coveting. I’d been over the moon.
In contrast, he hadn’t gone through with his audition in the end. Being as tone deaf as he was, it was probably a blessing. I’d never been a Brando fan, but even his version of ‘Luck Be a Lady’ was far superior to the adaptation Justin had mumbled under his breath as he sat next to me that day. At least Marlon got the words in the right order.
I later found out that the only reason Justin had planned to audition at all was to spend time with me. That was a relief on two counts – firstly that he’d considered getting up and making a twat of himself in front of half the school proved he was serious about our fledgling relationship; and secondly because it showed he wasn’t one of those deluded people who can’t hold a tune for toffee but secretly thinks they’re going to win the next series of the Saturday night talent show on TV.
Ever since that audition day we’d been together; through the stressful last term of school, into sixth-form college and sharing the first five years of our twenties. Things had become increasingly serious, the single drawer of ‘essentials’ that Justin had in my cosy bedroom at the house Issy and I shared on Cardigan Close had, over time, turned into a whole chest of drawers. Justin had practically been a fixture or fitting himself; as much a part of the furniture as the sofa that took up half the lounge, or the comfy armchair in the corner of my bedroom which I refuse to get rid of despite the threadbare material on the armrests (much to my housemate Issy’s chagrin).
He was my other half, the love of my life, and that’s why I’d steeled myself up to pop the vital question. I couldn’t envisage a future in which we weren’t together.
Justin and Monique.
Monique and Justin.
We were meant to be. I knew it.
As we’d left the house that evening, hurrying out onto the cobblestoned street and into the dome-roofed Hackney cab that took us to the city centre, I remember thinking it would be a night to remember for all the right reasons. But I was wrong. Boy, was I wrong.
We had tickets to see a show at City Hall, a touring production of Wicked. I knew nothing about it other than it was linked with The Wizard of Oz, but I’d fallen head over heels in love with the song ‘Defying Gravity’ and was desperate to see it performed live. Justin hadn’t been as keen, but then he only ever came to the theatre because he knew I loved it. Dramatic numbers weren’t really his bag, but that night, in particular, he seemed out of sorts, tetchy almost. I’d stupidly put it down to him being tired after a long week at work, that and the fact he’d rather be watching the darts on the telly with a pint in his hand. Just as I was nuts over musicals, he was obsessed with sport. It didn’t matter if it was the Golf Masters or the Cricket World Cup, if it was a major sporting event Justin would be glued to the screen, willing on his chosen team.
I’d convinced myself he’d come round as the night went on. After all, I’d got a plan to stick to. We’d walk through town, the Sheffield Christmas lights strung out along Barker’s Pool hanging underwhelmingly over our heads as we made our way towards the enormous (yet sparsely lit) Christmas tree in front of the imposing Victorian town hall. From there we’d stroll arm in arm to the Peace Gardens, a popular meeting point in the centre of town, where we’d giggle fondly as we reminisced about how far we’d come since sharing our first kiss there one balmy Saturday afternoon, back when we were fifteen and free from care.
In my mind it’d been wonderfully romantic, like something from a black-and-white film. The fountains and cascades would be on and the fairy lights wrapped around the spindly trees would make a stunning and dreamy backdrop for my proposal. In my mind it was going to be magical. In my mind it was going to be perfect.
In reality, the evening itself had been nice enough. Therein lay the warning, I suppose. Nice enough isn’t magical. Nice enough isn’t perfect.
We’d gone for drinks at one of the upmarket bars in town, Justin opting for his usual beer whilst I’d splashed out on a Manhattan. I’d used the excuse that it was to celebrate reaching the end of term without collapsing in a heap with the other teaching assistants amidst the rush of Christmas parties and visits from ‘Santa’ (who was actually Mr Thomas, the headmistress’s husband), when really the alcohol was Dutch courage, pure and simple. I’d been turning the question over in my mind; it had taken all my efforts not to blurt it out before heading to the show.
Wicked had been brilliant, a glorious spectacle of a musical, and the cast had us captivated as they belted out the amazing show tunes. The wannabe performer in me wished I wasn’t sitting in the plush gold velour seat – how I longed to be up on that stage, the glaring white spotlight shining on me just as it had on a much smaller scale in that school hall during Guys and Dolls! Musicals have the power to transport me to another world, whisking me away from my mundane life. But as soon as the house lights came up in the auditorium a nervous niggle had started gnawing away at me. No matter how hard I’d tried to push it to the back of my mind, I hadn’t been able to shake it off.
I felt cold to the core as we walked down the venue’s sweeping stone steps and it wasn’t just the December chill clawing away at my skin. It was something worse. Justin seemed as though he was holding back, his face hidden under the fur trim of his parka. His hand was loose around mine. He was distant. Barely there.
The rows of festive decorations strung out before us, a twinkling ladder across the sky. It was the only part of the image I correctly predicted, and we silently sauntered through the streets whilst revellers enjoying five-too-many ‘Mad Friday’ beers fist-pumped the air as they sang along to Slade’s Christmas classic ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’ at the top of their lungs. Looking back, we’d been the odd ones out, Justin and I, sober in both body and spirit.
We reached the fountain, although it wasn’t turned on because of the gusty weather, and sat near by. All the while Justin looked awkward. Fidgety. On edge. He took a deep breath, a visible cloud appearing from his mouth as he exhaled.
I swallowed uneasily. Something was up.
‘I wanted to speak to you,’ he’d said finally. He had this funny lop-sided grin plastered on his face, unfamiliar even though I’d been swooning at his smiles for a decade. He looked different, somehow, and for one brief moment I’d laughed, convinced he was building up to asking the same question I’d been preparing to ask him.
My stomach lurched with hopeful anticipation and I wondered if he might produce a ring. At the time, it had seemed entirely possible he might, but looking back everything about that night made me feel foolish.
I’d been dreaming. Only momentarily, but a lot can happen in a moment. I’d even wondered whether the hypothetical, mythical ring would be a square-cut solitaire like the one I’d saved in the favourites folder on my laptop, or an antique he’d picked up from one of the quirky antique shops on London Road or Sharrow Vale. Justin knew how I adored anything vintage.
Seconds later my world crashed down around me. I was dizzy, stunned, confused, and all it took was three little words.
‘I’m going away.’
Justin had looked excitedly out at me from beneath the safety of his hood, the weird enormous grin peering out as he waited for my response.
I’d not understood what he meant at first; not known that those three words said it all.
‘What do you mean?’ I’d stumbled finally. I genuinely didn’t understand the statement.
He was going away, he’d said brightly, heading to America for a year to
