Miss Tara

Chapter four

September

The first time he calls, he is drunk.

She has trouble appreciating it at three o’clock in the morning, standing in her slippers in her ice-cold apartment, knowing very well she could be sleeping. It has been months since their awkward sex-encounter, so when his number shows up on the screen, she is afraid to answer it more than anything. 

“Hello?” 

“’ELLO MISS TARA!” 

“Fabian, you called! It’s a bit late, though?”

“LATE? IT’S EARLY, MY LOVE!”

“Oh, so it’s with that hat on?”

“HAT? I’M WEARING BOXERS AND NOTHING ELSE; DRINKING OLD WHISKEY - “

“Charming.”

“YOU SHOULD COME –“

“Fabian, as much as I love whiskey and naked guys, that miiight not be the best –“

“COME ON TARA, WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU LET LOOSE? WE’RE OUT OF SCHOOL, SHITE, WE’RE – WE’RE –“

Tara does not hear what else they are, because Fabian begins talking to someone on his end, the high-pitched voice resounding through the phone. A few minutes later, the line is cut off. 

She stands there, for some minutes, twirling the cord between her fingers as she listens to the silence, suddenly missing him, suddenly wishing that he were standing inside her kitchen, off his face, wearing boxers and his dark blue blazer, staring – gawking – breathing very hard as he laughs, Tara, Tara, Tara. 

London’s never felt lonelier.

2000

June

“You couldn’t just magically hex it up there instead?” Fabiann puffs behind the green sofa as they slowly climb the stairs. 

“And what would the fun be in that?”

“Well, I wouldn’t be having a heart attack for one –“

“That’ll teach you to stop with those fags - ” 

Fabian rolls his eyes at her, beet red in his face as they take another set of stairs. He grumbles darkly and Tara picks out stubborn and rubbish, and she makes an effort at hiding her smile.

“Next time I decide what we’re going to do,” Fabian grunts as they step across her doormat.

“And end up at one of those so-called clubs again? I think not.” 

“Hey! I didn’t know that girl was going to think you had the hots for her –“

“No, but you didn’t exactly help, now did you?”

“Well. I just figured that –“

“You just figured you’d take the mickey –“

“She was hot –“

“God, Fabian, you’re such a guy –“

“I think we established that a year ago – three times, mind you –“ 

She meets his eyes across the couch, slightly annoyed, then again slightly amused which is the combination she often finds herself in whenever Fabian Greenwood is around. His eyes are dancing with mirth, trying without success to stop a smile from spreading across his face. 

Their friendship has blossomed in the past year, so much that he is now one of the only people she feels close to anymore. Moving into a new apartment (again) in the middle of a big city is something she has always feared, but with him by her side with his stupid Scottish drawl and pervy jokes, it suddenly doesn’t feel nearly as lonely.

“You getting a bit frisky, love? Those rosy bits tingling a wee bit?” His smile spreads even wider as he wiggles his eyebrows at her suggestively. Ridiculous man.

“You look like a stupid cat when you’re smiling like that –“

“A mighty handsome cat it must be –“

“You’re impossible.”

He grins, “Oh no, love. I think we’ve established that I’m all too possible.”

She shoves the couch against his gut, her stern frown not quite masking the smile spreading across her face. Idiot.

(This is how she will remember him).

2004

June

They will take turns in calling. The ever present sense that they should somehow have begun with the rest of their lives is still foreboding and yet at twenty-one, they cannot seem to master wariness very well.

Tara is working at the local fish and chips store, selling food for money she saves for that rainy day. 

Fabia n is procrastinating. While drinking. (He is Scottish, isn’t he?) Football’s fucked, his life’s fucked, the girls are fucked. Surrender to this.

--

June

There is a bottle between them. Two glasses placed on the table, both filled to the brim with a golden liquid. Finally, they have succumbed to melancholia. Her apartment smells of pizza and disappointment and yet they are sitting on the floor, toasting to life – the future. (There is still hope.) 

“You’re sexxxxy, Tara,” Fabian slurs at her, his lips turning slightly, “you know, in that sassy, nerdy kind of way -”

He reaches for her hand and rolls his thumb against the back of her hand then. It is not a grand gesture, but it is something. Tara peeks at him,

“We’re drunk,” she informs him cleverly. 

Fabian ignores this, inching across the floor, coming face to face with her. He likes to call this a friendship, which it is, but there has always been a beyond aspect to it all. (Read: Sexual tension). He doesn’t exactly know what it is, but he is going to figure it out. Soon.

“Really? Again?” Tara’s voice is low and breathy. He ignores this, too.  

There are the drunken phone calls of course, and the forced trips to museums that Tara always drags him along to. But there is a reason why they haven’t lost contact like all his other school-friends have. He just doesn’t know what makes Tara Smith all that different.

“You’re kind of special, Tara in the sky with diamonds –“ 

She raises an eyebrow, “Gee, thanks, Mr Football Captain.” 

“Sod off, you know my career’s fucked. I’m serious –“ 

“Yeah, you’re always serious – you’re so freaking serious it bleeming annoys me –“

“Tara –“

It will always be about drunken confessions and shady comments, and just as he cups her cheek, rubbing his thumb across her lower lip, he wonders if she will remain. Tara’s eyes are very large and round, the press of her warm breath hitting his face softly. She is never a stranger but he misses her all the same, and he feels slightly at a loss as he stares at her hazel eyes. It is all about choices and chances, finding the motivation and grasping the moment. Fabian has never been great with grand gestures.

He thinks about mentioning his father, explaining it all – all the jokes, the shitty behaviour, his good for nothing attitude. How a person can crumble, how the fear eats him up. The image of his crazy mother, dancing in fields of sunflowers. How there are different kinds of crazy. There are things he could say: sorry, bastard, you’re better off, thank you. But the words catch at the back of his throat and Tara just smiles at him.Fabiann understands that he is pretty lucky, though he is losing the moment, Tara’s hand's suffocating his palm, their breaths matching. He has never been good with words, thinks he might want to become good with words, to try harder, and – 

Her lips purse to define an instance: “You’re a good man, Fabian.”

It will always come down to this.