by Fiona Gibson
Most important of all, it means we’re okay, me and Will. He is holding my hand now, my gorgeous husband, on this beautiful summer’s day.
*
It’s been so long since I’ve been to a gig that I wake up next morning slightly panicked about how it’ll be. Not the music, obviously: that’ll just happen. As long as I face the right direction, and look interested, it doesn’t matter whether I enjoy it or not. No, it’s the peripheral stuff that’s concerning: like, will the venue have a cloakroom or will I have to stand there for hours, clutching my jacket, like when I arrived late at Ollie’s school concert and all the seats had been taken? Ugh, the pitying looks I attracted all night, and the comments: ‘Are you sure you’re okay, Charlotte? Maybe someone could find you a folding stool?’ All of this hissed in the middle of Sophia Barton’s flute solo. I don’t want a repeat of that.
Also: clothes. I’d be no problem at all if we were going to see one of those beardy acoustic guys that Liza so enjoys. Hair loose, no make-up, jeans and a top – that’s all I’d need to fit in. Actually, maybe not. While a pared-down, folky look is fine if you’re willowy of frame, I’m not so sure it works for a rather buxom muncher of crisps.
Hair, I decide. It requires urgent attention. I call Petra, my local hairdresser, and as luck would have it she can fit me in for a cut and colour at four this afternoon. While it is, admittedly, hardly Trevor Sorbie, I always enjoy going to Petra’s salon due to the fact that it’s comfy and unpretentious and there’s plenty of chit-chat: they’re the kind of conversations I don’t have anywhere else. Beyoncé, online dating, whether juicing is a good thing or just a different way of starving yourself: Petra is a mine of information on such matters and I am always quite happy to sit there, soaking it all in. Less enjoyable is the fact that Petra – who’s in her late twenties – always asks, ‘So what’s happening tonight?’ And I always feel obliged to put a spin on such scintillating activities as supervising Ollie’s homework or watching a DVD.
At least this time, I am actually doing something notable. ‘I’m going to a gig,’ I tell her.
And this, it turns out, is my big mistake – because Petra says, ‘Oh, right – what sort of music?’
‘Kind of indie rock, I think,’ I reply, and next thing she’s excitedly showing me a shade chart consisting of row upon row of snippets of synthetic hair stuck to a large white card.
‘Let’s do something different then,’ she suggests. ‘Something fresher, younger, to lift your look …’
‘Sure,’ I say, swept along by her enthusiasm.
‘A rich mahogany with deeper vegetable tones?’ I take it she doesn’t mean carrot, or any of the less popular, dreary-toned veg: parsnip or celeriac.
‘Sounds great,’ I say as Petra jabs at one of the hair swatches on the chart. It looks fine, it really does: a rich, glossy brown – what you’d call a proper brunette. As my head wound has finally healed, I can justify today’s extravagance as a present to celebrate my recovery. It’s only later, when I’m being blow-dried, that I discover what Petra meant by ‘vegetable tones’: purple. Well, purple-ish. Which I don’t point out, naturally, because I am the kind of person who never complains when coffee is served lukewarm, or my glass of wine has a lump of cork bobbing about in it. In fact I say, ‘Thanks’, then proceed to tip generously. The less satisfactory the thing, the more cash I dump on the table, then leave, feeling furious – not with the person responsible but myself, for being such a spineless twerp. How can I possibly encourage Rosie to grow into a strong, confident woman when I can’t even say what I think about my own hair?
‘Oh, Mum.’ Rosie is the first to witness my new look when I arrive home.
I blink at her. ‘Yes, love, I know.’
She steps towards me. ‘You’ve had it coloured.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Will it wash out?’
My heart drops. ‘No, of course it won’t. It’s a tint.’
‘So, um … how long will it last?’ Her gaze is fixed on the top of my head.
‘Until it grows out, I guess, or until I have it coloured again …’ I shrug. ‘Maybe I should go blonde. What colour d’you think it would go, on top of purple? Mauve?’
She splutters with laughter. ‘It’s actually not that bad. It just takes a bit of getting used to.’
‘Thanks. Anyway, it’ll probably tone down,’ I add, feeling more positive now at the thought of us all going for a night out together, in a big gang (apart from Ollie, who’s opting instead for a sleepover at Saul’s). I’m no sooner ready, dressed in a fitted shirt, black jeans and admittedly very shiny purplish hair than Liza’s arrived, announcing that my new shade is ‘fantastic – no, of course it’s not purple, you mad woman. It’s gorgeous!’ Then Will returns from the shops, still wearing a grubby old gardening T-shirt and scruffy jeans, with a rip at one knee: obviously, he’s in no great rush to get ready. ‘Oh!’ he exclaims, staring at my head. ‘Who did that?’
‘Um, my hairdresser, obviously. Petra. What d’you think?’
‘It’s, uhhh …’ He scratches at an ear. ‘Different.’
‘You mean different as in, have I lost my mind?’
‘No, of course not.’ He glances at Liza and shakes his head. ‘God, Charlotte, don’t be so paranoid. It’s just, um … sort of aubergine. Unusual. I kind of like it.’ I decide to interpret this as crazed enthusiasm.
‘Aubergine,’ I tease him. ‘So you’re saying I look like a tuber?’
‘The aubergine’s not a tuber,’ Ollie informs me, marching in from the park. ‘It grows from the plant’s ovary so technically, it’s a fruit. Anyway, I like it, Mum,’ he adds, loyally.
‘Thanks, darling.’
‘And I like aubergines,’ Will adds, ‘and it’s very glossy and healthy-looking. If it were a real aubergine it’d win Best in Show.’
‘Why, thank you,’ I say graciously as he heads upstairs to get ready. Nina arrives, followed by Delph (I can tell by Nina’s expression that she’d far prefer Delph not to be coming), and now it’s just Will we’re waiting for, who’s been up in the bathroom for ages.
‘Is he exfoliating, d’you think?’ Liza asks with a smirk.
‘What’s taking him so long?’ Rosie groans.
‘No idea.’ I give Liza a quick look, wondering if he’s had a change of heart about going at all.
Leaving everyone chatting in the kitchen, I head off to investigate and find Will, trotting downstairs. ‘Oh!’ is all I can say.
Will frowns. ‘What is it?’
‘Er, nothing. It’s just, I’ve never seen those trousers before …’
‘They were in a bag of stuff I’d sorted for charity,’ he explains. And there, I’m sorry to say, they should have stayed: bound for Oxfam, to be grabbed by a sexy, skinny, twenty-two-year-old bass player … not that Will is fat. Or old. It’s just … he is not is your typical leather trouser-wearing man.
We stand and look at each other in the hallway. ‘I don’t remember you having them,’ I remark.
‘You keep saying that. You don’t know everything I own, do you?’
‘No, but—’
‘I mean, you haven’t done a full inventory of all my possessions?’
I frown, stung by his tetchiness. ‘Of course I haven’t. They’re just … a bit startling, that’s all.’
‘Startling?’
‘Yes, like if I came home from work and found you wearing one of those novelty PVC aprons with a picture of a lacy bra and knickers on the front and nothing underneath—’ I giggle at the thought.
Will eyes me coldly. ‘You’re saying leather trousers are in the same ballpark as novelty aprons?’
‘No!’ I cry, thankful that everyone else is still hanging out in the kitchen. ‘I don’t mean that at all. Those aprons are awful and your trousers are, er …’ I tail off, feeling myself starting to sweat. ‘They’re fine. You look great in them.’
‘Well, I thought they looked okay,’ he mutters.
; ‘They do,’ I bluster. ‘They do look okay. It’s just, I was a bit surprised …’
‘But it’s all right for you to have purple hair?’
‘It was supposed to be brown. Mahogany actually. It was a mistake …’
‘And slather liquid gold all over your face?’
‘You know I only said that under pressure!’
Will raises a brow. ‘It’s okay for you to lie about using something that costs about eight thousand quid for a tiny drop, but not for me to wear some old trousers?’
Old, yes. Leather no. Then it hits me: Sabrina was wearing leather trousers the day we first met her. Is he copying her? No, that would be ridiculous. It would mean he’s turned into a teenage girl. Maybe being at home for six months, cooking and snipping at things with his secateurs has made him a bit … I don’t know. Lacking in something? Youth, probably. Excitement. And animal hide. ‘Of course it’s okay,’ I say briskly. ‘C’mon, everyone’s waiting—’
‘Dad, your trousers!’ Rosie squeals as we join the others, while Ollie explodes with laughter – my cue to bustle him off, still honking with mirth, to Saul’s. Tactfully, Liza merely gives me a quick what-is-Will-wearing? look and leaves it at that.
The doorbell goes, and it’s Sabrina, wearing a tight, low-cut black dress with a push-up bra, plus a biker jacket (it’s beginning to feel like World of Leather around here). ‘All set?’ she asks brightly. ‘Zach’s already at the venue and Tommy’s headed down there to give them a hand setting up.’
‘Yep, we’re all ready,’ I say, adding, ‘great jacket.’ It is, actually; she looks more sexy wife of veteran rock star than desperate groupie.
‘Thanks. Bought it today. Shouldn’t have, but …’ She shrugs in a what can you do? kind of way, and I try not to fixate on her newly ramped-up cleavage.
‘What’s the venue called?’ Liza asks.
‘Down Below,’ Sabrina replies.
I burst out laughing. ‘As in, “I’ve got an embarrassing problem down below”?’
‘Haha, hope not,’ she chuckles, adding, ‘it’s down below the Cap and Feather. Bit of a dive but it all adds to the atmosphere, doesn’t it?’
‘’Course it does,’ I say blithely, as if Will and I frequent such places all the time.
As it’s close enough to walk, we all set off in a straggly group. Predictably, the three girls lag behind so as not to be associated with us, while Sabrina and Will stride ahead. You know you’re getting on a bit when you start thinking, Is this age-appropriate? I’m always asking myself those sort of questions: i.e., is this top too low-cut? Do I look ridiculous in a bobble hat? Sabrina clearly doesn’t think that way. She wears tiny dresses and has eyelash extensions. She has sex in a garden shed. And she bought that leather jacket today. I can hardly remember going shopping for clothes. The last thing I bought was a set of very plain and functional stainless steel eggcups.
In between the two factions I stroll along with Liza, who’s speculating on what the band will be like. ‘I saw some stuff of theirs on YouTube,’ she says. ‘They’re pretty good. Think it’ll be a great night.’ But I’m not fully listening. I can’t focus.
All I can think is, maybe it’s me. Maybe I just don’t get it anymore. Say ‘down below’ and I think embarrassing gynaecological problems. Ask me to play word association with leather and I think handbag or Chesterfield sofa or, in a trouser context, possible risk of chafing. And it strikes me that that’s not quite right.
Chapter Twenty-One
In fact, the band are pretty good: energetic and supremely confident but so, so young. I feel like their Auntie Mabel, head tipped to one side, thinking, how sweet they are, and how hard they must have practised their songs! Perhaps I could offer to run their fan club, if such things still exist.
‘So what d’you think?’ A rather sweaty Tommy has appeared at my side, for which I’m grateful as Sabrina and Will have edged their way to the front of the audience, and Liza’s at the bar. Obviously, the girls – who’ve positioned themselves at the other side of the room – don’t want me hovering around them either, breathing their air.
‘They’re great,’ I say. ‘Zach has a fantastic voice.’
He beams, looking genuinely pleased. ‘Yeah. It has that raw quality, you know? And they’ve put in a lot of hard work.’ He sips his beer. ‘We’re having a bit of a gathering at our place later, if you all fancy coming over? A sort of after-show party …’
‘Sounds good,’ I say.
‘Like a drink?’
‘I’m okay, thanks,’ I say, indicating my almost-full glass.
‘What’s that – vodka?’
‘No, water.’ Then, feeling as if I should justify it, I add, ‘Been a bit under the weather lately.’ Which is easier than explaining, What with Will’s startling trousers, and the slightly disturbing dynamic between my husband and your wife, the temptation to guzzle all the bar’s booze would be too much. And the last thing I want is to make a complete arse of myself tonight.
Tommy wanders off to find his wife who’s still at the front, still with Will. I get the impression that Tommy doesn’t mind a bit; she’s just one of those flirty, outgoing types, and I know I’m being completely ridiculous in finding this difficult. I picture Will fondling her pizza and quickly push the image away. Christ, I was never the jealous sort before now. Is it me, who’s becoming faintly pathetic? Maybe, if Will was a little less offish with me, I’d be perfectly happy for him to spend all evening yacking happily away to a stunning woman in the kind of teeny black dress I wouldn’t even be able to haul over my hips.
I focus hard on the band, letting the music transport me away from my stupid worries. How different Sabrina, Tommy and Zach are from my family. For one thing, Zach is clearly happy for his parents to come along to his gig. Tommy’s even involved with the band, and Zach seems content to hang out with his mother too. He’s comfortable smoking a joint in front of them, for God’s sake. Should Will and I be more like that? I think about how I insisted on accompanying Rosie to the test shoot, and look what happened there: Fraser saw us in that magazine. If I’d let her go on her own, as she’d begged to, then none of that would have happened …
And I wouldn’t be thinking about him now. Christ, that email. Should I reply, or what? Should I tell him to sod off and stop bothering us, or be reasonable – friendly but distant – seeing as Rosie seems to believe she wants him in her life? I know all of this is painful for Will. I think he’ll come round eventually – he has to, really – but we haven’t even discussed it again. Anyway, it’s not about Will, or even me, really – it’s about Rosie. I can’t allow her to meet Fraser without checking him out first. I need to know that he’s a decent man, who we can accept will be part of her life. If he’s fickle, or just idly curious – or clearly deranged – then he can just sling his hook.
I glance over to where Rosie is standing with Nina and Delph. Delph is holding court, and Rosie is laughing raucously. Even across this crowded room I can see that Nina looks like the hanger-on. She’s fiercely loyal and fun – a hard-working girl who serves up scamp ‘n’ king prawn combos at the Harvester, whilst trying to prevent chaos from ensuing at the salad bar. She and Rosie have been firm friends since they were five years old. I catch her deflated expression, and my heart goes out to her.
Delph is of a different breed. I doubt she’s ever seen a scamp ‘n’ king prawn combo. She’d probably burst into tears if anyone took her to a Harvester. Modelling has taken her all over the world, and her beauty is other-worldly too: in the unlikely setting of Down Below she looks like a golden fairy. She didn’t start her career modelling hairy mittens for a knitting brochure; in fact Rosie told me she’d bollocked her agency for even putting her up for that job. ‘Delph says I should never ever do anything like that again,’ Rosie informed me, gravely, as if she was talking about being asked to mop up sick.
Liza reappears at my side and hands me a Coke. ‘Pretty good gig,’ she remarks, sipping a gin and tonic.
‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘it’s kind of … interesting. I mean, I haven’t been to one like this since … God, I can’t actually remember. Any concerts I’ve been to with Will, we’ve had allocated seats and bought programmes.’
She smiles. ‘This place is disgusting, though …’
‘Yeah, it’s pretty damp, isn’t it? I can actually taste spores.’ We laugh and turn to watch as the band launches into another song, more raucous and insistent than the others. It’s an excellent song, and I’m having to make a concerted effort not to dance. I feel good, and I haven’t even had a proper drink. It doesn’t matter that the place is populated almost exclusively by teenage boys, faces untroubled by razors, and skinny girls in even skinnier jeans and little vest tops and copious amounts of black eye liner.
A girl with a silver ring in her nose stands on my foot as she drifts by, and glares at me as if it was my fault for putting it there. ‘Sorry!’ I say with a grin. Maybe she was just staring because I appear to not have any piercings or tattoos, both of which are in abundance here. In fact, I do have one small tattoo – a tangle of daisies on my right hip, all done and dusted before the effects of the Amsterdam space cake had worn off. Fraser had egged me on to get it. He’d had a small devil inked onto his shoulder – he’d shown it to me before we’d even reached Paris. Not that I regret getting mine. I regret nothing, I think defiantly. Je ne regrette rien! And I’m not even drunk! I can come to a gig and my husband can zoom off and spend the whole evening glued to Sabrina’s side and I can stand here sipping Coke and it’s fine.
‘This is good, isn’t it?’ Sabrina’s beside me now, tailed by Will. It’s the band’s final song, and then something happens which kills the atmosphere stone dead. The lights go on before they’ve even finished playing. In the dark, the cellar at least had a sleazy sort of atmosphere, which could almost be described as exotic. Now it’s cruelly illuminated by fluorescent strips. I look around. Many eyes are upon us: this clump of middle-aged people who’ve blundered into a gig. Actually, Sabrina and Liza sort of fit in – as does Tommy. He’s clutching a bunch of cables, so he belongs here. He has a job to do.