by Mike Gayle
‘And number four?’
‘That was—’
‘Let me guess . . . Damon?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Fair enough. I mean, he was your boyfriend, after all.’ Jim pauses. ‘So how did he do it? Was it an all-singing, all-dancing, full-string-ensemble declaration?’
‘It was a bit sneaky, to be truthful. It took me totally by surprise. We’d only been together six weeks.’
‘Six weeks?’
‘Yeah, I know. We were on our way to a gig at the Humming-bird and we were walking along Bull Street when he just stopped and turned to me and said, “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. And I want to tell you that I’m falling in love with you.”’
‘So what did you say?’
‘It hadn’t occurred to me to be in love with Damon at this point but I hate being rude and couldn’t stand the prospect of him feeling bad all night just because I hadn’t said it back. So I smiled at him and said, “I love you too,” and his face just lit up and he was in a great mood all night. I felt awful about that because what I said wasn’t true, although it was true in the end.’
‘You really loved him, then?’
‘Yeah. It was different from all the other times, though. It was grown-up love.’
‘And how did it feel?’
‘It’s impossible to put into words. But when you feel it you know what it is straight away.’ I laugh self-consciously in an effort to change the mood. ‘Come on, then. I’ve confessed everything. So, what about you? How many times have you said, “I love you”?’
‘None.’
‘None at all?’
‘A big fat zero.’
‘I don’t understand. How could you have reached the age of twenty-three and not told a girl you loved her?’
‘I’ve never really been into the idea of saying, “I love you”,’ says Jim. ‘I mean, before the age of twenty-three there aren’t a great many occasions that a bloke needs to say those words.’
‘How can you say that?’ I ask incredulously.
‘But it’s true.’
‘But you’d had girlfriends before me. And you never told them you loved them?’
‘I’ll concede that I quite liked a lot of them but none of them inspired in me the desire I always imagined you needed within you to say those three little words.’
‘None of them?’
‘None of them.’
‘Did you ever even come close?’
‘Not really. I had girls say they were in love with me, though.’
‘And what did you do when they said that?’
‘I said, “Cheers.”’
I look at Jim, horrified. ‘Tell me you’re joking.’
‘With the gift of hindsight I can see now that it wasn’t the best thing to say but I’m afraid I did actually say it. I thought I was being polite.’
‘So let me get this straight. They’d say, “Jim, I think I’m falling in love with you,” and you’d reply, “Cheers, mate”?’
‘I didn’t call them “mate”, that would’ve been daft. But, yeah, that was the short and tall of it.’
‘You really must have been a charmer. The only good thing to come out of what you’ve said is to reassure me that I wasn’t the only girl in the world to have said, “I love you,” only to get the most ignorant of responses.’
‘The funny thing,’ says Jim, ‘is that the less you say those words the more important they become to you.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Well, look, it’s like this. It’s not like I don’t believe in love. I do. It’s just that I think I have a greater reverence for it than those people who just bandy it about in an everyday kind of way.’
‘You mean like me?’ I joke.
‘Exactly. You see, for me the words “I love you” are like one of those big red fire-alarm buttons behind glass that say, “Smash in case of emergency” – and in any case, if it isn’t an emergency, by which I mean the real thing, I’m not going to smash the glass.’
‘I can see how that could make sense to you.’
‘But what can I say? If I don’t feel it, I’m not going to say it just to make someone feel better.’
‘No,’ I say, sarcastically. ‘That would be too awful.’
‘Anyway,’ continues Jim carefully, ‘this brings me to my point.’
‘Which is?’
‘Well, remember how I asked you not to infer anything by this conversation?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, having given it a lot of thought I think you should feel free to infer what you like.’
‘But you told me not to.’
‘Well, now I’m telling you that you can.’
‘Why? You spent ages telling me not to read anything into what you were saying.’
‘Look,’ he says, ‘what I’m trying to tell you is that I think it’s time for me to smash the glass.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Jim laughs. ‘I know what you’re doing. Smithy.’
‘Do you?’
‘You’re trying to make me say it.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘So, why don’t you say it?’
‘Okay, I will—’
‘Ready when you are.’ I concentrate all my psychic energy on him willing him to say it.
Say it.
Out comes the first word.
Say it.
Out comes the second word.
Say it.
And then out comes the third word.
That’s it. He said it. ‘I love you.’ There’s no mistaking it. There’s no way he can take it back.
I watch Jim as he studies my face for a reaction. I give him my best poker face.
‘Did you hear what I just said?’ he asks.
I nod and grin back at him like an idiot.
‘So what’s your response to the first time I have ever said those words to someone who isn’t my mum?’
‘Cheers,’ I say eventually, and explode with laughter.
Sunday, 5 June 1994
10.45 p.m.
Jim and I are sitting in the Jug of Ale just as last orders are being called. The contents of his pockets are on the table: three bus tickets, balled-up tissues, Chewit wrappers, an old gig ticket and some loose change. I follow by emptying out the contents of my purse: a handful of receipts, a picture of me and Jim taken in a photo booth in Woolworth’s, tissues, lipstick, lip balm and some loose change.
‘This is so studenty it’s depressing,’ I say, rummaging through the overwhelmingly copper coins on the table trying to collect enough money to get us both a drink. I pick up my cigarettes and look inside the packet. There’s only one left. ‘And I’m down to my last fag,’ I say despairingly.
‘It’s all too pathetic for words,’ adds Jim.
‘I feel like time’s moving on,’ I say, lighting the cigarette. ‘My friends who went straight on to teacher-training courses have graduated now; all those types who joined graduate training schemes last summer are chalking up their first year at work. Even Jane’s a dogsbody at BBC Pebble Mill.’
‘Nick’s swapped his temp job to work for a construction firm on a new shopping centre,’ says Jim, picking up two ten-pence coins from the table.
‘And here we are. I’m still working at Kenway’s, you’re still at Revolution.’ I pick up several twenty-pence pieces. ‘It seems like everyone’s moving on apart from me and you. And do you want to know what’s worse?’
‘What’s worse?’
‘We’re not even recent graduates any more.’
‘So what are we, then?’
‘Old news.’
Jim laughs. ‘You’re being a bit melodramatic, babe. Honestly, we’ve got ages before we have to worry about getting left behind.’
‘This summer there’s a whole new bunch of graduates out in the world. A whole new bunch of people chasing the jobs we want. That’s not c
ounting the ones who graduated before us. The truth is, a year off travelling around the world or working in a bookshop or a record shop after you’ve graduated is easy enough to justify on a CV to an employer, these days. In fact, it’s practically encouraged. If we end up taking another year off . . . well, it doesn’t look good, does it?’ I look at the handful of silver coins I’ve managed to collect together so far. It amounts to one pound forty-five. ‘Have you given any thought to what you’re going to do?’
‘Well, if we’ve got enough I was thinking about getting another Carling,’ replies Jim.
‘You know that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about . . . you know . . . with your life.’
‘Not really.’
‘I’m thinking about going back to university to do a master’s in English. I’ve talked to a few of my old tutors and one thinks there might be a place for me in October.’
‘More studying? What’s the point?’
‘The point is I don’t know what I want to do. And an MA will look better on my CV than “Worked in a bookshop because I like reading.”’
Jim laughs. ‘The first twenty-three years of my life I’ve never wanted or needed a career and now, all of a sudden, it’s the most important thing in the world to get one. All I know is I don’t want to be an accountant.’
‘Who said you had to be one?’
‘My dad’s an accountant. His dad was an accountant. Pretty much everyone on my course became trainee chartered accountants, corporate tax planners, financial advisers or business managers.’
‘What do you want to do instead?’
‘I don’t know. But as I’m pretty happy right now I think I’ll stick with what I’ve got for the minute.’
I pour the money I’ve collected into Jim’s hand and he puts it together with his own. ‘Just enough for a pint and a half,’ he says sadly.
‘I don’t fancy one any more,’ I say.
‘Me neither,’ says Jim. ‘Let’s go home.’
Monday, 13 June 1994
7.30 p.m.
Alison and I are waiting in the queue at the Odeon to see Four Weddings and a Funeral.
‘I’ve decided what I’m going to do,’ I say, as she rummages in her bag for her debit card. ‘I’m going to open a record shop.’
‘That sounds great,’ says Alison.
‘I thought if I can’t make records I can at least sell them. I’ve already thought of the name. I was going to call it Captain Magnet’s Record Shop but I thought it was too much of a mouthful. So I’ve gone with Jimmy Jimmy Records.’
Alison looks at me blankly.
‘After the Undertones song, “Jimmy Jimmy”.’
‘Ah,’ she exclaims, clearly nonplussed.
‘What do you think?’
‘Sounds like a great idea.’
Thursday, 16 June 1994
6.45 p.m.
Alison and I are walking along the petfood aisle in Safeway.
‘You know I said I was going to open a record shop?’
‘Hmm,’ she replies.
‘I’ve gone off the idea. But I’ve got an even better one. I’m going to be a teacher,’ I tell her.
‘A teacher?’
‘Think about it. It makes perfect sense. They get fantastic holidays. It’s practically a job for life. And while the money’s not brilliant it’s better than nothing.’
‘That sounds great,’ says Alison, picking up a can of Felix and throwing it into the basket. ‘Secondary or primary?’
‘What?’
‘The kids you want to teach?’
‘I can’t stand primary-school kids. They’d drive me up the wall.’
‘So secondary, then?’
I wince at the thought of trying to control a classroom full of teenagers. ‘I don’t fancy that either.’
‘Well, it looks like you’re stuffed, then, because I think it’s pretty essential for schoolteachers to teach school-kids.’
Wednesday, 22 June 1994
9.12 p.m.
‘I’ve got it,’ I say to Alison, Nick and Jane, as we sit in the bar at the Jug waiting to go upstairs to see my workmate’s band Pluto perform.
‘You’ve got what?’ asks Nick.
‘For the benefit of anyone who hasn’t been privy to the many conversations Jim and I have had recently,’ says Alison, ‘my boyfriend is referring to his latest career plan.’
‘I thought you were going to open a record shop,’ says Jane.
‘Old news,’ I reply. ‘I’ve moved on since then. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about my personality and what I’d be ideally suited to and I think I’ve finally cracked it. I’m going to be a social worker.’
There is what can only be described as a stunned silence before Jane pipes up, ‘You are joking?’
‘I’m absolutely serious. It makes perfect sense to me. Social work is about helping the disadvantaged, it’s about championing those who have no one to champion them and, most of all, it’s one of those jobs that, like teaching, everyone moans about but nobody wants to do. Well, I’m going to put my money where my mouth is.’
‘I’m sorry, mate,’ says Nick, ‘but you’d make a terrible social worker.’
‘Oh, don’t say that,’ says Alison. ‘I think he’d be great at whatever he does.’
I look at Alison and smile. It’s great knowing there’s someone who will always be on your side. ‘I agree with Alison,’ I say to Nick. ‘I think I’d make a great social worker too. And that’s what I’m going to do.’
Saturday, 2 July 1994
11.30 a.m.
It’s one of those rare Saturdays when both Jim and I have the whole day off. Jim stayed the night but got up early this morning. When I walk into the living room he’s sitting on the sofa next to Jane, watching kids’ TV. I can see straight away from the expression on his face that something’s wrong.
‘Morning,’ I say, putting my arms around him.
‘Hey, you,’ he replies, with a sigh.
‘You look a little glum, and you were tossing and turning all night. What’s on your mind?’
‘I couldn’t sleep because last night it struck me just as if I’d been slapped in the face that I’m going to end up as an accountant. I can feel it. I’m going to end up being one and there’s nothing I can do about it.’
‘What are you like?’ I say. ‘You can do whatever you set your mind to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.’
‘That’s just it. I don’t know what I want to do. So I might as well do accountancy.’
‘You can stay at Revolution. You like it there.’
Jim shrugs. ‘No. It’s time to move on. You know Darren-at-work’s band Pluto?’ I nod. ‘They just got signed by some record label.’ He sighs. ‘I’m really chuffed for him. He’s made it. But, like I said, I think it’s just time I moved on.’
Monday, 4 July 1994
1.14 p.m.
In a bid to get my career moving I call Trudy Lannagan during my lunch-break. She used to be on my business and economics course and works for the accounting firm Greene Lowe. After some so-how-are-you? conversation, I ask her if she knows of any graduate jobs with her firm. I get a nice chat but no result. So I call Richard Price, also from my course, who now works at Foster, Williams and Hayman. Again, nice chat but no result. So then I call Chris Dempsey, who works at Future Finance Business Solutions. Again, nice chat but no result. Finally I call Paul Broughton, who now works for a corporate tax planner, Enterprise Four. Nice chat but no result. Then I run out of change for the phone-box and go back to the shop just that little bit more depressed than when I arrived.
Thursday, 7 July 1994
1.23 p.m.
During today’s lunch-break I call the following in my search for jobs: Sheila Austin, Edwin Fowler, Lisa Smith and Trevor Thomas. All people I didn’t really like at university and who weren’t all that keen on me. No result with any of them.
Friday, 8 July 1994
4.30 p.m.
> Having pre-booked the afternoon off work I drop into the university careers counsellor. I take one of those job aptitude tests that are supposed to tell you what you should do as a career. The results are as follows:
Teacher.
Social worker.
Accountant.
Monday, 1 August 1994
10.07 p.m.
I’m on my way round to Alison’s after a goodbye drink for Darren and I’m thinking about the future. Since July I’ve sent my CV to about five different accountancy firms every week. I’ve had four interviews so far but never got past the second round. And there’s me thinking I’ve been rejecting accountancy when it’s clear that accountancy has been rejecting me.
I reach Alison’s and knock at the door. She answers straight away. ‘Hey, you,’ she says. ‘Nick called a while ago to say that there’s a phone message for you at your place. Some girl called Trudy Lannagan says you once lent her your European economics notes. She said she might have some good news for you.’
I call Trudy straight away. It isn’t good news. It’s great news.
‘What’s your news, then?’ asks Alison.
‘Trudy works for a firm called Green Lowe in the city centre. They’re really big players in the accounting world. They’ve got branches all over the place. Anyway, apparently some guy has just been dismissed from their graduate training scheme and they want his space filled as soon as possible. She said if I send in my CV she’ll put in a good word for me.’
‘Are you going to do it?’
‘Greene Lowe have got a brilliant reputation,’ I say excitedly. ‘People kill to get on their graduate scheme.’
‘Well, that’s all well and good but are you sure you want to do this?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, don’t you want to see the world first? We could go travelling. See some of the amazing places the world has to offer? I just don’t want you to have any regrets about this job later in life. I want you to be happy, that’s all.’
Friday, 19 August 1994
19.41 p.m.
Jim and I are making dinner for ourselves round at mine. All evening he’s been really agitated. He hasn’t been right since he got the letter last week saying he’d got a third interview at Greene Lowe. He has been sleeping badly, grinding his teeth at night, and completely lost his appetite. Whenever I ask him what’s wrong he just shrugs and says he’s fine.