Three Way - Chapter Three

            When I surface at Bank tube station I check my emails. Sure enough, there’s a briefing from Sue, the business producer. I’m supposed to interview some bigwig about a possible stock market crash. It’s a clip to go into a Lunchtime News VT, so should be quite straight forward, if a little dull. I walk along Threadneedle Street, past the Bank of England and- oo look there’s the Gherkin. Cool building. Sorry, easily distracted. I don’t come to the City that often. Angelina’s words echo around my head. ‘I know it hurts now but one day it won’t.’ I don’t really want to talk about it but I genuinely thought Svetla was the girl I would marry. Intelligent, beautiful and always the epitome of calm. I know it’s been six months since we split but it still hurts. The thing is…oh, there’s the cameraman Phil, loitering outside the bank. Better say hi. I’ll tell you about Svetla properly later.

            ‘Hey,’ I say.

            ‘Hi, this it?’ Phil replies. I detect a grumble in his tone.

            ‘I believe so, yes. Want a hand with the gear?’

            ‘Great, thanks.’ I grab the tripod and we walk inside. I glance upwards as we head towards the reception desk. Behind us, above the entrance, are huge letters that read ‘United Bank.’ This place is enormous. Security guards stand in front of three large double glass doors. I quickly get my phone out, I’ve already forgotten who I’m supposed to be interviewing. The smartly dressed reception girl finishes her phone call and looks up at me.

            ‘Hello, how can I help you?’ I check the briefing email.

            ‘Uh hi, we’re from TBN, we’re here to interview uhh…’ I scroll down the email, where’s the name…‘Lauren Bates.’

            ‘Okay sir, if I could just get you to sign in here, I’ll call up now.’ She shows me a security I.D. form.

            ‘Sure.’ I grab the pen and start filling in the boxes. ‘I’ll do yours,’ I offer to Phil.

            ‘Thanks,’ he replies. I suddenly realise I can’t remember Phil’s second name. Shit. My pen is poised over the name. Have I ever known what it was? Doesn’t matter now, dipshit. I opt for ‘Phil – TBN cameraman.’

            ‘Hello it’s main reception here, I have an Ollie Hayward and Phil…the cameraman here from TBN,’ the receptionist says, reading off the I.D.’s. Now I feel like a douche. I glance at Phil who clearly isn’t impressed. I smile awkwardly. ‘Okay, thank you. Someone will be down shortly, if you’d like to take a seat.’ She indicates a seating area. We walk over and plonk ourselves down.

            ‘First job of the day?’ I ask Phil, a crude attempt at small talk.

            ‘Yeah, parking was a nightmare.’

            ‘Really?’

            ‘Yeah, I had to park in the NCP fucking miles away.’

            ‘Oh. Well I can give you a hand after we’re done here.’

            ‘Yeah I’ll need it, impossible to carry all this crap with no help. We used to have sound recordists but now it’s just me lugging shit around all day.’

            ‘Not good.’

            ‘No.’ We wait in silence. I elect not to ask Phil anymore questions, he’s obviously pissed off.

            ‘Ollie Hayward?’ I turn to see a man approaching in a very shiny navy suit. He extends his hand. I shake it.

            ‘Hello I’m James Kennedy, let me show you up.’

            ‘Great,’ I reply. I grab the tripod, Phil takes everything else. I glance at James’ suit and I swear I can see my reflection. He looks like a walking Blu Ray disc. I decide telling James my thoughts on his attire would probably not be the best way to start things off so I keep schtum. There’s a word more difficult to read than to say, eh? Anyway, the double glass doors open and we walk past the security guard into the lift.

            ‘Did you find the place okay?’ James asks.

            ‘Yeah, thanks (shiny man). Very easy.’

            ‘Normally Lauren’s assistant would come and show you round but she asked me so…’

            ‘Oh, okay.’ Who the fuck cares? I nod politely. He hits thirty-seven and the lift launches skywards. Jesus this thing moves fast, I start to feel sick.

            ‘So you guys got a busy day ahead?’ James asks, a smile lacking in sincerity crawling across his face.

            ‘Yeah,’ I say. I want to improve on my initial answer but I can’t find the words so it comes off as a bit of a ‘fuck you’ to our polished friend. The lift slows and the doors open.

            ‘This way,’ James says. I glance at Phil who rolls his eyes. I smile and follow our guide. We walk out onto a bustling trading floor. Computer screens and monitors are everywhere showing all the main news channels, including TBN. Seems similar to the newsroom on a busy day. We are led past the traders towards two glass offices. I glance to my right, taking in a cracking view of London and the Thames. This is the place to be. Look at that view, Jesus. My attention refocuses to the job at hand and we arrive at the smaller of the glass offices. Inside is a blonde girl on the phone, she has her back to us. James knocks. She turns around. For the tiniest of moments, everything stops. Is this who I’m here to interview? It seems Lauren Bates is a babe. Let me rephrase. Lauren Bates is a mega-babe. She wears a tight-fitting suit with a skirt just above the knee. Her outfit accentuates her perfect hour-glass figure.

            ‘Uh, I have to go, TBN are here…yes…is that what I told you to do? There’s your answer Eric…okay, bye.’ She hangs up, stands and walks over to us offering her hand.

            ‘Hello there, I’m Lauren.’

            ‘Mm Ollie,’ I say, ‘and Phil the cameraman.’ She shakes our hands. I glance at Phil who is thinking the same as me. This day has suddenly got a whole lot better.

            ‘Thanks, James,’ Lauren says. I glance at James, he’s staring at me. Suddenly it’s uncomfortable. What is with this guy? He holds my stare for a second longer than necessary then glances up to Lauren and smiles.

            ‘Any time hun, call me if these guys give you any trouble.’ He closes the door and walks away. Cock. Phil starts setting up the camera.

            ‘So do you want me here or…?’ Lauren asks. What?

            ‘Huh?’ I reply.

            ‘For the interview, do you want to do it with the trading floor in the background or…’

            ‘At your desk is fine, bit loud outside,’ Phil says. Then he stops. ‘Unless you’re not happy with that, Ollie?’ I shrug and smile.

            ‘Hey, whatever you think, man,’ I say. Man? What, are we in da hood? Fuck’s sake Ollie. ‘Nice office.’

            ‘Thanks,’ she replies, ‘works for me. So will you take this to Millbank or drive it back?’ I frown.

            ‘Oh, how do you know about Millbank?’ She smiles, my heart soars. Don’t fall in love Ollie, don’t you fucking fall in love. Millbank is where TBN’s Westminster office is.

            ‘It’s not a state secret, is it?’ she asks.

            ‘No just, not many people really know or care to be honest.’

            ‘I’ll tell you something though’ she says. Oh yes, here we go. Fuck I wish Phil wasn’t here now.

            ‘Oh?’

            ‘I wanted to be a reporter before I got into trading,’ she smiles and flicks her eyebrows in a naughty way, like she just told me she enjoys dogging. For crying out loud Ollie. Sorry, sorry. Must stop thinking about sex.

            ‘Ah okay. Didn’t work out?’

            ‘Unfortunately not. No money in it.’ I nod. (She means reporting, not dogging.)

            ‘So true,’ I say.

            ‘But fun. I bet when you get a really massive story all hell breaks loose.’

            ‘Yeah, it gets manic. I love it though, like before I came here, I was in Downing Street. I know I should be all chilled about it but I still get a thrill walking down that road. Apart from when it’s raining, cold or I need the toilet. Also you can’t get a coffee either without going back through security, which is a real pain but apart from that...’ She nods and smiles. I don’t know why but suddenly it feels like she’s flirting. No Ollie, she isn’t. She’s being professional and you’re being a pervert. Now get your head out of your arse and conduct yourself appropriately.

            ‘I’ll bet. Your parents must be very proud,’ she says.

            ‘Well my mum is. My dad died a long time ago,’ I reply.

            ‘Oh. I’m sorry,’ she says. I shrug, shake my head quickly and smile. Hmm, that killed the atmosphere. Why the hell did I bring him into this? I glance at Phil who immediately goes back to adjusting the intensity of the light he was working on.

            ‘So, this is a pretty impressive office,’ I say, an attempt at moving things along.

            ‘Yeah. What’s the newsroom like, does it have nice views?’

            ‘The canteen on the sixth floor does, but I try not to venture up there unless I’m deliberately looking to use up my supply of Imodium.’ She chuckles and I find myself smiling back. Phil moves a chair into position in front of the camera and shifts the light a fraction to the left.

            ‘Right, think we’re there. If you could sit in, please,’ Phil says, indicating for Lauren to sit down.

            ‘Sure.’ She takes a seat as Phil looks into the viewfinder, checking the shot.

            ‘Okay and if you could pull up a chair Ollie and sit here,’ Phil says. I do as I’m told, sitting as close to the lens of the camera as I can. I look at Lauren who glances at me.

            ‘So I’m looking at you-?’ Lauren asks.

            ‘Yep, look at me, ignore the camera. If you get stuck or you want to do the answer again that’s fine. We’ll just go from the top, okay?’ I say.

            ‘Okay,’ she replies. Phil is still fiddling with the camera. Lauren is poised, awaiting the go, staring straight at me. I look back at her. My heart is suddenly thumping. Phil glances to the side of the camera and adjusts a dial. I look back to Lauren who still has her eyes fixed on me. I smile and scratch my head. She is so beautiful. Her blonde hair has a glow when the light hits it.

            ‘Sorry, just need to get another battery,’ Phil says. I breathe out. I glance at her, she smiles, my heart thumps faster. Man, I’m never normally like this. My back feels clammy, I shift on my seat.

            ‘I like your shirt,’ Lauren says. I glance down at my somewhat creased affair. I should have ironed it. I hate ironing. Maybe she’s being i-ronical? Get it? Alright well fuck you, just trying to relieve the tension here.

            ‘Thank you, it’s M&S.’ Oh for Christ’s sake.

            ‘Sexy,’ she says. I look up from the shirt, surprised at her compliment. Phil looks up from...battery locating. ‘I mean, I was looking for a birthday present for a friend and I think he’d like that.’

            ‘Oh yeah? Well they’re pretty reasonably priced,’ I reply, glancing at Phil. Hurry up Phil. Hurry up Phil. Phil…hurry up. My eyes connect with Lauren’s again and I look down to her tits. Shit, not there…umm, up to the ceiling. No, now I’m overcompensating…uh, the window. Better. Fuck Phil, please…

            ‘Okay, ready,’ Phil says. I breathe out again too fast, look back at her and smile.

            ‘Okay. If you could just give me your name and your title for the tape,’ I say.

            ‘Lauren Bates, Head of Corporate Finance for United Bank.’

            ‘Thanks,’ I say. She swallows, maybe she thinks I’m going to ‘Paxman’ her. Which, I’m not by the way.

            ‘So what’s happening in the Eurozone at the moment and how does it affect Britain?’

            She starts giving me her answer and I want to tell you what she said but I’m one hundred percent not listening. Instead I’m watching her mouth move and listening to the intensity and conviction of her voice. She finishes her answer in what I estimate to be around twenty seconds, which is perfect. I need to remember my next question though.

            ‘Uh, if this were to spread further here, could it affect jobs here and if so which industries would most likely be hit?’

            Again she rattles off what I’m sure will be the perfect answer for the VT but I pay no more attention to this answer than the previous one. I wonder what it would be like to kiss those lips. That rush of excitement tearing through me. I wonder what the touch of her suit would feel like under my fingers. How would it feel to put my hands under that blouse? My heart thumps as though I’ve just broken the one hundred metres world record…or had a heart attack. She finishes her answer. I consider what it might be like to be her husband. Like, how that would actually work? We’d have to live out in the suburbs. We’d commute in together, maybe I’d even make her a packed lunch to take in with her. In the evenings we might sit in our garden sipping wine under a fading sun. Then our children might come running out. Horatio and Matilda. Horatio? Fuck, where did that come from?

            ‘Ollie? Is that it?’ she asks. I snap out of my daydream.

            ‘Sorry?’ I reply, glancing at Phil who’s staring at me with a frown and a what-the-fuck-are-you-doing look. ‘Sorry. I…well, uh. I glance down at my iPhone for the next question. ‘Uh…’ Shit, it’s gone back to sleep and I can’t find the email. She gave a couple of good answers, that’ll be okay, won’t it? ‘That’s it.’

            ‘Really?’ she asks.

            ‘What?’ Phil says, almost straight away.

            ‘Uh, yeah. No, that was great. Really good.’

            ‘That was quickest interview I’ve ever done,’ Lauren says.

            ‘Me too,’ says Phil, staring at me with a searching look.

            ‘Well, I’ve got what I need, so what’s the point in wasting your time trying to get you to say the same thing ten different ways.’ Lauren shrugs.

            ‘Okay, well if you’re sure?’

            ‘Yep, definitely,’ I say. Phil starts to pack up the lights. She stands up from the chair.

            ‘So, have you got many interviews to do?’ Lauren asks.

            ‘Not at the mo, but who knows what the newsdesk has planned for me. I’ll take this to Millbank, feed it and await my fate,’ I reply. She nods.

            ‘Well, I hope it works for you. So, do you have a card or…?’ Oh my God, she wants my digits. She wants to ask me out. We really are going to spend the rest of our happy lives together. Jesus Ollie, give her the bloody card. Hang on, I don’t have business cards. Shit.

            ‘Uh…I don’t have business cards,’ I repeat my thought verbatim.

            ‘Oh. Well, never mind.’

            ‘I can give you my phone number if you like.’

            ‘Oh,’ she replies. Phil glances up from ejecting the SD card from the camera.

            ‘And email and everything else you get on a business card,’ I say. You are pathetic, look at this performance.

            ‘Sure, let me get a piece of paper.’ She pulls out a Post-It notepad and hands it to me with a pen.

            ‘Ta,’ I say. I write my name, mobile number and email address down. I resist the urge to also include my place of birth, bank account number and Gmail password. ‘There you go.’ I hand her back the pad.

            ‘Thanks,’ she says, looking at it then up to me. ‘Well, it was really nice to meet you, Ollie.’

            ‘You too,’ I say offering her my hand. She shakes it and smiles. I smile back, trying to imprint this meeting in my memory.

            ‘Ready when you are champ,’ says Phil. I glance his way and nod.

            ‘Nice to meet you too, Phil,’ says Lauren.

            ‘Uh…yeah, likewise,’ says Phil, shaking her hand.

            ‘Well, see you soon,’ I say. She frowns slightly. ‘I mean, not soon. Just…anyway.’ I grab the tripod.

            ‘Do you need someone to show you out?’ Lauren asks. I frown because I hear the word ‘throw’ when she says ‘show.’ Stupid, I know.

                ‘We’ll be fine thanks,’ Phil says. We walk out of the office, I glance back to her. She’s staring after us with a look which I interpret as utter confusion on her face. Man…that really was the worst interview I’ve ever done.

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Three Way - Chapter Two

            I wake with a start and check the clock. 05:45 AM. Damn. I’m up half an hour early. How did that happen? I yank the duvet off and tip toe to the bathroom looking like I’m doing some sort of weird pigeon walk. I get to the toilet, urgently needing to go. It’s always tricky at this time of the morning. I have to do some serious trajectory calculations and just like some of the world’s best scientists, every so often, I’m out. I won’t go into details, suffice to say I think we all know what I’m on about. Yeah, alright Ollie, get on with it. Right.

            This is me. I live in this two bedroom shithole slap bang in the middle of the crap part of Clapham, South London. And before you ask, yes there is a good part. I saved up for literally years to afford this place, not bad for a twenty-six year old. There’s a constant drawl of traffic outside and every so often I hear a police car or ambulance go by. On the plus side, the toilet flushes. The place has electricity and the water is drinkable albeit with a slight smell of eggs, don’t know why.  The reason it has two bedrooms is because I have somehow ended up living with my best friend from school, Parker McGregor. The first thing that comes to mind when you look at Parker is…Simon le Bon’s slightly fucked up twin brother. Parker is bulging at the seams, broad and a slob. He’s like a big green giant. Except he isn’t green. His bedroom door is closed. He won’t surface until at least midmorning. He’s a ‘writer.’ Which I take to mean, lazy arse. In the two years we’ve been living here, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him write anything. But he pays me rent, so what the hell, right? How he pays is another matter. He’s got rich parents, so the pressure’s off a bit.

            I pull on my shirt (unironed) and trousers (M&S crease resistant) and wander back into the bathroom. I carefully and deliberately apply a generous portion of paste to my hair and pull it as far forward as I can. It’s short, I’m not going for any Spandau Ballet thing. I nod at myself and walk out.

            When I reach the kitchen, I open the cupboard. Yes, there’s only one, and every bit of non-fresh food I own is crammed inside. I pull tins out and rifle around until I find a half-empty box of Special K. That’ll do. I open the fridge and peer inside. I won’t describe the smell, other than to say it’s in my interest to close the door as quickly as possible. Really should Dettol that fucker. Maybe I could leave a note for Parker to do the shoppi- what am I saying? I grab the milk, one of the few items still in date, and pour it over my cereal.

            On the plus side, the Nescafe is still in healthy supply. I make a black mug of the strong stuff and wander into the living room with my bowl of cereal. I click on Breakfast TV and watch the presenters being unnecessarily cheerful for the time of morning.

            I glance around the flat. Yeah, it’s not much to look at. Could be worse, could be living at home.

            I prepare to slam the door as I leave. Want to make sure I wake up Tristan next door. He makes a living selling weed to a variety of clients who stop by and always, ALWAYS knock on the wrong door. It gets really boring. Tristan is one of those posh types who fell onto the wrong side of the tracks and has now got himself into that slippery place called ‘I owe Wayne more money than I make and I hope what I do give over next time is enough to save my kneecaps.’

            I feel sorry for him. But I still think he needs to wake up early, meet the day head on. Get a proper job. I slam the door hard. It bangs and the echo bounces beautifully around the building. Nice.

            ‘OLLIE?’ I hear Tristan shout from behind his door.

            ‘YEAH!’ I match his yelling with my own.

            ‘FUCK YOU!’

            ‘You too mate. See you tonight.’

            ‘Kiss my fucking arse!’

            ‘Ciao.’

            Always good to play with the drug dealers, I think.

            The tube journey to work is hellish. I make it bearable by listening to my iPod. The Northern line is the worst line on the map. Maybe they made it black because it’s so bloody filthy. And the people are laughably rude. Well, it would be funny, if I could get on the train. But hey, it’s London. Deal with it or leave, right? Not like this city needs me clogging up its arteries like human cholesterol.

            I arrive at work at 08:50AM. I stand looking up at the imposing glass fronted building. This is T.B.N. or Television Broadcast News. You want to know what I do? What do you mean, no? Come on, I’m not in the mood to mess about today.

            I walk through one of two large glass turnstiles and into main reception. Beyond the glass walls, I can see the newsroom. There are people here twenty-four hours a day and you can tell when you walk through the door because the smell of carpet cleaner lingers in the air. I show my I.D. to the security guard who ignores me as I walk past. I keep going, past a large atrium area and straight over to the glass entrance to the newsroom. I swipe my card and the door releases. I pull it open and walk in.

            The ‘Morning Programme’ is just coming off air. I find my seat on the newsdesk, sit down and log onto the news computer system. I’m a news producer, which is so generic it’s almost laughable. My duties basically consist of these things:

1) I am asked to do interviews to go into reporters VT’s (a cut news story told with pictures and a voiceover telling you the story).

2) I am asked to do vox pops (interviews with members of the public) to go into reporters VT’s.

3) I am asked to doorstep famous people/politicians who haven’t agreed to an interview but it’s deemed in the public interest for me to stand outside their house at some ungodly hour and freeze my nuts off.

4) Almost anything else the newsdesk wants me to do. I’m essentially the newsdesk bitch.

            So that’s me. It’s a great job and I love it but you have to watch out for new news editors trying to make a name for themselves. Paul Enright walks back to the newsdesk carrying a cardboard box full of coffees. He spots me sitting down opposite him.

            ‘Ah Ollie, glad you’re here. Got a job for you,’ Paul says. He’s a good guy. Despite heading into his twilight years, you can see how much he enjoys his work. Yeah, I know the moustache is a little theatrical but try to look beyond that. Look at his flowing silver hair and unquestionable faith in John Rocha clothing. The bad breath thing is only really noticeable when you’re standing close to him.

            ‘Is it somewhere warm? Indoors?’ I ask, hope obvious in my voice.

            ‘Sort of,’ he says, winking at me. ‘Downing Street, cabinet arrivals.’ I sigh. One day I want to be doing his job. Probably not as well because no one’s as good as Paul, but sometime in the next few years I’ll be a news editor in my own right. Then I’ll call the shots and tell people to go and stand in Downing Street. That’s the plan anyway.

            ‘Where’s the Millbank producer?’

            ‘Off sick. Come on, it’ll be an hour at most. It’s not all bad, Millbank are sending Angelina Segar.’

            ‘Really, well that’s something I guess.’

            ‘I was being sarcastic. You get on with her?’ He frowns, the lines on his face becoming dangerous caverns.

            ‘Yeah. Why, don’t you?’

            ‘She’s a pain in the arse,’ the phone starts ringing, ‘but then, sometimes the good correspondents are, aren’t they?’ I shrug, considering his words. Paul turns and picks up the phone. ‘Newsdesk.’

            Downing Street has the usual media suspects lined up opposite the famous black door. I show my press pass to the security guard and, having passed through the metal detector with flying colours, I walk up to our position. Angelina is already there, looking at herself in her compact mirror. She wears a black suit, sports thick cropped red hair and has a figure to die for. Seriously, she must spend all her spare time in the gym.

            ‘Morning,’ I say as cheerfully as I can. The clouds look menacing and the wind is already picking up. Downing Street is the worst location for producers and cameramen. There’s nowhere to piss, nowhere to get a sandwich and when you’re not on air or shouting questions at politicians, there’s nothing to do.

            ‘Hello Ollie. I didn’t know you were coming down,’ Angelina says.

            ‘Yeah well, when they said it was you, I couldn’t resist.’

            ‘Ah, that’s nice,’ she replies, running a brush through her hair. Unsure if I was trying to be sarcastic or not, I opt to carry on.

            ‘So…how’s Glen?’

            ‘Urgh, don’t ask,’ she says.

            ‘Oh. Why not?’ I reply. Angelina breathes out.

            ‘Can you keep a secret?’ she asks.

            ‘Yeah,’ I reply.

            ‘Seriously?’

            ‘Of course.’

            ‘He wants a kid,’ Angelina says, in an unenthusiastic tone.

            ‘Oh. Is that not a good thing?’

            ‘Sure,’ she says, turning back to the mirror and bearing her teeth to her reflection, ‘if I want to give up my career and change shit-filled nappies all day long.’

            ‘Uh, well babies don’t have to be about poo-’ I pause, spotting the Environment Secretary walking up Downing Street for the Cabinet meeting. ‘Do you think the Prime Minister should resign!?’ I shout over to him. He ignores me and goes inside. I turn back to Angelina.

            ‘No I know but it’s the beginning of the end, isn’t it? Look at me, I’ve got to political correspondent in less than six months, I want to be editor in two years. What happens to that plan if Glen knocks me up?’ I look over to some people who have gathered at the gate to Downing Street. It’s a protest or something because they’re shouting abuse. Can’t hear what they’re saying.

            ‘What about just taking the pill? Don’t tell him.’

            ‘A little bit underhand Oliver, even for you,’ I wince as she uses my full name. ‘Guys never get it, I don’t know why I even bother talking about it. What about you anyway?’

            ‘What about me?’

            ‘How’s that Swedish girl you were seeing?’ And there it is. The question I dread. How do I play this one?

            ‘We broke up. About six months ago.’

            ‘You’re kidding. She was lovely.’

            ‘I know but well, it didn’t work out.’

            ‘Were you a cock?’

            ‘No.’ I look down, my face giving me away.

            ‘Oh Ollie. She broke your heart.’ I look up to her, straining to stop myself heading down a path where men are simply not allowed to go.

            ‘Nah, you know,’ I reply, trying to shrug it off.

            ‘Come here,’ she says, offering me outstretched arms. We hug. Don’t cry. Don’t you fucking cry. The other cameramen and reporters look at us. I want her to stop but she seems intent on trying to make me feel better. She starts rubbing and patting my back. I wonder if she’s trying to burp me.

            ‘I’m fine, really,’ I say. She releases me and looks into my eyes. I glance away and smile.

            ‘I know it hurts now but one day it won’t. Just have to hope that day comes sooner rather than later,’ she says.

            ‘Yeah,’ I reply. My phone rings. ‘Hello?’

            ‘Ollie, it’s Paul on the desk.’

            ‘Hi.’

            ‘The Lunchtime bulletin needs a clip doing in the City, can you go?’

            ‘Oh, Angelina and I were just getting to the good bit in our conversation,’ I say, Angelina shoots me a sympathetic face.

            ‘Well maybe you can call her later,’ Paul replies, apparently not getting my sarcasm.

            ‘Sure, can you email me the address?’

            ‘Yep, cameraman will meet you there,’ he says.

            ‘Okay.’

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Three Way - Chapter One

I thought I'd share with you the first three chapters of Three Way over the next three days. Hope you enjoy them.

I glance at the three piles of clothes sitting on my bed.

            Pile One: Underwear

            Pile Two: Tops, dresses, skirts

            Pile Three: Jackets and coats

            In the corner, a stack of shoe boxes. My eyes hone in on a pair of Birkenstocks, scuffed and dirtied with sand. Svetla walks in, her eyes deliberately not catching mine. She bends down and picks up her iPhone charger.

            ‘Okay, think that’s everything,’ she says. I glance at the piles of clothes, then back to her. Her shoulder-length blonde Scandinavian hair is tied back roughly. She wears lose tracky bottoms and a baggy T-shirt. Honestly, she’s looked better. Her eyes are tired from crying. My fault. Hours of pleading, arguing, shouting and now this. Quiet observing. Acutely aware neither of us can change what’s been said and done.

            ‘What about these?’ I say, indicating the piles of clothes.

            ‘Charity,’ she replies.

            ‘You want me to take these to the charity shop?’ I ask, frowning.

            ‘No, Ollie, I’ll do it. Just leave them somewhere and I’ll do it when I have time,’ she replies in a cold voice. I nod slowly. She picks up her bulky pink rucksack and throws it over her shoulder.

            ‘Let me help you-’ I say, stepping forward.

            ‘NO. No, thank you,’ she replies, correcting her tone. She walks out into the hallway. I follow her to the front door, a zombie. I put on a pair of old slippers and we walk out to her car. She goes around to the boot and throws the rucksack on top of the rest of her things, pushing it down hard. I go to help her, she shoves me away. I hold my hands up and step back. I watch her struggle to close the boot but eventually she succeeds and slams it shut. She turns to face me but doesn’t make eye contact.

            ‘Okay, so…bye,’ she says.

            ‘Svetla-’

            ‘No. We’ve said everything we need to say. Let’s say goodbye like adults,’ she replies, holding out her hand. Two and a half years we’ve been together and she wants to shake my hand. I look at her palm then up to her eyes. She blinks fast then turns away. There are so many things I want to say. So many apologies for all the stupid things I’ve said and done. Sorry for being me. She opens the car door.

            ‘Hey,’ I say, walking round to her. She turns to face me, tears in her eyes. When I see them my heart melts. What the hell are we doing? ‘You sure there’s nothing more we can do?’

            ‘We’ve done everything. You’re miserable with me. I’m miserable with you. We gave it a good shot and it didn’t work. Time for something else,’ she says, staring straight into my eyes.

            ‘Okay well, I just…’ my voice crumbles, ‘…I just wanted to say that I…really loved you and although I didn’t show it very often…I hope you’re happy somewhere else.’ Do I mean any of the words I’m saying or are they just some ploy to persuade her I am a genuinely nice guy? A tear rolls down her cheek. I move to hug her, she lets me but I feel her tense up. No warmth. No affection. Hugging a statue. I release her. She looks down and turns as the tear drops from her face to the ground. She quickly wipes her cheek and sniffs, getting into her car and closing the door. I stand back, my hands finding their way into my pockets. She starts the engine and pulls away. I stand, rooted, imprinting every part of this into my psyche. She indicates left at the road and slowly pulls away. I hear the car disappear into the distance and then…nothing except the sound of birds singing. The end.

            I turn and walk back inside my flat. My mind is still processing what’s just happened. The girl I love has just left me. The girl I thought I was going to marry no longer lives with me. I walk into my bedroom and sit down on the bed. A tear runs down my face, I blink it away. I take a cardigan from the pile and smell her smell, closing my eyes. What have I done?

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