My Legendary Girlfriend by Mike Gayle Page B

to let her cup overflow symbolically but I don’t. She says ‘When’ absent-mindedly, just as the wine reaches the edge of the glass. I pour myself one, our eyes meet, she raises her glass to her lips and is just about to sip when she says, ‘What am I doing?’ Her glass in the air, she says triumphantly: ‘Here’s to us! Here’s to love conquering all!’
    We clink glasses.
    We’re in the lounge again, back on the sofa. Two table lamps illuminate the room, creating a ‘relaxed’ atmosphere. There’s no music in the background, although it does cross my mind to put on something laid-back like Tori Amos or Kate Bush. We sit down and I light a cigarette, not because I want one, but because I want her to know that I now smoke. Things have changed. Things have moved on. I’m the same man she fell in love with and yet different.
    She tells me how dismal her life has been without me. How she gave up on her aspiration to be a social worker to work as an office junior in a firm of accountants. Recalling how her life lost direction after she dumped me, she sobs that she has felt adrift ever since. She even confides that despite her best efforts she has been unable to form a relationship with anyone new – ANYONE AT ALL . . . okay, one bloke, but she didn’t sleep with him . . . okay . . . there have been a few: Paul, Graham and Gordon but none of them understood her like I did, especially Gordon who had ginger hair and Paul who had taken her to see Chris Rea twice against her will. I hold back the information that I’ve been dallying with a few girls’ hearts, but she can see – Aggi can see them dancing in my eyes. And what she can also see is that I was over her the minute she told me it was over. Maybe even earlier.
    The phone rings. I ignore it. Aggi moves to answer it and I hold my hand up, signalling that whoever is calling is nowhere near as important as she is. The answering machine clicks on and a refined voice – not altogether dissimilar to that of Audrey Hepburn – says, ‘Hi, Will! It’s Abi here. I just wanted to have one of our late-night chats but you’re not in! What’s a gal to do? Oh well. What are you doing next Thursday? I’ve got tickets for the theatre. It’s Love’s Labour’s Lost. It’ll be wonderful. Do say you’ll come. We can have dinner at my place again afterwards. Ring me soon. Please! Bye!’
    Aggi and I sit in silence. She takes my hand and places it between her two. They look small and artistic, just the right length for piano playing and stroking my hair. Thankfully she has stopped biting her nails. The wine flows freely and we chat and laugh and flirt with each other avidly until the Moment arrives. I know it’s coming, I can see it a mile off. Once again, she slides herself closer to me, I feel the warmth of her chest pressing against mine, her eyes are closed, her faced turned towards me, her pale sensitive lips pursed to perfection and I prepare myself to relive all our kisses and . . . nothing. Nothing happens.
    1.17 A.M.
    The phone rang, denying me the opportunity to wallow in the depressing inadequacy of my imagination. I wondered who it could possibly be, but after a few seconds I made the decision to stop wondering, on the grounds that it was both pointless and stupid. I tried to argue back that neither of those reasons had ever stopped me before but I ignored myself and answered the phone.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘It’s only me.’
    It was Martina.
    I checked my watch, trying to gauge how outraged I should be. This late at night most normal people would either be a) not in b) fast asleep or c) having sex. As I wasn’t normal I wasn’t doing any of them – but I wasn’t going to miss out on a sterling opportunity to lose my rag, dump Martina and fill the yawning chasm of boredom stretching out in front of me. This was obviously some sort of gift from above – maybe I’d done something right today.
    ‘Martina,’ I began. ‘It’s nearly three in