No Big Deal

by Bethany Rutter

  ‘That sounds really nice,’ I say, and I mean it. ‘Do you play live, or is it still just your thing?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it. I mean, I can’t keep it to myself forever, I guess. It’s just very . . . stressful putting yourself out there to be judged by people on something that’s so personal and so private,’ he says.

  Yes, this is the good stuff – tell me about your feelings, Joe.

  ‘That makes a lot of sense,’ I say. It does. I wouldn’t have the courage to perform in front of people even if I did have any talent. ‘Like you say, it can’t just be your personal thing forever. Especially if you’re serious about it.’

  ‘I think I am,’ he says.

  ‘Good for you,’ I reply, smiling.

  ‘Oh no,’ he says suddenly, looking down at his watch then draining his coffee. ‘I have to go. I told someone I would meet them at Waterloo in five minutes.’

  ‘Oh . . . OK . . . Sure . . .’ I say, completely taken aback by the abrupt end not only to the conversation about his work, but also to our hangout.

  ‘I’m really sorry. I didn’t want to cancel on her, so thought I could do both today. That’s OK, isn’t it?’ he asks plaintively.

  ‘Yes, of course!’ I lie, smarting. ‘You’ve got things to do – it’s cool.’

  ‘Thanks for being understanding. Hopefully next time we hang out, I won’t have to dash off so quickly. If you want to meet up again?’

  My heart leaps.

  ‘Of course,’ I say. I don’t know what else to say.

  He pushes open the door to the cafe, and the cold wind hits me. Seems appropriate somehow. I walk with him up to Waterloo so I can take the weird little single-decker bus back along the river to London Bridge. I say goodbye to him outside the Waterloo Road entrance to the station, then cross the road just to get out of the way. I begin to wonder if there really is a pressing engagement this evening, or if he just wanted to get the hell out of there. When I reach the other side of the pedestrian crossing, I look back and see my answer. He’s hugging a tall, slim girl with cascading, sleek blonde hair.

  Of course. That’s his kind of girl.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Blitzkrieg Bop’ – Ramones

  I do the one thing I know I shouldn’t do: I check his Facebook to see if there’s any clue as to who the girl was or evidence of where they went. Tap tap tap. A girl called Hannah Neumann checked in with him at the pub opposite Waterloo last night. So that’s that, I guess. Whoever you are, Hannah Neumann, I hate you. A lump rises in my throat. But even if my heart is broken, I can’t hide here in bed forever. Not least because my mum is committed to rousing me from my snoozing.

  ‘Rise and shine, treasure!’ she says as she barges in, opening all the blinds. ‘God, you really didn’t inherit your father’s tidiness gene, did you?’

  I must admit, my room is looking particularly bad at the moment: I had to try on various options before I knew I’d found the right outfit for my meet up with Joe yesterday. I shudder internally at the image of me agonizing over different outfits to meet someone who wouldn’t have noticed if I turned up in a bin liner. Sweet of me to think my clothes would have made a difference.

  ‘No, Mum,’ I groan as I sit up. Mistake! That makes room for my mum to take it as an invitation to come and sit at the foot of my bed.

  ‘So . . .’ She smiles coyly, smoothing the wrinkles of my duvet.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How was your date?’

  ‘Mum! It wasn’t a date.’

  ‘Of course that’s what you would say,’ she scolds. ‘You never tell me anything about your life!’

  ‘I wish it was a date,’ I mutter.

  ‘Oh no – what’s the matter?’ she coos.

  ‘Nothing, Mum. I really don’t want to talk about it,’ I say, my despair getting the better of me.

  ‘OK, well, I won’t push you then.’

  Jesus, I must sound miserable if even my mum knows to back off.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say sincerely. I squeeze her hand as she gets up to leave my hovel. I’m grateful to her for at least knowing when to stop.

  ‘By the way,’ she says from the doorway. ‘A letter came from school about university application deadlines. Please don’t forget to get your form ready in good time.’

  I feel hot with panic. I really do not want to have to make my mind up for definite on this yet, but time is running out. I’m too wrapped up in the now to think about something that’s happening as far away as next year.

  Mum changes the subject. ‘I’m going to go for a run later – do you want to come with me?’

  I can think of nothing I would enjoy less. ‘No, that’s all right. I’m just going to do some homework today, then go and see Abi’s boyfriend’s band later,’ I reply, propping myself up in bed, as if I’m about to spring into action any minute.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she says, looking a bit sulky.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. When have I ever gone running, anyway?’

  ‘Well, there’s no time like the present!’ she replies, looking hopeful.

  Unfortunately that optimism is misplaced.

  ‘No. Really. I don’t want to go. Sorry,’ I say, and I hope it sounds final enough to her.

  She shakes her head at me in the most patronizing way imaginable but admits defeat.

  I thought she had been suspiciously quiet on the diet-and-exercise front recently. It was too much to hope that she had put it out of her mind completely.

  I get out of bed and reach for my school bag, trying not to let her words float into my head as I attempt to construct deep and meaningful passages about religion in Candide. I wasn’t lying when I said I had homework to do. What a bleak Sunday: a day of moping because Joe doesn’t fancy me, writing about religious hypocrisy in eighteenth-century France, and fighting off my mother’s attempts to turn me into a Healthy Person. Oh, and to top it off, this evening I have to go to the worst pub in town – possibly even in the world.

  The Fox stands alone in Croydon. For a town that so prides itself on its campaign against underage drinking, a town that zealously patrols its parks and green spaces to make sure no teenagers are having fun with open containers, a town that would probably ID a pensioner ‘just in case’, Croydon has truly given up hope with the Fox.

  It’s not just the floors that are sticky. The walls are sticky too. You don’t want to put your stuff down on a surface. It smells like a pint someone’s left out in the sun for a thousand years. The toilets are disgusting to the point of being unusable. It’s run by a creepy middle-aged man called Colin, who has a dragon tattooed on his face, and who, I suspect, is happy that the Fox is the only place in Croydon underage girls can reliably buy alcohol. The only redeeming feature is that old Colin will let any band play there as long as they can guarantee some attendance. And until I turn eighteen, this majestic shithole is pretty much the only place in my town that I can go out in the evening. I always feel kind of self-conscious when I come here, though. It’s all grungy and punky and kind of dirty, and it feels like that look is so much cooler on all the waif-like girls.

  Being teenagers, and therefore not a Proper Band, Oliver’s lot are on first. Abi sways at the front, flashing encouraging smiles at her man on bass.

  ‘Is it mean if I call them a Poundland Tom Tom Club?’ a low voice whispers in my ear.

  I’m so surprised that my cider sputters out of my nose.

  ‘Jesus!’ I shout, indignant. But of all the people who could sneak up on me, I’m glad that it’s Joe. Overjoyed, in fact. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I want to support my friend’s musical endeavours.’ He gestures to the stage.

  If I’d known he would be here, I would have made more of an effort. Maybe even gone as far as brushing my hair.

  ‘Even if that involves calling them rip-offs?’ I challenge him, with a smile.

  ‘I meant it as a compliment . . .’

  Abi elbows me in the ribs for the sin of not payi
ng attention to Oliver’s band, but as soon as she sees Joe next to me, her expression changes to pure delight. When Joe turns to go to the bar for drinks, she gestures for me to go after him. Ah, bless Abi. Ruthlessly committed to helping other people follow their dreams.

  We don’t miss much, as we slip off while the band is playing their last song, but at least it means we beat the rush to the bar. We buy two pints of their cheapest cider and take a seat as far from the stage as is possible in such a cramped space.

  ‘Did you have a nice time last night?’ I ask, on the assumption it’ll make me look super cool and chilled out if I ask him about his date with the tall blonde lady. I nonchalantly sip at my unrefrigerated draught cider that tastes of urine.

  ‘Yeah, I really did. We just have so much in common. It’s so easy to talk.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ I nod. What else am I meant to say? Oh, good for you! So glad you’ve got a dream babe on the go.

  ‘That’s why I’m doubly pleased to see you tonight. It was annoying having to run off yesterday,’ he says, setting his pint down.

  Oh . . . oh . . . he meant me? He thinks we have ‘so much in common’? He thinks it’s easy to talk to me? Well I never.

  ‘I’m so sorry about that! I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I realized afterwards I didn’t even tell you upfront that I would have to dash off, and it probably looked really rude. My mum made me meet my cousin Hannah, who was visiting this weekend. I don’t think either of us was particularly bothered, but she was over from Cologne for a flying visit, and you know what mums are like.’

  Relief washes over me like a warm shower.

  ‘No, of course – that was no problem at all,’ I splutter. OK, so the fact he doesn’t fancy me is made slightly more bearable by the knowledge he didn’t ditch me last night to meet a girlfriend.

  ‘Do you know the next band?’ he asks, craning his head to try to see who’s setting up.

  ‘I don’t . . . Hey, you should talk to Creepy Colin about playing here sometime. From what you said the other day, I know your stuff is kind of different to this, but they definitely do more chilled nights.’

  A smile creeps across his face, but before he can reply, Abi is leaning on the table between us, clearly trying to scope out the situation.

  ‘Emily! Aren’t you going to introduce me to your . . . new friend?’ she asks, raising her eyebrows to the roof.

  I hope she’s not going to stay too long, the interlude of quiet between the bands playing is a rare gift.

  ‘Of course. Abi, this is Joe. Joe, this is my friend Abi,’ I say stiffly.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Joe says. ‘Although . . .’

  ‘I think maybe we’ve met before . . .’ Abi picks up his thread, waiting to see if he remembers her and is therefore good enough for me.

  ‘Yes, we met outside Beats Per Minute when you were . . . uh . . . hanging out with Oliver,’ he says.

  ‘Of course! That must be it . . . Well, I shan’t disturb you any longer!’

  And with that, she snakes off through the crowd, turning back to blow me a kiss as she goes looking for Oliver. Bless her. She never outstays her welcome. As she goes, I wonder if maybe this is a good tactic: make sure we are surrounded by people who act like we’re on a date, and eventually the message will get through to him that we should be on a date. Nice idea.

  Joe and I stay at our table while the next band – to whom we have no loyalty but are polite enough to pay attention to – play their set. I keep stealing glances at Joe out of the corner of my eye. His lips just look so kissable. So full and soft and perfect. I honestly think he’s the cutest guy I’ve ever seen. He’s definitely cuter than anyone else in the Fox. I wonder if this is how Abi feels about Oliver, or how Camila feels about Ryan, or Ella and Sophia about each other.

  I wish we were somewhere quieter. I wish we weren’t in the dingiest pub in Croydon. But I suppose I should be grateful that I’m here at all. I came out to make sure there were at least two people in the audience for Oliver’s band and was rewarded with a surprise: Joe. Maybe I should do good deeds more often.

  After the last band finishes, we stay on and chat for the rest of the evening. An easy back and forth. I laugh a lot, and I’m worried I laugh too much. At least he’s funny. And there are worse crimes than laughing loads. I look at him while he speaks and feel a little twist of despair. I want to ask him why he can’t just fancy me – just make this easier for everyone and fancy me. I want him to want me. I want him to feel as excited as I do when we meet. I don’t just want to be some girl he met at a party who he chats to about music and books and films. I mean, that’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it’s not the thing I want it to be . . .

  Creepy Colin rings the bell to signal last orders, and Joe springs into action, heading up to the bar for our last round. Alone at the table, I catch my reflection in a large mirror hanging behind our seats, and I sit up instantly. I feel hot with embarrassment to have caught my reflection off-guard, slouched in her chair, creating (or, more likely, accentuating) double chins and extra rolls. And the reflection is me, the me that Joe sees when he’s talking to me. There’s that insistent voice again . . . You know very well that’s why he’s not interested in you. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

  I’m forced back to reality not by Joe, but by Oliver sliding his lanky frame into Joe’s empty seat. I hope he’s not planning to stay.

  ‘You played a really good set, Ol,’ I say earnestly. I suppose I can chat to him until Joe gets back from the bar.

  ‘Thanks! I think we’re getting better, you know? Maybe not actually good yet, but . . . better,’ he replies.

  Thank God he’s not kidding himself he’s the next David Bowie.

  ‘Abi tells me you’ve got a little thing for Joe, right?’ he says, looking at me over the top of his thick-rimmed glasses.

  I don’t know why I would expect her not to say anything to Oliver, but he had better not pass that information along to Joe. The thought of my low-level Joe obsession falling into the wrong hands makes me feel sick with anticipation of the embarrassment and rejection it would mean for me.

  ‘Oh, yeah, that. It’s no big deal . . .’ I laugh and smooth my frizzy hair to give my hands something to do.

  ‘Well, I would get in there quickly if I were you – he’s quite the hot property,’ Oliver says.

  I’m too confused by what he means to dwell too much on the fact this is probably the longest conversation he and I have ever had.

  Oliver nudges me. ‘Yeah, from what I know he was pretty popular in his year at Alexander Hall. Lots of female interest . . . Think I even heard whisperings of a threesome or something.’

  ‘Oh. Cool. That’s . . . good for him,’ I say. What else am I meant to say? Oh yes please tell me more, Oliver. Tell me all the gory details.

  Oliver slaps Joe on the back as he returns to the table, valiantly trying not to spill our drinks.

  ‘Just singing your praises to Em, wasn’t I?’ he says.

  Yes, that’s one way to put it.

  ‘I dread to think,’ says Joe drily as Oliver gets up and heads off in the direction of Abi.

  I spend our last drink sitting bolt upright, shoulders back, my neck elongated to keep my chin up. An attempt at an elegant, ladylike posture. But I’m under no illusions that I look like anything other than a weird robot. Or that it would do anything to help make him find me attractive. Why would it?

  We drink up, but I don’t want to go anywhere. Not just because there’s nowhere else to go in Croydon on a Sunday night. I want to stay here in the warm glow of Joe’s attention, even though I know he’s not interested. Even though I know he probably has five other girls who he could call right now. Why stop at five? Ten girls. I want to keep him close to me, rather than constantly wondering what he’s doing, who he’s with, where he is. I know that as soon as I’m out of his sight, I’ll be out of his mind. If only that was the case for me too.

  ‘It was nice to bump into you tonight,’ I s
ay as we make to leave.

  ‘Yes, a very nice surprise,’ he replies, buttoning up his coat.

  My heart is in my throat: Come on – just do it.

  ‘Let’s meet up again soon. On purpose.’ At least I got the words out of my mouth. Well done, Emily.

  ‘Sure, yes – that sounds good. Let’s hang out again,’ he says, nodding decisively.

  I love the way he keeps using the words ‘hang out’ just to be extra sure I don’t get any wrong ideas about it being a date. Don’t worry, Joe: I know it’s not a date. I am painfully aware that it is not a date.

  ‘Well, I guess you have my number, so just message me when you feel like it.’ I’m trying to cultivate an air of cool. But damn, I hate it when the ball isn’t in my court. Oh well, too late now.

  ‘Yes, I do. Great. OK, then,’ he says.

  Are we meant to hug now? Do we hug? Are we friends yet?

  ‘Wait,’ he says suddenly. ‘Actually, if you’re not doing anything on Thursday evening, why don’t you meet me at the shop? Then I can close up, and we can do something after?’

  Thursday? That’s soon. I was expecting him to delay it at least a couple of weeks. My boldness has paid off, it seems. I take out my phone, pretending to check my calendar.

  ‘Thursday . . . first of November . . .’ I mumble faux pensively, feigning surprise to see I am, in fact, engagement free that night. ‘All clear! I suppose I’ll see you there, then.’

  We don’t hug – I guess we’re not quite there yet – but at least I can head for the bus stop knowing I’ll see him again soon. Fortune favours the bold, right?

  Now that my next hangout with Joe is officially in the diary, maybe it’s time to focus on . . . you know, my actual life. I’ve been kind of letting it slip lately. I know it’s Sunday night, but boy do I have that real Sunday-night feeling – like there’s something horrible looming ahead of me. I rack my brains and try to think what might be bothering me, but nothing comes.