by JL Merrow
Robin slumped and moodily munched a sweet potato fry. “It could have been racial stereotyping. You know, I’m white, so all I’ll eat is traditional English chips, not these exotic fries from . . . where do sweet potatoes come from?”
“Sainsbury’s.” Azrah shrugged. “What am I, some kind of expert on the ethnic migration of root vegetables?”
“Maybe she was feeling sorry for me with the food police around.” Robin jabbed a fry pointedly in Azrah’s direction. “Although probably not, given what she’s wearing. Which, by the way, why would anyone buy a T-shirt that just says Vegetarian? I don’t think people should just shove their political agenda in your face like that. And if you’ve got to brag about your holier-than-thou eating habits, at least come up with, I dunno, something a bit wittier.”
“Robin—”
“You know, like Give Peas a Chance, or Eat Beans Not Beings.”
“Robin. That second letter? That’s not an e.”
Robin squinted. “So what does that even mean? Vaget— Oh.” He flushed. The barmaid turned at that moment, caught his widened eye, and winked. Azrah cackled.
Why were pub tables never big enough to hide under? Robin spent the next few minutes shaking salt onto his fries with possibly a little more care and attention than was really warranted. And on no account looking at the bar.
He perked up a bit when Azrah shoved a chip in his bowl of fries. But only a bit. It had mayonnaise on it.
“Cheer up,” she told him. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. A whole day to do whatever we want to. Stay in bed all day. Watch rubbish telly. Drink Coke without worrying Mrs. Bossyknickers is going to come along and confiscate it.”
Robin nodded, cheering up as ordered. Then he remembered what he was actually going to be spending his Sunday doing, and his briefly raised spirits plunged back down into his boots and made themselves comfortable once more. Sod it. He couldn’t face this alone. “Azrah?”
“Mm?”
“Can you do me a favour?”
“No.”
“Pleeease?”
She rolled her eyes. “All right, what is it? But no promises, mind.”
“How would you like a free Sunday lunch?”
“A free . . . No. No way. I’ve had enough of your mum’s soggy Yorkshire pudding to last me a lifetime.”
“It won’t be round at Mum and Dad’s. I’ve got a table booked at a restaurant.”
“Yeah, but they’re going too, aren’t they? I mean, I can believe you’re too sad to cook your own roast dinners now you’re living on your own, but you’re not telling me you’ve actually booked to go out for lunch by yourself.”
“You do it sometimes. You’ve told me.”
“Yeah, but that’s cos I don’t care what people think and I hate everyone anyway. Present company not excluded at this precise moment. You’d sit there paranoid everyone was staring at you and thinking you were a total saddo with no mates. Admit it. It’s Sunday lunch with the ’rents.”
“All right, yes. But please come, yeah? Mum likes you.”
“No, she doesn’t. Your mum doesn’t like anyone.”
“So? Just means you’ve got something in common! Pleeease? I haven’t seen her for nearly a fortnight. I can’t face all that saved-up guilt-tripping alone.”
She heaved a put-upon sigh. “Proper Sunday lunch, yeah? And you’re paying?”
“Absolutely. Pudding and everything. I’ll even buy you a coffee after.” Robin crossed his toes inside his shoes.
“Where are you eating? It’s not the Ploughman, is it?”
“Um . . .”
Azrah groaned. “You know I hate it there. It’s like they took all the worst bits of a pub, and all the worst bits of a restaurant, and mashed them together to make the world’s least inspired dining experience. It’s like a gastropub. Only without the gastro. Or the pub.”
“But there’s a carvery on Sundays, so you know the food isn’t frozen stuff they’ve shoved in the microwave. And I’ll owe you a favour,” Robin added desperately. “Anything you like.”
“You are going to owe me the world’s biggest favour . . . Fine. I’ll come.” She folded her arms grumpily.
Robin fought the urge to lean across the table and hug her. “You’re a mate. My best mate. I could kiss you right now.”
“Ew.”
“But I won’t, because like you said, ew.” He tossed back the rest of his drink in celebration. “Oh—it’s your round. Make mine a double; I’m celebrating. And a packet of dry roast peanuts, please?” he called to her back as she marched towards the bar.
She’d probably throw them at him, but that was all right. Robin had got pretty good at ducking, over the years.
On his way home from the pub, his wallet lighter and his liver enjoying a gentle workout, Robin passed by the Fridge House. The bedstead was still there. But it was missing a number of springs.
Damn it. Fridge Bloke must have been here while Robin was at work. Or on the bus. Or at the Millstone. Why hadn’t he come straight home?
More to the point, why was he obsessing so much over a bloke he’d met once for roughly thirty seconds? Standing there on the street, cocooned in the warm glow of a few too many rum and Cokes, Robin attempted to think about it objectively.
Well, the man was fit, no question. And different from anyone Robin had met before. Like, ever. And demonstrably knew his way around the back of a fridge, which . . . Robin tried, and failed, to think of any way that could be an advantage in his life. Okay, leave out the fridge. There was just something about him. The beard, maybe? Robin had always liked facial hair. On men, obviously. Not that he didn’t think women should wear facial hair if they wanted to. It just didn’t do anything for him. Because of, well, the woman.
Was it the tattoo? The possibility of other tattoos, in areas not usually seen in public? Robin took a deep, steadying breath and conceded that yes, that might very well have a little to do with it. But it wasn’t just that. He’d simply seemed more alive than anyone Robin had met before. Also, yes, slightly manic, but Robin was prepared to take the rough with the smooth. He was different. He had style. Who waxed their moustache in this day and age? Robin doubted he’d ever have the nerve to do it, in the unlikely event he managed to cultivate anything beyond a sad, spindly caterpillar on his top lip. This bloke waxed his moustache to go fiddle with a fridge.
And Robin had had one chance to get to know him, to find out who he was, and where he lived, and he’d blown it.
The breeze picked up, cold fingers slipping inside Robin’s jacket to tickle his neck with their icy touch. The glow from the alcohol had dissipated, leaving only a thick head and a desperate need to pee. Shivering, Robin set off once more for home.
Face it. He was never going to see the guy again.
When he finally got back to his flat, Robin picked up his ukulele to try to cheer himself up. It helped a bit at first, but then someone in the downstairs flat banged on the ceiling to complain and he realised he was playing “Mr. Lonely” for the third time in succession, so he put it down with a sigh and trudged to bed.
Archie hunched into his jacket and quickened his steps. The sooner he got home, the better, and not just because he was walking down one of the rougher streets in the area on a peak drinking night. He’d dressed for a day of shifting donated goods at the homeless shelter, in an old shirt and no waistcoat, but he was missing the extra layer now. The temperatures had fallen with the night and the wind was bitter. Maybe he should have taken Dave up on his offer for a lift to his door, but he hadn’t liked to take the bloke too far out of his way.
An unexpected sound wafted on the breeze. Archie frowned and slowed. Was that ukulele music? Despite the chill, he paused to listen, captivated by this chance encounter of a musical kind. The simple, haunting tune was coming from one of the flats nearby. Archie couldn’t hear anyone singing along. The tune finished, then as Archie was about to move on, started up again at a slightly slower tempo.
There was a haunt
ing familiarity about the song, but Archie couldn’t place it. It tugged at his heartstrings, made him long for home and company, and he wondered if that was how the musician felt too. Were they alone right now? Archie made up his mind to applaud at the end of the song, just so the player knew someone was listening—but then there was a loud banging, a muffled shout, and the music stopped abruptly.
The spell broke. Archie winced on the musician’s behalf and headed on home, his toes numb and icy in his boots, with the nagging sense of a connection severed before it could properly form.
Sunday dawned bright and clear. At any rate, according to the previous night’s weather forecast, it had been supposed to. Robin had been quite happy to let it dawn without him. He rolled out of bed sometime after eleven, had a yawn and a scratch, and reluctantly decided it was too late for breakfast. Even though his Sunday lunch date with Mum and Dad was at a restaurant rather than at home, Mum wouldn’t be impressed if he picked at his food.
Not that she was ever that impressed. Not by anything Robin did at any rate.
At least Azrah would be coming along. Okay, Robin had had to bribe her with that most ominous of promises, A Favour to be Named at a Later Date, but it would probably be worth it. There was no point looking on the dark side all the time.
After all, he might walk under a bus tomorrow and never have to repay her.
Coffee on an empty stomach made him jittery, but looking on the bright side, it also made him marginally more awake. It was always wise to have his wits about him when seeing his mum. Otherwise he’d only find himself trapped in another labyrinthine guilt trip and end up agreeing to go to some excruciating social event hosted by one of Mum’s friends. Where he’d be introduced to an earnest young lady who was “Just your age, Robin, and she’s a lovely girl. Does volunteer work for the Salvation Army.”
Mum had grudgingly accepted that he liked men now. She just hadn’t given up hope of browbeating him into liking women too at some future date.
Robin stared at his wardrobe indecisively. On the one hand, dressing in what his mum would call “a nice pair of trousers and a smart jacket” would mean she had one less thing to moan about. On the other, it’d mean she had more time to focus in on the important stuff.
He grabbed a pair of jeans and, in a stroke of genius, a sweater she’d given him last Christmas. It wasn’t too hideous—okay, it made him look about twelve, but Mum seemed to think he’d never exceeded that age anyway—and the combination of objectionable trousers and above-criticism sweater might even confuse her enough that she’d forget to start on his questionable “lifestyle choices” altogether.
And if all else failed, there was the Pride T-shirt he’d put on underneath. That was guaranteed to send her on a rant (“In my day, having sexual relations with people you weren’t married to wasn’t anything to be proud about”) but it was a comfortable, familiar rant. Robin had long since perfected tuning that one out.
The table was booked for one o’clock, so Robin left the house at twelve. Buses weren’t so frequent on a Sunday, and in any case he’d agreed to meet Azrah in the Millstone for a drop of courage first.
He strolled down the street, faintly regretting not having worn a jacket—there was a stiffer breeze than he’d expected, and more importantly it would have covered the sweater—and turned a corner into Verne Avenue.
The houses on this road were what Robin liked to think of as the distressed gentlefolk of the architectural world. Unlike Robin’s street of depressing, blocky council buildings, mostly inhabited by depressing, blocky people, these houses had clearly once been posh. Now, most of them seemed to have been divided into flats, and the front gardens had been concreted over to give the occupants somewhere to park their cars, but one or two still sat coyly behind ancient shrubs and looming trees. They were the kind of solid, century-old homes in which you might, if you were lucky, find a wardrobe with a shortcut to Narnia.
It was out of the gate of one of these houses that a man stepped, just as Robin drew level. Robin stopped dead in his tracks, and only partly to avoid bumping into him.
It was Fridge Bloke. With a baby in his arms, nattily dressed in a onesie printed with a cartoon monocle and a moustache as dapper as his dad’s.
Robin’s spirits plunged into his boots, where they made a valiant effort to seep through the soles and sink into the pavement to poison the ground for years to come with their desolate, withering touch.
Fridge Bloke was taken. Or worse, straight. Which, granted, had always been, statistically speaking, very much on the cards, but then the man hadn’t exactly looked like your stereotypical straight bloke, had he?
Robin had been lulled into a false sense of security by a twirly moustache. It was still twirly, with the faint gleam of a touch of wax. The jauntiness of it, together with the seductively dapper appearance of the man, was like a kick in the teeth to Robin’s hopes and dreams. Fridge Bloke was today spruce as a Norwegian Christmas tree decked in Willoughbys’ finest glass baubles. He wore a checked waistcoat, well-fitting trousers, tweed jacket and a pair of brogues that might have been lovingly polished only this morning by his own personal Jeeves. With his slicked-back dark hair, the glint in his eye, and his pointed beard, the image he brought to mind was something like the devil on his way to corrupt the vicar over the Sunday roast.
If the devil had a baby son. Or was possibly bringing one along as an amuse-bouche.
The only false note was his pocket square, which was overlarge and crumpled and, Robin realised belatedly, not actually a pocket square at all, but one of those cloths people gave babies to dribble on.
There was only so long you could stare at a man before he noticed the weight of your gaze. Fridge Bloke (perhaps in the light of his current attire, Robin should rename him Refrigerator Gentleman?) glanced up and raised a quizzical eyebrow.
Robin swallowed. “Oh, er, hi. Uh, we met before? A few nights ago? I’m Robin. I just moved in around here.” Why the hell had he worn Mum’s sweater? Far from being glad of its warmth, he was starting to worry about spontaneous combustion.
Fridge Gent’s expression was, appropriately enough, frozen. Then it cleared. “Of course. The aetheric field generator. Good find, that. And good to see you again. I’m Archie, and this fine young gentleman is the cogling.”
Robin could feel himself making a This is the what now? face. Hopefully the expression went with the fine shade of crimson he was probably sporting. “Uh . . .”
“Jerrick. Made him myself. Well, his mum helped, obviously. You might even say she did most of the heavy lifting. Say hi, Jerrick.” Archie picked up Jerrick’s little hand and waved it frantically at Robin.
Robin waved back. There didn’t seem to be anything else to do. “Hi, Jerrick.”
Concern flashed across Archie’s face, to be succeeded by a somewhat manic grin. “Splendid to meet you. Again. Well, must fly—left the airship double parked.”
Neither of them moved.
A house door slammed, and a woman with a voluptuous figure sashayed down the short garden path hefting a nappy bag in one hand and a kiddie car seat in the other. She was dressed in a fifties-style full skirt over a just-visible floofy petticoat and sheer tights that showed off her tattoos. Her hair—the non-shaven bit—was tied up in a headscarf with skulls on it. Beneath the heavy, black eyeliner and pillar-box red lipstick, Robin could clearly make out the features of the scary woman from the chip shop.
Robin stared. And then he fled.
Bridge sniffed as she joined Archie on the pavement. “He wasn’t very friendly. Mate of yours?”
Archie groaned. “No. And never will be.”
“Why? What did he do? Get fag ash on your favourite waistcoat? Beat you to the last reel of copper wire at the junk shop?”
“He hasn’t done anything. It’s me. I can’t seem to stop acting like a blithering idiot every time I see him.” If he literally kicked himself, Archie wondered, would the physical pain detract from the metaphorical lead weight
that had just materialised in his stomach? More likely he’d end up on his arse on the pavement with a bruised shin and a terminal case of embarrassment. With passers-by filming the whole thing to hold him up to public ridicule on YouTube.
Bridge gave him a sidelong look. “Fancy him, do you?”
Uh-oh. There was something in her tone that advised caution. It also hinted that admitting to his recent ex and the mother of his young child that he fancied another bloke might not be the most tactful move ever. Archie took a step back. Jerrick wailed in protest and reached for his mum, so Archie reversed his move, feeling like he was in some strangely sedate dance. The toddler two-step? “Uh, no?”
“You asking me or telling me?”
“Telling you. Definitely.” All right, so it wasn’t technically true, but it was effectively true. Archie had no intention of asking the bloke out, which was the same as not fancying him really, wasn’t it?
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Like I said, okay. I mean, it’s no skin off my arse either way, is it?”
“You wouldn’t mind if I did?”
“No. Course not. Why should it bother me? Come on, we’re going to be late.” She opened the door of her VW Beetle and slung in the nappy bag.
“It bothers you.”
“Read my lips. Am I bovvered? No.” Bridge busied herself setting up Jerrick’s car seat.
“Then why’s there this deep frown line between your eyes?”
“Cheers, Arch. Way to make a girl feel special by pointing out her wrinkles.”
“It’s not a wrinkle, and you know you look great. It’s a frown line, caused by being bothered. Now tell me what’s bothering you. And don’t say nothing.” Jerrick let out a not-quite-grizzle. “See? Even Jerrick’s picked up on it.”
“Maybe you’re holding him wrong.” Bridge thrust out her arms, and Jerrick leaned into them. “Come to Mama, baby boy. Is Daddy being an arse-wipe? Yes, he is.”