by Simon Brooke
In his usual gloomy, deadpan way, Vinny tells a story about being in the kitchenette at work and reaching up to the cupboard for the coffee jar and accidentally grabbing this fierce old bag’s tit or “ample bosom,” as he describes it on the third retelling. Vicky and Jane are in hysterics. But I don’t think that it is just Vinny’s story that is making them giggle so helplessly, that’s just an alibi for a private girly joke.
After a while Jane suggests we check out the jukebox. I volunteer to go with her. We squeeze out and cross the crowded, smoky bar to the machine. A bloke in a blue blazer knocks into me and then gives me a scornful look by way of apology.
“Hope you don’t mind the pub,” she says above the noise.
“Mind it? Why should I? It’s fine.”
“I thought it might be a bit of a come-down for you. I’m sure you’re used to something slightly more upmarket.”
“Not at all,” I mutter, wondering how much she knows then ask, “Has the board allocated resources for this little extra, then?”
“Heh?”
“Have you budgeted for the jukebox?”
“No, I haven’t, actually. Give us some money,” she says, leading the way.
“Oh, OK,” I say.
“And it doesn’t take fifty pound notes, I don’t think.”
“Ha, ha.” Better to make a joke of it. She consults the list. I find two pound coins and she takes them silently.
“Now, what would you like?” she muses.
“I don’t mind, what are you into?”
“Well …” she says, still looking down the list, beginning to frown with concentration and then disappointment that nothing leaps out at her.
“Let me guess,” I say, “nothing too mainstream, too commercial.”
“Well, not Boyzone, I don’t think.”
“And not Abba.”
“Wrong! I like Abba, actually.”
“Oh, that’s interesting.”
“And what about you? Something nice and safe and yuppie. Have they got any Dire Straits, I wonder—” I laugh indignantly and try to interrupt but she carries on “—or Enya.”
“Wrong on both counts.”
“What do you like, then?”
I consult the list. “Erm. Brand New Heavies?”
She pulls a face and mulls it over. “A bit self-consciously trendy. I don’t quite believe that.”
“Don’t, then. Look, here’s one for you—Radiohead.” I point to it on the list and immediately my Rolex peeks from under my sleeve, its face catching a stray spotlight. Jane doesn’t notice—or at least pretends she doesn’t.
“Not bad. A bit overexposed now, though. Even my mum’s read about them in the Daily Mail. I bet they’ve got some of those old early eighties dance tracks for you—Kool and the Gang or, er, oh look, Randy Crawford. Perfect for dancing with the secretaries from work on a Friday night when they’ve dragged you off to a club.” She begins to sway about, rolling her eyes and smiling insanely. I can’t help laughing.
“Well, you can’t like Madonna,” I say. “What about the Cranberries? I can see you almost dancing to them at the Students’ Union.”
“Ha, ha. I do like Madonna, actually. She’s such a strong woman, a postfeminist role model.”
“Right on, sister.” She gives me a sarcastic smile.
“What’s that?” she says, pushing my hand gently away. I feel a slight thrill as we touch but if Jane does too she doesn’t give anything away.
“Blimey, Morrissey,” I say. “A bit before your time.”
“No, quite like him, actually. Even though I don’t know what ‘before your time’ means, you patronizing bastard. How old are you?”
I think about it for a moment and I realize that, actually, I don’t have to lie this time.
“Twenty-four—and you?”
“Twenty-two. There’s nothing in it.” Still looking down the list, she hesitates for a moment as we both realize what that sounds like. “No, I used to listen to my older sister’s tapes all the time.”
“Why do you work in Paperchase?” Why did I ask that? She looks slightly surprised and turns back to the jukebox.
“Why not? It’s quite fun. It pays the rent. Besides, I don’t know what I want to do yet. I might go travelling next month.”
“Where to?”
“Probably South America. One of my friends from university is teaching English as a foreign language in Buenos Aires.”
“That’d be fun—the Paris of the Southern Hemisphere.”
“Sorry?”
“That’s what they call Buenos Aires—the Paris of the Southern Hemisphere.”
“Oh, right. Well, I haven’t actually done any research about it yet, like I said—I’m still thinking,” she says slightly irritably. What did I do? Did it sound like I was showing off? “Here, let’s have the Eurythmics, I love them. My sisters used to play them all the time.” She consults the chart and presses the code. “Why do you sell space?”
“Media sales?”
“Media sales, then. S’cuse me.” She pulls a face.
“Oh, fuck knows. It’s a job. I wanted to get into advertising. Once upon a time. I suppose I just fell in to it. My mum and dad think it’s a good thing.” I don’t dare tell her that it was the promised salary which caught my eye first. There is a pause as we both look through the remaining songs. I wonder again what Vinny has told her. I suggest our final track and she casually agrees. We get back to the table.
I turn to say something to Vinny but he is talking very intently to Libby. “You see most people think you start with the big things and then move up to the smaller ones, you know—your croutons, corn, grated cheese, bacon bits, whatever. I might even include kidney beans in that.” He thinks for a moment. “Yes, kidney beans too. But in fact you start with these because they provide you with a good solid foundation. Then you can add the larger pieces. Myself I’d go for tomatoes, cucumber, whatever. Then you can balance the really big pieces like lettuce leaves on top.” Libby looks at him the way most people look at their financial advisers after they’ve been urged to put a bit more aside for a pension.
“Vinny knows what he’s talking about,” I say to Libby. “He can pile it up a foot high at Pizza Hut.”
“I’ve been banned from the salad bar in three branches in Central London,” says Vinny proudly. Vicky looks at us both in amazement and then at Jane.
When my choice comes on the jukebox it’s not what I thought it was. It’s a muzacky soul track and I feel embarrassed about requesting it. It’s such a responsibility choosing these things.
We leave the pub at closing time—our kitty runs out quite a bit earlier so we spend the last three quarters of an hour or so smoking a couple of furtive joints courtesy of Vicky and absentmindedly tearing up beer mats while we talk—or the others talk and I watch, wondering what Vicky and Jane have been talking about. Libby, who works at the welfare office in Neasden, tells us about a man who completely lost it and leapt over the counter to attack the bloke who was talking to him.
“That’s terrible,” says Jane. “What happened?”
“Oh, well, he was suspended.”
“What? Because a claimant attacked him?” demands Vicky.
“No,” says Libby in her little girl’s voice, “he was working for the DSS. The guy he attacked was a claimant. He was, you know, really getting on his nerves.” Vinny and I laugh. Libby looks bemused and Vicky mutters, “Jesus.” I think she is talking about Libby.
Somehow a roundthetable quiz starts. We start with the first record everyone has bought, and then the worst record. Mine is “Eye of the Tiger.” Everyone laughs, including me. Confession must be good for the soul.
“That is bad,” says Jane.
“What was yours?” I ask.
“Probably ‘The Final Countdown.’ ” We all laugh again and I catch Jane’s eye for a moment. She looks away.
After that, the conversation is slow and full of long-running in-jokes, so I don’t say muc
h. But when we get up I find the thick, warm atmosphere of the pub and the long evening of slow boozing has left me pleasantly mellowed.
Outside, Vinny and I wish Seth good luck with the band and then he, Vicky and Libby set off for the Tube station and the three of us walk back to ours. I am glad that our farewell consists of waves and shouts of “Cheers.” I don’t even mind Vicky winking and miming a telephone receiver at Jane. Kissing Marion’s friends goodbye is always so exhausting—even if you can remember who does single kisses, who does double kisses (usually a safe bet) and who triple kisses, it still takes forever to say goodbye and then if you have done all yours you still have to wait, an awkward spectator, while everyone else finishes their elaborate choreography of handshakes and kisses. I am sure that is why evenings with Marion’s friends seem neverending.
We walk back in silence and I notice that Jane has put her arm through Vinny’s in a sisterly sort of way. We stop for a takeaway curry. Jane has a vegetable thing, I have a chicken bhuna and Vinny has his usual, which he doesn’t even have to ask for now because they recognise him as soon as he walks in. He describes it as a Chernobyl vindaloo. Then he makes his usual joke about nuclear “phal” out and burps violently.
“Vinny!” says Jane.
“Fucking animal,” I add.
We eat them in the kitchen at Jane’s insistence, saying little as we realize how hungry we are and then we retire to the living room with mugs of tea to see if there is anything on telly. At about halfpast eleven Vinny yawns and says “night.”
“Goodnight” say Jane and I in unison. Embarrassing. It only emphasizes the fact that there are just the two of us now, sitting in a darkness broken only by the flickering light of the TV.
We stare at the box where two alternative comedians discuss jerking off and zits with a studio audience of thirty-somethings who are obviously wondering why they splashed out on a babysitter for this rubbish. Eyes fixed on the picture, slightly embarrassed, we half-laugh every now and then. If we’re not laughing why are we watching? And if we don’t watch, what else do we do? I find myself wishing Vinny was still here.
“ ’Scuse me a minute,” I say and leap up off the settee. I dash upstairs to find Vinny, who is in the bathroom brushing his teeth.
“Vinny,” I whisper urgently, half-closing the door behind me.
“Ussh?” he says, through a mouthful of toothbrush and froth.
“What have you told Jane about me?”
“Usshing,” he says, looking alarmed.
“What? Didn’t tell her about my, you know, other job?” I can’t bring myself to say “escort” even to Vinny.
“No.”
“Oh, good. Thanks. Did you tell her I was seeing someone else?”
He looks slightly apologetic and then removes the toothbrush and spits out, a procedure which seems to take about half an hour.
“She wanted to know, mate. Wondered where you were going the other evening when she was just arriving.”
“Oh, OK.”
“Sorry,” he says.
“Oh, don’t worry.” My mind is racing. Jane must be wondering what we’re talking about. I’d better get back.
“Thanks.”
Halfway down the stairs I turn and run back.
“Ow wha’?” says Vinny, his mouth full of toothpaste again.
“Did you say how serious it was?”
He spits out once more.
“No, I just said you were seeing a woman and that’s where you were off to that night, s’all.”
“OK.” I think about it. Vinny picks up the toothpaste again. “Woman? Did you say how old she was?”
“No, ’course not, I don’t know how old she is.”
“No, sure. And you didn’t say where she lived?”
Vinny looks exasperated. “No, I don’t know her bloody postcode either. For Christ’s sake, Jane obviously likes you. Just get back there and don’t come back—I’m running out of toothpaste here. Jesus! She’s a lovely girl. I’m not going to tell anyone you’re playing away from home.”
“I’m not playing away from home, it’s not that kind of relationship,” I say quickly.
No, it’s not that kind of relationship. It’s not going to last forever with Marion, certainly not after what Channing said. I almost shudder at the memory of our dinner. Besides, I’ve already been unfaithful to her once. In fact, thinking about it, I might just cut my losses now. To be really brutal about it, it was fun while it lasted, we had a good time together. Having the Rolex is great, assuming she doesn’t want it back, and Paris was brilliant but…well, it can’t go on for ever. I know that.
I’m pretty self-conscious about being seen in restaurants with Marion—especially when she gets the menu with the prices and I don’t. A normal relationship with a normal girl suddenly seems so attractive, so right. No more playing lap dog and no more evenings spent with a bunch of extras from Dynasty. Instead, someone I could relax and be myself with, someone I just have something in common with. Besides, after Helen, I’ve got some catching up to do in the snogging stakes, haven’t I?
I look at Vinny, who is smiling and holding something out at me. It’s a rather old packet of condoms. I laugh and dash back downstairs again without taking them.
“Sorry about that. Just had to talk to Vinny about the rent before tomorrow,” I find myself saying. God, I’m getting good at lying.
Jane just smiles and looks back at the telly.
So now, without looking away from the screen I begin to review the situation and the ways in which it might develop. Jane will obviously have to sleep in my bed, but will I be there too or down here on the settee? At what time should I say “I think I’ll crash?” Is that what she is waiting for? If I say that will she take the hint and make it clear that she would like to be invited? Or will she just think I want to go to bed alone. I am sitting quite close to her, I could make a move now. Very discreetly I turn my eyes towards her. She is wide-eyed at the screen. Nobody could be that interested in anything on TV. She obviously isn’t watching this crap.
God, she does look pretty, though. I love the way she sweeps her hair back behind her ear. She has a smooth, white forehead and a strong, intelligent mouth. Now that she has taken off her jacket and her thick pullover I can see her small, rounded breasts through her T-shirt. I am only two feet away from her on this old heap of a settee. I could just reach out and gently put my arm round behind her. I could do the old stretch and yawn routine. What the hell, let’s just see what happens. Besides, you can’t let a girl like Jane just slip through your fingers. The simple fact is that I do really, really like her. I’ve had a good time with Marion but nothing she could give me in the way of presents would be as good as spending some time with Jane.
I look round at her slowly and move forward a few inches. She turns to me, eyes wide with a look of calm expectation. I reach over and push her hair back slightly with my left hand while putting my right on her shoulder, then I move forward and kiss her lips.
Her mouth tastes of tea and sweet spices. I move further across and draw her into me, slowly taking my hand down towards her breast. As I touch it she gasps slightly and I feel her nipple harden under the T-shirt. We kiss for some time—gently but not shyly and I am pleased I made this move, especially when I feel her arm round my neck pulling me gently on to her. It goes on for some time and I begin to feel hard so I make a move for what I once overheard my sister and her friends describe as “inside downstairs” but she gently pulls my hand away.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
She lowers her eyes and says very softly, “I don’t want to do that right now, Andrew. I mean, I like you but it’s too soon.” She pauses for a moment. “Besides, you’re seeing someone else right now, aren’t you?” Oh fuck. How do I answer that? Why don’t I have a reply ready? I should have thought of it upstairs with Vinny. I can’t deny it and I can’t say yes, because it’ll just look like I’m looking for a onenight stand and somehow I don’t think Jane would go for tha
t. And perhaps I don’t want to go for that with Jane.
But it’s too late now. I’ve taken too long to answer. The moment has passed. She realizes things are not as simple as she had hoped. She moves away.
“I am but it’s coming to an end. It’s, it’s not really right…”
She looks at me for a moment. “Listen, we’d better get to bed. I’ll use the settee,” she says.
“No,” I say too loudly. “I mean, I’ll stay down here, you have my bed.” I can’t think of what to add. I start to say something but it comes out as rubbish. She strokes my cheek and looks at me for a moment.
Then she does something to her hair and says, “Do you need to get anything out of your room before I go to bed?”
Jane has gone again by the time I get up the next morning. I was looking forward to having breakfast with her and saying goodbye. I didn’t sleep much last night, wondering where we stand, where we go from here, how our conversation seemed to her. I can’t ever imagine Jane wanting to have a relationship if she thought I was already in one. If I am in a relationship.
In some sort of perverse, misguided effort at revenge, I ring Marion on my mobile on the way to work and wake her up.
“Well, I had the evening from hell on Saturday,” I tell her as soon as she picks up the phone.
“Why? What happened?” she croaks, still not awake at eight o’clock.
“Channing. Marion, it was awful, it was so bloody embarrassing.”
She coughs and takes a deep breath. “Why?”
“Why?” I shout. “Why?” Where to start? I can’t really put my finger on any particular event, it’s just that the whole thing was so appalling. Then I remember the weirdest bit. “He made a pass at me.”
“Did he? Really? He is terrible,” she says innocently and begins to giggle. Her laughter develops into a cough. I try and decide whether she is genuinely surprised or whether she was expecting it. Or even planning it.
“Well, I’m glad you find it so funny. It was bloody awful.”
“Did he do it in the restaurant?” she says creakily.
“No, back at his flat, after dinner.” I sound even more prissy.