by Jacob Ross
“Yeah but we’ve got her folks round tomorrow.”
“Shut up. Even more reason. Go on mate, grow a fucking pair.
Must be some decent clubs somewhere round here. I’ll get the taxi, soft lad.”
“I dunno, mate.”
“C’mon fella. I’m only up here one night. Couple rounds triple voddie Red Rag to start us off?”
“Aw, fuck off, I’m not touching that again.”
“Yeah, you could never handle your drink.” Damo clinked his glass against Matty’s.
“Remind me – who was it puking their guts in H-bar that got us kicked out again?”
“I told you.” Damo pointed a fork in Matty’s face. “Dodgy pizza that was.”
They both laughed.
“Good times.”
“Good times,” Matty echoed.
To be fair, Matty could hold his drink.
They’d finished their burgers and the girls had both been to the lavs, but Damo was not going to break the seal before his mate. He knew Matty could point to the fact that he had been there half hour before him and was one pint ahead. No, he was not letting Matty have that. Matty would break soon. He was starting to look uncomfortable; he was sweating.
Damo saw that Matty was about to get up. Damo placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Mate, remember that time at Sanko’s? Tell Tams about us two at Sanko’s. Mad it was.”
Matty sank back in his seat and recounted the story of when Damo had knocked out some twat who had been hassling Matty. It was good to hear someone else recall the events, even if Matty did miss out a few details. Matty finished the story and rose. Damo was too slow to drag him back.
“What about in the kebab shop as well, Matts?”
Matty’s face tightened in a near grimace.
“You tell it mate. I gotta piss.” He turned to leave.
“Weak bladder that one,” Damo declared downing his pint.
Matty turned back to the table, “Same again all of you?”
“Yup, put it on me ISAX, pal.” Damo slapped his platinum ISAX on the table. Matty made for the toilet and Damo stretched his arms wide. With the contest won he had lost concentration. He felt a dribble in his purple boxers. He crumpled forward and drained his glass.
“So what about this kebab shop?” Tameka asked. Claire had heard this one many times.
“Aw, let Matty tell it when he gets back. He tells it better.” This was a lie but it was good to compliment Matty in front of his girl. He started to drum his legs on the floor. “Fuck it, I’ll get the drinks, ladies. He’ll be ages.”
Damo got up from the table. Still cool. He walked to the gents as slow as his bladder would allow.
* * *
Bursting through the door Damo found Matty waiting for a free urinal. Having to readjust his expectations caused more warmth to trickle into Damo’s Nortons. He tried not to let his anguish show.
“Geezer,” he nodded at Matty.
“Geezer,” Matty replied.
They both turned their attention to the two people in front of them. The cubicle displayed the red engaged sign. If Matty wasn’t here Damo would have pissed in the sink. He realised he was humming and stopped himself. Matty’s knees crouched together as he shifted his weight from one leg to the next in time to the ancient Perushia remix playing outside.
Damo removed the Niksim 2.0 from his pocket and pretended to check the screen. Matty stared ahead. One of the guys was wagging his right arm with the closing strokes. Damo inched a hand into his free pocket to nip the bulb of his dick between thumb and fingers.
Both twats finished, the one closest to Damo turning first. Although Damo’s path was clear he waved Matty forward, managing a tight smile. Squeeze. Tense. It would not do to fall at the last hurdle. The second urinal became free and Damo joined his pal.
Matty had just a zip on his Krabin’s and was already pissing. Damo’s fingers trembled to undo his G-Rope belt. He felt real fear as another little bead released itself in anticipation. If he was not careful the seepage could show through the white denim. He pushed out his backside as much as he dared, body pinched in the middle, squeeze, squeeze, pulling hard at the oversized Narvadi buttons. Care. ful. Not. To. Pull. One. Off…
“Ahhhhhhh,” Matty let out a satisfied sigh. Damo freed his cock and had to fight to point it at the porcelain. He exhaled as the amber blast cascaded onto the rubber splash-mat.
“Few cans before I came out.” Damo could talk now.
Matty snorted a laugh – he seemed happy just to be relieving himself.
“So, we having it tonight then or what?”
“Mate, let’s just have a few bevvies, yeah. I’ll whoop you at pool next pub.”
“As if. Lame mate, lame.”
“You done well there, you know.” Matty jerked a chin back towards the pub-restaurant.
“Yeah, she’s alright.” Damo played the moment down. To brag would be as good as pissing all over his own Doranos. She’s alright – to be interpreted as Yeah she’s a part-time model but I could still do better, I can pull girls like that all day.
There was no requirement for Damo to return the compliment. He had told Matty “not bad” when he introduced Claire to him the first time. They’d been engaged for a year, or maybe two now, so to comment again was not necessary. Damo offered his customary question, “So, you set a date then?”
Matty hesitated. Shit. They’re breaking up. Well, he knew Matty could do better. She was a nice lass, been good for him. Not bad. Nice tits. Damo would sort him out though, get him down London – pissed, pilled, coked. He’d find loads of birds for his old pal. In fact there was that…
“Yeah, we have actually.”
“You wot?”
“Yeah. We set a date.”
Damo remained silent.
“Next August. The 27th.”
Damo squeezed out another stream. Fucking hell. Moving in together was one thing, but fucking married? The idiot.
Matty was shaking out his last drops.
“Fuck,” Damo offered. “No, I mean good luck. Congrats, mate.”
Damo had lost concentration; yellow spots splashed his Doranos. “Shit!” He flicked his feet to disperse the wetness.
Matty laughed, zipping up his jeans.
Damo began to redo his buttons. He joined Matty at the sink. “Bastard! 200 quid these bad boys!”
“We were thinking as well that we’d like you to be best man.” Matty looked at Damo; Damo kept his eyes on the mirror. Matty’s smile looked genuine.
“Me? Yeah. Cool, yeah ’course. Cool. Cheers mate.” Damo wiped a hand on the back of his Narvadis and offered it to Matty. Matty shook it in a firm two-handed grip. Damo clapped his mate on the back. Way too formal.
Matty beamed.
Damo recovered some of his composure, “Fuck, well this is going right in me speech – you admitting I’m the best man when we just had our cocks out!”
Matty didn’t laugh as much as Damo thought the quip warranted.
“Seriously, though,” Matty turned to Damo, “You’ll do it, yeah?”
“I just said I would, dickhead. ’Course I fucking will.” Maybe a little too aggressive there. “I’d be honoured, pal.”
“Cool.” Matty finished smoothing his three-quarter scalp. Damo ran wet fingers over his trimmed eyebrows.
“So you gonna bring Tameka?” Matty asked.
‘Tameka?” Damo could detect no trace of malice in the question. “Yeah – I mean yeah. Depends. Yeah. I’ll bring her.”
“Nice one.” Matty punched Damo on the arm. “See you back in there, pal.”
Damo stared at his reflection, not focusing on anything in particular. The flush from the cubicle sounded and some Indie dweeb walked out. He dared the dweeb to brush his Sempuriio. Just to even make eye contact. The dweeb scampered past, head down, without even washing his hands. Yeah, you better run thought Damo, fists clenched. Damo went into the cubicle and sat down.
Matty. Matty. You
fucking idiot. He’d carried Matty all through college, all the time he had known him. What the fuck was he doing? It would all be downhill for his best mate now. His own fault. Damo could have offered him the real life, bright lights, fast living. Matty would get bored with all that family shit. He’d cheat on her, he was bound to; then, when Claire left him, he’d be too old and fat to get back in the game. That scalp-cut was not going to hide his baldness for many more years. Matty was done, trapped, finished. Mortgage. Kids. Pussy-whipped. Life over. Loser.
No woman would ever have that power over him. Wouldn’t have it any other way – no worries, no responsibilities. He and Matty had agreed on that very thing. People who gave up, settled – that was the saddest thing in the world.
Maybe Claire was pregnant? Silly bastard. That’s what you get when you settle for someone who doesn’t take it up the arse. Poor Matty.
Damo punched the toilet door. Hard. It rattled against its hinges. He rubbed his knuckles then smacked the door harder.
Fucking fool. Not Matty.
Damo sniffed, wiping his nose, then his eyes. Annoyed with himself for his show of weakness. He kicked the door.
Fuck it. Fuck ’em all. He would never stop.
Damo creased his eyes against the tears. He fiddled with the toilet roll, pulled some paper to dab his grazed hand, then pulled open the door.
He paused in front of the mirror to adjust his collar, pointed at his reflection. Winked. “Fucking gorgeous.”
RAMAN MUNDAIR
DAY TRIPPERS
Parminder didn’t like to admit it but she had a type. For as long as she could remember she had an aversion to Asian men. Years of her overbearing Daddyji and chachas had created a distaste for her Asian brotherhood. No. She preferred her men pale and interesting.
She had met David at a work do. His expensive get-up, bohemian chitchat and touchy-feely ways beguiled her. He was so different from the men she was used to. Fast-forward several years and here she was in her well-located, detached home, mortgaged to the hilt, with David and their two boys – Oriel and Miles – who were as verbose as their father. Parminder knew she was terribly lucky to live as she did, but had begun to wake up feeling numb, with a longing for silence.
Gurpreet didn’t like to admit it but he had a type: anything but Asian. To be more specific, anything but South Asian. Absolutely no Indian, Pakistani or Bengali women. No. Brown didn’t do it for him. Never had and never would. He’d had enough from his desi childhood: Mum and sisters and numerous female relatives – Auntie This and Massi That. No. He didn’t want any more of it.
He’d met Aisling after uni. Her red hair, green eyes and soft Irish accent were exotic. Five years later they had children named Sophie and Hannah. He wasn’t quite sure how he had got here.
At university, Parminder and Aisling had a competitive friendship; Parminder had never felt entirely at ease in Aisling’s company. She always had the feeling of being quietly judged. Yet they’d been drawn towards one another. Meeting on Facebook gave an opportunity to show how well they had done; how far they had travelled. There was the fact that they had both married partners from other cultures.
Parminder was surprised how nervous she felt before their reunion. She made a hair appointment, had a manicure, agonised over what to wear and bought a new dress. She picked out David’s clothes. She even vetted the photographs of the boys on her mobile phone so that she would share the best ones.
The highlights of Gurpreet’s family evenings involved investigations of the works of Jamie Oliver, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, and Nigella Lawson: each recipe a performance, each meal serving up just the right sustenance for the life they deserved to live. How quietly discerning they were. How absolutely, as the advert said, they were worth it. And so weekends were spent shopping at John Lewis and lunching at Café Rouge or Carluccios. Weekly grocery shops at Waitrose, or Ocado delivery with top-ups from Sainsbury. The children’s clothes were from Boden, Joules – with little bits from Next and H&M; the furniture from House of Fraser, John Lewis and, only occasionally, Ikea.
It took Gurpreet a while to wonder if they really needed to change the decor and furniture every other year and did the kids really need a seasonal wardrobe?
Parminder couldn’t believe how little her mother knew her. From time to time food parcels were delivered, all based on the fact that she had loved Indian sweets as a child. One parcel leaked sugar syrup onto David’s favourite Paul Smith trousers. The drycleaner was unable to remove the stain and David sulked for the whole week. Parminder called her mum and scolded her thoughtlessness. She didn’t notice when the parcels stopped arriving.
When they got together Gurpreet took charge at the restaurant, made sure they were taken to the table Aisling had booked – the one with a view of the river that, on their arrival, they had been told was unavailable. He ordered the wine, caught the waiter’s attention when required and paid the bill. At first, Parminder found this presumptuous and irritating, but, as the evening progressed, she enjoyed his decisiveness. It was refreshing after the sensitive, linguistic negotiations she was used to with David, in which everything from the colour of the children’s rooms to the electricity bill had to be discussed.
Presents from their Indian grandparents used to arrive twice a year: on the children’s birthdays, and for Diwali. Bright silks paired in odd colour combinations, trimmed with gold and sequins. They came folded carefully and wrapped in a plastic bag with the back of an old envelope as a label. The children would usually rip open parcels as soon as they arrived, but these were left unopened for weeks.
When they were younger and still opened their grandparents’ parcels, they would hold up the shalwar kameez and kurta pyjamas and look at them with suspicion. One year Aisling was convinced the clothes had a strange odour and threw them in the bin.
For a girl raised on Dairylea triangle sandwiches, mutter paneer sabji and Coca Cola, Parminder had developed quite a taste for the regular soirees she and David threw for their friends. The evenings featured large quantities of wine, cheese from the deli and crackers, grapes, and an assortment of nuts.
These evenings made Parminder feel sophisticated and she delighted in the Orrefors wine glasses and decanter, the little Radford cheese knives, the Sagaford cheese dome, platter and the subtle porcelain plates. Delicate little things, a world away from her mother’s steel thalis and the heavily floral dinnerware that appeared on the rare occasions her parents invited someone to dine with them. Even then it wasn’t a dinner party as such, but the feeding of men by a kitchen full of women and children, who would eat only after the men’s appetites had been sated. It had been her job as the eldest girl to serve the fresh-off-the-tuva rotis to the men – the buttered steam aroma from the roti quickening her hunger as she circled the table.
Parminder hadn’t expected to see Gurpreet again. After their reunion meal, her relationship with Aisling had lapsed into irregular social media contact, and despite telling each other that they should definitely meet up again, neither had followed this up. She was surprised she recognised him when, almost a year later in Birmingham on business, she spotted him as she was checking in at her hotel. She felt strangely flustered that he hadn’t seen her. That evening she ate in the hotel restaurant and chose a table facing the entrance. Dessert had finally arrived when she admitted to herself that she was waiting for him and then, as if on cue, he came through the door, immediately recognised her, and smiled.
Gurpreet had seen her at the hotel reception desk but had looked away. He found himself distracted during the day’s meetings. When he saw her in the restaurant he recognised straight away that she had been waiting for him all along.
They chose Leicester for their next weekend together – a city neither of them knew. They hadn’t remembered that it was Diwali until the sound of fireworks roused them from their hotel bed. From the window they could see the mela in full swing. They shared childhood memories of Diwali as they hurriedly dressed. Down on the streets they
felt a rush of recklessness and ran, hand in hand, through the streets towards the bright lights.
On Melton Road the sound of bhangra filled the air as they mingled with the Indian families dressed in their finest. The women and girls shimmered and sparkled, their bindis and red kum-kum punctuating the night. Gurpreet and Parminder felt underdressed. But here they belonged, here they were comfortable.
They became aware of conversations in Punjabi, tuned into like a radio. Playfully, they followed a large Sikh in a red turban with his family, dipping in and out of the Indian restaurants with them. They copied his order, eating a starter in one, a main course in another and having chai and taking away dessert from a third.
Later, in bed, they spoke only in Punjabi and fed each other gulab jaman, jelebis and ladoo, licking the sweetness from each other’s lips.
Aisling noted that something was different. She concluded that Gurpreet was distinctly more ethnic than he used to be.
Parminder started to play bhangra in the car when she took the kids to school. When they complained, she turned up the volume.
It was easy for them: their usual travel for work provided perfect cover. They became bolder and began to choose places closer to home.
One weekend they headed to Southall. The buzz of the Punjabi bazaar, the rhythmic uplift of the bhangra, the paan stalls, Indian sweet shops and the skies seared by the flights heading to and from Heathrow, took them both back to long summers with London cousins. They spent Saturday wandering around, drinking in the sights, smells and sounds of Little India.
Before they knew it they had accumulated a trousseau of shalwar kameez, traditional jewellery sets, bindis and kurta pyjamas. They discovered that one of the local dhabbas cooked food exactly like their Mummyjis. During lunch Parminder pointed out that the things Gurpreet had bought for her were those that, traditionally, her mother would have given her had she married a Sikh man, as had been expected of her. The thought made them fall silent and look away from one another.