Private Lives

Chapter 5

Seb perches on the edge of his desk and looks at the cocky young man staring at him from under a curtain of dark hair. Seb starts to fold his arms together but stops himself, places his palms flat on the desk behind him instead. Ethan stares at him, his expression strangely knowing, and panic suddenly licks inside Seb’s stomach. He drops his eyes as Ethan says, ‘I know what you’re going to say, Mr Kent.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Seb addresses the floor in front of Ethan because he’s slime, and this kid is amazing.

Ethan keeps staring at Seb as he says, ‘Yeah. You’re going to say that I’m letting myself down getting rubbish marks, that I’m going to mess up my GCSEs if I don’t sort it out.’

At the end of last term, Ethan was top of every subject and now he’s right at the bottom. Today he hasn’t handed in his GCSE coursework, without offering an explanation. Seb has talked to his mum, asked if there’s anything going on at home, but she said everything is steady on that front. No changes.

Seb lifts his eyes up to Ethan as he says, ‘I just wanted to ask how you’re doing.’

It’s Ethan who looks away this time, towards the door, then back to Seb. Seb gets it. He wants to run away, too.

In front of him, Ethan shrugs. ‘I’m just not as clever as I let on, I suppose.’

‘That wasn’t what I asked.’ Seb’s voice is gentle, but he has to force himself to keep looking at the teen. ‘How are you doing, Ethan?’ Seb asks again.

‘Fine.’ Ethan lifts his chin to Seb, warning him to back off. ‘How are you doing, sir?’

Seb glances out of the window at the football pitches, thrumming with players. For a second, he wonders what would happen to Ethan’s young face if he told him the truth. Would it lift with shock, cresting into laughter, or would his expression twist, sour with disgust as his brain processed the truth?

Of course, Seb won’t tell the whole truth. He seldom does these days. ‘I’m finding life quite intense at the moment, actually.’

Ethan raises his eyebrows.

‘Don’t tell anyone, but I’m worrying a lot. Worrying I’m not doing a good enough job as head teacher. It’s a big responsibility, this job. I worry sometimes that I’ll let you guys down.’

Ethan stares at Seb and, as he talks, Seb notices something waking up in Ethan. He’s listening, not just staring dully, but really listening. It’s like Seb can feel his words trickling into Ethan’s ears.

‘I’m trying my hardest, but I worry it’s not enough.’

Ethan nods slowly, thoughtfully, and Seb wants to grab him by his shoulders, shake him and tell him to wake up! He needs to learn when he’s being lied to! He just keeps talking, like he always does, like he’s thinking aloud, like he’s forgotten Ethan’s right there, in front of him.

‘I’m seeing my mate after school today, actually; he went to school here with me and now we play tennis together. I’ve been thinking about talking to him …’

Ethan keeps his eyes on Seb. ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ he says.

Seb nods his agreement slowly, thoughtfully.

‘I know what you’re trying to do, by the way.’ Ethan narrows his eyes at Seb, cynicism back in place.

He wants to laugh, thinks, Glad someone does, because I have no fucking idea! He stops himself, keeps Ethan away from the truth and instead lies again.

‘I’m honestly not trying to do anything, Ethan. Trust me, I know how hard it can be to talk about feelings. Just know, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here if anything changes and you want to talk.’

Ethan nods, shoving his rucksack back on his shoulders. ‘So, I can go now?’

Seb nods. Wishes he could swap places with this kid who can just walk so easily away from his troubles.

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

Ethan dips his head towards Seb, but before he opens the door, he stops. ‘I’ll bring my coursework in the day after tomorrow.’

‘That’d be good.’

He nods again and before he leaves Seb asks, ‘Ethan, don’t tell anyone what I said, will you?’

Ethan turns to look back directly at Seb, his eyes surprised, but there’s a small smile on his lips as he replies quietly, ‘Course I won’t.’

The court floodlights switch on as Seb sits on the bench outside Court Five and waits for Eddy. They try to play at least twice a week – always on Wednesday and Friday – more when their schedules allow. They’ve been playing tennis together since they were twelve and they think of Court Five at Waverly Tennis Club as ‘their court’. Eddy always says when he writes his memoir he’ll call it Court Five, and Seb always assumes – hopes – he’s joking. But you never really know with Eddy.

This seventy-eight-by-twenty-seven-foot tarmac rectangle has been a silent, constant witness to their friendship. It was on Court Five that Seb finally broke down after his dad died. It was on Court Five that they asked each other to be godfather to brand-new Blake and then, a few years later, to Sylvie. And it was on Court Five, a couple of years ago, that Eddy told Seb that he’d cheated on Anna. Of all the memories, Seb thinks about that one the most.

Eddy’s game was off that day. He’d got two double faults in a row, which was unlike him. During a break Seb put his hand on the back of his friend’s neck and asked, ‘Ed, you OK?’

Seb couldn’t have known, but the combination of that touch, those words in that exact moment made Eddy crumple. They hadn’t played a second set; instead, Seb held Eddy, tried to make his arms strong, capable, like those of the fathers they both missed. Underneath the humour, the piss-taking and bravado, Eddy was as soft as a peach.

From the bench, Seb watches Eddy arrive in his black gear, socks pulled up his calves, waving to a couple of other players they know, rolling his shoulders, swinging his new racquet, already warming up. What, Seb wonders, would happen if Eddy put his hand on the back of Seb’s neck – just like Seb did a couple of years ago – and asked him if he was OK?

Would he collapse into the truth, just like Eddy did that day, or grit his teeth and cling on to his lie that everything was fine?

Just fine.

No. He won’t say anything. Eddy is the talker – not Seb. In the fifteen years they’ve been together, he’s never had a reason to talk about his relationship with Rosie in any detail with anyone. What would he even say? That his body feels as if he is slowly starving to death from lack of touch? That he’s terrified Rosie will never desire him again? That on some subtle, mystical level she’s discovered the truth? That Seb is disgusting, unlovable, that he’s tricked the whole world into believing he is something else, something good? Even if he did share any of this, then how could he possibly ever come back? Eddy would know too much for everything to stay the same. As a kid, Seb never excelled at any one thing, so he made his goodness his superpower. He’d always offer himself up to be in goal when no one else wanted to be or he would accept the smallest ice cream. He’d smooth arguments between friends and as a teen clear up the bathroom after Eddy had puked stolen spirits everywhere.

‘The Slazenger’s maiden battle,’ Eddy says by way of greeting, kissing his new racquet before jabbing it gently into Seb’s ribs. ‘Ready for a battering, Sebbo?’

Eddy doesn’t notice Seb’s unsmiling eyes, the panic fluttering up his spine, down his limbs, so what can Seb do? He stretches out his quads briefly before putting a couple of balls in his pocket, ignoring the wild hammering in his chest as he jogs on to the court.

After they’ve warmed up, they break for some water and Eddy looks closer at his friend.

‘Jesus, mate, you’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he says, adding, ‘I never really understood that saying. Does it mean I’ve got sore eyes and you’re making them hurt more because you look like shit?’

Seb stares at his friend, supposedly his best friend, and wonders how the hell Eddy can’t see that he’s slowly dying.

Eddy bounces a box-fresh, bright-yellow ball, testing its springiness, before putting it in his pocket. ‘Whatever it means, I suppose what I’m getting at is – I hope you play as badly as you look. C’mon, let’s do it!’

Seb loses the first three games with Eddy breaking his serve easily, something he hasn’t been able to do for months. Seb feels like an out-of-control marionette doll, strings loose, clattering unsuccessfully after every ball. From the other side of the court, Eddy becomes quieter; he stops bouncing on his heels and after he wins the third game without breaking a sweat, he calls out to Seb, ‘Right, that’s it.’ Eddy waves his new racquet. ‘Break.’

Seb gladly obliges, walks slowly back towards the bench and takes a swig of water.

‘Shit, mate. I’m sorry I forgot; Anna said you had a migraine this week. That explains your rubbish play …’ Seb looks at Eddy, his face full of worry suddenly, and he starts laughing quietly because it’s just so absurd that Eddy thinks Seb’s falling apart because he had a headache. It hurts his throat, his chest, his heart to laugh but he does it anyway; he wraps his arms around himself and convulses with joyless laughter. Eddy stands opposite, frowning, a little scared. And then Eddy does the only thing Seb needs of him right now: he steps closer, so their chests beat side by side, and he opens his arms, pulling Seb towards him.

Held at last, Seb’s shaking doesn’t stop; in just a few short breaths it turns into sobs. He hasn’t ever cried like this before, rattling with shame from an unknown place within him, a place where previously he thought he was just bone, tissue and blood. He couldn’t hold back even if he tried and Eddy takes it all. Even when Seb stills a little, Eddy keeps his body strong, braced for another wave which comes again and again until at last he’s empty and a new stillness, heavy and sad, fills his chest. He keeps his eyes half closed as he pulls away, sinking to the tarmac. Eddy steadies Seb first and then comes to sit next to him as he slowly opens his eyes fully, wincing against the court floodlights, Eddy’s unusually calm face coming into gradual focus.

They sit in silence, breathing together, until Seb takes a longer, deeper breath on his own and says the words Eddy’s said to him many times before: ‘I’ve really fucked up.’

Seb rolls his lips together, between his teeth, unsure of the words but unable to stop them.

‘I cheated. On Rosie.’

Eddy’s eyes are soft, his gaze gentle. He knows this territory. ‘You had sex with someone else?’

Seb nods, feels the tears start to roll again. ‘We hadn’t – Rosie and I – we hadn’t had sex in so long. We kept arguing about it, I tried to make things better but no matter what I …’ Seb shakes his head, swats the tears from his eyes. ‘It’s been a year now, but even back then I was …’

‘A year!’

Seb feels a shift in Eddy, like Eddy is coming back from wherever they just journeyed together.

Now he’s started, Seb can’t stop; he has to get the words out of his body. His voice is quiet but calm as he says, ‘Eddy, I …’

‘Tell me, mate.’ Eddy’s eyes are wide, ready.

‘I found her online.’

Eddy stumbles and asks, ‘Were you drunk?’

‘No, I … We met in the day.’

‘You planned it?’

Something in Eddy’s tone pulls Seb back.

‘How many times did you do it?’ Eddy is needy, wanting the facts fast before Seb changes his mind and clams up.

‘Twice, only twice, a few months ago.’

‘Ah. OK.’

Seb watches as Eddy battles to keep his expression neutral.

‘Are you going to tell Rosie?’

‘No. No, definitely not.’

Eddy’s forehead lifts in surprise.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Mate, I’m not looking at you like …’ Eddy starts defensively, but then changes course, saying more gently, ‘It’s just a lot to take in, that’s all. So this happened a little while ago?’

Seb glances at the sky. He’s come this far and, besides, this whole thing has only become a big issue since he came home and found her in his fucking house.

‘She, um, the woman, she turned up …’

But Seb’s talking too slowly for Eddy, who asks loudly, ‘Turned up where, mate?’

Seb looks at Eddy, his face frozen, greedy for whatever bombshell is next. Seb realizes that Eddy is only impatient for the explosion; he doesn’t care what damage it may cause. Seb had thought, with Eddy’s arms around him, when their breath felt like the same breath, that he’d tell Eddy everything. That he’d chosen her from hundreds of profiles, that she’d moved to Waverly, that he’d come back with a takeaway to find her drinking wine with his wife. But now he knows it’s not safe. It’s not safe to tell Eddy any more, so when Seb rolls on to his knee to stand, dusting grit from his legs, Eddy follows his lead and says, ‘What were you going to say, Seb – where did she turn up?’

‘It was just a message, that was all, a text she sent. I’ve blocked her number. I won’t ever see her again, I can promise you that.’

Eddy looks numbly at Seb, disappointed, like he knows he’s being lied to.

‘Look, mate, I’m sorry to lay all this on you. I’ve been stressed, with the new job, tensions at home. I suppose it just got too much.’

Eddy nods. ‘Are you going to find someone else?’

‘No!’ Seb shakes his head, appalled. ‘No. I don’t want anyone else; I’ve only ever wanted Rosie. I want to fix my marriage.’

He should never have told Eddy; it was a mistake, a huge mistake. He’d thought he’d feel better for sharing, that his brotherly camaraderie with Eddy would relieve some guilt, but Eddy’s clumsiness has only made him feel grubbier than ever. Thank God he didn’t tell him everything.

Eddy looks like he’s about to ask another question but thinks better of it and shuts his mouth.

Seb looks towards the tennis club building. They usually play until they’re kicked off by the next booking, but even though no one’s walking towards them, swinging racquets, he says, ‘We’re probably running out of time.’

Eddy nods; he wants this to be over, too.

‘Eddy, I can trust you, can’t I? With what I’ve just shared.’

‘Of course you can, mate, of course.’ But Eddy can’t quite meet Seb’s eye as he says, ‘Listen, Seb, trust me on this one. You’ve got to tell Rosie.’

Now Seb’s shaking his head; he needs Eddy to shut up. Eddy doesn’t understand, doesn’t know the real reason why he can never tell Rosie, but Eddy keeps talking, ignoring Seb. ‘The only thing that convinced Anna to give me another chance was the fact that I came clean, that I told her as soon as I walked through the front door. I told her. Really. It’s a way of showing respect, proving you want to work on your marriage.’

You fucking hero, Eddy, Seb thinks cruelly, but he keeps his voice gentle as he says out loud, ‘Good advice, mate, thank you.’

Eddy cups his palm around Seb’s shoulder. ‘You’re my best friend, Seb, always have been. I only want to help. You know you can trust me, don’t you?’

Seb nods without saying anything and Eddy pats him on the back. Seb has to resist the urge to shrug his warm palm off him.

‘You’ll tell her, right?’ Eddy asks and Seb still doesn’t need to say anything, just nods before he starts to pack their balls and racquets away in silence and they walk side by side back towards the pavilion. Usually, at the end of a game, Eddy opens his arms to commiserate or to congratulate Seb, but tonight he looks unsure. Instead, he holds Seb’s upper arm. ‘Well done for telling me, mate, and good luck with Rosie. Call me anytime, yeah?’

Seb slings his tennis bag over his shoulder and starts walking home, the night closing in around him. He has the urge to keep walking, to never stop, to walk until his body – his stupid, needy, traitorous body – dissolves into the human sludge it really is. A car passes him, the driver waving, and even though he doesn’t know who it is, he automatically waves back, because it’ll be a parent or one of his mum’s friends, someone he’s known for years. As he walks, he feels like he’s carrying all the people he loves on his shoulders. They’re all stacked in a precarious pyramid with Seb wobbling and straining at the bottom, trying to keep them all up. But tonight, by telling Eddy, he’s started to tremble under the weight, and Seb knows he’s not strong enough to keep them all from falling.