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Authors: Adele Parks
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new – hang on, I’ll play it for you.’ Greg jumped up and went back through to the sitting room to grab his saxophone. He stood his lit cigarette vertically on the dressing table.
Eliza simmered with irritation.
He started to play.
Fucking treacherous toe, tapping away as though she were enjoying his music. And her finger gently counting out the beat on her thigh. Heresy. So he looked good and sounded even better. Eliza had seen Greg perform on countless occasions. She always felt a thrill of pride that he made people stop and listen, that he had that power to entertain. And although she wished he didn’t smoke, she had to admit that the smoke looked beautiful reflected back from his eyes and the saxophone.
So?
It was so childish to feel his beat and want to follow him as though he were the Pied fucking Piper. Eliza was so angry with herself that all she wanted to do was storm out of the flat that very moment. She wanted to leave behind her the woeful, soulful notes that were trying to climb inside her brain.
‘I’m leaving you, Greg.’
Greg stopped playing. ‘What?’
‘I’m leaving you,’ Eliza repeated. She sounded more together than was actually the case. But then a thousand-piece jigsaw was more together than Eliza was.
‘Why?’ He felt as though she’d punched him. He put down the saxophone and crouched by Eliza.
‘This isn’t what I want,’ she said.
‘What isn’t?’ he asked, genuinely bemused.
‘This lifestyle. I feel’ – Eliza had been practising this speech all afternoon, but was suddenly stuck for words –‘I feel stifled.’
‘Stifled?’ Greg didn’t get it. Their life together was very creative. They often wrote lyrics together for his songs. Only the other evening they’d been bathing together and scribbled one on the bathroom wall. He’d thought that was so cool. They read together, and discussed books, gigs, gags, films and clothes. They had great, adventurous sex, and no one had that after four years. What did she mean, stifled? ‘What do you mean, stifled?’
‘I don’t think I’m all I could be. I want more.’
‘Well, what do you want?’ he asked reasonably. She probably didn’t mean she was leaving. She was probably being over dramatic. It didn’t sound like a dumping speech. But then he’d never been dumped before. His past chicks had always just been there and then not been there. It hadn’t been a big deal. But he hadn’t thought Eliza would ever not be there. Thinking about it now, he couldn’t imagine it. If he could, he knew it would be a really big deal.
‘It’s not you, it’s this lifestyle,’ Eliza tried to explain.
‘You’re not going out with a lifestyle.’
‘You can say that again,’ Eliza sighed. She hadn’t wanted to get into a big debate. She hadn’t imagined being questioned or made to explain herself, she hadn’t thought Greg had that sort of energy. ‘What’s chioca?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘It’s a root vegetable. It’s the type of ingredient that Martha uses when she’s cooking for dinner parties. We don’t even know what it is!’
‘Aren’t we well suited?’ Greg’s flip comment went down like a lead parachute. Eliza’s eyes blazed with anger but he honestly did not know what was making her so furious. ‘You’re dumping me because I don’t know about some spice or other?’ asked Greg, amazed.
‘It’s a vegetable , and yes… well, no, not exactly. We don’t have dinner parties,’ she declared.
‘Fran and Andy ate round here just the other night.’
‘A fish and chip supper without plates is not a dinner party.’ Eliza was surprised to hear she was shouting.
‘OK, OK, we’ll have plates next time.’
Eliza wasn’t placated. She stood up and hauled her case back on to the bed. Frantically, she crammed her clothes back inside. What was wrong with them? They seemed to have metamorphosed into tightly coiled springs. Everything she packed jumped straight out again. With
Eliza simmered with irritation.
He started to play.
Fucking treacherous toe, tapping away as though she were enjoying his music. And her finger gently counting out the beat on her thigh. Heresy. So he looked good and sounded even better. Eliza had seen Greg perform on countless occasions. She always felt a thrill of pride that he made people stop and listen, that he had that power to entertain. And although she wished he didn’t smoke, she had to admit that the smoke looked beautiful reflected back from his eyes and the saxophone.
So?
It was so childish to feel his beat and want to follow him as though he were the Pied fucking Piper. Eliza was so angry with herself that all she wanted to do was storm out of the flat that very moment. She wanted to leave behind her the woeful, soulful notes that were trying to climb inside her brain.
‘I’m leaving you, Greg.’
Greg stopped playing. ‘What?’
‘I’m leaving you,’ Eliza repeated. She sounded more together than was actually the case. But then a thousand-piece jigsaw was more together than Eliza was.
‘Why?’ He felt as though she’d punched him. He put down the saxophone and crouched by Eliza.
‘This isn’t what I want,’ she said.
‘What isn’t?’ he asked, genuinely bemused.
‘This lifestyle. I feel’ – Eliza had been practising this speech all afternoon, but was suddenly stuck for words –‘I feel stifled.’
‘Stifled?’ Greg didn’t get it. Their life together was very creative. They often wrote lyrics together for his songs. Only the other evening they’d been bathing together and scribbled one on the bathroom wall. He’d thought that was so cool. They read together, and discussed books, gigs, gags, films and clothes. They had great, adventurous sex, and no one had that after four years. What did she mean, stifled? ‘What do you mean, stifled?’
‘I don’t think I’m all I could be. I want more.’
‘Well, what do you want?’ he asked reasonably. She probably didn’t mean she was leaving. She was probably being over dramatic. It didn’t sound like a dumping speech. But then he’d never been dumped before. His past chicks had always just been there and then not been there. It hadn’t been a big deal. But he hadn’t thought Eliza would ever not be there. Thinking about it now, he couldn’t imagine it. If he could, he knew it would be a really big deal.
‘It’s not you, it’s this lifestyle,’ Eliza tried to explain.
‘You’re not going out with a lifestyle.’
‘You can say that again,’ Eliza sighed. She hadn’t wanted to get into a big debate. She hadn’t imagined being questioned or made to explain herself, she hadn’t thought Greg had that sort of energy. ‘What’s chioca?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘It’s a root vegetable. It’s the type of ingredient that Martha uses when she’s cooking for dinner parties. We don’t even know what it is!’
‘Aren’t we well suited?’ Greg’s flip comment went down like a lead parachute. Eliza’s eyes blazed with anger but he honestly did not know what was making her so furious. ‘You’re dumping me because I don’t know about some spice or other?’ asked Greg, amazed.
‘It’s a vegetable , and yes… well, no, not exactly. We don’t have dinner parties,’ she declared.
‘Fran and Andy ate round here just the other night.’
‘A fish and chip supper without plates is not a dinner party.’ Eliza was surprised to hear she was shouting.
‘OK, OK, we’ll have plates next time.’
Eliza wasn’t placated. She stood up and hauled her case back on to the bed. Frantically, she crammed her clothes back inside. What was wrong with them? They seemed to have metamorphosed into tightly coiled springs. Everything she packed jumped straight out again. With
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