Rubbish Boyfriends

by Jessie Jones

  She was flustered now. ‘Look … I’m sorry … I’m doing this all wrong, aren’t I?’ she said. ‘I understand if you’re feeling a bit … mixed up at the moment. But now that all those exams are over … we’ll get together and talk properly … Soon, OK?’

  Never would be too soon, I decided. Anyway, we weren’t going to talk then because people were starting to arrive. Bill and Brenda were the first. Bill was my dad’s best friend. They were larger-than-life characters and simply had to walk into a room to start a party. Their arrival swamped the tension under a flood of laughter, hugs and manly backslapping. I stood dumbly, like a spare part, feeling guilty that I’d arrived with my ‘What do you mean Diana’s dead?’ face on. I decided I had to take a leaf out of Brenda’s book and smile.

  ‘Don’t you look pretty?’ she whooped, looking me up and down. She was wearing a dress that was making a brave but doomed attempt to out-spangle Mitzy’s. By contrast, I had dressed how I felt – funereal black, then. I’m sure ‘pretty’ was the last thing I looked.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, suddenly remembering that at least my bag wasn’t black. I held it up against myself as if it was some sort of shining beacon of colour; proof that I was as party-minded as they were. The bag was brown suede. Dark brown at that. I don’t think anyone even noticed it.

  ‘On your own, Dayna?’ Brenda asked. ‘No boyfriend?’

  ‘He’s working tonight,’ I told her truthfully.

  ‘What, he can’t take a night off to celebrate his girlfriend’s dad’s engagement? Not much of a boyfriend, is he?’ Bill joked.

  ‘Not work work. He’s studying for an exam, actually,’ I said, probably a little too defensively.

  ‘You’re joking!’ Brenda screamed. ‘I don’t believe it. Simon’s got his nose stuck in a book? What’s he learning? His times tables?’

  ‘She’s not going out with Simon any more,’ Dad said.

  Bill and Brenda looked at me pityingly. Dad wasn’t the only one who’d loved Simon.

  ‘He’s called Chris,’ I said defiantly.

  ‘Chris,’ Brenda echoed, saying it almost sadly. ‘That’s a nice name.’

  ‘Hey, we’re not here to quiz Dayna about her love life,’ Mitzy laughed. ‘Come on, Michael, why don’t you get everyone a drink?’

  Michael did as he was told and led his guests to the bar. Then the DJ spared my embarrassment by putting on his first record. ‘Last Night A DJ Saved My Life’ I think it was, although that might just be my memory playing tricks on me.

  The party had started.

  I tried to enjoy myself, I really did, but I couldn’t shake off my demons. It was official now. It would never be just Dad and me again. Funnily enough I’d spent most of my life wondering what it would be like to have a mum, but I never dreamed he’d actually get together with someone properly. He’d spent the last fifteen years trying to get over Mum and it finally seemed that he had.

  But I didn’t want him to be over her.

  I don’t remember much about Mum. The picture I had in my mind was an amalgamation. A tiny handful of real memories mixed with the few photos we had and the things Dad had told me about her. The huge gaps were filled by a fantasy combination of June Whit-field and Britney Spears’ mum.

  They didn’t tell me how ill she was, obviously. I was only three when she was first diagnosed. And when she died, I was told she was looking down at me from heaven. And heaven was a wonderful place full of angels and it really wasn’t so bad and one day I’d float up and join her on her cloud, where we’d sit and cuddle for all of eternity, which would more than make up for the paltry amount of time we’d had together on earth …

  Why do adults spin kids such garbage? Because it’s the only thing they can do. Because the one dreadful certainty of life is that death awaits us all – not so patiently in Mum’s case. And when it comes, it’s final. There’s no afterlife, no angels, no floating on clouds, no nothing. So you dress it up a little, then a bit more, and before you know it you’ve painted death as fluffy and magical and not at all bleak and frightening and so sad your broken heart takes years to mend and when it finally does it looks like a badly-glued-together mess.

  Over the years, Dad busted a gut to give me enough love for two parents. I was, literally, everything to him. Spoilt, you might say. But who was going to tell him he was doing wrong by giving me everything I wanted so I wouldn’t notice I didn’t have the one thing I really needed?

  With the benefit of hindsight, I was the living definition of a spoilt brat. That’s how I was behaving at the party, though I couldn’t see it at the time.

  Dad had got an extension until one o’clock, but I couldn’t stay the course. I left just before midnight. I told him that I’d had a wonderful time. What else could I say?

  ‘I hope you enjoyed yourself, I really do,’ he said. ‘You know, maybe we need to talk about things … All this. It’s been a bit sudden, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Dad,’ I said as I hugged him.

  It seems that as soon as we get boyfriends and start telling them we love them, we stop saying it to the other people that matter. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d said it to Dad, and at that moment I really wanted to. But just as I was about to say it, Mitzy whisked him onto the dance floor. I think the song was ‘You Make Me Sick’ by Pink, but that could just be my memory playing tricks on me.

  A fter the party I felt so bad for the way I’d behaved that I became convinced I’d fail my exams – that it would be some sort of divine retribution. I needn’t have worried. I got a distinction; the top mark out of the whole year. I couldn’t wait to phone Emily and tell her. ‘Dayna, I’m thrilled,’ she said blearily. ‘But do you know it’s four in the bloody morning over here?’ Oh yes, she was delighted for me.

  Chris was thrilled for me too. My exams had got in the way of us getting to know each other properly. He understood, of course, being in the middle of important studies himself. We’d made do with a few snatched drinks between my bouts of frantic revision. For weeks I’d turned into a social recluse, but locking myself away and swotting was the right thing to do. Was I trying to prove something to my brainy undergraduate boyfriend? Not at all. I’d fallen in love with my college course long before he came along. But impress him it did.

  ‘I am such an idiot. I keep thinking if only I’d worked this hard at school, I could be doing anything now,’ I told him during one of our snatched drinks. I immediately felt myself blush. He was doing a BA in Ancient World Studies (yes, really) at University College London. Was he honestly going to be bowled over by my diploma in beauty therapy? But I shouldn’t have worried. Chris cared, remember?

  ‘Never waste oxygen on regret, Dayna,’ he said. ‘You’re changing your life right now. That’s all that counts. You’re an amazing girl, you know that?’

  That would have sounded patronising coming from anyone else reading Ancient World Studies (I kept telling myself I should find out what that was all about), but coming from him, well, it did make me feel amazing. I promised myself that if I ever had kids, I’d tell them how important it was to work their socks off at school. My dad had been useless. His lone piece of advice had always been ‘Be happy.’ Fool. What did he know? Look at him, shacking up with the first good-looking version of Myra Hindley that had come his way.

  I was glad college was over. Being a recluse didn’t suit me. But it had got me my diploma – a distinction! – and now I could go out and get a job. And I could spend some more time with Chris.

  I decided that I liked him a lot. He was kind, unselfish and definitely the cleverest bloke I’d ever met.

  Now, clever is great, but it isn’t necessarily an aphrodisiac, is it? I mean, Bamber Gascoigne is clever, but you wouldn’t shag him, would you? But there’s clever and then there’s sexy-clever. And that was Chris.

  ‘Why don’t you come over on Saturday?’ he said. ‘I’ll make us a meal and we can celebrate your exam results.’

  So there it was
. The long-awaited invitation to his place.

  A wonderful night of getting-to-know-you followed by passionate, hot, steamy sex? Let’s just say I was optimistic.

  Oh, stupid, lame-brained optimism.

  The picture in my head: candlelight, soft music, a delicious (vegetable-based) meal, which Chris would have spent all day preparing, a glass or two of wine, all of which would be followed by the coming together of our bodies in a love scene that made the one in Titanic look as heated and passionate as a cold flannel wash.

  The reality: erm, nothing like that. At all.

  I’d never been to a student flat before and on the tube journey I imagined it would be a mess – I mean, he lived with three other blokes, so inevitable, surely?

  But I was wrong. The place was just so … tidy. The only mess was provided by the clutter of musical instruments. In the living room there were several guitars, keyboards, and a drum kit. Also in the living room were Chris’s three flatmates.

  Now, I knew why Chris and I were there – see above fantasy – but what were three healthy and not completely unattractive blokes doing at home on a Saturday night? And why hadn’t Chris sent them out to give us a bit of privacy? Where was the romantic evening I’d dressed up for? Or prepared myself to undress for, more like; you should have seen the underwear I had on under my jeans. But it was early – maybe any minute they were going to go out and leave us in peace.

  ‘So, who does all the gear belong to?’ I asked him as he poured me a beer in the tiny (but remarkably clean for a bunch of students) kitchen.

  ‘It’s the band’s,’ he said nonchalantly.

  ‘What band?’ I asked. Did he supplement his grant with part-time roadie-ing?

  ‘Mine,’ he explained, still casual.

  ‘You’re in a band?’ I squeaked, feeling quite shocked. Well, he just didn’t look the type. What were his rock ’n’ roll credentials? He didn’t smoke, he barely drank, and I suspected that if someone asked him for coke, he’d have nipped to the corner shop for some cans. He wasn’t lairy like Liam from Oasis or even just a flagrant exhibitionist like Robbie Williams. No, I’m sorry, but he was just too … nice.

  ‘So who else is in it?’ I asked after I’d got over my surprise.

  ‘That lot,’ he said, pointing at his three flatmates who were in the front room. ‘Guy plays bass, Jonny’s lead guitar and Will’s drums. I play keyboards and a bit of guitar … And I sing.’

  He sang? He was the front man? I’m telling you, I had to work hard to keep my jaw from hitting the floor.

  ‘What are you called?’ I asked.

  ‘Haven’t sorted that out yet. Like I said, it’s early days.’

  I looked at Chris – gentle, well-mannered Chris – then through the doorway at his equally nice-looking band mates. What could they possibly call themselves? The Thoroughly Pleasant Young Men? The Mad Raving Beasts (But We Promise to Keep the Noise Down)? I really was at a loss.

  But maybe he was going to surprise me. Maybe just as soon as he sent his flat/band mates off to the pub for the evening, he was going to slip into his leather jeans and show me his dark, irresistibly seductive rock ’n’ roll side. That’s what I was thinking – OK, hoping – when one of his flatmates appeared at the kitchen doorway.

  ‘This is Jonny,’ Chris said.

  ‘Hi, Dayna, lovely to meet you,’ Jonny said, nicely. ‘Just letting you know it’s about to start.’

  What’s about to start? I wondered.

  ‘There’s this thing on BBC2,’ Chris said, reading my mind. ‘Should be interesting … If you’re into the classical world.’

  I was about to blurt out something about Beethoven not being my cup of tea, but my instincts told me to shut up and stick to ‘Hmmm.’

  Chris passed Jonny and me a beer each, grabbed himself an apple from a fruit bowl and we went into the living room. Four healthy young lads were about to settle down in front of a documentary about the classical world. On a Saturday night.

  So I settled down with them. And as I watched the opening credits run over a backdrop of the sort of ruin I’d never bothered to visit on any of my three holidays in Greece, Jonny said, ‘So are you into the ancient Greeks, Dayna, or are you just humouring Chris?’

  The only thing I knew about ancient Greeks was that Andreas who owned the chip shop at the end of my road was going to be eighty-seven the following week and his son was thinking about throwing him a party. Again my instincts told me to keep my trap shut. ‘Hmmm,’ I said.

  He took that as a yes.

  ‘They were an amazing people, weren’t they?’ he went on. ‘They invented democracy, laid down the bedrock of all modern thought and worked out that the bath overflows if you fill it too full.’

  Chris, Will and Guy chuckled, so I did too. But quietly, so as not to draw attention to myself. Because, frankly, what was so funny?

  ‘Believe it or not, this isn’t usually how we spend our weekends,’ Chris said, perhaps sensing my confusion. ‘But it’s not often anything on the telly is useful for the course. It’s kind of essential viewing.’

  As the boys focused on the documentary I focused on the video recorder under the TV. So much for their university education. Why hadn’t the plonkers just taped it?

  I took another swig of my beer and tried hard to look interested rather than disappointed – the realisation that anything by way of physical contact between Chris and me was highly improbable had just hit home. But perhaps passion wasn’t Chris’s thing. Oh, I knew he could be passionate. About globalisation and the AIDS crisis in Africa and child slavery in India … But what about Dayna Harris? I was beginning to doubt it.

  And then I felt my stomach start to rumble. Chris had asked me round for dinner, but there was no sign of cooking. Or even of any takeaway menus. I was starving. I hadn’t eaten all day so that my stomach would be nice and flat when the moment came for me to reveal my new g-string. And I didn’t mind vegetarian food. I’d done my homework and I’d worked out that, so long as you avoid cabbage, there are actually lots of things in veggie restaurants that are tasty and filling – eating the entire basket of bread helps too. Chris had finished his apple and as he threw the core into the waste bin (so not rock ’n’ roll – rock stars don’t use litter receptacles), I wondered despondently if that was him sated.

  Busy as I was, pondering the stuff any girl in my position would be pondering, I realised I was missing the conversation that was going on over the programme.

  ‘What about the Spartans?’ Jonny said.

  ‘You want everyone to think we’re a bunch of classics swots?’ Guy said.

  What was he talking about? They were a bunch of classics swots.

  ‘It’s a great name,’ Jonny went on. ‘Just close your eyes and imagine it. Give a huge Glastonbury welcome to … The Spartans!’

  Ah, so they were coming up with names for their band. I must admit I was relieved. They might not have looked like Guns ’n’ Roses, but it was the closest I’d heard to a normal conversation all evening.

  ‘Here’s one,’ Will piped up. ‘Geezer.’

  Jonny and Guy both burst out laughing and I felt safe enough to join them.

  ‘Sorry, Will,’ Chris said. ‘Crap name.’

  ‘Fair enough. What about Snow Patrol?’

  ‘Why?’ Guy asked.

  ‘Dunno,’ Will shrugged. ‘Just sounds good.’

  Then suddenly it was a free-for-all.

  ‘The Gags.’

  ‘Magenta.’

  ‘Ochre.’

  ‘Yellow Ochre.’

  ‘Incubate … But with a K.’

  ‘The Krays … But with a C.’

  ‘Porton Down.’

  ‘The Hand-me-downs.’

  ‘The Kiwi Fruits.’

  ‘The Peach Slices.’

  ‘The Granny Smiths.’

  And finally, ‘What about Apple?’ from Chris.

  Which was met with blank stares. Obviously. I mean, really. Apple.

  ‘We are
going nowhere with this,’ Jonny laughed, ‘so I think we’ll be off.’

  ‘Give you two some space,’ Guy grinned.

  The three of them got up, grabbed their jackets and walked out. And as three sets of feet clumped down the stairs, suddenly the evening had potential again.

  * * *

  ‘Is it OK?’ Chris asked nervously as I took my first mouthful.

  If I’d been Gordon Ramsay, I might have said, ‘No, it’s not OK, you tosser. It’s utter crap. Fucking inedible. Total fucking, twatting, cunting, shit.’ But since Gordon Ramsay hadn’t yet been invented and, besides, I was just Dayna Harris, I made do with, ‘Delicious.’

  ‘Good. I was a bit worried that I’d over-caramelised the shallots, but they turned out all right in the end,’ Chris said.

  So much for my newly gathered intelligence regarding vegetarianism. I had no idea what he was talking about. I just knew that the shallots had not turned out all right at all. Neither, it seemed, had anything else on my plate.

  But then, I thought, what the hell did I know? Maybe this was what they called an acquired taste. So I decided to hide my disgust and get on with shovelling it down my neck as quickly as possible. It would be like ripping off a plaster really fast – hell while it lasted, but total bliss once it was over.

  ‘Wow, you like your food, don’t you?’ Chris said as I tucked in with desperate abandon.

  ‘Mmmnnnggg,’ I replied, my mouth full of something indescribably slimy that didn’t seem to want to be swallowed.

  ‘I’ll have to cook for you more often.’

  ‘Uunnnggghhh,’ I responded, hoping to God he didn’t take that as a yes.

  When my plate was finally empty, I sat back and gave a silent sigh of relief. My ordeal was over. I let the wine go to my head and for the first time that evening I relaxed. It was still only ten o’clock. Hopefully Chris’s flatmates would stay at the pub till closing time, leaving us with more time to get to know each other better.

  So while Chris took the dishes to the kitchen, I took my wineglass to the sofa and made myself comfortable, quickly adjusting my new g-string, which was getting really annoying. When he came back into the room he was eating another apple.