Page 21 of The Night Shift
‘If you say so.’ Dev gave her a knowing look as he ladled out another portion of rice onto her plate.
Violet pursed her lips– she could never get anything past Dev. He had been in her life for such a long time, ever since that first day in student halls when he’d burst through her door demanding that she befriend him immediately because his flat was entirely occupied by ‘enormous hulking blokes’ who had evidently all been to the same school as each other and whose only means of communication seemed to be wrestling and grunting in an ‘ostentatiously hetero’ manner. ‘And they’re all wearing salmon-coloured chino shorts and deck shoes,’ Dev had said in horror. ‘Every single one of them. Like it’s a cult. Save me from them, Violet, otherwise my student life is going to be a living hell.’
So Violet had become Dev’s safe harbour in the storm of performative masculinity and in return he had been the staunchest, most loyal of allies a girl could hope for. They had been inseparable ever since and Dev knew exactly what made Violet tick. He knew that she rarely let her guard down, he knew she was prickly and antagonistic and that it took someone special to pierce her armour. As a result, he was annoyingly alert to the merest suggestion of her interest in a man. And for Violet to have admitted that she enjoyed spending time with Gus as opposed to simply ogling his body, she would also have to concede that she was getting herself into a hopeless situation. Because not only was he well and truly ‘off the market’ as Anjali had pointed out, he was also nothing like the type of guy she usually went for.
Even if Gus had been single, he was way out of her league, and she’d made that mistake once before, many years ago, with the notorious high-school lothario and all-round loveable rogue, Josh Riverton. She’d been flattered by the attentions of the boy all the other sixth-form girls wanted, taking him at face value despite her initial reservations. Of course, she’d been much younger then– a particular brand of gullible gawky teen, one who struggled to make friends and found navigating the complex world of adolescent social interaction utterly baffling. And she’d desperately wanted to believe it was true– the idea that he was genuinely interested in her as a person, that someone like Josh could actually want to spend time with someone like her. As a result, she’d willed herself into a delusion, ignored her instincts, and assumed that because she was honest with people, they would automatically extend her the same courtesy.
When Josh had first approached her in their final year of A-levels she’d heard the other girls in class whispering and giggling to themselves, of course she had. And she’d been on her guard. She knew that this type of laughter was the nasty, exclusive variety. She’d heard it before, when these same girls extended the hand of friendship only to snap it back again with no explanation. But Josh’s question about whether the seat was taken had seemed innocent enough– a genuine query. And she had been able to answer honestly, stammering out a response that no, the seat next to her wasn’t taken. It was free. It was always free. For the rest of the lesson his presence beside her at the front of the class had given her a warm glow, a feeling of protection and a barrier against the hostile laughter in the seats behind her. And as he had paid her more attention– asking to sit with her in the cafeteria at lunch; inviting her to the cinema, just the two of them; telling her she looked beautiful; asking politely if he could kiss her– she had felt herself opening up, unfurling like the tight sticky buds on the magnolia tree outside her house as they offered their delicate petals to the sun.
She still felt, even now, that Josh had genuinely liked her, for a short period at least. Nobody was that good at pretending– and why would he have bothered? She knew that objectively she was pretty, and she understood on some complicated level that her isolation, and the awkwardness that made her so isolated, also made her an object of interest– something intriguing even– in the same way that any freak drew the attention of a crowd, even when that freak just wanted to be left alone to get on with things in her own way. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t have any other friends. She did. It was just that her friends were nothing like Josh Riverton, which in a way made him as freakishly interesting to her as she was to him.
Josh had definitely gained something from being with her, in addition to the fairly remedial help with his homework and revision timetable. She had made him laugh– sometimes she wasn’t sure whether it was at her or with her, but he was objectively happier around her. And when they started sleeping together she could make him do all sorts of things– much more interesting that simply provoking him to laughter– the power of it made her a little crazy. He hadn’t tricked her or forced her into anything. She understood the biology of their interaction, knew about the science of evolution and why desire was necessary to propagate the human species. She’d read about pheromones and serotonin, she knew about oxytocin and the effect it had on the body. And she studied those physical effects with interest as they manifested in Josh Riverton. She noted how he was kinder and more attentive when he thought she’d have sex with him, observed that his attention flagged in the immediate postcoital phase, and saw that he didn’t really want to spend any time worrying about her physical pleasure at all– as if his mere presence in her bed should suffice. She didn’t mind. She liked having sex. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It didn’t hurt. It was a bit like any sort of exercise: warm, sweaty and pleasantly fatiguing. And she could always attend to her own needs afterwards.
The problem came (or perhapsdidn’t comewould be a more accurate description) when she realised too late that her ambivalence was yet another one of those things she was supposed to hide. That her role in this biological transaction was not simply to act as the stimulus and receptacle for Josh’s lusty devotions, but that she was also dutybound to make him feel like an exceptionally gifted lover in the process. She should fake a level of enjoyment over and above the basic ‘it’s not too bad’. Some acting was expected, an element of performative response she couldn’t master, and here it seemed was yet another requirement of normal social behaviour and interaction that had eluded her. Another bloody thing to fail at.
When he rolled off her that fateful afternoon leaving the usual sticky evidence of completion behind him, he asked, as an afterthought really, whether it had been ‘good for her’. Violet, as always, took the question at face value and answered honestly.
‘It was okay,’ she said. ‘Much the same as always– you know– perfectly fine.’
Josh rolled back towards her, propping himself up on an elbow. ‘Perfectly fine?’ he said. ‘Jeez, Violet– way to make a guy feel good about himself.’
She lay there for a moment, confused by his tone, trying to read his expression. He was cross. She’d said the wrong thing.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, not entirely sure what she was apologising for.
He returned to lying flat on his back, staring up at the peeling ceiling of his bedroom. ‘It’s not my fault you can’t come,’ he said, his voice still tight with some emotion she couldn’t quite fathom.
Something stopped her correcting him– after all, shecouldcome, just not with him; she sensed that her opinion would not be helpful at this point. She’d already made a mistake and this was familiar territory– best to stay silent. Instead she rested her hand on his shoulder a little awkwardly, hoping that this would convey an appropriate level of contrition, even though the angle made her wrist hurt.
‘You’re probably just frigid,’ he said eventually, shrugging her apologetic hand off his body. ‘That’s how it is with some girls.’ He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled up his jeans. ‘You’d better go,’ he said. ‘I’ve got work tonight.’
She nodded mutely and started to pull on her clothes, aware of a leaden feeling in her stomach, a knot of anxiety forming beneath her sternum. As she pulled the front door closed behind her she knew that something wasn’t right. Josh wouldn’t normally walk her home– in fact, he’d never walked her home– but he would usually kiss her before she left, say something nice about her hair or tell her he’d see her around. This time he hadn’t even bothered to come downstairs. It all felt a bit ominous.
The next week when she saw him at school, he was surrounded by the same gaggle of girls he’d been with at the start of term. The whispering, giggling ones. He moved his seat to the back of the class to be with them. And words began to drift through the ether of the cafeteria, circling in the bus queue, echoing through the halls as Violet made her way to lessons– words like weird, strange, cold, frigid. Those words hurt her feelings but their circulation didn’t surprise her. People had always formed opinions about her behaviour and often those opinions were completely wrong. She was used to it. And maybe shewasfrigid– Josh was much more practised in the bedroom arts than she was, and although experience didn’t necessarily equate with expertise, Violet knew that the more data one gathered, the stronger an evidence base it formed– this was an area where Josh’s accumulated knowledge was greater than hers and therefore, he was probably right. The reaction of the other girls didn’t surprise her either. She understood jealousy and could see that they had perceived her as a threat, one that was all the more dangerous for being so unknowable. Equally she knew they were glad Josh had returned to his own natural tribe. Their meanness didn’t last long, not once their prize was secure. And she didn’t miss Josh particularly. She hadn’t been in love with him– she wasn’t really sure she was capable of being in love in the conventionalhearts and flowersway she’d read about.
No, the thing that really bothered her about the whole experience was the way that Josh had been able to turn the charm on and so quickly turn it off again– like a tap of appealing behaviour. For someone who had to work so hard to be understood it came as a shock to discover that other people, particularly handsome boys like Josh, were able to just flip a switch for a reliable source of fake empathy, concern, sincerity or light-hearted banter– whatever was required for the social situation– and then once they were done they could simply switch it off again. Violet tried to ignore the hurt and note his behaviour with a detached level of scientific interest. She watched Josh use his charms on other people, not just girls, but teachers, parents, people he wanted to ingratiate himself with. She made a note of it, his technique, his expressions and phrasing, all the time wondering whether this was a singular experience, whether Josh was simply an exception.
Later, when she started medical school, she tried to remain open-minded. She wasn’t going to assume all boys behaved in this fashion– suspicions were no substitute for evidence. But after a couple of bruising encounters with similarly handsome yet superficial men her initial hypothesis was confirmed. Finn O’Shea with his twinkling blue eyes and undeniable gift of the gab had taken a shine to her in the first month of term but it turned out that he’d also taken a shine to four other girls at the same time. And when she found out Jack Stafford was only chatting her up because the rest of the rugby team had a sweepstake on how quickly he could get her into bed, her resolve had hardened. There was a definite pattern with these attractive men– they knew how to flatter and persuade, how to make themselves appealing, and yet, ultimately, they always proved themselves to be shallow and fickle. All cock and no trousers, was how Dev described them, these flashy boys (although Dev seemed incapable of resisting their charms and had ended up involved in an enthusiastic but unfulfilling fumble with Finn O’Shea himself, in spite, or perhaps because of, Violet’s cautionary tale).
But Violet was smarter than that. She knew if she wanted to protect herself against this particular brand of magic she needed a structured set of rules to follow. A checklist. And as with all rules, simplicity and expedience was key– the more concise, the easier to remember and follow. Handsome was bad, charming was bad, handsome and charming was an outright no. That basic rule had stood her in good stead. It didn’t allow for variance, she conceded, there was no room for those statistical anomalies that didn’t fit the formula. But she could live with that. She sought brief flings with reasonably attractive and moderately interesting men. Men who were a bit socially awkward and weren’t after a relationship. She didn’t want to have to work hard at understanding someone’s motivations, finding out what made them tick, interpreting their little quirks– and she couldn’t be bothered with trying to make them understand her. It was easier for all concerned if she was honest at the outset and most men quite liked the simplicity of a no-strings situation. As Dev had once observed, sex with a pretty girl who didn’t want commitment seemed to be the holy grail for a lot of straight guys. And it worked for her. As long as she stuck to her rule.
Gus was handsome and he was charming. Yes, she enjoyed spending time with him, and yes, she thought she probably trusted him– he’d already helped her out with a couple of difficult situations and she respected him professionally. But the fact that she felt a little breathless in his company, the fact that she blushed when he entered a room, those were warning signs. She mustn’t lose sight of the fact that Gus was already taken and also against the rules. Thankfully the logical part of her brain reminded her that after this block of night shifts their work patterns would be unlikely to coincide. The hospital was vast and employed thousands of staff, and at the end of the month she would rotate to another placement anyway while he carried on with his anaesthetics job and his almost-married life. Once this week of nights was over, she would likely never see him again and the temptation to break her own rules would disappear along with his handsome face.
Gus
Gus had left work slightly later than Violet but his flat was just down the road from the hospital and it barely took him five minutes to walk home. Amelia had been keen on the central location and their apartment occupied the fourth floor of a large modern block with residents’ parking and an underground gym. The noise and urban hustle and bustle hadn’t bothered Gus when they’d been shown around by the letting agent last year– the apartment was luxuriously furnished and well-insulated from the volume of road and human traffic outside– but he had been slightly disconcerted to discover that he was able to see the roof of his workplace from their kitchen window, and if he was really honest with himself, he preferred the cosier character of the houses belonging to some of his friends who lived further afield in Redland and Cotham. Still, Amelia immediately fell in love with it; the panoramic views of the cityscape, the proximity to the bars and restaurants, and as she had pointed out to him, it did make his commute much more straightforward. Unsurprisingly Amelia got her way, and Gus didn’t really mind. He was happy as long as she was happy. Although, as it turned out, she clearly hadn’t been as happy as he’d thought.
The front door thudded to a close and he surveyed the scene in front of him with tired eyes. It looked much as it had done when he’d left it the previous evening. Evidence of yesterday’s microwaved Christmas dinner and the takeaway curry from the night before had piled up in the sink and he wrinkled his nose as he loaded the dishwasher. He shouldn’t have left it looking like this, like a messy bachelor pad. Amelia would probably be horrified to see the flat in this state. He caught himself quickly. He and Amelia were separated. She definitely wouldn’t be returning to complain about the mess in the kitchen, or anything else for that matter. The logical part of his brain knew this, understood that she wasn’t coming back, but there was always a tiny flicker of irrational hope– a flicker that had sustained itself on denial for so long that he wondered if it would ever go out.
To be fair, Amelia had never been much of a complainer when they’d been together. At least, not until the end. All of her angst and resentment had been hidden deep beneath complicated layers of an outwardly sunny disposition, impenetrable to mere mortals such as himself. Her grievances, whether big or small, were only brought out for a public airing when she’d had too much to drink. Most of the time they festered and stewed inside her, building to gargantuan proportions, whereas if they’d been dealt with in the moment they could likely have been resolved with minimal fuss. He didn’t blame her for it exactly, it was just the way she was, but this trait of hers left him with a perpetual feeling of anxiety, a constant fear that he was upsetting her without realising. Trying to interpret little huffs of disappointment or frown lines of disapproval, tiptoeing around her unexpressed opinions, second-guessing her likes and dislikes, to be honest it had been exhausting.
He recalled an incident where he’d bought a dress for Amelia’s birthday, wanting to do something nice, wanting to please her. It was expensive, as close to designer as his NHS salary could manage, but as she peeled away the tissue paper and ribbon, he instantly knew she hated it, something about the set of her mouth– he’d become quite the expert by this stage. And so, he asked her outright, said he could see she didn’t like it, told her they could take it back, no problem. But she’d smiled tightly, insisted it was fine. It was months later that he got the full backlash; the dress made her look fat, of course it did. The very fact that he’d bought it for her indicated that he wanted her to lose weight. And the cut of the fabric, the pattern, it was intended for someone much younger, prettier, taller– whatever– it was all wrong. He got the same reaction when he bought her books: Did he think she needed to improve her mind? Did he think she wasn’t intellectual enough for him? Never said at the time of course, only weeks after the event.
It got to the point where he simply took the path of least resistance and gave up. He let Amelia make all the decisions because it was so much easier than choosing a course of action himself and finding out weeks later that it had been the wrong one (not just wrong– awful). It was why he’d never mentioned looking for a different house. If he’d suggested that they continued their search once they’d found this flat then she’d have discreetly resented every little trip to the letting agents, every subsequent property viewing. They’d have lost the flat to different tenants, missed the opportunity to live in the city centre, and he'd have been blamed for it. Not overtly, Amelia wasn’t prone to direct accusation, she preferred a more insidious approach. Little hints would have been dropped over a period of weeks, comments that would have made him uneasy in a way he couldn’t specify. She’d have pointed out every tiny flaw in whichever property they ended up renting, constantly comparing it to this one perfect flat, wishing aloud that she had stuck to her guns– the implication being that he’d forced her to give up on her dream. It simply wasn’t worth the aggravation.
Who knows how long he would have existed in this suspended state of paralysed indecision if Amelia herself hadn’t made the biggest decision of all– to end the relationship, citing, amongst other things, Gus’s inability to stand his ground and his pathological avoidance of conflict. He hadn’t even managed to dothathimself, he reflected with a rueful smile as he poured himself a bowl of Coco Pops and settled on the sofa to watch an episode ofStranger Things– both activities that would have been subtly frowned upon if he’d still been with her. Maybe there were some advantages to being single after all.
Once he had finished his cereal and a side helping of Christmas pudding he made his way to the spare bedroom. This was always the room he chose for sleeping between night shifts. It was small and tucked away in the corner of the flat with narrower north-facing windows which reduced the natural light significantly. In fact, most people would have considered this the gloomiest, pokiest room in the apartment, the rest of the living space being so open and airy and light. But for daytime sleeping this little nook was perfect and he could also stay out of Amelia’s way when she was working from home. Another thing that was no longer remotely relevant.
