Swimming Upstream by Ruth Mancini Read Free Book Online

don't
know where to go first. With you it's a choice between the Juggler's Friend or
the flipping Dog and Duck.”
    “Oh that's great,” said Larsen. “So everyone's got
to be a high flyer like you. Well maybe I like being here.”
    “But you never are here!” I spluttered, and banged
down my glass. Larsen stared at me, wide-eyed. I bit my lip and said, more
softly, “You're never here when I come back.”
    Larsen sighed and refilled our glasses. “If you're
talking about last night, I'm sorry.”
    I lit a cigarette. Larsen looked at his feet. “I
love you,” he muttered, eventually.
    I shook my head. “No. No you don't .”
    “What?”
    “You don't love me, not really. That's just
something you say to keep me loving you.”   Larsen opened his mouth to protest,
but shut it again. “If you loved me, I'd feel it,” I added. “But I don't. I just
feel…” I tailed off. “Tired,” I said, finally.
    “Tired? Tired of what? Tired of me?”
    “No. No, I don’t mean that.” I sighed. “Not tired
of you. Just tired. Tired of being the strong one.”
    “I'm no good for you. You don't need me,” said
Larsen.
    “How do you know what I need?” I sighed,
frustrated. “You think you know, but you don't.”
    “Funny that, isn't it?” said Larsen, his voice
loaded with sarcasm. “I've only lived with you for the last six years -”
     “- Seven,” I interrupted.
    “What?”
    “It's over seven years.”
    “Is it?” Larsen looked at the blackness outside
the window for a minute, then nodded. “Yep, you’re right.” He turned and
grinned at me. I smiled back, the tension between us broken. We both fell
silent and sipped our drinks.
    “Bosnia,” said Larsen, half-smiling and shaking
his head, as if I were child. “You don’t want to go to Bosnia .”
    “No, you don’t want to go to Bosnia,” I
said. “I’m not you!”
    Larsen looked hurt. “Have you any idea what it’s
like reporting from a war zone? It’s not just about getting your face on the
telly, you know. People go missing, get kidnapped…”
    “I know...”
    “You know. You know it all, don’t you? You won’t
be told anything!”
    “Well, why do you want to tell me
everything.”
    “Because I care about you! That’s why!” Larsen got
up and lit the gas fire and sat down in front of it with his back to me,
staring into it as if it were a real one. After a while I got up and settled
onto the floor beside him. He put his arm round me and I leaned my head against
his chest. My face was pleasantly warm and the whisky was making me dozy.
    The telephone was ringing. Larsen stirred beside
me, but neither of us moved. The answer phone clicked on and I could hear
Phil’s voice telling me he hoped I was all right and that I shouldn’t rush
back. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
    “Is that a good thing, do you think?” I asked
Larsen.
    “They’re not going to sack you, Lizzie. They love
you.” Then Larsen added, “And I love you, you know. I really do.”
    “I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
    “But maybe,” he said, looking not at me but at the
small blue and white flames that were dancing around in the fireplace. “Maybe
we should break up.”
    I looked up at him. He was still beautiful. He
smiled down at me and I could see in his eyes that nothing had changed for him.
He still loved me in exactly the same way that he always had - too much, but
not enough, at exactly the same time. He held me tighter.
    “Maybe you're right,” I agreed. “Maybe we should.”

4
    Larsen moved out the following day. I sat helplessly on
the sofa with my crutches and watched as he hauled three boxes and a suitcase
down the narrow stairs into the living room and out of the door to Dave’s van.
    I hobbled to the doorstep and kissed him goodbye.
    “I still love you,” he told me, with what sounded
like a question mark at the end.
    “I still love you too,” I told him back, the same
question hanging silently in the air