[fic] alles was zaehlt { roman's spectacular checklist for finding his one true love
.roman's spectacular checklist for finding his one true love (prologue)
[roman. karlheinz. pg. 4364 words.]
notes; au from the pool-is-cool incident. major ♥ to team_fellowship for beta'ing.
warnings; none.
summary; it is a bad state of affairs when even Karlheinz doesn't believe it. Karlheinz believes everything. He reckons that wind chimes are all it takes to make the world a lovelier place.
You know those old-fashioned, grainy films where the troubled--and usually lovelorn--heroine cries beautifully and soundlessly, tears coursing down her perfect Estée Lauder foundation leaving nary a blemish? Yes? Makes you want to weep, doesn't it?
Roman doesn't cry like that--he howls. Like a wolf. A wolf who's been hit about the head with a cricket bat several times. And he goes bright red and blotchy around his neck and ears, and his eyes swell up as if they've been punched by Lennox Lewis. His nose generally contributes too, producing, on average, two buckets of dribble per second. Nice.
That's what he's doing right now. Howling. Why? Because Roman Wild has left his boyfriend, one Mr Deniz Öztürk, fully paid-up member of the Bastard species and all-round jerk. I can't say it was unexpected, we'd all seen the looks passing between the gangly teen and the youngest of the Steinkamp lot. Well, we'd all seen them except for Roman who was proving to be remarkably oblivious to such things. But we hadn't expected it to be so hard on Roman, not by a long shot. Credit where it's due, Deniz Öztürk really knows how to fuck a guy up.
At the tender age of twenty-four, you'd have thought he'd have the wherewithal to get it together by now, wouldn't you? But no, he hasn't. He's just slumped over me, dribbling all sorts of bodily fluids onto my shoulder (his tissue disintegrated a while ago, clearly having reached its Critical Snot Limit). This hysteria seems to have brought on a sudden bout of paralysis (or simply brought out his inherent laziness) and so, despite the box of tissues sat happily on the table, Roman is content to sob his woes into the knit-one-purl-one of my cardigan. Part of me--the part that does the washing and worries about the absorbent nature of my knitwear--wishes I'd left him to indulge in this heartache alone. I wince at my own callousness and pat him on the back. He sniffs and makes a little gulpy sound and so I clutch him closer to my chest and try to give him an encouraging smile which basically says pull yourself together, man but without so many words.
"Are you alright?" I ask tentatively, if a little pointlessly, since it's obvious to anyone with half a brain that here is a man more devastated than he has ever been in his entire life.
He heaves out a "I'm fine, thanks", but he's not fine. I doubt he'll ever be fine. And with that he dissolves into tears once more. There's nothing quite so bad as someone being kind to you when you most need them to be, is there? I try to think how to make him stop crying, how to cheer him up, and maybe, just maybe, avoid any further mucous secretions being slathered onto my clothing. I can't think straight. How on earth can I be expected to do so when I have a lapful of figure skater who's making his very own papier-mâché sculptures out of nothing more than a Kleenex and a decent helping of slime?
Let's make one thing perfectly clear: this is totally and utterly Deniz's fault, one hundred percent. You know when you hear people discussing their friends' relationship break-ups and they say stuff like "well, it was six of one and half a dozen of the other," or, "no one's really to blame…" or the equally vacuous, "they just drifted apart…"? Well, it's all bollocks as far as I'm concerned. Ducks drift apart, driftwood does as well; no one will ever say that about this particular situation. Roman did not drift, Roman was shoved. Heartily. If he were a film star instead of a boring old skater, this would fill the pages of the tabloids. You mark my words. The demise of their lovey-dovey coupledom is entirely due to his bastard boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.
And, as his best friend (or Best-Friend-With-A-Vagina, at least), it is my duty to fix him up and sort him out and get him back on the game. Looking over the rather pathetic picture he makes, curled up in on himself, hands fisting in my cardigan, strange snuffly noises coming from the vague direction of his face, I cannot help but wonder what the fuck have I gotten myself into?
Roman shudders and looks up at me, an utterly pathetic expression on his face. Oh, fuck it, I think, and reach for the phone. I'm going to need reinforcements.
"Oh, heavens-to-Betsy!" Karlheinz exclaims from the doorway as the lift to the WG opens. Karlheinz doesn't do swearing. He says it sends out little poisoned arrows into the universe which come back to fall on your head when you're least expecting it. I dread to think how many arsehole and shit arrows are up there waiting for me. It'll be like the Battle of Hastings if they ever decide to let fly.
As a consequence of his non-swearing policy, all of Karlheinz's expletives come straight from the Beatrix Potter and Enid Blyton book of bad-language. This is just one of his deeply irritatingly habits. Sometimes I really wish he'd let go and have a really good "fuck" every now and then--metaphorically speaking. That's the other thing Karlheinz doesn't do at the moment--he's been celibate for over a year now. He says by choice, I say by default. Karlheinz thinks he's being saintly and going through a period of spiritual cleansing, where I think he's desperately unlucky and hugely frustrated. Whichever way, it makes him very bad-tempered.
He tuts and bustles across to me, sending a "thank you" glance at Annette who had cleaned me up to a socially acceptable level. He dumps his coat and throws his arms around me. "What have you been doing?" he sighs.
And despite all his idiosyncrasies, quirks, foibles and fetishes, he really is a dear, dear friend who would abandon everything to help me out of a crisis. Even though I have to indulge his belief in the healing power of hugs. Karlheinz tries to squeeze the last breath out of me, and although I'd finally managed to get the weeping under control, it starts again. "I've left Deniz," I say in between sniffs.
Karlheinz eyes for the first time the two very large suitcases which stand stoically beside me on the floor. "Oh flip, what are they for?"
"Deniz's already been around once and-" Karlheinz fixes me with his most earnest stare. "Erm, I was thinking I'd stay somewhere else and he wouldn't be able to bother me. Just 'til I get my head sorted out."
"Where will you go?"
"Er…" I can't help but look back at my suitcases.
"Oh no," he says before I have the chance to get even one syllable out of my poor trembling mouth. "Oh, oh no."
"Oh no, what?"
"Don't even think about it," my friend says in a threatening tone.
"It won't be for long."
"You're right, it won't!"
"Karlheinz!" I am gobsmacked. "You're supposed to be my friend."
"I don't want you living with me," he says. "You're untidy."
"I'm not," I protest.
"You never put the lid back on the toothpaste," Karlheinz says.
"That was one incident, Karl. About ten years ago."
"You leave the loo seat up," he says as if it's a hanging offence.
"You're just anally retentive," I point out.
By now, my tears have been shocked into an arrested state. Look at me--I have come to my friend in my hour of need and he is about to close the door of his four-bedroomed semi-detached in my face. "You've got a perfectly nice spare room," I choke out.
"I stack my ironing in there."
"Well, thank you, Schatz." I can't believe this. Karlheinz's spirituality is about as substantial as a pair of seven-denier tights and you can poke holes in it just as quickly. "I am trying not to be hurt that your ironing pile takes precedence over your closest friend. If you knew what had happened you wouldn't deny me. " My chin gives an involuntary shudder. "This is not your common or garden everyday break-up. This is serious stuff."
"Is there someone else?"
My lip wobbles. "Yes, but it's so much worse than you're imagining."
"What can be worse?"
I eye my cases hopefully.
Karlheinz lets out the long, weary breath of defeat. "Let's go home," he says, "and you can tell me all about it."
Karlheinz is in the kitchen. I'm getting camomile tea when I'd rather be having a Tetley's hairy-arsed brew and gin. I am lying prostate on the sofa, having been given a hefty dose of Bach Flower Rescue Remedy, a lavender pillow for my neck and a rose quartz crystal to put inside my pants for reasons I didn't enquire into. There is a thick cloud of nostril-twitching incense hanging in the middle of the lounge.
I don't think Karlheinz and I could be more different as people. I am normal. Karlheinz is not. I believe in hard work, never going overdrawn at the bank and filling in Income Tax Returns on time. Karlheinz favours the New Age approach to life, opening himself up to the divine benevolence of the universe and the healing power of strong drink.
Our taste in furnishings differs wildly too. I like stainless steel and natural wood, no fuss, no frills. Karlheinz is more artistic by nature, which means every wall is a different colour and is festooned with ethnic artefacts--tat--from around the world. And he thinks I'm the untidy one! He mixes red with green, which was always a no-no in my book, yellow with purple, hot pink with deep blue. Sometimes I wonder if Karlheinz decorated with the sole intention of destroying the optic nerves of any visitors. Some may say it has a certain charm, but at the moment, it feels like I'm lying in a migraine. Even his front door has not escaped his attempts at decorating. It's painted a lurid mauve shade--the colour of people's armpits who are suffering from the bubonic plague. Karlheinz says it symbolises the rich fullness of life. I say it symbolises someone with pretty awful taste in front-door paint.
This isn't strictly Karlheinz's house. It's owned by his parents, who are currently away running a charity school to save young girls from prostitution in Thailand. Karlheinz's parents, Jade and Yang--not their real names, I suspect--have always been keen to support noble causes. I don't think they've ever done a day of paid work in their entire lives. How on earth they came to own this huge house is a mystery. Even if you won a million on the lottery tomorrow, you'd be hard pushed to afford a place like his. I think it was inherited by Karlheinz's father, Yang, from his grandfather, or so the story goes. The truth is he's probably the secret love-child of a member of royalty, but don't quote me on that.
Anyway, property millionaires or not, Jade and Yang are sort of sixties throwbacks. Despite their privileged upbringings, they wear kaftans and embroidered slippers and say "cool" and "fab", but in a very spaced-put and non-now sort of way. They dragged Karlheinz round most of the hellholes of the world when he was growing up, claiming that it was better than being educated in a bourgeois private school in bourgeois western Germany (as they were, of course). That may be, but it left Karlheinz totally without roots and a feeling that he never does enough for people, because he has sufficient money to eat and drives a capitalist bastard's car--or a Citroen 2CV which, personally, I don't think is anything to brag about.
Whenever there are people in need, that's where you'll find Jade and Yang--Tibet, Nepal, Glasgow--pretty much anywhere but in their house in Essen. Karlheinz is fiercely proud of them, desperate to live up to their bohemian ideals, and he fails on almost every level. They turn up once every two years, sleep on the floor of their own lounge because, presumably, beds are also a sign of being a capitalist bastard, empty their son's bank account of his hard-earned savings, and then swan off on another mission to save the world. The only needy person Karlheinz's parents don't have time for is him. Sometimes I wonder why Karlheinz and I are friends. I think this is one of the main reasons. Without me, he'd have no one.
If I were a product of my parents' making, I'd be wearing a sensible cardigan, having lunch in the café of a garden centre once a week, driving a Volvo 240 Estate with a fur cover on the driver's seat to save it from excess wear, and I'd have no idea how to work my answer phone. Sometimes I get the distinct feeling that I'm heading that way anyway.
Karlheinz comes over carrying a tray of camomile tea and sets it down beside me. He had his sympathetic look on. "When did you last have your chakras cleansed, Roman?"
"Er…" I won't admit it, but I'm not entirely sure where my chakras are. Or, indeed, if I have them. "I don't think I've ever had that pleasure."
"That's probably why you have so much negativity," he says. "We must do them."
A lot of what Karlheinz does involves wailing and candles and it isn't usually pleasant. Perhaps his theory is: how can it be good for you if it's not horrid?
"Well, despite my negativity, I'll be a great housemate," I say hopefully. "I'll pay you rent on time. I won't drink all your milk." Mainly because Soya milk makes me want to throw up and Karlheinz wouldn't dream of drinking anything else. Am I the only one who thinks it smells like syrup and vomit mixed together? Karlheinz is a strict lacto-vegan and I'm sure he wouldn't even injure vegetables by eating them if there were a suitable alternative. If you could buy tofu carrots, Karlheinz would be at the head of the queue. "I will also try very hard not to re-enact the ten-year-old leaving-the-lid-off-the-toothpaste scandal," I promise. "I won't deposit hair in the plughole and I'll always put the loo seat down."
"I'm not being fussy, Roman." Karlheinz says sincerely. "That's simply good Feng Shui. If you leave the seat up, all your money dematerialises down the toilet."
"See?" I try a weak smile. "I'm learning already." I don't bother to point out that my money dematerialises without any help from my u-bend, mainly on bath products and the contents of Lidl.
Karlheinz pours us both a cup of camomile tea and puts one on the table in front of me. I feel as if someone should be soothing my fevered brow.
"You still haven't told me what's happened," he says.
I feel my jaw tighten. Sitting up, I dispense with the lavender pillow, hitch the crystal into a more comfortable place in my underwear and pick up my tea. I take a sip, huddling over the cup for a few moments. It's revolting. I've never liked flavoured tea, especially lukewarm flavoured-tea in dainty teacups undoubtedly made from recycled elephant poo or something equally spiritually beneficial. I've half a mind to go see if I can find something alcoholic lurking in the fridge, in among the organic tofu and the bean sprouts, and drink it. All of it. Whatever it is.
I notice Karlheinz is still looking at me in that semi-sympathetic way of his.
"He… we… I- I walked in on him practically fucking Vanessa Steinkamp in the pool at the Centre." I suddenly blurt. Karlheinz stares at me.
"Vanessa?" His mouth hangs agape. "Little Vanessa?"
I snort. "Not that little." Karlheinz gives me a Look. I sigh. "Yes, her. She didn't know he was cheating either, thought he'd broken up with me already or something." I can already feel my tear ducts prickling just remembering the two of them in that pool, limbs entwined. "Things had been off for a while, you know. He'd been acting strange, making excuses not to spend time together, giving me the brush off more often than not." I swallow miserably, the gulp loud in the silence of the room. Karlheinz took my hand in his. "I thought it was just hormones or something. That he had a lot on his mind or exams at school or whatever. I never thought… I never thought he'd be fucking about behind my back. We were special, Karl. We were meant to last forever. And now… and now… now…" The tears are back, running down my face despite my attempts to hold back the flow.
Karlheinz puts his arms around me, squeezing me tight. "It obviously wasn't meant to be." I raised my eyes, glaring. He was dreadful at this consoling thing. "You're a brilliant, intelligent, good-looking guy, Roman. You'll find someone new, someone better, someone fantastic! And at least this way you'll know to avoid teenagers in future." He runs his hands up and down the line of my spine. "Some good could come of this, Roman."
I sink against him, feeling wretched. "Like what?"
Karlheinz looks down at me earnestly. "I have absolutely no idea."
"I need to be drunk, Karl," I mumble into his neck. "I need to be very drunk."
"I'll phone Annette. She's bound to have already bought some vodka for that specific purpose."
I have some truly wonderful friends.
"Then, when we are too drunk to function," I warn him, "we need to think of a cunning plan. A very cunning plan indeed."
The three of us are lying on the floor in a state of complete inebriation, brought on by a surfeit of Smirnoff Ice. The migraine-inducing colours of the flat-share's decor are all swimming together in the manner of a particularly exuberant kaleidoscope, and it reminds me of one of those disco scenes in 1960s films where oil blobs morph across the walls and everyone dances really badly to B-side Rolling Stones tunes.
The pain of my broken heart has receded to the point where I'm no longer worried that we haven't come up with a wonderful solution to my current boyfriend-less predicament. At least, I don't think we have. If we had, it could't have been that wonderful or I wouldn't have forgotten it already. Would I? I don't know. I need another drink.
As if by magic, Annette rolls over and pours me one.
"I loathe men," I say, forcing myself upright. "all of them. They're all bastards."
Karlheinz props himself up on his elbows and squints at me. "I haven't had a decent man since women wore puffball skirts with straight faces."
"I have a puffball skirt," Annette says mildly, before slumping over. Karlheinz hastily brings his drink back up to his mouth.
"I loved Deniz." I wave my Smirnoff Ice at the two of them for emphasis. "I loved him so much. And look what he did." I can feel my lower lip trembling. I am lucid enough to appreciate that I'm at the Maudlin/Regretful stage on the Drink Consumption Index. "Just look what he did."
"Cheated on you with a whale."
"Exactly," I say. "Exactly."
I know I'm going to wish I hadn't drunk so much in the morning. I have to go back to the Centre tomorrow. Really, I do. You're not supposed to let the state of your love-life affect the medal-winning hopes of a nation. I will get a severe bollocking from Mike, I can tell you. I'll just have one more drink and then I'm off to bed.
"I hate men," I repeat, helping myself to another bottle. Annette had clearly laid in supplies for us to get completely off our trolleys. The odd Pringle might have helped to stave off our worst excesses, but we are doing this completely without calorific accompaniment. Karlheinz thinks Pringles are loaded with deadly chemicals that are going to rot our brains in years to come. But, hey, we've all got to go sometime and I can think of worse ways than death by excessive Pringle consumption. I have another drink in lieu for our foodless state. "I'm never, ever going to go out with another man ever, ever again."
"Me neither," says Karlheinz. And I'd hate to point out to him that his main problem seems to be getting one in the first place.
"I think this house is on a gateway into the underworld," he decides as he takes in the vivid decoration. "Or on an ancient leyline. I reckon that's why you can't get a decent man."
"I don't know what a decent man is." I am feeling ridiculously sorry for myself now. It can’t be too long before Aggression or Blissful Oblivion kicks in. "I have no idea what I want from a relationship, Karl. Since I was fifteen, I've drifted from one bastard boyfriend to another."
"Lucky you," Karlheinz mutters drunkenly.
"I have spent the formative years of my life cowering on football terraces, never understanding the off-side rule and not really caring. I have had my brains knocked out on the back of speeding motorbikes, stood shivering alone on windswept beaches while the love of my life has indulged in the love of his life--windsurfing. I've trailed round golf courses, gone to Van Halen concerts, sat through sci-fi films when there was a perfectly good romantic comedy starring Hugh Grant being shown on the very next screen--and for what? They've all bled me dry of love." Although it has to be said that Deniz has done it on a much grander scale than anyone else I have loved. "I have no idea who I am, Karl. I am merely a man's appendage."
"Oo er," Karlheinz laughs raucously.
"I mean it," I say, trying to sound serious, which is quite difficult given the level of alcohol abuse I've enjoyed. "I don't even know what kind of music I like. For the past …however long, I've been into Turkish music, for heaven's sake. Who, out of choice, would listen to stuff with titles like 'The Camel's On His Back Again' or 'Omar's Lost His Sandals'? I've pretended to like all of this crap purely to keep Deniz and his supposed love-of-tradition happy. He wouldn't give a fig for tradition if it weren't trendy. And what's he ever done for me?"
"Cheated on you with a whale."
"Cheated on me with a whale," I echo with feeling. "Are there men out there who don't like football, who want conversations and who aren't afraid of commitment?"
"Yes," Karlheinz tuts. "Of course there are. And the Abominable Snowman and the Loch Ness monster exist too."
It is a bad state of affairs when even Karlheinz doesn't believe it. Karlheinz believes everything. He reckons that wind chimes are all it takes to make the world a lovelier place.
"I want a man who's in touch with his feminine side, yet who's still laddish enough to be manly." I've gone all wistful now. "I want someone who'll walk in the woods on a crisp frosty day and who'll curl up beside me in front of a roaring log fire at night. I want a man who appreciates fine wines, but who can still down a pint of lager in one. I want someone who can discuss philosophy, but who still thinks Ben Elton's funny." I sigh into my Smirnoff. "Oh, and I want someone who's brilliant in bed and particularly skilled in the art of massage."
Karlheinz gives me a sideways glance. "I think you actually want ten men, not one."
"I need to give this some serious thought," I say. "Did you know me and Deniz discussed marriage? In a roundabout, slightly-joking, future-son-in-law way?"
Karlheinz looks vaguely surprised. "Would you have wanted to marry him?"
"I don't know." And I really don't, which isn't a good feeling.
"I don't think you were ever compatible," Karlheinz offers gently. "You're a water sign and Deniz is an earth sign. And you know what that means?"
"Mud," I say. "Together we were mud."
"You know, there is a lot to astrology, Roman," Karlheinz says crisply. "It's been sci- scient, scientifically proven."
I think my friend's tongue has alcohol anae- anaes, anaesthetisation. Oh shit, I'm doing it now. "Oh, I know." I try to placate him. After all, he is nearer the stash of booze. "I'm being flippant. It's just that I don't really believe in all that …stuff."
"Typical Pisces," Karlheinz huffs.
"Help me, Karl," I plead. "Help me get out of this mess."
"I think you need to draw up a five-year plan, Roman." Karlheinz goes into business mode. "You need to decide where you're going, how you're going to get there and who's going with you."
"And how long it's going to be before I see any action that isn't my right hand."
"That goes without saying." Karlheinz takes my hand in his and puts on his Deep And Meaningful voice. "I can help you."
With all this vodka sloshing around inside me, I'm finding it very hard not to laugh. I press my lips together, banishing the smile behind them. I might take the piss out of my friend--a lot--but sometimes I really envy his naïve optimism.
"I'm very skilled in the art of creative visualisation," he informs me. "I can guide you. Whatever you picture for yourself, you can bring into being."
At the moment, I have an image of Deniz swinging from a very high beam at the end of a very thick rope.
Karlheinz composes himself into what appears to be a creative visualisation kind of pose. It's only fitting that I do the same, I feel, and I rearrange my legs accordingly. "Let's start with something simple," he says, giving me an encouraging smile. "Imagine who you would most like to be stuck in a lift with."
"A lift engineer." Hey--this stuff is easy!
Karlheinz narrows his eyes to mean little slits. "I think, Roman, you're somehow missing the point," he says tightly and downs his Smirnoff Ice.
:D FIC. THERE IS FIC. THAT ISN'T MERLIN. WHUT IS GOING ON WITH ME.
[roman. karlheinz. pg. 4364 words.]
notes; au from the pool-is-cool incident. major ♥ to team_fellowship for beta'ing.
warnings; none.
summary; it is a bad state of affairs when even Karlheinz doesn't believe it. Karlheinz believes everything. He reckons that wind chimes are all it takes to make the world a lovelier place.
You know those old-fashioned, grainy films where the troubled--and usually lovelorn--heroine cries beautifully and soundlessly, tears coursing down her perfect Estée Lauder foundation leaving nary a blemish? Yes? Makes you want to weep, doesn't it?
Roman doesn't cry like that--he howls. Like a wolf. A wolf who's been hit about the head with a cricket bat several times. And he goes bright red and blotchy around his neck and ears, and his eyes swell up as if they've been punched by Lennox Lewis. His nose generally contributes too, producing, on average, two buckets of dribble per second. Nice.
That's what he's doing right now. Howling. Why? Because Roman Wild has left his boyfriend, one Mr Deniz Öztürk, fully paid-up member of the Bastard species and all-round jerk. I can't say it was unexpected, we'd all seen the looks passing between the gangly teen and the youngest of the Steinkamp lot. Well, we'd all seen them except for Roman who was proving to be remarkably oblivious to such things. But we hadn't expected it to be so hard on Roman, not by a long shot. Credit where it's due, Deniz Öztürk really knows how to fuck a guy up.
At the tender age of twenty-four, you'd have thought he'd have the wherewithal to get it together by now, wouldn't you? But no, he hasn't. He's just slumped over me, dribbling all sorts of bodily fluids onto my shoulder (his tissue disintegrated a while ago, clearly having reached its Critical Snot Limit). This hysteria seems to have brought on a sudden bout of paralysis (or simply brought out his inherent laziness) and so, despite the box of tissues sat happily on the table, Roman is content to sob his woes into the knit-one-purl-one of my cardigan. Part of me--the part that does the washing and worries about the absorbent nature of my knitwear--wishes I'd left him to indulge in this heartache alone. I wince at my own callousness and pat him on the back. He sniffs and makes a little gulpy sound and so I clutch him closer to my chest and try to give him an encouraging smile which basically says pull yourself together, man but without so many words.
"Are you alright?" I ask tentatively, if a little pointlessly, since it's obvious to anyone with half a brain that here is a man more devastated than he has ever been in his entire life.
He heaves out a "I'm fine, thanks", but he's not fine. I doubt he'll ever be fine. And with that he dissolves into tears once more. There's nothing quite so bad as someone being kind to you when you most need them to be, is there? I try to think how to make him stop crying, how to cheer him up, and maybe, just maybe, avoid any further mucous secretions being slathered onto my clothing. I can't think straight. How on earth can I be expected to do so when I have a lapful of figure skater who's making his very own papier-mâché sculptures out of nothing more than a Kleenex and a decent helping of slime?
Let's make one thing perfectly clear: this is totally and utterly Deniz's fault, one hundred percent. You know when you hear people discussing their friends' relationship break-ups and they say stuff like "well, it was six of one and half a dozen of the other," or, "no one's really to blame…" or the equally vacuous, "they just drifted apart…"? Well, it's all bollocks as far as I'm concerned. Ducks drift apart, driftwood does as well; no one will ever say that about this particular situation. Roman did not drift, Roman was shoved. Heartily. If he were a film star instead of a boring old skater, this would fill the pages of the tabloids. You mark my words. The demise of their lovey-dovey coupledom is entirely due to his bastard boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.
And, as his best friend (or Best-Friend-With-A-Vagina, at least), it is my duty to fix him up and sort him out and get him back on the game. Looking over the rather pathetic picture he makes, curled up in on himself, hands fisting in my cardigan, strange snuffly noises coming from the vague direction of his face, I cannot help but wonder what the fuck have I gotten myself into?
Roman shudders and looks up at me, an utterly pathetic expression on his face. Oh, fuck it, I think, and reach for the phone. I'm going to need reinforcements.
"Oh, heavens-to-Betsy!" Karlheinz exclaims from the doorway as the lift to the WG opens. Karlheinz doesn't do swearing. He says it sends out little poisoned arrows into the universe which come back to fall on your head when you're least expecting it. I dread to think how many arsehole and shit arrows are up there waiting for me. It'll be like the Battle of Hastings if they ever decide to let fly.
As a consequence of his non-swearing policy, all of Karlheinz's expletives come straight from the Beatrix Potter and Enid Blyton book of bad-language. This is just one of his deeply irritatingly habits. Sometimes I really wish he'd let go and have a really good "fuck" every now and then--metaphorically speaking. That's the other thing Karlheinz doesn't do at the moment--he's been celibate for over a year now. He says by choice, I say by default. Karlheinz thinks he's being saintly and going through a period of spiritual cleansing, where I think he's desperately unlucky and hugely frustrated. Whichever way, it makes him very bad-tempered.
He tuts and bustles across to me, sending a "thank you" glance at Annette who had cleaned me up to a socially acceptable level. He dumps his coat and throws his arms around me. "What have you been doing?" he sighs.
And despite all his idiosyncrasies, quirks, foibles and fetishes, he really is a dear, dear friend who would abandon everything to help me out of a crisis. Even though I have to indulge his belief in the healing power of hugs. Karlheinz tries to squeeze the last breath out of me, and although I'd finally managed to get the weeping under control, it starts again. "I've left Deniz," I say in between sniffs.
Karlheinz eyes for the first time the two very large suitcases which stand stoically beside me on the floor. "Oh flip, what are they for?"
"Deniz's already been around once and-" Karlheinz fixes me with his most earnest stare. "Erm, I was thinking I'd stay somewhere else and he wouldn't be able to bother me. Just 'til I get my head sorted out."
"Where will you go?"
"Er…" I can't help but look back at my suitcases.
"Oh no," he says before I have the chance to get even one syllable out of my poor trembling mouth. "Oh, oh no."
"Oh no, what?"
"Don't even think about it," my friend says in a threatening tone.
"It won't be for long."
"You're right, it won't!"
"Karlheinz!" I am gobsmacked. "You're supposed to be my friend."
"I don't want you living with me," he says. "You're untidy."
"I'm not," I protest.
"You never put the lid back on the toothpaste," Karlheinz says.
"That was one incident, Karl. About ten years ago."
"You leave the loo seat up," he says as if it's a hanging offence.
"You're just anally retentive," I point out.
By now, my tears have been shocked into an arrested state. Look at me--I have come to my friend in my hour of need and he is about to close the door of his four-bedroomed semi-detached in my face. "You've got a perfectly nice spare room," I choke out.
"I stack my ironing in there."
"Well, thank you, Schatz." I can't believe this. Karlheinz's spirituality is about as substantial as a pair of seven-denier tights and you can poke holes in it just as quickly. "I am trying not to be hurt that your ironing pile takes precedence over your closest friend. If you knew what had happened you wouldn't deny me. " My chin gives an involuntary shudder. "This is not your common or garden everyday break-up. This is serious stuff."
"Is there someone else?"
My lip wobbles. "Yes, but it's so much worse than you're imagining."
"What can be worse?"
I eye my cases hopefully.
Karlheinz lets out the long, weary breath of defeat. "Let's go home," he says, "and you can tell me all about it."
Karlheinz is in the kitchen. I'm getting camomile tea when I'd rather be having a Tetley's hairy-arsed brew and gin. I am lying prostate on the sofa, having been given a hefty dose of Bach Flower Rescue Remedy, a lavender pillow for my neck and a rose quartz crystal to put inside my pants for reasons I didn't enquire into. There is a thick cloud of nostril-twitching incense hanging in the middle of the lounge.
I don't think Karlheinz and I could be more different as people. I am normal. Karlheinz is not. I believe in hard work, never going overdrawn at the bank and filling in Income Tax Returns on time. Karlheinz favours the New Age approach to life, opening himself up to the divine benevolence of the universe and the healing power of strong drink.
Our taste in furnishings differs wildly too. I like stainless steel and natural wood, no fuss, no frills. Karlheinz is more artistic by nature, which means every wall is a different colour and is festooned with ethnic artefacts--tat--from around the world. And he thinks I'm the untidy one! He mixes red with green, which was always a no-no in my book, yellow with purple, hot pink with deep blue. Sometimes I wonder if Karlheinz decorated with the sole intention of destroying the optic nerves of any visitors. Some may say it has a certain charm, but at the moment, it feels like I'm lying in a migraine. Even his front door has not escaped his attempts at decorating. It's painted a lurid mauve shade--the colour of people's armpits who are suffering from the bubonic plague. Karlheinz says it symbolises the rich fullness of life. I say it symbolises someone with pretty awful taste in front-door paint.
This isn't strictly Karlheinz's house. It's owned by his parents, who are currently away running a charity school to save young girls from prostitution in Thailand. Karlheinz's parents, Jade and Yang--not their real names, I suspect--have always been keen to support noble causes. I don't think they've ever done a day of paid work in their entire lives. How on earth they came to own this huge house is a mystery. Even if you won a million on the lottery tomorrow, you'd be hard pushed to afford a place like his. I think it was inherited by Karlheinz's father, Yang, from his grandfather, or so the story goes. The truth is he's probably the secret love-child of a member of royalty, but don't quote me on that.
Anyway, property millionaires or not, Jade and Yang are sort of sixties throwbacks. Despite their privileged upbringings, they wear kaftans and embroidered slippers and say "cool" and "fab", but in a very spaced-put and non-now sort of way. They dragged Karlheinz round most of the hellholes of the world when he was growing up, claiming that it was better than being educated in a bourgeois private school in bourgeois western Germany (as they were, of course). That may be, but it left Karlheinz totally without roots and a feeling that he never does enough for people, because he has sufficient money to eat and drives a capitalist bastard's car--or a Citroen 2CV which, personally, I don't think is anything to brag about.
Whenever there are people in need, that's where you'll find Jade and Yang--Tibet, Nepal, Glasgow--pretty much anywhere but in their house in Essen. Karlheinz is fiercely proud of them, desperate to live up to their bohemian ideals, and he fails on almost every level. They turn up once every two years, sleep on the floor of their own lounge because, presumably, beds are also a sign of being a capitalist bastard, empty their son's bank account of his hard-earned savings, and then swan off on another mission to save the world. The only needy person Karlheinz's parents don't have time for is him. Sometimes I wonder why Karlheinz and I are friends. I think this is one of the main reasons. Without me, he'd have no one.
If I were a product of my parents' making, I'd be wearing a sensible cardigan, having lunch in the café of a garden centre once a week, driving a Volvo 240 Estate with a fur cover on the driver's seat to save it from excess wear, and I'd have no idea how to work my answer phone. Sometimes I get the distinct feeling that I'm heading that way anyway.
Karlheinz comes over carrying a tray of camomile tea and sets it down beside me. He had his sympathetic look on. "When did you last have your chakras cleansed, Roman?"
"Er…" I won't admit it, but I'm not entirely sure where my chakras are. Or, indeed, if I have them. "I don't think I've ever had that pleasure."
"That's probably why you have so much negativity," he says. "We must do them."
A lot of what Karlheinz does involves wailing and candles and it isn't usually pleasant. Perhaps his theory is: how can it be good for you if it's not horrid?
"Well, despite my negativity, I'll be a great housemate," I say hopefully. "I'll pay you rent on time. I won't drink all your milk." Mainly because Soya milk makes me want to throw up and Karlheinz wouldn't dream of drinking anything else. Am I the only one who thinks it smells like syrup and vomit mixed together? Karlheinz is a strict lacto-vegan and I'm sure he wouldn't even injure vegetables by eating them if there were a suitable alternative. If you could buy tofu carrots, Karlheinz would be at the head of the queue. "I will also try very hard not to re-enact the ten-year-old leaving-the-lid-off-the-toothpaste scandal," I promise. "I won't deposit hair in the plughole and I'll always put the loo seat down."
"I'm not being fussy, Roman." Karlheinz says sincerely. "That's simply good Feng Shui. If you leave the seat up, all your money dematerialises down the toilet."
"See?" I try a weak smile. "I'm learning already." I don't bother to point out that my money dematerialises without any help from my u-bend, mainly on bath products and the contents of Lidl.
Karlheinz pours us both a cup of camomile tea and puts one on the table in front of me. I feel as if someone should be soothing my fevered brow.
"You still haven't told me what's happened," he says.
I feel my jaw tighten. Sitting up, I dispense with the lavender pillow, hitch the crystal into a more comfortable place in my underwear and pick up my tea. I take a sip, huddling over the cup for a few moments. It's revolting. I've never liked flavoured tea, especially lukewarm flavoured-tea in dainty teacups undoubtedly made from recycled elephant poo or something equally spiritually beneficial. I've half a mind to go see if I can find something alcoholic lurking in the fridge, in among the organic tofu and the bean sprouts, and drink it. All of it. Whatever it is.
I notice Karlheinz is still looking at me in that semi-sympathetic way of his.
"He… we… I- I walked in on him practically fucking Vanessa Steinkamp in the pool at the Centre." I suddenly blurt. Karlheinz stares at me.
"Vanessa?" His mouth hangs agape. "Little Vanessa?"
I snort. "Not that little." Karlheinz gives me a Look. I sigh. "Yes, her. She didn't know he was cheating either, thought he'd broken up with me already or something." I can already feel my tear ducts prickling just remembering the two of them in that pool, limbs entwined. "Things had been off for a while, you know. He'd been acting strange, making excuses not to spend time together, giving me the brush off more often than not." I swallow miserably, the gulp loud in the silence of the room. Karlheinz took my hand in his. "I thought it was just hormones or something. That he had a lot on his mind or exams at school or whatever. I never thought… I never thought he'd be fucking about behind my back. We were special, Karl. We were meant to last forever. And now… and now… now…" The tears are back, running down my face despite my attempts to hold back the flow.
Karlheinz puts his arms around me, squeezing me tight. "It obviously wasn't meant to be." I raised my eyes, glaring. He was dreadful at this consoling thing. "You're a brilliant, intelligent, good-looking guy, Roman. You'll find someone new, someone better, someone fantastic! And at least this way you'll know to avoid teenagers in future." He runs his hands up and down the line of my spine. "Some good could come of this, Roman."
I sink against him, feeling wretched. "Like what?"
Karlheinz looks down at me earnestly. "I have absolutely no idea."
"I need to be drunk, Karl," I mumble into his neck. "I need to be very drunk."
"I'll phone Annette. She's bound to have already bought some vodka for that specific purpose."
I have some truly wonderful friends.
"Then, when we are too drunk to function," I warn him, "we need to think of a cunning plan. A very cunning plan indeed."
The three of us are lying on the floor in a state of complete inebriation, brought on by a surfeit of Smirnoff Ice. The migraine-inducing colours of the flat-share's decor are all swimming together in the manner of a particularly exuberant kaleidoscope, and it reminds me of one of those disco scenes in 1960s films where oil blobs morph across the walls and everyone dances really badly to B-side Rolling Stones tunes.
The pain of my broken heart has receded to the point where I'm no longer worried that we haven't come up with a wonderful solution to my current boyfriend-less predicament. At least, I don't think we have. If we had, it could't have been that wonderful or I wouldn't have forgotten it already. Would I? I don't know. I need another drink.
As if by magic, Annette rolls over and pours me one.
"I loathe men," I say, forcing myself upright. "all of them. They're all bastards."
Karlheinz props himself up on his elbows and squints at me. "I haven't had a decent man since women wore puffball skirts with straight faces."
"I have a puffball skirt," Annette says mildly, before slumping over. Karlheinz hastily brings his drink back up to his mouth.
"I loved Deniz." I wave my Smirnoff Ice at the two of them for emphasis. "I loved him so much. And look what he did." I can feel my lower lip trembling. I am lucid enough to appreciate that I'm at the Maudlin/Regretful stage on the Drink Consumption Index. "Just look what he did."
"Cheated on you with a whale."
"Exactly," I say. "Exactly."
I know I'm going to wish I hadn't drunk so much in the morning. I have to go back to the Centre tomorrow. Really, I do. You're not supposed to let the state of your love-life affect the medal-winning hopes of a nation. I will get a severe bollocking from Mike, I can tell you. I'll just have one more drink and then I'm off to bed.
"I hate men," I repeat, helping myself to another bottle. Annette had clearly laid in supplies for us to get completely off our trolleys. The odd Pringle might have helped to stave off our worst excesses, but we are doing this completely without calorific accompaniment. Karlheinz thinks Pringles are loaded with deadly chemicals that are going to rot our brains in years to come. But, hey, we've all got to go sometime and I can think of worse ways than death by excessive Pringle consumption. I have another drink in lieu for our foodless state. "I'm never, ever going to go out with another man ever, ever again."
"Me neither," says Karlheinz. And I'd hate to point out to him that his main problem seems to be getting one in the first place.
"I think this house is on a gateway into the underworld," he decides as he takes in the vivid decoration. "Or on an ancient leyline. I reckon that's why you can't get a decent man."
"I don't know what a decent man is." I am feeling ridiculously sorry for myself now. It can’t be too long before Aggression or Blissful Oblivion kicks in. "I have no idea what I want from a relationship, Karl. Since I was fifteen, I've drifted from one bastard boyfriend to another."
"Lucky you," Karlheinz mutters drunkenly.
"I have spent the formative years of my life cowering on football terraces, never understanding the off-side rule and not really caring. I have had my brains knocked out on the back of speeding motorbikes, stood shivering alone on windswept beaches while the love of my life has indulged in the love of his life--windsurfing. I've trailed round golf courses, gone to Van Halen concerts, sat through sci-fi films when there was a perfectly good romantic comedy starring Hugh Grant being shown on the very next screen--and for what? They've all bled me dry of love." Although it has to be said that Deniz has done it on a much grander scale than anyone else I have loved. "I have no idea who I am, Karl. I am merely a man's appendage."
"Oo er," Karlheinz laughs raucously.
"I mean it," I say, trying to sound serious, which is quite difficult given the level of alcohol abuse I've enjoyed. "I don't even know what kind of music I like. For the past …however long, I've been into Turkish music, for heaven's sake. Who, out of choice, would listen to stuff with titles like 'The Camel's On His Back Again' or 'Omar's Lost His Sandals'? I've pretended to like all of this crap purely to keep Deniz and his supposed love-of-tradition happy. He wouldn't give a fig for tradition if it weren't trendy. And what's he ever done for me?"
"Cheated on you with a whale."
"Cheated on me with a whale," I echo with feeling. "Are there men out there who don't like football, who want conversations and who aren't afraid of commitment?"
"Yes," Karlheinz tuts. "Of course there are. And the Abominable Snowman and the Loch Ness monster exist too."
It is a bad state of affairs when even Karlheinz doesn't believe it. Karlheinz believes everything. He reckons that wind chimes are all it takes to make the world a lovelier place.
"I want a man who's in touch with his feminine side, yet who's still laddish enough to be manly." I've gone all wistful now. "I want someone who'll walk in the woods on a crisp frosty day and who'll curl up beside me in front of a roaring log fire at night. I want a man who appreciates fine wines, but who can still down a pint of lager in one. I want someone who can discuss philosophy, but who still thinks Ben Elton's funny." I sigh into my Smirnoff. "Oh, and I want someone who's brilliant in bed and particularly skilled in the art of massage."
Karlheinz gives me a sideways glance. "I think you actually want ten men, not one."
"I need to give this some serious thought," I say. "Did you know me and Deniz discussed marriage? In a roundabout, slightly-joking, future-son-in-law way?"
Karlheinz looks vaguely surprised. "Would you have wanted to marry him?"
"I don't know." And I really don't, which isn't a good feeling.
"I don't think you were ever compatible," Karlheinz offers gently. "You're a water sign and Deniz is an earth sign. And you know what that means?"
"Mud," I say. "Together we were mud."
"You know, there is a lot to astrology, Roman," Karlheinz says crisply. "It's been sci- scient, scientifically proven."
I think my friend's tongue has alcohol anae- anaes, anaesthetisation. Oh shit, I'm doing it now. "Oh, I know." I try to placate him. After all, he is nearer the stash of booze. "I'm being flippant. It's just that I don't really believe in all that …stuff."
"Typical Pisces," Karlheinz huffs.
"Help me, Karl," I plead. "Help me get out of this mess."
"I think you need to draw up a five-year plan, Roman." Karlheinz goes into business mode. "You need to decide where you're going, how you're going to get there and who's going with you."
"And how long it's going to be before I see any action that isn't my right hand."
"That goes without saying." Karlheinz takes my hand in his and puts on his Deep And Meaningful voice. "I can help you."
With all this vodka sloshing around inside me, I'm finding it very hard not to laugh. I press my lips together, banishing the smile behind them. I might take the piss out of my friend--a lot--but sometimes I really envy his naïve optimism.
"I'm very skilled in the art of creative visualisation," he informs me. "I can guide you. Whatever you picture for yourself, you can bring into being."
At the moment, I have an image of Deniz swinging from a very high beam at the end of a very thick rope.
Karlheinz composes himself into what appears to be a creative visualisation kind of pose. It's only fitting that I do the same, I feel, and I rearrange my legs accordingly. "Let's start with something simple," he says, giving me an encouraging smile. "Imagine who you would most like to be stuck in a lift with."
"A lift engineer." Hey--this stuff is easy!
Karlheinz narrows his eyes to mean little slits. "I think, Roman, you're somehow missing the point," he says tightly and downs his Smirnoff Ice.
:D FIC. THERE IS FIC. THAT ISN'T MERLIN. WHUT IS GOING ON WITH ME.