Scratch

by Gillan, Danny

‘Anyway, cheers,’ Paula said when we had acquired drinks and seats.

  ‘Up yer bum,’ I responded, raising my pint.

  Paula laughed as she took a mouthful of her beer. ‘You always were a smooth talker.’

  ‘It is one of my finer attributes, I feel.’

  ‘That and your clarity of purpose.’

  ‘Oh yes, I pride myself on my focused approach to all aspects of life,’ I said, trying to keep my face straight.

  ‘As evidenced by your enviable career trajectory, of course.’

  ‘Of course. Though I don’t feel comfortable discussing my own successes given your current, less than ideal, circumstances; I’d hate you to feel inferior.’

  ‘That’s very big of you.’

  ‘Like I said, I’m polite.’

  ‘What are you on an hour, again?’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Sammy says you’re doing well, under the circumstances.’

  ‘What circumstances?’

  ‘That you’re old, out of practice, losing your hair, not very bright, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh, in that case, tell him thanks.’

  ‘Tell him yourself, you’ll see him more than I do,’ Paula said.

  ‘I’ve only seen him once since I started. He obviously doesn’t do many day shifts.’

  ‘The old skiver,’ Paula said, eyebrows rising. ‘He doesn’t do many night shifts either, I promise you.’

  ‘Ah, so he’s fully embracing the management experience, then.’

  ‘To be fair, he’s been working his arse off for years. This must be like a wee holiday for him, being back there. Makes you wonder what he’s doing with his time, right enough. I’m sensing there might be a new man on his horizon.’

  ‘Or up his—’

  ‘Behave yourself, you.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  I grinned at the same time Paula did. She took a drink at the same time I did. My eyes dropped slightly just as hers did. I tried not to think about what a TV programme about body language I’d watched recently had to say about mirroring.

  But, damn it, for a few minutes there we were talking as easily and as naturally as we had when we were together. We were making each other laugh, finishing thoughts, setting-up jokes.

  She needs her friends, but that’s all she needs. Joe’s words appeared front-and-centre in my brain, and he was right. This girl - this woman - was all grown up and married. ‘We’ no longer existed, and I would do myself no favours pretending otherwise. The simple fact was that Paula apparently wanted, perhaps even needed in some way, me to be her friend. That was great, that was brilliant, and that was more than I could have hoped for only a couple of months ago; but that was all.

  ‘Another drink?’ I asked, not in any way awkwardly.

  ‘Definitely. D’you fancy getting a short as well?’

  This was a surprise, albeit a pleasant one. ‘Yeah, sure. What’s the favourite shooter in Germany, then?’

  ‘Feck knows, but I want freezing vodka.’

  ‘Absolut–ly.’ I was quite proud of that one, even though she didn’t notice it.

  I returned to the table, having used the couple of minutes at the bar to give myself a slap (not literally, that would have been weird). Friend, I kept repeating to myself. Friend. Be her friend. She needs a friend. That’s all she needs, a friend.

  ‘There you go, friend,’ I said. Bollocks!

  ‘Yeah, thanks … mate,’ Paula said.

  ‘Eh, you’re Absolut-ly welcome,’ I said, trying to cover my tracks while at the same time hoping she’d get the joke this time. She didn’t.

  ‘O-kay. I’m going to down this now, are you game?’ Paula said.

  ‘Absolut-ly!’ Nope, nothing. ‘Up yer bum,’ I said.

  ‘Get it down ye’ or get it up ye’,’ Paula replied, and we downed our vodka.

  We did the requisite tightening of neck muscles and grimacing for a second or two.

  ‘Grhmm, that’s nice,’ Paula said, shaking her head. ‘What was it, Smirnoff?’ She couldn’t suppress her grin.

  ‘Rearrange these words into a well-known phrase or saying, Miss Fraser, off and—’

  ‘Mrs Neumann,’ Paula said.

  It took me a moment. ‘Oh, right. Sorry.’

  ‘Christ, don’t worry about it. It still sounds weird to me.’

  ‘Really, after five years?’

  ‘You men don’t realise how hard it is, being a woman.’

  ‘You’re being a bit melodramatic now, I feel.’

  Paula laughed. ‘You are Absolut-ly correct, I apologise. It is bizarre, though. Who decided it was us who had to change our name? Some fecking man, no doubt.’

  ‘I think it might have been God, but I could be wrong,’ I said. ‘I’m not as au fait as I could be on the nuptial thing.’

  ‘Count yourself lucky.’

  That was a strange, yet strangely encouraging, thing for Paula to say.

  ‘I mean,’ she went on, ‘can you imagine your name changing overnight, just because you decided to make a commitment to someone else?’

  ‘I don’t suppose I can,’ I said. ‘Though until I was about thirteen I really wanted people to call me Iron Fist. Does that count?’

  ‘Were you confused, sexually?’

  ‘What? No! I leave that to Terry.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Let’s just say he hasn’t figured out why he likes Captain Jack more than The Doctor yet.’

  ‘Seriously? Poor bastard,’ Paula said.

  ‘I know. Anyway, Iron Fist was a comic character. Best martial artist on the planet. He wasn’t gay at all.’

  ‘Like Bruce Lee, then?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t Oriental, he was white.’

  ‘Ah, right. So it wasn’t homophobic, it was racist?’

  ‘No! His best mate was Luke Cage, Power Man, he was black. They were the Heroes for Hire.’

  ‘Right, so it wasn’t racist, it was capitalist?’

  ‘No! Okay, maybe a little bit. But they were goodies.’

  ‘I believe you.’ Paula gave me that look women give men when we try to explain why we like the things we like.

  ‘Do you like Nicholas Cage?’ I asked.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Paula admitted.

  ‘He chose the name Cage because his favourite comic character is Luke Cage. What do you think of that, then?’

  ‘I think he should have spent as much time reading the Ghost Rider script as he did choosing his stage name.’

  ‘That’s my point! I won’t defend Ghost Rider, it was pish, a wasted opportunity if ever there was one. I will admit to being impressed you’ve heard of it though, you have my admiration for that. Still, it proves even Hollywood royalty hold comics close to their heart and—’

  ‘Jim, please stop talking.’ There was that look again.

  ‘Eastenders!’ I decided to shout for no clear reason.

  ‘Sorry?’ Paula said.

  ‘You know, Eastenders and that. You women like all that crap. You’re just as bad.’

  ‘So, was that your first short of the night there, or was my daddy feeding you his Jameson’s while I was at the pictures?’

  I took a breath and calmed down a little. ‘He offered me nothing but passive-aggression and coffee, I assure you.’

  Paula leaned over the table towards me and smiled. ‘I believe you, you never could lie well. I reckon we need more vodka, back shortly.’ She headed for the bar.

  Why the fuck was I talking about Nicholas Cage? No offence, Nic, but get out of my head! I was getting to spend time with Paula Fraser and was wasting it talking about fucking comics and Nicholas Cage. I didn’t know if I was disguising my nervousness with immaturity or vice-versa, but it had to stop, either way.

  Paula returned, vodka-rich.

  ‘Nic Cage almost played Superman, you know,’ I said as she sat down. Shut the fuck up! I thought.

  ‘Shut the feck up, Jim,’ Paula said. ‘Drink your vodka.’

  We
drank our vodka.

  We smiled at one another.

  Then we laughed at one another.

  Then we laughed with one another. Together.

  Then we realised what we were doing and got embarrassed, and switched to laughing at ourselves.

  Then I said the stupidest thing I’d ever said in my life.

  ‘I love you, Paula.’

  Chapter 16

  Fuckwit, fuckwit, you’re a fucking fuckwit.

  Thoughts move at an incredibly fast rate, and I had already turned this into the chorus of what could undoubtedly be a very successful song. I had even started work on the first verse. It would go something like – you try to act cool, you end up a fool; you put up a front, you end up a—

  ‘I love you, too.’

  What? ‘What?’

  ‘I love you, too.’ Paula was looking directly at me, so I could only assume she was actually talking to me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve said it twice, that’s all you get.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know, sorry.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pick another word.’

  ‘Pfhwaa.’

  ‘That’s not a word.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s the same word as before.’

  ‘Shitles.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t fucking know,’ I said. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘I don’t fecking know, either,’ Paula said.

  ‘You love me?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’ Paula’s face was pinking up as she dropped her eyes.

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Feck.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Feck.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why do you love me?’ What the hell was I doing asking that sort of question?

  ‘I don’t really know. Why do you love me?’ She looked me in the eye again.

  ‘I never haven’t.’

  ‘Your grammar’s terrible, but, Jaysus. Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Feck.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘I’m married.’

  ‘I know. Mrs Neumann.’ I was in freefall. What the fuck was going on?

  We stared at one another across the table for a few seconds. Paula had a look of absolute shock on her face and I was confident mine was much the same.

  ‘Say something,’ Paula said eventually.

  ‘Never tell a man to say something, it makes us feel awkward,’ I said, because I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  ‘What, like it wasn’t awkward a minute ago?’

  ‘Fair point. Holy shite, this is mental.’

  ‘I know. You started it.’

  ‘I know, sorry.’

  ‘Are you?’ Paula’s tone hardened.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No! Christ, are you joking?’ Then the doubt hit me. ‘Are you?’

  ‘I … don’t know yet.’

  ‘Well, that’s encouraging.’

  ‘I just, I didn’t expect this. You said it, then it just kind of came out. I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘You didn’t mean it?’ Don’t you dare, I thought, panicking.

  ‘No, I meant it; I just didn’t mean to say it.’

  That was better, a bit. ‘Okay. But you meant it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Say it again.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Say it again, so I’m sure.’

  She gave me the you’re a wanker look, then smiled. ‘Jim Cooper, I love you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I had a very odd sensation in the middle third of my body.

  ‘You’re still a wanker, mind.’

  ‘I can accept that,’ I said. The odd sensation spread upwards and flooded my chest, cheeks and brain with a heady mixture of pleasure and fear (about 60/40, roughly).

  ‘So,’ Paula said.

  ‘So,’ I agreed.

  ‘I, eh, don’t really know what to do now.’ Her face was pink again.

  ‘Me neither. If there’s a rule book for this it’s not on Amazon.’

  Paula looked me directly in the eye. ‘I’m married, Jim.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And, I’m not a …’ she trailed off.

  ‘Bitch?’

  She nodded. ‘Things haven’t been good for a while, but he’s not a bad guy. He doesn’t deserve …’ she looked at me.

  ‘Do you love him?’ I kind of had to ask.

  ‘I did,’ she said definitely. ‘I do,’ she said, less convincingly. ‘Maybe working together was a bad idea. Since we started the school it’s been—’

  ‘Rubbish?’ I said, hoping the fake sympathy would disguise the very real hope in my voice.

  ‘Difficult,’ Paula said, giving me another look.

  I had a thought. ‘Is the whole sick grandad thing bollocks? Did you need an excuse to have some time apart?’

  ‘Isaak has pneumonia. He could die.’

  ‘Right, sorry.’

  ‘There is a selfish part of me that was a bit relieved,’ Paula admitted. ‘Is that terrible?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Selfish is good. Everyone should be more selfish, I always say.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Not really, no.’ I thought about it more. ‘Actually, when it works in my favour I’m all for other people being selfish, to be honest.’

  Paula smiled. ‘Spoken like a true wanker.’

  ‘You know, after spending time with your dad tonight, I’m not so bothered about being called a wanker.’

  ‘Told you his definitions, did he?’

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Well, let’s see. He’s my daddy, I’ve known him for thirty-three years and I probably talk more openly with him than any other man in my life. You, on the other hand, have known him for five minutes. What do you think?’

  ‘So every time you called me a wanker, you meant …’

  ‘What did you think I meant?’

  ‘I thought you just meant I was a wanker.’

  ‘I did, that’s the point.’

  ‘You’ll understand my confusion.’

  ‘We’re kind of drifting off the point here.’

  She was right, but I’d been enjoying the drift. I didn’t want to talk about her husband anymore. I felt it best he be given as little attention as possible. Time for a new subject.

  ‘You love me.’ I grinned. I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Since when?’

  Paula sighed. ‘Since,’ she began, then paused. ‘You broke my heart, Jim Cooper.’

  ‘Eh?’ I said, reverting to form.

  ‘You didn’t even try to stop me leaving, going to London.’

  ‘I … eh?’

  ‘I sat there waiting for you to tell me to stay, and all you did was ask if the money was good. What the feck was that about?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Words, Jim. You need to use words.’

  ‘I …’ Fuck, this was unexpected. The tears threatening Paula’s left eye said she was serious. ‘You didn’t want to go?’

  ‘I wanted to go, but I wanted you to tell me not to. I wanted you to fight for me, Jim. I needed you to prove I had a reason to stay, and you didn’t.’

  ‘Shit, I … I thought you’d moved on, past me. I thought you needed to go. I didn’t want to make it any harder for you.’

  Paula shook her head. ‘If I moved past you it was only because you stopped moving.’

  That hit home, and I bowed my head. ‘You just,’ I said. ‘You were so popular, so in demand, so … fabulous. I couldn’t keep up. You were, are, the coolest woman on the planet. There was no way I could live up to that.’

  ‘That, right there. That … shite is why you’re the very definition of the word wanker.’

  Being told I was a shite-talking wanker felt good, when it came from Paula (possibly shouldn’t delve too deeply into the
psychology of that).

  ‘You are a fairly fabulous person. Will you at least acknowledge that?’

  She shook her head again, but she was still smiling. ‘Are you sure it’s Terry who’s a closet Friend of Dorothy? You’re using the word fabulous an awful lot.’

  ‘Straight as a penis, I mean pencil.’ That was deliberate, honest.

  ‘Okay, I’ll believe you.’

  ‘I’m more than happy to prove it.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  Why not? ‘You didn’t actually answer my question.’

  ‘Right, you noticed that then?’

  ‘I may be a wanker but I’m an observant wanker, at least these days.’

  ‘Put it this way: seeing you last Friday was an accident. That was less than a week ago and I’ve seen you three times since, none of them instigated by you.’

  It took me a moment to get my head round this. ‘Have you been chasing me?’

  ‘I don’t know that I’d use the term chasing, but I’ve been looking for excuses.’

  ‘But you keep disappearing after half-an-hour.’

  ‘That would be the you’re married Paula, what the feck are you doing? thing.’

  I sat back in my suddenly comfortable, crappy wooden chair. I have to admit the smugness I was feeling may have somehow transferred itself to my face.

  ‘What?’ Paula said.

  ‘Terry won’t bloody believe this.’

  ‘We can’t tell anyone.’

  ‘It’s only Terry.’

  ‘I mean it, Jim.’ Paula said, deadly terrified. ‘We don’t even know what’s going on yet.’

  ‘But …’ I wanted to shout to the world about this. There were several faces I couldn’t wait to rub in something.

  ‘Jim, no. No one, I mean it. No one.’

  ‘But I’m a crap liar.’

  ‘Learn.’

  Chapter 17

  I didn’t sleep very well that night. I slept alone, but not well.

  I dropped Paula at her parents’ place before taking the taxi home. We held hands during the journey, but even in the relative privacy of the back seat of a Ford Mondeo it was obvious Paula was uncomfortable. She practically jumped out of the car as soon as it pulled up.

  ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow,’ she said, shoving the door closed before I could reply and hurrying up the garden path.

  We clearly still had a lot to talk about.

  I wandered into the lounge in a daze. My mum was watching TV. ‘How’s Terry?’ she asked.

  ‘Hmm? Oh, he’s good, yeah.’