by Chris Killen
Did I really just say that?
‘Oh shit, I can’t,’ she says. ‘I’m helping my aunt all weekend. I’ve already booked the Friday off.’
‘Right.’
I drop my fag on the pavement and grind it out, feeling a little kite of hope come crashing down inside me.
‘But what are you doing right now?’ she says.
PAUL
2014
‘What did you think?’ Alison asks.
She’s done her room up like a French restaurant, covering a borrowed collapsible card table with a chequered red-and-white table cloth and sticking a candle in an empty wine bottle and streaming a compilation album called Café Parisien on her free Spotify account. Every fifteen minutes or so, the jaunty accordion music gets interrupted by adverts for car insurance and macho outdoor assault course training.
Paul takes a big swig of red wine, swivels a little in the office chair she’s borrowed from one of her house-mates, and looks down at his empty plate. She made them pasta. Just penne pasta, with what Paul suspects was a jar of Dolmio stirred in.
‘It was nice, yeah,’ he says, unable to summon any kind of enthusiasm.
He feels deeply embarrassed by this whole evening.
I’m thirty-one and a half, he thinks. What the fuck am I doing here?
He watches her face fall.
‘No, really,’ he says. ‘It was nice.’
Alison stands and starts collecting up their plates.
‘You can say it was shit if it was shit,’ she says.
‘It was nice,’ Paul says.
‘It was shit,’ Alison says.
‘I think I’d better go.’
‘But what about the film?’
The film is Breathless. That was the whole point of French Restaurant Night. Also, earlier on, Alison said, ‘Wouldn’t it be great if we were in, you know, actual Paris?’ and fluttered her eyelashes at him cartoonishly, her face flickering in the candlelight, and Paul knew just what she was hinting at.
‘Yep,’ he’d said noncommittally.
‘We should go, lol,’ she’d said, trying to pitch it as a joke, a throwaway comment. But Paul could tell how much she really wanted it. She’d been moaning recently about the frustration of only ever being able to see him in her room.
‘No, I think I’d better go,’ Paul says firmly.
Without warning, Alison drops their empty plates on the floor. One of them smashes and both sets of cutlery go pinging off into the bedroom.
‘Just fucking go then,’ she snaps.
Paul stays in the swivel chair, paralysed with shock.
He reaches for his wine glass and gulps down the rest, his hand trembling.
‘GO,’ she screams, and he jumps in his seat, then stands.
She pads over to her bed and sits on the edge of it, her head in her hands.
‘I was going to say this later on, anyway,’ he says quietly. ‘I don’t think we should see each other any more.’
‘No shit,’ she mumbles.
Paul quickly gathers his coat and his phone and leaves the bedroom. As he’s going down the stairs, he doesn’t notice the scuffed bedroom door on the floor below, standing open. It’s only as he’s almost past it that he realises. There in the doorway is Rachel Steed, staring at him, eyes burning.
‘Hello Rachel,’ Paul says, not quite able to meet her gaze.
She doesn’t speak.
Just stares at him, her mouth pursed, her eyes narrowed, her hair all ratty and unwashed. She’s wearing her Rip Curl hoodie and a pair of faded pink pyjama trousers, and she’s holding an empty white bowl with a fork in it.
Paul feels her eyes boring into his back as he races down the second set of stairs, along the hallway, then slams the front door behind him.
Date: Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:34:12 +0000
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Argh
Attachment: HBDI.jpg
Hi there, New Myspace Friend,
How strange. It feels like some sort of secret society. Is that the idea? When I first joined, I agreed to let it do that thing where it checks through all your email contacts, and it turned out loads of people from uni are on there too, all being really pretentious and ‘cool’ – posing in black and white, taking their photos from funny angles, etc.
Everyone’s very serious, aren’t they? It seems like the only music and films and books anyone wants to list are ones they hope no one else has heard of. I don’t know, it just makes me wonder how much about a person can you really find out from an arbitrary list of things they (pretend to) like?
Maybe I’m being overly harsh, but I think it’s all just touched a nerve; it all reminds me a bit too much of Paul, of how he was when we were together. I don’t know what he was like with you lot when you lived with him, but he’d always be making me these tapes and CDs in a very serious and joyless way and then about a week after he’d given one to me, he’d quiz me about it. I used to dread it, by the end. It was like getting homework.
I’m getting side-tracked, though. What I was supposed to be saying was: I’m keeping my fingers crossed for you about the record label and the job interview and I think you are very clever and talented. I felt very proud to know you when I read that review and also, also, also: I absolutely LOVE your new song, the quiet one of you on your own. I listened to it on headphones on my break in the cafe on Jenn (the manager)’s computer (seems I’m definitely staying on by the way!), and it made me cry a little, it’s so pretty. I had to take a couple of deep breaths afterwards. So, um, good work!
I wish I could work out how to put it onto my iPod. All I’ve got on here are a bunch of songs that Paul loaded on, which I’m completely sick of.
Speaking of which, I don’t want the memory of Paul to completely put me off music any more and I know I need to broaden my horizons a bit. I’ve not heard Elliott Smith before. Which one of his albums should I start with?
I think my favourite band or person is . . . Cat Stevens. Which probably isn’t a particularly cool thing to put on your Myspace page. Have you seen the film Harold & Maude? If not, WATCH IT NOW, IT’S BEAUTIFUL.
My other answers are: No, I don’t like football, and no, I don’t have any brothers or sisters.
Here are some more for you:
Is your sister an older sister or a younger sister?
How did your interview go?
And . . .
If you could only eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?
L xxx
p.s. HAPPY BIRTHDAY FOR TOMORROW!!! Please find attached a photo which Jenn took of me holding a cake from the cafe. I took it home with me and at some point tomorrow I’m going to eat it in your honour.
LAUREN
2014
‘How was that?’ I asked when I got back.
‘Pretty good,’ said Peter, but he sounded unconvinced. ‘We almost sold a pair of jeans, actually. This lady came in and tried them on in the changing room but then she decided she didn’t want them in the end.’
‘She wasn’t wearing a red baseball cap, was she?’ I asked, thinking: please, not Piss Lady.
‘She was actually, yeah. How come?’
I went over to the cubicle in the corner, pulled back the curtain and the sharp, sour smell hit me in a wave. Sure enough, there was a pile of soiled clothes – knickers and jeans – tangled on the floor, kicked beneath a chair.
‘Did I do something wrong?’ Peter asked as I hurried off to the back room for a plastic bag.
Nancy was in there, eating her sandwiches and sipping her Cup a Soup, playing some sort of colourful, Tetris-like jewel game on the computer.
‘Lau-ren?’ she asked. ‘Can I—’
‘Not now,’ I snapped.
I could feel it again: that buzzing, waspy frustration rising up inside me.
I went back through to the changing cubicle with an inside-out carrier bag and picked u
p the jeans and knickers using the bag as a glove. I felt warmth through the thin plastic and gagged a little.
‘Oh,’ Peter said, when he saw me come out and the smell finally hit him. ‘Oh god, I’m really sorry. I didn’t realise. Or I would’ve . . .’
‘It’s fine,’ I said, hearing myself snap at him, too.
‘Are you sure? Cause you look a bit . . .’
‘What?’ I shouted. ‘I look a bit what?’
Nancy had come out from the back room and they both watched me as I burst into tears.
‘Right,’ said Peter, taking charge. ‘Right, come with me.’ And he guided me, gently, one hand on my shoulder, into the back room where he cleared a space among the piles of donations and dragged up a chair. I’d stopped crying by then, and I felt embarrassed and sheepish as I sat down, letting him rush round, asking Nancy where the kettle and the teabags were, then coming back and asking if I’d like a hot drink.
‘Cheers, yeah,’ I said. ‘One of my teas, please. The herbal ones near the kettle.’
But Peter remained where he was, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
‘Is there anything, um, you want to talk about?’ he asked shyly.
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Thanks though.’
The kettle had begun boiling; it rattled and whistled like a tiny, nightmare steam train.
You get paid to work here, don’t you? Jamaal’s voice echoed in my head.
Just after three, Nancy’s husband, Bob, came to collect her. He was like a male version of Nancy – shy, small, childlike, early sixties – and he always wore the same pair of gigantic white trainers and the same light grey, perma-creased trousers. If I understood it correctly, they’d met online, through some kind of dating service for people with special needs, and they seemed really, really happy together. He was the one who made Nancy’s sandwiches and filled her thermos with Cup a Soup in the mornings.
‘Alright Bob,’ I said.
‘Afternoon, Lozza,’ he said, leaning against the counter while Nancy fetched her coat. ‘Busy day?’
‘As always.’
According to the journal roll, we’d made a grand total of £16.47 so far. (According to the last managers’ meeting, we should be bringing in at least ten times that.)
‘All ready for Christmas?’ he said, looking around the undecorated shop and then winking at me.
I smiled and nodded.
‘You can go, too, if you like?’ I said to Peter once Bob and Nancy had left.
‘Think I’ll stick around to the end,’ he said. ‘If that’s alright?’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Weird first day, I imagine. Hope it hasn’t put you off.’
‘Nope,’ he smiled.
I could tell that he still felt a bit awkward about before, about me crying. I was embarrassed, too. I wanted to change the subject.
‘So, uni next year then?’ I said.
‘Yep.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Nottingham,’ he said. ‘Nottingham Trent.’
‘I did English at Nottingham,’ I said.
‘Really?’ he said excitedly. ‘Did you like it?’
‘What, the course or the whole thing?’
‘Whole thing.’
I thought about this for a long time. Did I like it? Did I have a good time? It all seemed so unreal now; it was like remembering scenes from a corny TV drama. Mainly, I just felt embarrassed by how young and spoilt and full of self-pity I was.
‘It had its ups and down,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a great time though.’
‘Right,’ he said, nodding solemnly and stretching the cuffs of his hoodie over his fingers just like you used to do.
Date: Sat, 4 Dec 2004 15:08:08 +0000
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Argh
hello,
thank you for the cake. it looked like it tasted very nice. you have a tan. you look happy. it’s a nice photo.
(full disclosure: i’ve printed it out and stuck it near my desk. i hope this is okay.)
i had a nice birthday by the way: Alex took me out and got me drunk and when i told him i was giving up smoking the day after my birthday, he said you were a bad influence on me.
anyway, you’ll be pleased to know that you are now corresponding with an official HMV Seasonal Temp, which is most of the reason it’s taken me so long to reply to your email. that and about a million band practices (we have another gig coming up – this time we’re headlining and Alex is convinced some A&R people are coming up from London). Still no word back from Leeds label yet.
HMV is okay so far. the people are nice. i feel like a traitor to Selectadisc though. i keep telling myself it’s alright because i’ll probably just end up spending most of my wages back in there anyway, so actually it’s like some kind of small-scale Robin Hood manoeuvre.
thank you for saying the nice things about my song, too. i’m not good at taking compliments, i never know what to say. but thanks. it means a lot.
my sister is older by five minutes than me (but acts like she’s five years older). she’s called Carol and she’s weird and a bit boring. i don’t know. that came out sounding meaner than i meant it to. she’s not weird. i think we’re just drifting in different directions. she did something to do with accounting at uni and whenever i get into the same old arguments with my parents about ‘getting a real job’ or whatever, she’s always the example they dredge up. i feel guilty now. i should probably ring her up or go and visit.
yeah, myspace is weird isn’t it. i don’t know, mostly just hoping it will be good for the band. speaking of pretentious: have you seen Paul’s profile?? he’s in my friends’ list if you want to have a look. (be prepared to cringe massively though.)
how are things with you? do you feel weird about spending Christmas away from home? are you still enjoying work? please send me more news and details about Canada even if it’s just boring stuff. i like getting emails from you.
oh, yes, almost forgot: yesterday a Canadian man came in and bought the new album by a Canadian band called Stars on import (in case you’re interested, the album’s called Set Yourself On Fire, I like it a lot – highly recommended) and we got chatting about it and him and Canada and i told him about how i knew someone who was living there, etc. he comes from Toronto but he has been to Vancouver lots. he was very nice. that’s it really, that’s the story. sorry it’s not more exciting. i think i just wanted to tell you that i had met a Canadian person and sold him a Canadian CD.
Elliott Smith albums: maybe start with either XO or Figure 8. or maybe the self-titled one. fuck it, they’re all really good.
Ian
p.s. i think i would only eat crisps.
p.p.s. isn’t it your birthday sometime soon too or have i remembered that wrong??
p.p.p.s. i’ve kind of accidentally started smoking again.
p.p.p.p.s. I GOT ALEX TO ORDER HAROLD AND MAUDE INTO THE LIBRARY. THANK YOU SO MUCH. YOU’RE RIGHT. I THINK IT’S THE SADDEST, MOST BEAUTIFUL THING I’VE EVER SEEN.
IAN
2014
The bar in Wetherspoon’s is three-deep with noisy, red-faced old men. I leave Dalisay standing at the edge of the crush and push my way towards the front. When I finally get there, I ask the barmaid how much a pint of Coke and a pint of Fosters might cost.
‘Four twenty-eight,’ she says. ‘And it’s Pepsi, not Coke.’
‘Make it a half of Fosters and a small Pepsi then,’ I say.
‘The small is only ten p cheaper,’ she says.
‘Great,’ I say. ‘One of those then, please.’
We carry our drinks to a booth in the corner near the back and sit down facing each other. Dalisay tries to pay me back for her drink, sliding a pound coin across the table.
‘Thanks,’ she says, when I refuse. ‘Things are so expensive here.’
‘In Wetherspoon’s?’
‘In England.’
I want to ask which country she comes from but I can’t quite work out a way to say it without sounding rude.
‘How long have you been working at the call centre?’ I say instead.
‘Almost a year.’
‘Wow.’
‘How long has your sister been going out with Martin?’
‘God, about nine years, I think.’
Just then an old man with a blotchy red face stumbles up to our booth and leans in over us, his mouth hanging open, his chin all wet and shiny.
‘Are youse two related?’ he asks in an almost impenetrable Mancunian accent, pointing a swollen pink finger first at me, then at Dalisay, then back at me again. ‘Are youse two brother and sister, yeah?’
Dalisay raises her eyebrows at me, honestly puzzled.
(I am ninety-nine per cent sure he’s making some kind of racist comment.)
‘Come on, mate,’ I say, but my voice gets swallowed by the roar of the bar before it can make its way into his ear.
‘Where are you from, love?’ he asks, grabbing onto the edge of our table and swaying dangerously backwards and forwards as Dalisay squints up at him, trying her hardest to decipher his accent.
‘I beg your pardon?’ she says, incredibly politely.
‘Where . . . are . . . you . . . from?’ he barks, so loud it makes an older couple at the next table look over.
‘Oh,’ Dalisay says, finally twigging. ‘I’m from the Philippines.’
‘And what made you want to come over here, then?’ he says. He’s teetering on his heels now and narrowing his eyes, and there’s a string of spit dangling from his chin.
‘Alright, come on, mate,’ I say, a little louder, lifting myself out of my seat.
Oh god.
What am I doing?
I’m not a big guy.
I’ve never been in a fight before.
‘What’s it gorra do wiv you, mate?’ he slurs, and he moves towards me lifting his fists up limply.
I raise my hands and press my fingers gently against his ribcage, to stop him from coming at me, and even just that mild bit of pressure sends him stumbling backwards, away from our table. He trips over a flap of folded carpet, lurches out towards our table for balance but misses completely and sits down hard on his arse. A few more people look over and someone at the bar cheers. He starts swearing to himself, shaking his head. As he pulls himself back to his feet and swerves off in the direction of the gents, I see a doorman come running for him.