by Mike Gayle
‘Cool,’ says Jim. ‘Does that mean you’re going to be an English teacher?’
‘I’m going to be a novelist,’ I tell him, which is sort of true. I do want to write a novel some day.
‘Cool,’ says Jim. ‘I’m doing business and economics. I don’t want to work in business, though.’
‘So why are you doing it, then?’
‘Everybody needs a plan B.’
‘And what’s plan A?’
‘I’m in a band. I’m the lead singer.’
‘What are you called?’
‘We haven’t got a name.’
‘I see. Well, are you any good?’
‘There’s only me in the band at the minute.’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘Then how is that a band?’
‘I’m going to recruit some more members. You don’t play any instruments, do you?’
‘No. Nothing. I’m completely tone-deaf.’
‘That’s a shame. You’d look great with a guitar.’
I smile but I don’t reply. Instead I hope that the long, awkward silence currently flourishing between us will grow large enough for me to escape, but he doesn’t seem to want to go.
‘You should be careful, you know,’ I say, after a few moments, because I feel uncomfortable standing there saying nothing.
‘I should be careful of what?’
‘Having a plan B.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if you’ve got one you might use it.’ I smile politely at him. ‘Well, it was nice to meet you.’
‘Cool,’ says Jim. ‘It was nice to meet you too.’ He leans towards me as if he’s going to kiss my cheek, which is odd. I decide it’s easier just to let his strange behaviour go without comment, but at the last minute he moves his face around so that we’re eye to eye and then kisses me directly on the lips.
‘What are you doing?’ I say, outraged.
‘I thought you fancied me.’
‘What could possibly have made you think that?’
‘You were talking to me.’
‘You think that every girl who talks to you fancies you?’
‘No.’
‘So why pick on me?’
‘You were giving me vibes.’
‘Look,’ I say, unable to believe my ears, ‘let’s just forget this ever happened because, as embarrassing as it is for you, it’s even worse for me.’
‘Fine,’ says Jim, and heads off in the direction of the dance-floor.
‘Fine,’ I retort, and spin on my heels in the direction of the gorgeous boy across the room. It’s too late, though. He’s gone.
‘Well, that’s that,’ I say, on my return to Jane.
‘Maybe you’ll see him another time.’
‘I suppose.’ I sigh. ‘But in the meantime it looks like I’m going to have to get my own cigarettes.’
11.05 p.m.
I don’t let the girl from Norwich get me down. Instead I set my sights elsewhere and my romantic overtures are rejected by Liz Grey from Huddersfield (two As and a B at A level), Manjit ‘My friends call me Manny’ Kaur from Colchester (who’s ‘into’ New Model Army and the Levellers), and Christina Wood from Bath (who is really pleased that she didn’t get into Cambridge, and is not in the slightest bit bitter that Katie, her best friend from school, has). It’s not until I try it on with Linda Braithwaite at the end of the night that I get ‘lucky’. Linda is a semi-Goth from the East Midlands, who has the hair, likes the music, wears the clothes but has yet to make the transition into full-Goth mode, with the white makeup, black nails, love of rubbish horror films and quaint belief that she has joined the ranks of the undead. All in all, as we kiss in the corner of the students’ union bar, I consider it a result.
Thursday, 28 September 1989
8.30 a.m.
The morning after the night before, I’m walking towards campus to attend my very first university lecture. This being something of a momentous occasion for me, and desperate to give the impression that I’m a proper student, I’m wearing tartan trousers, Doc Marten’s boots, a home-made CND T-shirt (made the week before utilising a cheap market-stall T-shirt, a black marker pen and very basic artistic skills), a charity-shop men’s suit jacket and a flat cap. I think I look fantastic. The outfit is finished off with my Walkman, which, thanks to the tape playing in it (a Billy Bragg album), gives me the perfect soundtrack to feel that I’m in possession of the requisite amount of left-wing political idealism.
‘Morning, Jim boy,’ says a voice from behind me, in the middle of ‘The Milkman of Human Kindness’.
I turn to see a tall, sombre-looking lad, whom I recognise as being one of the many people I’d told my A-level results to the previous evening by way of making conversation. For the life of me I can’t remember his name and it obviously shows.
‘The name’s Nick,’ he says, reading my nonplussed features. ‘Nick Constantinedes.’
‘Nick, of course I remember,’ I lie. ‘How are you, mate?’
‘Good,’ he replies, and then looks puzzled. ‘Are you going to a fancy-dress party?’
I laugh because it’s the only reaction I can think of to maintain my cool. I can see that he doesn’t mean anything by it. Ordinary people not ‘getting’ it, I reason, is all part of being a fashion visionary. ‘This is the way I dress,’ I explain.
‘Oh,’ he replies, and then, realising his mistake, adds sheepishly, ‘I like your boots. Where did you get them from?’
‘Afflecks Palace in Manchester.’
He nods. ‘Cool.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Did you enjoy last night?’ he asks. ‘I saw you talking to a very pretty girl.’
‘Did she look like a Goth?’
‘No. She was wearing a Smiths T-shirt.’
‘Ah, that one.’ I shrug. ‘She wasn’t my type. Too normal-looking.’
He nods as if he understands what I’m talking about, and as we walk along we talk about the next official get-together on the Freshers’ Week party-planner. Outside the Barber Institute we come to a halt.
‘The engineering department’s this way,’ he says, pointing up the hill.
‘The School of Economics is this way,’ I say, pointing towards the clock tower.
He gives me a cheerful wave. ‘See you around, then.’
‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘See you around.’
He walks about ten feet away and then I shout, ‘I don’t suppose you play an instrument, do you?’
‘The bass guitar,’ he replies. ‘I was in a band back in Sussex but we weren’t very good.’
‘Excellent,’ I reply. ‘Fancy being in a band again?’
He thinks for a moment. ‘Yeah, why not?’
Wednesday, 18 October 1989
2 p.m.
I’m standing inside Revolution, a second-hand record shop in the city centre watching the boy I really liked from the freshers’ disco flick through a plastic box of records on the floor. I’m only here because Jane wants to buy tickets to see some band I’ve never heard of, but I seem to have struck lucky.
‘Is he looking?’ I ask Jane.
‘We’re not going to go through all that again,’ she says firmly. ‘Just go and talk to him.’
‘You’re right,’ I say to Jane. ‘I will go and talk to him.’ I pause, then add, ‘And if you see any dodgy-looking boys in weird clothes keep them away from me.’
I walk over to the boy, who is wearing the same leather jacket and jeans as when I’d first seen him. He still looks gorgeous. I pretend to search for a record but secretly watch over his shoulder as he systematically rummages through every single box of old records in the shop. When he picks up a twelve-inch single of the Boney M hit ‘Brown Girl In The Ring’ and puts it on a small pile of records next to him I finally see a conversation-opener.
‘You can’t buy that,’ I say, pointing to the record on the floor. ‘It’s terrible.’
From his stooped position he looks up at me. ‘You’re the girl from Freshers’ Ni
ght,’ he says, and straightens up.
I can’t believe he’s remembered me. ‘My name’s Alison Smith,’ I tell him. ‘I’m studying English.’
‘I’m Damon,’ he replies. ‘Damon Guest. And I’m doing life sciences.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I have no idea. I ended up here through Clearing.’ He pauses. ‘So tell me, Alison Smith, why shouldn’t I buy this record?’
‘Because it’s terrible. Boney M – they’re rubbish.’
‘But it’s only twenty-five p.’
‘That’s twenty-five p too much,’ I say, and take the single off his pile and put it back in the rack.
Friday, 20 October 1989
5.47 p.m.
‘So how did your date with devilishly handsome Damon go?’ asks Jane, as we sit on the edge of her bed, half watching the late-afternoon repeat of Neighbours on her portable TV.
‘Great,’ I say. ‘We went for a drink in the Varsity.’
‘On the Bristol Road?’
‘That’s the one. He drank Coke all night because he said he doesn’t like the way alcohol tastes.’
Jane laughs. ‘What a girl.’
‘I know, but you know what?’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know why but that seemed to make me like him even more.’
Jane groans. ‘Okay, so what did you talk about?’
‘Music, mainly. He’s passionate – and I do mean passionate – about music. He plays guitar really well apparently. He was in a band back in his home town but they’ve split up now.’
Jane laughs. ‘You should hook him up with that weird boy who tried to snog you at the beginning of term.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ I say, shuddering. ‘I can’t imagine his band was any good.’ I smile, thinking of Damon. ‘I love that he loves music. There’s something about a man with a passion for a particular activity that is incredibly sexy. Obviously trainspotting, stamp-collecting and suchlike are exceptions to the rule, but with music you’d be hard pressed to get much cooler. I managed to bluff my way through the conversation because I’ve heard of some of the bands he mentioned on Radio One. Later we talked about what we want to do with our lives. He told me he wants to work in the music industry and I told him about my plan to be a novelist.’
‘You sound like a right pair of pretentious idiots,’ says Jane, laughing.
‘I know, but it gets worse. I spent most of the night imagining us living together. Me writing novels in the spare room of our house and him in the living room surrounded by hundreds of records.’
‘So all you did was talk, then?’
‘No. He walked me back to mine and we kissed.’
‘How was it?’
‘Fantastic.’
1991
Friday, 11 January 1991
10.45 p.m.
An hour ago – with Ed, a second-year biologist, on drums, Ruth, a first-year maths student on guitar, Nick on bass and me on vocals – all my dreams came true. Captain Magnet, the band I dreamed of forming, played their first gig on the small stage in the upstairs room at the Jug of Ale in Moseley to a crowd of ten people. It was fantastic. Better than I could ever have imagined.
It’s all over now. Ed and Ruth have gone home and Nick and I are sitting in the downstairs bar. We’ve been talking about the gig solidly since we stepped off stage and now that the topic is wearing thin I decide to offer up another conversational gambit on a subject close to my heart. ‘It’s all very well being the lead singer in a band,’ I say, more loudly than advisable in an overcrowded pub, ‘but I need a woman. And I need a woman now.’
‘Things can’t be that bad,’ says Nick.
‘They’re awful,’ I say. ‘I thought university was supposed to be a hotbed of depravity. I want my share. Do you know how many girls I’ve been involved with since I started university?’
‘No, but you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?’
‘One,’ I reply. ‘Linda Braithwaite.’
‘The dodgy semi-Goth from Freshers’ Night who you managed to get off with a further two times?’
‘I know,’ I say, shaking my head sadly. ‘I have no shame.’ I take another sip of my pint.
‘Your love-life’s a mess, mate.’
‘I know it is, which is why . . .’ My sentence trails off as the most beautiful girl in the entire world walks into the pub. She is stunning. Absolutely beautiful, in a million different ways. A goddess. She’s with a tall, moody-looking guy – who, it occurs to me, should look a lot happier given the company he’s keeping. The girl and the guy walk over to our table and stop.
‘Nick!’ says the girl. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ he says coolly. ‘How are you?’
‘Great,’ she says. ‘Really good.’
Nick and this beautiful girl talk for about three minutes about nothing in particular – work, living arrangements, friends in common, life in general – and then she looks at the moody guy standing next to her, and says, ‘Oh, I’d better be off,’ and disappears to the other side of the pub.
‘Who was that?’ I ask, as soon as they’re out of earshot.
‘Who was what?’ replies Nick, just to wind me up.
‘That girl. That absolutely amazing girl.’
Nick laughs. ‘Oh, her? That was Anne Clarke. She lived in halls of residence with me in the first year . . . She’s a bit of a babe.’
‘That’s the understatement of the year. She’s gorgeous. Why have you never introduced me to her?’
‘She’s bad news, mate,’ he says cryptically. ‘You’ll only go and fall in love with her and she’s guaranteed to break your heart.’
Thursday, 14 February 1991
23.05 p.m.
I’m at a Valentine’s Day party in Selly Park. As a rule I don’t go to student house parties if I can help it. During my time at university I’ve discovered the first law of student house parties: for every female who attends there will be at least ten sexually frustrated rugby-playing engineering students, who will label non-rugby-playing engineering students as a threat to their attempts to get off with a member of the opposite sex.
I discovered this law in the first week of my first year and, not believing that such Neanderthal behaviour could exist at such levels of higher education, continued to learn this lesson at Sam Golden’s nineteenth-birthday house party, Elaine Doon’s house party to celebrate the end of exams, and Michael Greene’s Christmas house party. I hadn’t been to a house party since Michael Greene’s when several rugby-playing engineering students had taken umbrage at the flowery shirt I wore and the fact that I’d had my tongue down the throat of Linda Braithwaite, who turned out to be the twin sister of rugby-playing engineering student Gary Braithwaite. I’m at this party with Nick for two reasons: first, he has promised me on pain of death that no engineering students have been invited; second, he mentioned that there’s a good chance Anne Clarke will be here. And she is.
She’s dancing exuberantly in the living room – glass of wine in one hand, cigarette in the other – to the Happy Mondays. When the song ends she walks over to a group of guys in the corner of the room. Within seconds she’s laughing and giggling with them. They’re all clearly infatuated with her. It’s odd watching them because it’s almost as if she has them mesmerised. Their eyes follow wherever she goes. It’s snake-charming at its most obvious. I determine that although I’m desperate to talk to her there’s absolutely no way I’m going to walk up to her and begin a conversation. I’m going to play it cool. Not cool in an I-like-you-do-you-like-me? way but cool in an I-have-no-interest-in-you-and-am-impervious-to-your-charms way. I choose my moment carefully. She leaves the group of guys and walks into the kitchen where she heads to the sink and fills her glass with water.
‘Can you pass me a glass from the draining-board?’ I say, behind her.
‘No problem,’ she replies. And then she turns and adds, ‘Nice shirt.’
I’m wearing a peach-coloured cheesecloth shor
t-sleeved shirt with a huge seventies-style collar – if a sudden strong wind enters the kitchen, I may take flight. ‘Cheers,’ I reply, and smile – but not too much. The opening for a hello-who-are-you? conversation is right in front of me but I ignore it, smile again and walk away.
Two hours later I find myself in conversation with a group of people from the history and geography honours course, who are friends of Nick’s. Anne suddenly appears at the edge of the group. I notice her immediately but don’t make eye-contact. After a while the conversation gravitates to a forthcoming field trip so I turn to my left to speak to Anne and I’m pleasantly surprised to see her smiling at me.
‘I’m Jim,’ I tell her. ‘I think I’ve seen you around.’
‘I’m Anne. We met in the kitchen.’
We fall into conversation, covering such general topics as who we know at the party, what courses we’re studying and where we live. Soon, however, under Anne’s direction, the conversation becomes less general and more personal. Unprompted she begins telling me about her life: the odd snippet about her ex-boyfriend, bits about her parents’ divorce, and about how she’s never really got on very well with her sister. For the most part I listen and occasionally respond with the few nuggets of wisdom I’ve collected during my life on earth. They seem to have the desired effect of either cheering her up or making her laugh.
Saturday, 27 April 1991
12.23 a.m.
Anne and I have been out at the Varsity. Since the party back in February we’ve been spending a lot of time together. Most evenings she’s at my house or I’m at hers. Everyone, including Nick, and Anne’s ex-boyfriend, believes that we’re an ‘item’ or, at the very least, on the verge of being together. Flattered as I am I tell anyone who will listen that there’s nothing going on and we’re just good friends. The reaction is always the same: they laugh as if they think I’m lying. I can’t blame them because as time has passed I find it more and more difficult to believe it too.
Anne has taken it upon herself to flirt with me outrageously.
We walk around hand in hand.