by Mike Gayle
‘If you cover your ears,’ says a voice behind me, ‘and just watch everyone on the dance-floor they look really strange.’
I turn to see Jim standing there and, despite myself, I smile.
‘Without the sound of music,’ he continues, ‘all you’ve got are hundreds of people throwing their hands and limbs around in a darkened room.’ He puts his hands over his ears. ‘Go on,’ he encourages me, yelling over the music. ‘Do it.’
I laugh, and while he still has his hands over his ears I whisper, ‘I like you. I like you a lot. But I’ve got a boyfriend. And I can’t really do this.’
‘What?’ he says, removing his hands from his ears.
‘Nothing.’
‘You looked like you were saying something.’
‘I was asking you if you wanted a cigarette,’ I say, offering the packet.
‘I don’t smoke,’ he replies. ‘It’s bad for my singing voice. Anyway, those things will kill you one day if you’re not careful.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ I reply, and we share an awkward smile. ‘I do know you, don’t I?’ I say, after a few moments.
Jim nods. ‘Freshers’ Night, 1989. I engaged you in conversation about my A-level results, then tried to get off with you. On behalf of me and my ego, I apologise.’
I’m about to accept gracefully when we’re interrupted again, this time by his friend Nick.
‘Mate,’ says Nick, ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
‘I was talking to someone,’ replies Jim.
Nick’s eyes follow Jim’s to me. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Sorry, kiddo.’
That one sentence speaks volumes. I can tell straight away that Nick knows that I know Jim, which I’d already sort of guessed. But there’s new information in there as well. Something that hadn’t even occurred to me.
‘I’d better go,’ I say to Jim quickly. ‘I’ll see you both soon.’
11.35 a.m.
‘You’re never going to believe this. But I’ve got this weird feeling Jim likes me too.’
It’s mid-morning and Jane and I are sitting in the living room watching Sunday-morning TV. Damon has gone to Jim’s for a band practice, leaving me free to update Jane on last night.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘It was his friend Nick who raised the alarm.’
‘So now you know, what are you going to do about your crush on him?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve been doing a bit of digging about him.’
‘You mean you’ve been asking Damon about him.’
‘Yes,’ I say guiltily. ‘But I did it as subtly as possible. All I could find out was that apparently he had a big thing about some girl called Anne. Damon said he reckons most of their hand’s songs are about her. I was really surprised when I heard that. I never imagined he’d be the type to fall in love.’
‘Me either. I can’t think of him as the Boy Who Dresses Differently any more.’
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘He’s just a boy now. A boy I think I’m developing a massive crush on.’
Tuesday, 3 March 1992
3.42 p.m.
I’m wandering aimlessly through campus trying to kill time between my last lecture, Post-war British Economic History, and the next, Applications of Modern Economics. Sitting down on a bench outside the library I stare into space and find myself thinking about Alison. I’m not thinking anything specifically, just about her in a general sense – her likes, dislikes, what she might think about. That kind of thing. It’s becoming something of a habit for me. I think about her when I wake up. I think about her when I go to sleep. And I think about her in all the time between. It has occurred to me that it isn’t the best idea in the world to be thinking about a mate’s girlfriend with such intensity. Then I reason that the heart wants what the heart wants. In the end I decide that the best way to stop thinking about Alison is to distract myself by checking through the reading list my Post-war-British-Economic-History lecturer has just handed out. One of the books on the list is apparently essential to this year’s course and as I know that every single copy in the library is bound to have been borrowed already by the mature students on my course, I have no choice but to head for the campus bookshop and buy a copy. The second I step in I look across the shop and there’s Alison, looking right back at me.
‘Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?’ I say, when I reach her. It was the first thing that had popped into my head.
She laughs. ‘Yes, it’s unseasonably warm for the time of year.’
‘But, then, again, it did rain a little bit yesterday afternoon.’
‘That’s true. And they say it might rain towards the weekend.’
‘Of course, I did hear that it might clear up after the weekend . . . but it might snow and sleet towards the middle of the week.’
It’s like being dropped into the middle of a black-and-white Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy film. One that’s set in Birmingham featuring Tracy as a slightly grumpy economics student and Hepburn as an English student with a great smile.
We carry on like that – batting meteorological platitudes backwards and forwards – for a full five minutes before I really say something stupid.
‘Enough of the weather,’ I say. ‘Do you fancy going for a quick drink or something?’
Alison’s face immediately drops. ‘No, thanks,’ she says quietly.
‘Work to do?’
She shakes her head.
‘Other plans?’
She shakes her head again.
‘So why are you turning me down?’ I ask.
‘You know why,’ she replies.
She’s right, I do know why. And now I know that she knows that I know too.
‘Can’t we even be friends?’ I ask eventually.
‘I don’t think so.’
And with that she excuses herself and leaves the shop. As I watch her walk out I realise with perfect clarity that I’m more than just attracted to her. This is something deeper. More long-lasting. And, for all the talk, I feel like we both know that, sooner or later, no matter what we do or say, it’s inevitable that something’s going to happen between us. It’s just a matter of time.
Wednesday, 4 March 1992
9.33 a.m.
‘Jim asked me out for a drink,’ I tell Jane, the following morning, as we’re eating breakfast and watching TV.
‘What did you say?’
‘He said it would be just as friends but I said no and now I feel awful about it.’
‘Why do you feel awful?’
‘Because I wanted to say yes. I’ve got to make a choice between Jim and Damon.’
Jane winces. ‘I knew this was coming. My money’s on Jim. The truth is, sweetheart, I don’t think Damon’s the right guy for you.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve always thought he’s a bit too nice.’
‘Too nice?’
‘Too nice. Too bland. Too beige. There’s no spark between you any more. No chemistry. No grit. You guys never argue, do you?’
‘No.’
‘You never yell and shout.’
‘No.’
‘See? That’s not normal. He’s nice to you. And you’re nice to him. It’s like watching a film where you know the end as soon as you’ve seen the beginning.’
‘You’re right, but—’
‘I know I’m right. He’s a lovely guy. But he’s not the one for you. Whatever happens between you and Jim doesn’t matter here. The fact is you have to end it with Damon.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’ve been together a long time.’
‘That’s no reason at all.’
‘I know.’
‘Then what are you going to do?’
‘It’ll be our finals soon and then we’ll be graduating and temptation will be out of my way, won’t it? All I need to do is avoid Jim at all costs and see if I can make it work with Damon.’
Thursday, 9 July 1992<
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9.03 p.m.
It’s the night of the graduation ball. In my hand is a rolled-up piece of paper that proves to the world I have a degree in business and economics. I’m standing at the bar in a tweed suit, waiting for Nick to return from the loo, when a voice I recognise immediately says, ‘You look very smart.’
I turn around and standing there, holding a packet of cigarettes in one hand, a glass of white wine in the other and looking more beautiful than ever, is Alison wearing a cream ballgown. She sets down her glass and the cigarettes on the bar, throws her arms around me and kisses my cheek.
‘You almost look normal,’ she says, laughing.
‘Cancer Research shop in Kings Heath,’ I reply, grinning. ‘Five pounds.’ I deliberately look Alison up and down. ‘You look very . . . ballgowny.’
She laughs. ‘Cheeky sod. I didn’t want to do the whole ballgown thing but all the girls in my house said they were doing it and I didn’t want to be the only one dressed normally.’ She picks up the cigarettes, pulls one out with a lighter and lights up. Instinctively she offers me one, but before I can refuse she says, ‘Oh, that’s right. You’re in the these-things-will-kill-you-one-day brigade.’
‘And they will.’
‘I’ve got plenty of time to give up.’
She inhales on her cigarette deeply, holds her breath for several moments, then politely exhales in the direction of the bar to keep the smoke away from me. ‘I feel like a right idiot dressed like this,’ she says.
‘You shouldn’t,’ I reply. ‘I think you look beautiful.’ I hadn’t meant to say that. So I cover my tracks by changing subjects. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.’
‘A few months at least.’
‘How did you get on with your finals?’
‘Fine. How about you?’
‘Okay. I’m just glad it’s all over. My parents came up for the ceremony and this afternoon my dad told me, as we ate lunch in the Varsity, “The world is yours for the taking, son.” I didn’t bother telling him that I didn’t really want to “take” the world just yet.’
‘I know what you mean,’ says Alison. ‘Everyone seems to be getting proper grown-up jobs and I’ve got a job at Kenway’s, the bookshop in town.’
‘Snap. No career in the financial industries for me, I’m working at a record shop in town.’
‘Which one?’
‘Revolution. Do you know it?’
‘Yeah, I do. You’ll never believe it but it’s where Damon first asked me out.’
‘How’s that for full circle? I work in the record shop where he asked you out. And here we are at the end of our three years at university standing in the same place where I first met you.’
‘It’s strange, isn’t it?’
I pause, then ask, ‘Where is Damon?’
‘At the bar,’ she says, pointing.
I look over and wave at him. ‘I know I shouldn’t ask this but . . . how are things between you two?’
‘They’re okay,’ she replies. ‘We have our ups and downs.’
‘Good,’ I reply, then kiss her cheek and walk away.
Wednesday, 22 July 1992
9.46 p.m.
It’s a couple of weeks after the graduation ball and Nick, Damon, our drummer Ed and I are sitting in the Varsity following a band practice. For a while we’ve been talking about going away somewhere to celebrate our new freedom and now we’re taking the vote.
‘Hands up for a weekend in Amsterdam?’
Ed’s is the only hand in the air.
‘Okay, how many for a weekend in Dublin?’
There are no hands in the air.
‘How can you not vote for your own idea?’ I ask Nick.
‘Because it seems a bit rubbish, now I think about it,’ he replies.
‘Okay, and finally, how many votes for the Reading festival?’
Nick, Damon and I raise our hands.
‘So that’s decided, then,’ I say, to the boys sat around the table. ‘Our big post-graduation blow-out is going to be the Reading festival on the August bank-holiday weekend.’
I came up with the idea of going to it because Nirvana were the headline act. We’d seen them the previous September and they’d been fantastic. I’m convinced that seeing them again will be a genuine rock-and-roll moment that will make the weekend really special.
‘We could take our demo tape with us,’ says Nick. ‘And then when Nirvana have played we could hang around by the backstage area and try to give it to Kurt Cobain. He’ll wander around with it in his pocket for a while and then one day he’ll be bored and slip it into his Walkman to have a listen—’
‘And that’ll be it,’ says Ed. ‘He’ll think we’re the best band in the world and proclaim us the future of rock and roll.’
‘We’ll be courted by dozens of record companies,’ adds Damon, ‘and they’ll want to sign us for huge amounts of money.’
‘And our first album will go triple platinum,’ I say.
We all know it’s a fantasy.
We all know that there’s little chance that Captain Magnet will ever release a record.
We all know that we’re never going to become rock stars.
But for that brief moment, sitting around that table, it feels like anything is possible.
Tuesday, 28 July 1992
12.55 p.m.
It’s five minutes until my lunch-break and I’m standing at the till in the fiction department at work, counting every second that passes, when Damon bounds into the shop. ‘Hey, you,’ he says.
‘Hi,’ I say suspiciously. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘I’ve got a surprise for you. But in order for it to work you’ll have to keep the twenty-eighth to the thirtieth of August free.’
‘The August bank-holiday weekend?’ I say excitedly. ‘You haven’t booked that trip to Paris we’re always talking about?’
‘Even better,’ he says. ‘I’ve got us tickets to the Reading festival.’
The disappointment must be written all over my face because Damon immediately starts trying to convince me. ‘It’ll be great.’
‘It’ll be damp and muddy.’
‘You’ll have fun.’
‘Fun? I’ll have to sleep in a tent.’
‘Everyone else is going.’
‘Everyone who?’
‘Well, originally it was going to be just the rest of the band. But then Nick caved in because his girlfriend wanted to go, and Ed, our drummer, felt obliged to take his girlfriend so I thought you could come along too.’
‘What about Jim?’ I ask casually. ‘Who’s he taking?’
‘He’s not taking anyone,’ says Damon. ‘In fact, I haven’t seen him with a girl in ages. Ed says he thinks Jim’s in love with someone who doesn’t feel the same way about him.’
I don’t need to hear any more. I agree to go with him there and then.
Friday, 28 August 1992
8.01 a.m.
I’m watching breakfast TV when the phone rings. I let the answer-machine get it. ‘Hi, Jim, it’s Damon. Mate, I had a dodgy takeaway last night and I’ve been throwing up all night. I’m still coming but Al and I might be a little late.’
9 a.m.
I’m in the kitchen doing the washing-up when the phone rings. Once again I let the answer-machine get it. ‘Hi, Jim. It’s me again. I’m still feeling really dodgy. I think there’s a strong chance I won’t be going. Alison says she doesn’t want to go without me but I’ll get her to drop round the tickets.’
10.45 a.m.
I’m in the living room, trying to find my trainers, when there’s a knock at my front door. I answer it and there on my doorstep is Alison. She’s dressed in old army trousers and there’s a rucksack on her back.
‘That’s not your usual get-up,’ I say, looking her up and down.
‘Apparently I’m going to a festival of some kind,’ she says.
‘Without Damon?’
‘He insisted I go,’ she says, and hand
s me an envelope. Inside is his ticket and a note torn from an A4 pad.
Dear Jim,
Can you do three things for me?
1) Sell this ticket.
2) Look after Alison for me.
3) Have a good time.
Cheers,
Damon
PS Don’t forget to give Mr Kurt our demo tape.
Saturday, 29 August 1992
3.30 a.m.
Jim and I are sharing a tent. We’ve been in it for all of twenty minutes, having spent most of the early hours sitting around a camp fire that Nick had made. Our evening’s entertainment has been eight two-litres bottles of beer, ten cans of strong cider and (with the exception of Jim) five packs of cigarettes. And we haven’t seen a single band yet. Jim is lying in his sleeping-bag now and I can see that he’s on the verge of dropping off to sleep. I, however, am in the mood to talk so I elbow him gently in the ribs. ‘Are you asleep?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Can’t sleep?’
‘Something like that.’
‘So you’ve woken me up to tell me you can’t sleep?’
‘No, I just wanted to chat to someone and you’re the only one who’s awake.’
‘But I wasn’t awake.’
‘Well, you are now.’
‘So what do you want to chat about?’
‘How about what’s going on?’
‘Where?’
‘Here. Between you and me.’
‘Okay, it’s like this,’ he begins. ‘I like you.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. And I think you like me.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’m guessing. Am I wrong?’
‘No,’ I say playfully. ‘Your guess is right.’
‘You, however, have a boyfriend who is a mate of mine – and that’s pretty much where we are, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. That is pretty much where we are.’
‘So the question is, what are we going to do?’