Natalie’s head tilted. ‘Springburn, actually.’
‘Shit, sorry! I didn’t mean—’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Natalie said, laughing. ‘My grandmother was born in Carlisle, if that helps.’
‘Eh,’ I said.
‘Everyone else in the family is from Bangladesh, right enough.’
‘Okay, right. Eh.’
Natalie was still laughing as Mark put the drinks in front of me. ‘He’s gone all racist,’ she said to Mark.
Mark gave me a less than endearing look. ‘She’s from fucking Springburn.’
I did something with my face, I’m not sure what. ‘I, eh, hmm.’ I paused and breathed, which helped. ‘You’re a couple of bastards.’
‘Finally! There’s some hope for him,’ Nat said. ‘Welcome to the family, Jim. I’ll try to help you through the confusing bits.’
I lifted the drinks. ‘To reiterate,’ I said, ‘couple of bastards.’
Their laughter, or at least its volume, died-off as I returned to Paula’s (and mine, It was our!) table. Get back in the game, I told myself. She needs you; she needs a friend, and it’s you. Be sensitive.
‘So Ingo’s been doing your nut in, then,’ I said as I sat back down.
Paula hesitated for a second before replying. ‘No more than I’ve been doing to him. Can we change the subject?’
‘Oh, okay,’ I said.
There was a pause.
‘Go on then,’ Paula said.
‘What?’
‘Change the subject. Your turn to talk, say something.’
Why didn’t women realise that if there’s one sure way of guaranteeing an uncomfortable silence it’s by telling a guy to say something? I scrambled around in my brain trying to think of a suitable topic.
‘This is where we were sitting when you chucked me,’ I said finally.
‘Is it? Wow, you’ve got a good memory.’
I don’t, actually, but I would never forget that. ‘I guess,’ I said.
‘Can you believe that was twelve years ago?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘I thought I was so grown up,’ Paula said.
‘Me too. You, not me,’ I clarified, making Paula grin.
‘Moving to London was fecking terrifying; I still can’t believe I did it.’
‘Me neither.’
‘I guess I’ve got my dad to thank. I was all set to knock back the job till he talked me into taking it.’
The bastard, I thought. ‘I didn’t know that,’ I said.
‘Yeah, he’s always encouraged us to take risks.’
‘That’s nice. Do you ever regret it?’ I tried to keep the hope from my voice.
‘Never,’ Paula said, with soul destroying certainty. ‘It was the best thing I ever did,’ she added, pouring salt, lemon juice, and hydrochloric acid on the wound.
‘Even now, with things not going so well?’
‘Even now. I mean, I’ve met so many people. Ingo obviously, but everyone else, too. I’d have missed so much if I’d stayed here.’
‘Yeah, that’s true,’ I said. And she thought I could be tactless?
‘God, sorry, Jim, I’m doing it again. It’s different for you, this is your home, but I was only here for a few years. Ireland’s home for me, but I was young enough when we left not to be too attached, so I don’t really feel that about anywhere, now.’
I hadn’t thought about it like that. I tried to now, but it didn’t help. ‘Makes sense,’ I lied.
‘Anyway, what about you?’ Paula said. ‘No big love in your life?’
‘’fraid not,’ I lied again.
‘What about your woman Kate?’
‘No thanks. It takes a bit more than a pretty face, these days.’
‘These days? So that’s all I was, was it?’ Paula faked offence.
‘If even that,’ I said.
‘Wanker.’
‘No change there, then.’
‘So, when was the last time you fell in love?’
This was not a conversation I was keen to pursue. ‘Ages ago,’ I said, truthfully. ‘I seem to have become one of those ‘serial monogamists’.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘You know, meet someone, go out with them for a few months, split-up, meet someone else, go out with them for a year or so, split-up, and repeat until old and lonely.’
‘You’ve never wanted to make it permanent?’
This was torture. ‘It just never worked out that way,’ I said.
‘That’s such a shame. You don’t know what you’re missing.’ Aaargh. ‘But you’ve got plenty of time yet, it’ll happen.’
That seemed unlikely. ‘Here’s hoping,’ I said.
‘Have some faith, Jim. She’s out there somewhere.’
‘Time for a change of subject again,’ I said. ‘Your go this time.’
Paula looked at her watch. ‘Sorry but I need to make a move, I’m meeting Chrissie for dinner. What you up to tonight?’
‘No plans at the moment.’ I was achieving expert status in my ability to hide disappointment from Paula.
‘I almost forgot. There was another reason I needed to see you.’
She said needed! ‘What was that?’ I wasn’t quite so expert at hiding my excitement, but Paula didn’t seem to notice.
‘I don’t know if this feels as weird for you, but my dad’s invited you over for dinner tomorrow.’
‘Oh, okay,’ I said.
‘I still can’t get a handle on you two being mates.’
‘I don’t know if I’d say we were actual mates.’
‘Well he seems to think you are. What should I tell him?’
‘Yes. Tell him yes, I’d love to.’
‘Okay, seven o’clock. Do you remember the address?’
‘I think so.’ Even if I didn’t (I did), I had swiped her dad’s letter before leaving Combined Utilities. Actually that wasn’t quite true, I’d made a photo-copy and swiped that. I’d been too scared of the evil computer overlord to take the original. Besides, it smelled of sick.
‘See you tomorrow, then,’ Paula said, standing.
‘Oh, so you’ll be there?’ I attempted coolness.
‘No other plans at the moment,’ she said, with what I chose to believe was faked resignation.
***
‘Am I not invited?’ Terry said.
‘It wouldn’t appear so, no.’
‘Well, that’s pish.’
Not wanting to go home after Paula left but having limited options (that limit being: one), I’d appeared at Terry’s flat. Luckily, it turned out Patrick was on a course the following day so Terry was happy to join me in a carry-out.
‘Sorry, mate, I guess you haven’t made as big an impression as you thought,’ I said.
‘Bollocks, he wants to mess with your head in front of Paula.’
‘No he doesn’t.’ Shit, did he?
‘Of course he does. Face it, he’s playing a game and you’re the ball.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘What other earthly reason would he have?’
‘Maybe he likes me.’
Terry looked at me.
‘Okay, but so what?’ I said. ‘I still get to go to Paula’s house and have dinner with her. That’s got to be good.’
‘Jim, it’s not a date. Fathers don’t invite men on dates with their married daughters.’
‘So what is it, then?’
‘He’s bored and you’re his new toy.’
‘D’you know what I think?’ I said, finishing off my can of Stella.
‘What?’
‘I reckon he doesn’t like this Ingo guy, and he’s playing matchmaker with me and Paula.’
‘How drunk are you?’
‘More than slightly, less than really. Why?’
‘Because you’re even more delusional than de’usual.’
‘Bravo. How long have you been waiting to use that one?’
‘A few months.’
�
��Well done, but you’re wrong.’
‘Okay, say you’re right, which you’re not. Even if Simon, or Joe or whatever, is trying to set you up with Paula, which he isn’t, has Paula given you any reason to think she would be interested?’
‘She’s married, of course she hasn’t. So what? It’s hard to admit your marriage is failing. She’s only being loyal.’
‘Has she, in fact, done anything other than get your hopes up then trample all over them by being, to be fair to her, unwittingly patronising?’
‘Well, no,’ I admitted.
‘You’re a face from her past, helping her reconnect with Glasgow, that’s all, Jim.’ There was a look approaching compassion on Terry’s face as he continued. ‘Don’t read into it, mate. It’s not going to happen.’
‘Is all this sensibleness you’re suddenly displaying really my fault?’
Terry had the good grace to look embarrassed. ‘Should we just get drunk and talk about Star Wars?’
‘Yes fucking please!’
Chapter 14
I woke up in my bed the next morning, which was a blessing.
I was, as ever, surprised by the ferociousness of my hangover. No matter how much practice you put in they never seemed to get any easier.
I lay there and groaned for a while, as I did the requisite memory-search of the previous night.
Drinking Stella and calling Terry a twat for saying Lando Calrissian was cooler than Han Solo rang a bell. Drinking more Stella and suggesting Boba Fett was just a storm-trooper with fancy armour rang a much fainter bell.
The last thing I remembered was telling Terry Yoda was a wimp; though I had no idea why I would say such a thing (I loved Yoda). After that it was pretty much blankness.
But, crucially, I was in my own bed and apparently uninjured, so all was well. A quick check under the covers confirmed I had managed to take my jeans off. I was still wearing the t-shirt I’d had on the previous day, but that was okay.
One of the things I’d worried about when moving back into my parents’ house was how we would all deal with my habit of getting drunk quite often, given that my mum and dad had an annoying tendency not to drink ever.
So far so good, I thought.
In my previous life, 8.30 would have meant I was late for work. In my new life, this gave me a decadent 45 minutes to luxuriate under the shower.
There was only enough hot water to last ten minutes (my parents were customers of Combined Utilities).
Ten minutes was still good though, and by 9.30 I was all set to go for my bus. It was raining outside, and I searched the room for my cap. I knew I hadn’t taken it off in Terry’s flat, despite his comments, like: ‘I can lose weight, but you can’t gain hair’ and ‘you’re over thirty, Jim. Stop it’.
Office work didn’t allow cap wearing but pub work did and, as someone struggling to accept the fact I could no longer fashion a quiff (or even a minor quifflett), I had embraced this as a major boon.
Where was it? I hadn’t been back here long enough to develop a routine, but I was sure that, when I did, that routine would include me leaving my cap on the shelf over by the far wall. It wasn’t there, though.
I decided to venture downstairs. My dad was in the kitchen, wearing a threadbare black dressing gown and looking utterly buggered as he filled the kettle.
‘Morning,’ I said.
‘Hhmm,’ he intimated. ‘Tea?’
‘In a hurry, sorry,’ I said. ‘You haven’t seen my cap anywhere, have you?’
He looked at me. ‘The black one?’
This was clearly a loaded question. Unfortunately, I didn’t know what it was loaded with.
‘Eh, yeah, that’s the one.’
‘Try the downstairs toilet.’
Alarm bells ringing when you’re already hung over are positively painful.
I had no recollection of being in the downstairs toilet. In saying that, I had very little recollection of anything.
‘I’d look behind the cistern if I were you,’ Dad said.
‘Sorry?’ This wasn’t looking good.
‘You didn’t have it on when I found you but that’s where you were, so I’d imagine it’s there somewhere.’
Oh good God, I thought. This had gone way past not looking good, and now looked atrocious. ‘Eh,’ I said.
‘Imagine my pride, Jim,’ Dad said. ‘As a father. Put yourself in my shoes, just this once. Imagine waking at four in the morning with both a full bladder and a wicked thirst. Ironic, eh? So, you go down the stairs, accepting but never understanding the demands of age, in search of a simple glass of water. That’s not too much to ask, is it? It’s my house, after all. My kitchen, my tap, should be the easiest thing in the world. I don’t think it’s a huge expectation, a wee, non-problematic, glass of water. And yet, I get to the bottom of the stairs, and what do I find?’
‘Eh,’ I said again.
‘I find my 33 year-old son lying in my hall, trousers at his ankles, his feet in the downstairs toilet and his manhood on display for unfortunates like me to see. I won’t even start on the stains. I can only assume, were the lock on the wee loo’s door stronger, you’d still be in there, leaning. I’m forced to accept I have spawned a creature capable of falling asleep in the middle of a pee. Congratulations.’
Fuck.
‘And then,’ Dad went on, ‘I had the great pleasure of carrying your ugly, comatose arse upstairs and putting you in your bed. That stopped being cute when you were nine, which was also about when it started giving me a hernia.’
So, waking up in my bed was no longer necessarily a bonus, it seemed. Bloody Stella.
‘God, I’m really sorry. I was at Terry’s and he had some beers so …’
‘Not really interested in the details.’ He took a gulp of tea. ‘I just thank God it wasn’t your mother who found you. You’re supposed to be an adult now, Jim. Try at least pretending you know what that means.’ He stomped past me into the living room.
My cap was behind the cistern, right enough.
I hurried to the bus stop and tried to figure out how to get past the embarrassment. This was easier than you might think as I had done many, many embarrassing things in front of my parents over the years.
The general drill involved a bollocking like that I’d just received followed by a period of simmering silence and dirty looks that could last anywhere from a day to a season, depending on the severity of my fuck-up. Then, one day, for no reason ever clear to me, normal levels of communication would resume and no mention of the incident involved would ever be made again. This may not have been the most emotionally healthy form of conflict resolution, but it worked for us.
I figured this one would, under normal circumstances, merit at least a weeklong visit to the quiet land, though my dad’s intimation that he wasn’t going to tell Mum might make that difficult for him, so I had some hope.
I got through the day at work without any major problems other than the by now normal not-being-able-to-work-the-till-properly ones. I was getting better; Mark only had to comp fifty quid’s worth of orders and all of the customers completed their visits assault-free.
Mark agreed to let me leave a half-hour early to allow me time to go home and change before my dinner-date, sorry, appointment. I was in and out too quickly to properly gauge my dad’s anger level, but Mum’s cheery ‘say hello to Terry’ (I’d lied about where I was going) as I left suggested she remained unaware of the previous night’s escapades.
***
‘So, Jim,’ Louise said, passing the roast potatoes. ‘Joe tells me you don’t get along with your parents. What’s happened there?’
Oh, cheers a lot, mate. ‘Eh,’ I said. At least we had established his name for the evening.
Joe grinned across the table at me. ‘Now now, Lou, you’re embarrassing the poor lad,’ he said, his eyes twinkling.
‘I’m sorry, Jim,’ Louise said. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ Paula’s mum was of an age where it’s okay to use the term ‘handsome’ wit
hout it sounding like an insult. She had aged at least as well as her husband and it was obvious where Paula got her looks (and all her other good points). She was persistent, though. ‘So, what happened? Do they struggle with the choices you’ve made for yourself, is that what it is?’
‘Eh,’ I said. I looked at Paula, who was sitting in silence beside me. She gave a brief, supportive smile but didn’t speak.
I had arrived at the Frasers’ a little late and was ushered straight to the dining table by Paula with only a quick ‘hiya, dinner’s ready’. I’d said hello to Louise, who thankfully made no mention of soap, as I sat down. Joe appeared from upstairs a minute later and simply nodded to me before starting to eat. Louse’s remarks, therefore, had taken me by surprise as a conversation opener.
‘That would be part of it, I suppose,’ I said, eyes down.
‘And what would the other part be?’ Louise clearly didn’t share her husband’s glee at making me uncomfortable; she just seemed to have a natural talent for it.
‘C’mon Mum, let him eat his dinner,’ Paula said.
‘He thinks they think he’s failed to meet his potential,’ Joe said.
‘And have you?’ Louise asked me.
‘Eh,’ I said.
‘That’s not the point, Lou,’ Joe said, ignoring me. ‘What’s important is he thinks that’s what his parents think.’
‘Dad, give him a break,’ Paula said.
‘I’m talking to your mother, Paula, not Jim.’
‘Behave yourself, Dad,’ Paula warned, prompting a smile from her father.
I had sunburn again and stared down at my plate, saying nothing. At least Paula was on my side.
‘So what if he’s back working in a pub? There’s no shame in that,’ she said, not very helpfully.
‘I never said there was,’ Joe said. ‘I think it’s admirable. I simply don’t think he’s doing it for the reasons he thinks he is.’
I wanted to shout I’m sitting right here! but was too crippled with embarrassment to do anything other than take another mouthful of salmon.
‘Why does he think he’s doing it, then?’ Paula asked her father.
‘Not for me to say,’ Joe said. ‘Anyway, this is hardly fitting conversation for the dinner table; the poor lad’s mortified. Pass the pickle.’
‘Your father’s right, Paula, stop poking your nose into Jim’s business,’ Louise said.
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