Everything is Beautiful by Eleanor Ray (classic literature list .TXT) 📗

undid his flies and used the urinal anyway. She tried not to look.

‘People shouldn’t have been so rude,’ said Amy. ‘And the bottle. That’s assault.’

‘It barely touched me,’ said Tim. ‘And I’m pretty sure it was aimed at Simon.’

‘You sounded brilliant,’ said Amy, loyally.

‘They were rubbish,’ said the urinal man, zipping his flies and failing to wash his hands. ‘Total dog shit.’ The noise rose again as he opened the door, then faded.

‘Ignore him,’ said Amy, hearing a wail from the cubicle. She paused a moment. ‘I think it was just the microphone. It must have been faulty. Shall I go and talk to the manager?’

‘For god’s sake, no,’ said Tim. ‘Amy, stop telling me I’m great. I have ears. It drives me crazy when you try to wrap me in cotton wool like I’m a delicate little flower. Respect me enough to be honest, at least.’

‘But you’re so talented—’

‘Stop talking, Amy,’ said Tim, ‘and listen.’ He paused. ‘If we can’t be honest with each other . . . ’

His voice trailed off. Amy stood still. She felt as though she’d been punched in the gut. ‘You don’t mean that,’ she said.

The noise rose again and his answer was lost. Chantel appeared. ‘There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere.’ She glanced at the cubicle. ‘Is he in there?’

‘He won’t come out,’ said Amy. ‘I’ve been trying for ages.’

‘I’ve got half a bottle of tequila with your name on it, Timmy-boy,’ said Chantel. ‘So get out of this piss-drenched hole and come with me.’

The door opened and Tim stepped out. ‘Come on then,’ he said, head hanging.

‘Don’t you think you’ve had—’ began Amy.

‘No,’ said Tim. ‘You coming?’

‘No,’ said Amy. ‘I’ve had enough.’

Amy was curled up in bed. Wide awake. She glanced at her phone. Three a.m. She shifted her position, but it wasn’t the bed that was making her uncomfortable. It had been happening more and more recently. Tim drinking and smoking while Amy looked on nervously. She was annoying him. He was annoying her.

Perhaps it was over.

Amy took a sip from the glass of water next to the bed. It couldn’t be over. She loved him.

She closed her eyes, but it was just a performance for herself. She knew there’d be no sleep.

She listened to the pipes. Someone somewhere in the building had flushed the toilet.

The noises became jangly, and Amy realised that now someone was at the door. Simon and Tim both lived here, and she wished intently for it to be Tim coming home. And at the same time she didn’t. She closed her eyes, ready to feign sleep. She couldn’t face an argument. Not now.

The bedroom door opened and she couldn’t help but peek. Tim stumbled in the darkness.

‘Hello,’ said Amy, feeling a current of love overwhelm her as he bent down and gave her a kiss that smelt of smoke and tequila and something sweeter.

‘Come to bed,’ she said.

‘Chantel’s here,’ he told her, standing up again. ‘We’re just going to have a little smoke first. Maybe a nightcap. There’s some rum in the cupboard.’

‘Really?’ asked Amy. ‘It’s late.’

‘Just one,’ he replied. ‘About tonight . . . ’ he began. The sweet smell grew more intense and Amy felt something brush her face. ‘I wanted to buy you flowers,’ said Tim. ‘To say sorry. But everywhere was shut.’

‘It’s three in the morning,’ said Amy.

‘That would be why,’ said Tim. ‘So I picked you these.’

Amy took what he held out and flicked on the bedside lamp. Tim crinkled his eyes in the light and it took Amy a moment for her own eyes to adjust. She was holding several stems of honeysuckle, covered in elegant white flowers that made her think of ballerinas. She breathed in deeply, enjoying the scent.

‘I hope the neighbours don’t notice they’ve gone,’ said Tim.

‘They are beautiful,’ said Amy, feeling some of the stress of the night melt into the fragrance. ‘Thank you.’

‘I told you she’d like them.’ Amy saw Chantel’s figure in the doorway. ‘Hi Amy,’ she said. ‘Sorry for leading Tim astray.’

‘It doesn’t take much,’ said Amy. ‘But the flowers are lovely.’

Amy dreamed of her grandmother’s garden. Honeysuckle and roses and fresh lemonade. But when she woke up, the flat stank of rum and cigarettes and weed. Amy coughed as she entered the living room, partly from the fumes and partly to wake up Chantel and Tim, both fast asleep on the sofa, gently snoring. It didn’t work. One cigarette had turned into another party – albeit just for two. She knew it would.

Amy went into the kitchen to make herself a coffee, but the meagre collection of mugs had all been used for drinks the night before. Amy longed for a world where she could fill her kitchen cupboard with mugs. Beautiful mugs in all the colours of a sunset. But for now, she made her way back to the living room and grabbed the closest one. It smelled worse than just rum and Coke and Amy peered inside. The butts of cigarettes and joints floated in the drink like tampons in a toilet.

Amy put it back down and decided to buy a coffee on the way to the studio instead. She shared the studio with a collective of other artists, and this was her one chance of the week to get some painting done. But she wasn’t feeling inspired.

Tim was stirring but Chantel was still fast asleep. ‘It’s nice having her stay over, isn’t it?’ said Tim, his eyes opening. ‘Livens the place up. Any coffee going?’

‘There’s no coffee because you two have turned all the mugs into ashtrays,’ said Amy.

‘Really?’ said Tim. ‘I thought we just used the orange one.’ He leaned forwards and grabbed a blue mug. ‘Oh, and this one too,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

‘We can’t carry on living like this,’ said Amy.

Tim rubbed his head. ‘I’ll sort it,’ he said.

Chantel opened her eyes. ‘I can hear nagging,’ she said. ‘It had better be after ten a.m.’

‘It’s seven thirty,’ said Amy.

Both Tim and Chantel groaned. ‘No wonder I