by Mike Gayle
‘And you don’t like anything else?’
Rob shook his head. ‘I’m a bit weird like that.’
‘Not at all,’ replied Neil. ‘If you know what you like why bother with anything else?’ He smiled. ‘I usually go for Tetley’s but tonight I might join you in a Carlsberg.’
Rob watched Neil make his way to the bar and sighed. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He was well aware that Neil hadn’t called out of the blue – he’d obviously been put up to it by Ashley. It was a pity drink, an invitation to go out based on nothing more than obligation to a friend. Rob had known this, yet had still said yes – out of politeness and genuine desperation.
Until now, the longest Rob had been away from his London friends was a three-week touring holiday he and Ashley had had in Canada two years ago and even then it had been almost too much for him. But the withdrawal symptoms he had experienced in recent weeks were much worse. Rob had days’ worth of conversation stored in his head just waiting for an appreciative audience. One night, as he and Ashley lay in bed, basking in post-coital bliss, some of it had leaked out.
‘Which do you think is U2’s best album?’ he had asked.
‘Pardon?’ responded Ashley, taken aback.
‘You know,’ he had continued, ‘U2, as in the rock band. Which do you think is their best album?’
‘Well, the only one I’ve got is The Best of: 1980-1990,’ she replied.
‘You can’t count compilation albums,’ Rob had chided. ‘Studio albums only.’
‘What are you on about? Why are there rules to this conversation suddenly?’
‘Never mind.’ Rob had turned on to his side and decided that the answer to his question was a tough choice between The Joshua Tree (an obvious crowd-pleaser) and War (still obvious but not quite as easy to love). But there could be only one winner: which would he choose?
‘Have I done something wrong?’ Ashley had asked.
‘It’s just me.’ Rob had sighed and turned back to her. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind.’
Ashley had reached across to her bedside table and switched off the light. Rob lay quietly in the darkness next to her; when her breathing had slowed into the rhythm of sleep he had closed his eyes to join her. And just as he’d been about to drift off, he’d whispered, ‘The Joshua Tree – definitely.’
The following evening, out of the blue, Neil had called.
‘So,’ said Neil, returning from the bar, ‘how are you settling in? Weather not too much for you?’
‘Everything’s pretty good, actually,’ said Rob.
‘And you like Chorlton?’
‘Yeah. It’s a nice place.’
‘It is,’ confirmed Neil. ‘Very nice indeed.’
There was a long pause and the two men simultaneously took sips of their beer. Rob was just about to ask Neil about his car, a four-year-old black Porsche Boxter, when Neil suddenly reeled off the first of a huge list entitled ‘Questions to ask Rob should the evening get a bit tough’. It was bizarre. He enquired about the hardware and software Rob used at work, projects he was working on and the graphic-design industry. Then he moved on to music: what were the latest CDs Rob had bought, who did he think should’ve won last year’s Mercury music prize, did Rob rate Badly Drawn Boy – Neil knew somebody who knew somebody who drank in the same pub as him. Then he moved on to films: what films had Rob seen lately; had he heard of various new releases. Neil went on like this, frantically covering topic after topic, as though the evening would fall apart if he stopped for a moment. But it wasn’t a conversation they were having – at least, not in the sense that Rob used the word: it was an interrogation, brought on by the fact that the two men simply weren’t clicking. Rob was a square peg and Neil was a round hole.
Just after ten thirty things started to get really desperate. The silences between them were longer and they were scouring the bar’s clientele for inspiration, but as Neil was Ashley’s friend and Rob was Ashley’s boyfriend they couldn’t even pass comment on the small number of attractive women around them. It became obvious to Rob that the evening would soon grind to a halt, leaving them both embarrassed and stranded in conversational limbo. However, just as he was about to excuse himself and go to the gents’ for the third time in the last half-hour, Neil introduced a subject on which they both had something to say: Ashley.
They talked about her early days at college and exchanged amusing stories about her. They dissected her positive personality traits, and even a few of the negative ones. And for what remained of the evening, even though she was at home preparing for some up-and-coming exams, it was as if she was a third person sitting at their table.
Several times Neil made a few carefully-thought-out jokes about her, which were accurate enough to make Rob laugh, but not so accurate as to indicate that he knew her better than Rob. In return Rob made a few jokes about her that got a belly laugh from Neil, but made it clear – even though it hadn’t needed pointing out – that no one knew her better than he did.
At the end of the night they went their separate ways without making a plan to meet up again. There was no doubt in Rob’s mind that Neil lacked the potential to be a new Phil because the only thing they had in common was Ashley. And friendship, as far as Rob was concerned, would never grow out of that.
Party fears
‘How did you get on?’ asked Ashley. ‘Meet any nice people?’
‘It was a complete waste of time,’ replied Rob. ‘Honestly, we ought to go home now.’
It was quarter to eleven on a Saturday night in March, two months into Rob’s new life in Manchester. He and Ashley were in nearby Didsbury at a party given by Ashley’s work friend, Miranda, to celebrate her husband Carl’s thirty-seventh birthday. Before he and Ashley had arrived at Miranda and Carl’s, Rob had been reasonably optimistic about the party. He had still not made a single new friend and, dissatisfied by the sporadic contact he had with his London mates, had persuaded himself that this party was his big opportunity to find one. From the moment he had walked through the door until now he had worn his most welcoming expression, attempted to be at his most charming and generally sent out the most positive vibes he could muster to anyone who would have them.
‘What went wrong?’ asked Ashley. ‘When I last saw you in the kitchen you were really positive about tonight.’
‘Where to begin?’ asked Rob, unable to hide his frustration. ‘I should’ve known what kind of do this would be when Miranda kept referring to it as a “gathering” instead of a party. It’s a gathering, all right. A gathering of the undead. Where’s the fun? Where’s the dancing? Where’s the atmosphere?’ Rob pointed to a balding young man in jeans and a T-shirt talking to a plumpish woman in denim dungarees. ‘Look at him! He’s drinking Pepsi Max.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Ashley.
‘Because I’ve been watching him all night. And he’s not alone. Half the people here are on soft-drinks.’
‘And that’s a crime, is it?’ Ashley laughed. ‘Who died and made you Minister of Boozing?’
‘It’s not a crime,’ said Rob. ‘At least, not yet. But the only reason so many people are on soft-drinks is because they’ve driven here. Why didn’t they get a minicab like most normal people? I’ll tell you why. It’s because they’re only here to prove to themselves that they still go to parties, even though they never drink, rarely talk to anyone new and always leave before midnight, thereby missing out on the reasons why people go to parties in the first place.’
Ashley looked embarrassed. ‘Will you keep your voice down?’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘One of Miranda’s friends might overhear.’ She added, ‘Look, I know they might not be the most exciting people in the world and, yes, some of them are a bit stuffy, but give them a break, Rob.’
‘I have. I really have. Since I left you talking to Miranda I’ve had around eleven different conversations.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Now ask me how many of those conversations were a
bout house prices in Chorlton and Didsbury.’
‘Six,’ replied Ashley, laughing.
Rob shook his head. ‘How about all of them?’
‘All of them?’ repeated Ashley, incredulously.
‘Every single one. That’s eleven different conversations with eleven different people about the price of bricks and mortar in south Manchester. It’s unbelievable. Ash. Do people talk about nothing else round here?’
‘It’s an easy conversation starter,’ explained Ashley. ‘It can’t offend anyone – apart from you. Anyway, stuff like houses, DIY and renovation, foreign holidays, jobs, kids and things we read in the weekend papers is important to people our age.’
‘But it’s not what I talk about with Phil and Woodsy,’ said Rob.
‘That’s because all you guys ever talk about are those weird sort of nebulous bloke topics that you can never remember afterwards. I’ve lost count of the times when I’ve listened to your so-called conversations and haven’t been any the wiser. As far as I can see, you all take it in turns to be the butt of each other’s jokes, do a lot of blokey laughing and one of you tells a daft story about something that happened at work and you laugh some more. It’s like watching one of those New Wave French films where nothing happens v-e-r-y s-1-o-w-l-y.’
Rob laughed. To a degree, Ashley was right. He could never remember what he and his friends had talked about after a night at the pub. But often a night at the pub wasn’t so much about talking as it was about sharing each other’s company. Some of the best nights he’d ever had with Phil and Woodsy had involved nothing more complicated than a four-pack of Carlsberg, a few packets of crisps and an evening of good telly.
‘Well,’ began Rob, trying a different line of attack, ‘do you know what else the people I met tonight spoke about?’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘Their jobs.’ Rob looked round the room. ‘You see that guy in the glasses and the pale yellow golfing jumper?’ Ashley nodded. ‘He’s a sales manager for a freight company in Stockport. And the guy with cropped hair in the blue shirt?’ Ashley nodded again. ‘The director of a regional radio-plugging firm.’
‘And your point is?’
‘Well, while I can tell you a dozen facts about any of these people – which I won’t – do you know what they could tell you about me?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ said Rob. ‘Not a single one asked me what I did for a living.’
‘But you don’t want to be asked what you do for a living, do you?’
‘That’s not the point,’ said Rob. ‘They weren’t interested. I’m never going to make friends up here if everyone I meet is like this. I’m beginning to empathise with those Sex and the City girls, banging on about how there are no eligible men left in New York because all the good ones have been taken. That’s how I feel. All the good male friends have been grabbed and all that’s left are these boring, self-interested thirty-something zombies who can only talk about their jobs and house prices.’
‘Come on,’ said Ashley, ‘don’t give up yet. How about this? We give it one more hour, you mingle a bit more and then, if it’s still not happening for you, I promise we’ll go home.’
‘One more hour?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. You’re on.’
‘Look,’ said Ashley, waving at a post-pub influx of people, ‘Chris, Bella and that lot have arrived. You’ve never really talked to them . . . and I’m pretty sure they won’t go on about house prices. Maybe you should try them tonight.’
‘In a bit,’ replied Rob, despondently. ‘But now I need to take a leak.’
Bathroom buddy
Rob was on the stairs waiting to go to the loo. There were at least six people ahead of him and although he had been standing in the queue for a few minutes it wasn’t getting any shorter. As minutes passed by others became restless and a rumour circulated that a woman had locked herself into the bathroom in floods of tears. Rob was mildly amused by his companions’ restrained indignation. At last, he thought, a tearful woman in a locked bathroom – no party’s complete without one.
Gradually the queue diminished as another rumour spread of a loo somewhere on the ground floor. Soon only Rob and a tallish man in a blue shirt and cream chinos were still waiting.
‘Hi,’ said the man, turning to Rob. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Jono Adams – I’m mates with Miranda’s husband Carl.’
‘Hi,’ said Rob, and shook his hand. ‘I’m Rob, Ashley Mclntosh’s partner – I think I met you briefly at Miranda and Carl’s wedding.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Jono. ‘I thought I recognised you. You’ve just moved here from London. Miranda asked me a while ago if I’d go for a drink with you – introduce you to a few people up here. Can’t remember why I didn’t get in touch. Still, I expect you’re settled now.’
‘Yeah,’ replied Rob. ‘Absolutely.’
‘What do you think’s going on in there?’ said Jono, jabbing a finger at the bathroom door.
Rob shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Do you think we should tell Miranda or somebody?’
Jono shook his head. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said, and proceeded to bang on the door so hard that Rob thought it would fly off its hinges.
‘Hello?’ bellowed Jono. ‘Is anyone in there?’
There was no reply.
‘Right,’ said Jono, ‘I’m going to find a screwdriver and do something about it.’
At that moment there was a metallic click from inside the bathroom. The handle turned and the door opened to reveal a pretty, dark-haired girl in a green top and jeans. She had dark brown eyes, and an open, almost innocent face. Even though she had done her best to tidy herself up it was clear that she had been crying.
‘About time too,’ said Jono. Then, without another word, he brushed past the girl into the bathroom and locked the door.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Rob. The girl was leaning on the wall as if she was trying to keep herself upright.
‘I’m fine,’ she replied, in a light Manchester accent.
‘You don’t look fine.’
‘It’s nothing. I’ve just had a bit too much to drink, that’s all. I’ll be fine.’ She took a step forward but completely misjudged it and would have fallen over if Rob hadn’t stepped forward to catch her.
‘Listen,’ he said, helping her to sit down on the stairs, ‘just have a rest for a bit.’
She nodded and looked up at him. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a ciggie, have you?’
‘I don’t smoke, I’m afraid.’
She sighed heavily, stood up and started to go down the stairs.
‘Where are you off to now?’ asked Rob.
‘I need a smoke. There’s an all-night garage up the road. Sean and I drove past it in the taxi on the way here.’
Rob wondered who ‘Sean’ was and, more importantly, why he wasn’t looking after this girl, who clearly needed it.
‘Are you sure about walking there on your own at this time of night?’
‘I’ll be okay,’ she replied. ‘Thanks for asking, though.’
‘Well, how about this?’ said Rob, as they reached the bottom stair. ‘You stay here and I’ll nip out to get your fags for you.’
‘You’d do that for me?’ asked the girl.
‘It’s not a big deal. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.’
‘Well, I need some fresh air. How about we both go?’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Rob. ‘You don’t know me.’
‘Yeah, I do,’ she replied. ‘You’re the bloke who’s being nice to me. What more do I need to know?’
‘Well, how about my name for starters?’ Rob held out his hand. ‘I’m Rob.’
‘I’m Jo,’ said the girl. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Down and out in Didsbury
‘So,’ said Rob, as they headed up the road towards the garage. It was cold now and their coats were buttoned to the chin. ‘What do you do?’
‘Oh, not that again.’ Jo s
ighed. ‘Why is everyone so obsessed with what people do for a living?’
Rob laughed. ‘I only asked because I’ve been conditioned into it by everyone I’ve met tonight.’
Jo smiled. ‘I’ll forgive you. But why don’t we have a conversation where we don’t talk about what we do for a living, where we live, where we’re from and, above all, why I locked myself in the bathroom?’
‘I can’t even ask that? Why not?’
‘Because, believe me, the answer will bore you as much as it frustrates me.’
‘So, what do you want me to do? Talk about myself?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Jo, quickly. ‘At the minute I think you’re an okay bloke but if I find out too much about you I might change my mind. Let’s stick to general chit-chat.’
Rob found himself smiling at her. He couldn’t help it. There was something about her that was instantly appealing. She was attractive, too, but he was sure she wasn’t flirting with him, just being her slightly oddball, slightly depressed, slightly drunken self. ‘What do you fancy talking about?’ he asked.
‘Anything.’
‘Well, what interests you?’
‘No, no, no, no,’ said Jo, wagging a finger. ‘I can see what you’re doing and it won’t work.’
Rob was confused. ‘I wasn’t doing anything.’
‘If I’d answered your question I’d have given away something about myself – that I like flowers or Johnny Depp films before he went all rubbish. Things that would’ve revealed far too much about me. Anyway, there’s no skill in talking about stuff like that. Whatever happened to real conversation?’
‘It’s alive and kicking . . . somewhere.’ Rob grinned.
He stopped when they reached the end of the road. ‘If this isn’t too personal a question – right or left?’
‘I thought it was right,’ said Jo, ‘but I might be mistaken. I’m rubbish with directions.’
‘I think left.’
‘Fair enough,’ replied Jo. ‘What do I know about anything?’
Walking and talking