

  Guy

  Julian Barclay

  Blow

  Clueless

  Friends Forever

  Sell By Date

  Being Clear

  Drunk and Lonely

  Slimming Stripes

  Saxman

  Won’t Hurt A Bit

  Easter Surprise

  Members Only

  And You Thought You Were Gay?

  The Universe Lets Us Down

  Any Friend Of The Egg Man …

  Bordeaux Biker

  Love Me, Love My Life

  Straight Night Out

  Big Shiny Jeep

  Control Freak

  Country Life

  20-20 Vision

  Mobile Fantasy

  Avignon

  Barbie Boy

  Groove

  André

  Red T-Shirt

  Better Late

  Five Kisses From Start To Finish

  Epilogue

  Each time the losses and deceptions of life teach us about impermanence, they bring us closer to the truth. When you fall from a great height, there is only one possible place to land; on the ground, the ground of truth. And if you have the understanding that comes from spiritual practice, then falling is in no way a disaster, but the discovery of an inner refuge.

  Sogyal Rinpoche

  Prologue

  My father was born in the top floor bedroom of his parents’ guesthouse, the mysteriously named “Donnybrook” – my grandmother told me all about it. It overlooked the beach, and on the cold stormy November night he was born, the rain lashed against the rattling sash windows. Between bouts of searing pain she glimpsed the raging sea, wondering if this was in some way not-meant-to-be; she was always looking for signs.

  But as soon as he was born, the storm moved on and she dozed exhaustedly watching the sunrise, listening to the screaming laughter of the seagulls on the roof, the baby sleeping in her arms. She knew that everything would be OK after all.

  Dad said his only childhood memories were of the beach. Long, endless summers of buckets and spades and adopted aunties, of gritty sandy sandwiches and cold, deep, wet burials by adopted brothers. Of dribbling chocolate flaked ice creams and sandy dams failing, crumbling against the incoming tide. As an adult he would forever wonder what city kids did all summer long.

  It was on the beach he met his wife, my mother, not a mile away from Donnybrook. She was a Londoner on summer holiday alone; her parents were working. She looked like Rita Hayworth. Sometimes she laughed easily, sometimes she stared icily at the sea; he was intrigued. They slept together twice, she got pregnant, they got married.

  His first girlfriend was heartbroken; she married the best man instead.

  The baby died at birth; apparently Mum nearly died too. The war stopped them trying again for seven years.

  Dad told me that in the drifting stifling sands of North Africa, he had thought of the beach all the time, a taunting symbol of a carefree past. That’s why when he returned he wanted to live there again, that’s why they moved into his parents’ house.

  He said that the war had changed him, that the sadness of it all had softened him. My mother had changed too – she’d been hardened by rationing and air raid shelters.

  They had a child every three years, regular as clockwork for as long as it was possible. I ended up the last of four.

  Dad’s parents died only three years apart. They finished their lives in the top rear bedroom, his old room, with only the railway station to look at.

  The sea view rooms were saved illogically for absent but ever-imminent paying guests, but people no longer went to Eastbourne on holiday, preferring exotic sands with foreign names.

  Eventually they bought carpet for all of our rooms, mine was orange – it was the seventies. When the wind blew off the sea, the carpet lifted as the air pushed through the floorboards.

  Our house slowly passed from being a screaming nursery school to a bubbling cauldron of adolescent and menopausal angst.

  Of course, we were fine; we were busy being adolescents. We just reacted to Mum’s hysteria and Dad’s sulking by shouting even louder. We hated everyone anyway – society, grown-ups, each other; our parents were just part of the décor. But for them, it was hard, Mum spent a third of her time in bed with an endless series of mysterious illnesses, Dad spent the evenings walking along the beach, looking for calm and refuge.

  During the endless summers they would pack us off with picnic, buckets, windbreaks. They would stay behind to do the adult things, the shopping, the repairing, the decorating, and the arguing. I think they envied us, with our friends and our games and our laughter.

  Mum came to resent Dad’s friends. I don’t know how that happened, but one by one she found a reason to dislike them and slowly, one by one, they stopped coming. She never seemed to laugh anymore. I guess that was when he started to doubt.

  One
by one my brothers left, for wives or distant jobs or college.

  One summer, sitting on a green, seaweed encrusted wall, with his feet dangling in the water, Dad admitted that he didn’t love her anymore. Three summers later on the same wall he decided to leave. He told me first. I felt sad, abandoned, but honoured to be the first to know.

  When he told her, I was watching from the back garden. The window was open and by holding my breath I could hear. She stared out of the front window.

  She said, “Well, whatever you want. I mean, why would anyone else matter. It’s always been all about you.”

  She said, “I want the house, and if you’re dumping Mark on me, enough for us to live on. Hopefully he’ll be leaving soon enough anyway.”

  She said, “And I want you to leave right now.”

  When they said goodbye it seemed very formal, very correct, very businesslike.

  Dad moved out into a flat; it looked out over a tiny backyard with a broken motorbike in it.

  Every weekend he would walk to the beach. Sometimes he would spend the day with me.

  When she was there he would watch from a distance.

  If I saw him first I would wander casually down to the beachfront, escape so that we could spend the time together. He would sneak me into a pub, buy me a beer – I was sixteen. When they met she smiled tightly. There was never any drama.

  I moved out only six months later, escaped to a rented room in a friend’s house – Mum’s new regime was all the motivation I needed; it felt like rationing was back.

  I worked for a few years, studied enough to get the exams I had dropped out on, and then went to college. Sometimes I used to visit her, but she always seemed bitter, always depressed.

  She ended up all alone in the big house and complained about it, said it was too big – as though it had been imposed on her. I used to come down to see Dad too. I don’t know why but he never visited me once in Manchester.

  At night we would sit on the concrete steps leading down to the beach, now littered with indestructible McDonalds’ boxes. Mostly he was happy, but sometimes, without explanation he would weep.

  Sometimes we saw Mum gazing from the window, just before she closed the curtains.

  Dad always asked, “How’s your mother?”

  I always replied, “Oh, you know, the same.”

  I’m sure she saw us, but she never made any sign.

  He died while I was at college.

  He was with his girlfriend, big surprise! No one knew.

  She was at the funeral too, a thin woman with wild red hair. She wept hysterically. Our mother went home the second the service had finished. Strangely, we, the brothers, went to a pub. Guiltily we got drunk, laughed, had fun.

  I think that that was when we realised that without our parents we got along just fine. It was our first ever get-together without them, it felt illicit and strangely relaxed.

  The funeral was the last time the whole family was together in the same room. Reunited to say goodbye, – goodbye to our father, and then one by one to each other.

  French Films

  Jenny is lovely. She has a set of keys to our house. She used to go out with John, my flatmate – she had a set of keys in those days too, probably the same ones. My big double bed catches the afternoon sun. Some days, when I come home she’s asleep in the sun with my cat Sizzler.

  We spend so much time together. We have our favourite coffee shop, our favourite pub.

  She doesn’t have a car, can’t get to the out of town stores, so I take her on Saturdays – people are always assuming … I don’t really know why we’re not together. She probably doesn’t fancy me, she goes for swarthy Italian types, although it has to be said that John is neither swarthy nor Italian.

  He kissed me once, as we crossed on the stairs. I think he was drunk. No one knows about that, not even Jenny. I don’t tell anyone. It was quite nice, a bit of a surprise really, but nice. Still we’re very close.

  I only had three girlfriends while I was at college. The first one slapped me the first time we kissed. It was apparently because I got a hard-on; I suppose she wasn’t ready. The second was beautiful, Spanish. Her ex-boyfriend hit me over the head with a crowbar. I hadn’t even slept with her and I’m not even sure that I wanted to, but I was in love with her. She used to make me laugh and I used to walk across town to see her. I used to go to sleep thinking about her. For some reason she didn’t want to see me after that, as though it was my fault!

  The last one, Rachel, used to help me mend my motorbike. My friend Andy always said that Rachel was a dyke; many years later he turned out to be right. We used to share a bed, Rachel and I, cuddle up when it was cold, but we never had sex. Some say we snogged at a party once, but I truthfully don’t remember – too drunk. Andy, who was studying psychology, used to say that it was a classic case of justified memory-repression syndrome.

  I suppose it’s not a lot for twenty-three, perhaps it should worry me. But my social life since I moved to Cambridge is so full on, and Jenny fulfils most of my emotional needs.

  She’s here tonight; we’ve been watching television together. She’s snuggled up to me on the sofa to watch a French film, Betty Blue – typical French, basically an arty excuse for a shag-fest. I’m worried that Jenny will move her elbow, discover my hard-on. Being a man is like walking around with a shag/don’t shag sign in your trousers.

  “He’s so cute,” she says.

  “Yes, well neither of them are exactly ugly,” I reply.

  “The French,” says Jenny. “Makes you sick.”

  I shrug. “Not the French, just films. They don’t have ugly people in films.”

  “Or even normal people,” says Jenny. “She’s sexy too. We try, the English, to look like that. But it’s just pointless.”

  I laugh. “You’re exaggerating. Beatrice Dalle isn’t that pretty. She’s sexy, dirty, but she’s pretty vulgar too. You’re prettier.”

  Jenny laughs. She fidgets, changes her position.

  “Oh my God! Mark!” she exclaims. “Hard-on!”

  A wave of red sweeps across my face. Lucky the lights are low.

  “Sorry,” I say. “The film. Too much shagging.”

  Jenny looks into my eyes.

  I feel slightly sick. Embarrassment probably.

  “It’s OK,” she says.

  I fidget. I wish she’d move out of my face.

  She kisses me. I am surprised – like really surprised. I don’t react at all.

  She says, “Make an effort.” She tries again.

  I try to make an effort but my stomach is churning. Jenny stands. I think, “Thank God!” But she leads me to the bedroom next door.

  “It’s time,” she says. “Enough pussying around.”

  I feel frozen, remote. A sort of does not compute feeling. I didn’t know that we had been pussying around. I thought we were watching T.V.

  She pushes me onto the bed, undoes my jeans, and climbs on top of me. She doesn’t seem phased by the fact that I’m not really participating. She pulls off her top – she isn’t wearing a bra. She grabs my head, pushes me down, down between the mother-warmth of her breasts, down over her stomach, down, down to the forest.

  I’m doing my best but it’s making me heave. I’ve never much liked all of that, down there; never could get off on those pictures of women with their ankles behind their ears.

  She touches me, realises. “You have a puncture sir,” she says. “That car’s going nowhere.”

  I am offended.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “It’ll come back.”

  It germs as just an idea of anger, of outrage at myself. The decision to let it happen is quite conscious, calculated, a way out. “This always fucking happens,” I spit – a lie, for who could say? Too few opportunities to know.

  I get up, pull on my chinos, and wriggle into a pullover.

  “Mark, where are you going?”

  I pull on my shoes. “Oh, fuck off!” I shout as I run out into the
street. I wish I’d brought a raincoat.

  I jog to the end of the road. I feel bad, but relieved. I’m shaking.

  I crouch in the entrance to an alleyway and watch the rain spin past the orange streetlights. I have cigarettes in the pocket of my jeans. I blow the smoke behind me into the darkness until, eventually, I see her leave the house and go home.

  The next day she comes to see me. “We need to talk,” she says.

  She says many things. She says that I am a selfish bastard, that she was worried all night. She’s right, but there are things that are instinctive, things that you can’t help but do – things that you can’t explain, not even to yourself.

  “Have you ever thought that you might be, well, gay?” she asks.

  I say bad things. I say, “So anyone who doesn’t like the smell of your vagina is gay, right?”

  She shouts, she cries, she leaves.

  I’m upset, but I’m glad.

  Later on the phone, she says, “I think we should stop seeing each other.”

  I say, “I wasn’t aware that we were seeing each other.”

  Later still, much later, we’ll be friends again. I’ll apologise to her, thank her even, for making me realise. But it will take a while.

  A Loving Relationship

  I start seeing Catherine six months after I split up with Jenny. Every night is insomnia night. Friends say things like, “Just use the extra time to read or something.” My eyes are too tired to focus on the page, but still sleep eludes me until four a.m.

  I lie awake, watch the headlights sweep the ceiling. I can’t work out why, a feeling of unease, a tightness in the stomach.

  Catherine’s OK, I suppose. I expected her to be much more involved. She never seems to say much, other than, “Umm,” and “I see,” and “How do you feel about that?” It annoys me – if I knew how I felt then I wouldn’t be seeing her.

  “Why does that question annoy you so much?” Catherine asks.

  It takes five visits for me to get to the point, because I don’t know what the point is. I suppose that’s what therapy is all about.