by Hayley Doyle
6
Jim
‘Just sign here, here and here.’
I’m trying to pay attention, but there’s a massive distraction in my way.
A brand-new BMW M3.
A five door, nineteen-inch alloys, three litre turbo engine, high-performance saloon. The interior is fitted with black leather racing seats, a nine-speaker sound system, built-in satnav; the dashboard’s made from black carbon fibre and chrome. The seats are heated.
The producer tosses me the keys.
‘It’s all yours. Congrats.’
I climb into my car. My gleaming white car. The soft heated seat engulfs my body and I take my fleece off, chucking it onto the back seat, feeling the sheer comfort of the leather close to my skin. The powerful rev of the engine is euphoric.
Driving away from the studio’s underground car park, the producer’s scowl gets smaller and smaller in my rear-view mirror. I focus on the road ahead like I’ve never focused before. No traffic signal can be ignored, no other driver taken for granted.
Cruising down the Dock road, I turn up side streets and drive in circles, bringing myself back onto the Dock road again. Tunes blast from the speakers: Daft Punk; The Doors; a bit of Bowie. I swing by my flat above Wong’s chippy, park around the corner and run like the wind to get changed, throwing on the first t-shirt and jeans I lay my hands on. Getting back inside my car is like receiving a huge hug; I can’t bloody believe it. I run my fingertips over the interior features, the music pumping. It’s not that far to Snowy’s. I’m going to cruise, take my own sweet time.
Twenty grand. Derek Higgins reckons that’s what I’ll get if I sell it. How much will it cost to take my ma to Florida to see my sisters? Does she even have a passport? I do, but it’s never been used. Neither of us have ever been abroad.
Actually, with twenty grand, I could work for free for a while, become an intern. It wouldn’t be irresponsible of me to do that with twenty grand in the bank, would it? Even at my age? Like taking a step back to go forward, starting over again.
After my degree, I got a job in the mailroom at a publishing company, home to a whole host of local lifestyle magazines. My plan was to start by sorting letters and move into writing features, maybe even become editor. Only, a problem swamped me: competing with those who could afford to work for free. Thanks to their smug faces, any chance of escaping stamps and pigeonholes was as likely as me finding a golden ticket in an invoice. I wasn’t like them, you see. The way I was brought up, you worked to earn, even if it meant a pittance, and I wasn’t going to suck up anyone’s arse for free whilst scrounging off my hardworking family. So, even when I arrived early and stayed late, just to make contact with the editors, I was dismissed like an opened, redundant envelope. I was the mailroom fella. Why would they give me a shot? So I thought fuck it. And quit.
‘But, you’ve got a degree, son,’ my dad had said.
‘A lot of people have degrees, Dad.’
‘You got a First.’
‘It doesn’t mean I’m qualified for much, though.’
‘But surely it qualifies you for something?’
‘And I’ll find something soon, Dad. Promise.’
Oh, Dad. I’m sorry. Salty, hot tears well up, but I blink them away, swallowing hard.
Fireworks are beginning to explode across the city. From the comfort of my driver’s seat, I watch as mini rockets dart through the sky, whistling, fizzling. Even if I keep the car, this is still a new start for me, isn’t it? I mean, driving to work every day in this awesome beast would at least get the day off to a bloody great start.
I turn into Snowy’s road, crawl up beside his house, put the handbrake on. God. Even that feels good.
‘It’s yours?’ Snowy’s hands are plastered to his neat black hair. He loves new stuff. Trainers, tablets, the latest smart telly. Situated in a new-build development, his whole house is a show home minus the plastic fruit. He gets a new car on a lease every two years, but not one in this sort of league.
‘It’s mine.’
‘So, you’re saying you gave two birds in town your phone number and now suddenly you’re the owner of this fucking beauty?’
‘You couldn’t write it, mate.’
‘You fluky bastard.’
Circling my prize, Snowy’s jaw is so far dropped that his usual smiley, squinting face is unrecognisable. He runs his index finger across the bonnet.
‘She’s exquisite,’ he says.
‘Quite. I just can’t believe I’ve got me own wheels,’ I say. ‘For years, I’ve sat stationary, watching everyone else driving, going through the tunnel, wondering where they’re going … and now, I’m going somewhere.’
Snowy laughs. ‘You’re a deep fucker, mate,’ he says.
‘And you, Brian Walsh, are blessed with the intellectual capacity of a jellyfish.’
‘What you got against jellyfish, eh?’
‘Oh, I didn’t say they don’t play a sophisticated role in the ecosystem.’
‘Okay, you’ve lost me now. As per usual. And I need a drink. Got some tins on ice in our new freezer.’
‘Can’t drink, lad.’ I jangle my keys, dangling them like a carrot. ‘I’m driving.’
We snigger, before pushing each other back and forth, the odd mock punch thrown in, until we both hug unashamedly. Neither of us has a brother, but that’s okay, we’ve got each other.
‘It couldn’t have happened to a better fella, mate,’ Snowy says, his grip still tight.
‘Cheers.’
‘I mean it, Jimbo. If anyone else pulled up outside me house having won a dream car for doing absolutely fuck all, I’d be fuming, mate. I’d wanna rip their smug head off and feed it to the dog. But, you. You, Jimbo. I’m over the moon for you. I am. Truly. What did your ma say?’
‘Haven’t told her yet.’
‘This is boss. Just so … boss. Fucking hell, mate, you’re making me cry here.’
I don’t admit that I nearly cried earlier. It’s different for Snowy, who blubbers often and always quite comfortably has, and who’s now blowing his nose on a fresh, clean handkerchief from his shirt pocket.
‘You soppy get,’ I say.
‘Fuck you. Anyway, why don’t you leave the car here tonight? Get smashed.’
‘Nah, I’m off work tomorrow. Doing the Sunday shift instead. Double time.’
‘All the more reason to get smashed, then. What’s wrong with you? You pregnant?’
‘Look, I don’t wanna waste me day in bed hungover.’
‘Ah, yeah. It really sucks to be you,’ Snowy chuckles, pulling a stupid face. ‘I mean, you’re a boss drunk. A riot. But you’re a fucking bastard with a hangover.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Ah, you’re the worst, mate. The worst! You act like someone’s done a massive shit in your head and you’re all like, “oh, woe is me,” and then the next minute you’re like the monster coming over the hill, a scary motherfucker.’
‘We’re getting old. Can’t handle it anymore.’
‘Speak for yourself, I’m always fine the next day.’
‘You’re a one in a million, lad.’
‘I know I am. Now, come on, Jimbo. Let’s get inside. The burgers should be done.’
‘Who has a barbecue in November?’
‘It’s bonfire night.’
‘It’s fucking freezing, mate.’
‘It’s an indoor barbecue.’
‘Oh, so you mean you’re grilling burgers and sausages inside? That’s not a barbecue.’
‘Ooh, did someone lose his sense of humour whilst driving a BMW?’
‘Have you got onion rings?’
‘Ha!’ Snowy laughs. ‘Have we got onion rings? We’ve not only got onion rings, but we’ve got corn on the cob, spicy chicken drumsticks, garlic bread – with cheese – and for those who think they’re too posh for a burger, we have hummus.’
Any excuse for a party, Snowy has it. Even as the dad of three-year-old twins, there’s always a reaso
n for some sort of shindig. These days, the occasion gets tweaked to suit the kids, until they conk out, and then old-school partying begins. You see, Snowy used to be a tour manager, gigging all over the world, until fatherhood forced him to pack it in. He doesn’t half crave that lifestyle, though, and loves to drag us along.
The twins and a bunch of local kids are sat, crossed arms and cross-legged, on the patio in the back garden, wrapped up in coats, hats and scarves like Christmas pressies. Us lot, the grown-ups, stand around, all waiting for the firework display to kick off. A couple of older kids clamber onto the roof of Snowy’s new shed for a better view.
‘If anybody dares to touch the fairy lights, there’ll be no hot dogs,’ Snowy announces.
‘And if you cross the line, there’ll be no fireworks,’ Mikey adds, indicating the imaginary line with his arms. He’s a high school music teacher now, and my God, he loves to use that teacher voice. Although it doesn’t take him long to sneak through the house and admire my new car. I follow him.
He whistles, sizing it up. Then, he looks at me and back to the car again.
‘You’ll get fifty for this, Jimbo,’ Mikey says, sipping his drink. ‘But, don’t drive it anywhere. If you’re selling it, sell it now. Once you hit a hundred miles, its value’ll drop to about forty-five.’
Hold on. What the … What the actual? Fifty. Grand. What the fuck?
Now, I’m never sure whether Mikey knows what he’s talking about or if he’s a complete bullshitter. Still wearing his school ‘uniform’, Dumbo flying across his tie and his striped shirt tight around the middle, Mikey’s rarely seen without a glass of whiskey in one hand, a ciggie in the other.
‘I was gonna get meself one of these,’ Mikey continues. ‘But the missus was giving me grief. Said it wasn’t right for the kids. What did she expect me to do? Ring Noddy, see if he’s selling his little red and yellow car? I said to her, I don’t think your spray tan’s right for the kids, but I just got more grief. You’re a lucky man, Jimbo. A bachelor with a bimmer.’
‘Rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?’ I say.
Mikey loves to bitch about his family, but Christ, he’d be lost without them. The only married one in the gang, his wife is Victoria and likes to be called Tori. They had one of those massive weddings in a castle in Ireland and are still paying the bill seven years on. His two young girls – ballet obsessed, gymnastics obsessed – put a few extra lines on Mikey’s forehead, but they still manage an all-inclusive family holiday twice a year. I’d swap my life with Mikey’s in a heartbeat.
‘You want my advice?’ Mikey asks, pausing long enough for me to blink. ‘Don’t sell it. Don’t give this baby away to anyone. You drive this around and you’ll have a bird in no time. A classy bird, too. I mean, my Tori’s classy, but she’s got a dirty mouth. Gets it from her ma.’
‘Mate. It’s not exactly me life goal to get a girlfriend who only wants me for me wheels.’
‘Well, what is your life goal?’
Good question.
BANG! Red and blue fizz above our heads into white glittering droplets. Oohs and ahhs echo from the back garden. I look at my car, then back at Mikey.
‘How’d it go with Tori’s mate?’ he asks, and sticks his tongue between his teeth like a right sleaze. ‘Tapas, eh?’
Shit. I was hoping Mikey had forgotten about that. He leans back, resting against the BMW. I kind of wish he wouldn’t.
‘She was nice,’ I say, putting a strong downward inflection on the ‘nice’, a way to bring this chat to an end before it begins. ‘Where’s Griffo tonight?’
‘Working. But, don’t change the subject, gis a bit more juice than that. Come on, what happened after the patatas bravas? Did you double dip in the garlic sauce? She’s been after you for ages, according to Tori. What’s her name again …?’
‘Rebecca – well, Becca – I presume her full name’s Rebecca.’
‘So, not much talking then? All action?’
‘No, Mikey. Leave it.’
‘Such a prude.’
But I’m not a prude. You know what I am? I’m embarrassed. Yeah, I went on a date with Tori’s mate, but we didn’t go to the new tapas place for a meal. We just went there for a drink. It was all I could afford and as much as I fully support equality, I can’t let a girl pay for anything on a first date. Look, I know I’m old-fashioned in that sense, but so what? It’s how I was brought up.
‘Seeing her again?’ Mikey probes.
‘Nope.’
Mikey pushes himself off the BMW, tutting.
‘I suppose she wasn’t “The One”,’ he says, making inverted commas with his fingers whilst still holding his glass and ciggie. ‘You’re so hard to please, Jimbo. Yeah, you’ve got the whole sexy look going on, but who you holding out for? Salma fucking Hayek?’
‘Nah, she’s too old.’
‘Ha. Well, I hope you let Little Miss Becca down nicely. We don’t want another girl in Liverpool crying herself to sleep over Jimbo Glover, do we?’
I hadn’t needed to let Becca down nicely. I’m not soft. The way she sipped that Rioja when I told her what I did for a living, well, let’s just say I’m glad she didn’t choke. Girls like Becca want a fella with their own desk. Not one they share with other toll-booth workers. To throw her a lifeline, I told her I still lived with my ma. A white lie, but the final nail in the coffin.
‘You have a seriously warped opinion of me, don’t you, Mikey?’
‘Let’s go and get a top up,’ Mikey says, rattling the ice around his empty glass.
Inside, passed out on the pastel-pink sofa in the lounge, are Snowy’s twins, still in their warm coats and woolly hats, the CBeebies bedtime story glowing from the telly. Snowy gets the tequila out. I decline. God, I feel so boring. And guilty. Guilty for all the times I laughed at the designated driver or rolled my eyes at how dull people were for bringing their car. At least Snowy had raised a good point. I won’t have to cope with a rotten hangover tomorrow.
Something as cold as ice clasps the palm of my hand.
‘Looks like you need some sort of pick-me-up?’ It’s Helen, Snowy’s girlfriend, one hand holding a bottle of opened prosecco, the other holding mine.
She’s not dressed for a cold bonfire night. Her tight jeans are ripped at the knees, a loose Oasis t-shirt hangs off one shoulder revealing a red bra strap. Long, thick, red locks bounce over her other shoulder.
‘I’m not drinking, Hel—’
‘Ah, shut it, Jimbo. We ALL know you’re not drinking; you’re DRIVING. Show off.’
Her lips, a little smeared, match her lingerie with shocking power, but the rest of her face is fresh, clear, rosy. Helen has flawless skin. Snowy and Mikey are stumbling by the breakfast bar trying to force the contents of a tequila bottle into a giant water pistol.
‘I feel like I’m standing in a zoo, looking at all the animals behind the bars,’ I say.
‘That’s why I NEVER drive,’ Helen says.
‘Didn’t know you could drive.’
‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Jimbo.’
I sip my Coke, like a loser. ‘No way, Hels. I know everything about you. Twenty-two years, you can learn a lot about someone in that time.’
‘Fuck me, Jimbo. Is that how long we’ve known each other?’
‘Yep. Since Year Seven.’
‘Year Seven was TWENTY-TWO years ago?’
‘Do the maths, Hels.’
‘I was shit at maths. God! I still feel twenty-two.’
‘Well, if it’s any consolation, you look about twenty-three.’
Helen lifts the bottle of prosecco and swigs. ‘Charmer.’
‘On a good day, I mean. On a bad day, I reckon you look about twenty-eight.’
Her hand is still in mine.
‘Come with me,’ she says.
No. I tug my hand away and shove it into my jeans pocket. I’m not going anywhere with Helen. With a few drinks down me, yeah, I always follow her, listen to her. She bloody loves
an antisocial one-on-one. But it feels very different tonight. The blend of bright kitchen lights and my being fully aware of everyone in the room makes slipping away awkward. And as innocent as it is, being sober doesn’t hand me an excuse.
A squirt of liquid hits me between the eyes. Snowy’s got the tequila gun in his hand, killing himself laughing. He throws his head back, aims for his own mouth and shoots a blast of tequila down his throat, then turns the gun back on me as his target.
‘Mikey said you blew Becca off,’ Snowy shouts over the music.
Helen playfully hits my shoulder.
‘Who’s Becca?’ she asks.
‘No one,’ I say.
Snowy squirts me again, this time getting me right in the eye.
‘Ah, pack it in, mate!’
‘Not “The One”?’ Snowy mocks, which pisses me off.
Mikey snatches the gun and gives himself a shot, followed by a whoop.
‘The One, or not The One, that is the question,’ he says, and shoots Snowy.
Helen puts the bottle of prosecco on the table and walks off, heading into the lounge to check on the twins. I watch as she removes their coats, holding their little limbs like delicate china. The boy, Rocco, turns his body into the sofa and curls up tight, determined to slip right back into the deep sleep that his mum’s just disturbed him from. Helen bends her knees and sweeps the girl, Maisie, up into her arms.
Just before she reaches the stairs, Helen’s eyes catch mine. So, I creep into the lounge, take Rocco in my arms and follow her.
In Year Seven, because our surnames both began with G, I had to sit next to Helen Gladstone for all lessons except music. It took me until Year Nine to ask her to go out with me.
Helen was my first kiss. According to Helen, I was her second. We went to the pictures every Saturday night until we were old enough to start trying to get into pubs. Helen’s mum called me the son she never had. My dad loved her. She even came to Rhyl with us every summer. It took Helen a whole year to let me touch her boobs, then, on the eve of our final GCSE exam, we lost our virginity to each other in Helen’s dad’s shed. Helen left school and went to college to do nursing. I stayed on to do my A Levels. During my first year at uni, we were careless and Helen fell pregnant. She wanted an abortion.