by Pippa Wright
While I’d been staring out of the window ruing my life, I’d vaguely noticed the same tall guy walk past a few times, glancing into the cafe. He had a guitar case on his back, and a head full of dark curls that almost rivalled my own, and there was a small dog following him, carrying its lead in its mouth. I wondered if he was looking for somebody. He came past again and as he caught my eye he winked and mimed going down a flight of stairs until his head totally disappeared from sight. Then he leapt up against the window, laughing; it was impossible not to laugh back. He mimed ‘Shall I come in?’ and before I had a chance to answer, he had poked his head around the cafe door.
‘Awright?’ he said, his disembodied head grinning. ‘Do you reckon I can bring my dog in?’
I opened my mouth to answer but instead found myself staring into his astonishingly green eyes, as if hypnotized. I’m not sure you would have called him good-looking – his face had too much character for that – but the contrast between his dark hair and his sea-glass eyes took your breath away. Mine, anyway.
‘No!’ said the waitress, crossly bustling over from behind the till. ‘No dogs allowed. And we’re closing in ten minutes.’
‘Wait there then, mate,’ the curly-haired man said, bending down to speak to the dog. ‘It won’t take me more than ten minutes to get this lovely young lady’s phone number, I’m sure.’
Well. Perhaps I hadn’t lost the ability to spot someone’s interest in me after all.
The man smiled over at the waitress with an expression that said he was used to charming the reluctant with his deep green gaze. ‘Might I get a cup of tea in your remaining ten minutes?’ he asked, leaning forward hopefully with his hands clasped.
‘Okay, but you’ll have to drink it quickly,’ she sighed, smiling despite herself, and he settled confidently on the stool next to me, resting his guitar against the window.
‘And might I get your phone number in ten minutes, Girl in the window? Only I’ve gone and told my dog that I will, and Gordon just never lets it lie if I don’t actually follow through on these things.’ He pointed out of the window to where his dog sat patiently on the pavement, wagging his tail at passers-by.
‘Your dog’s name is Gordon?’ I asked.
‘I know,’ the man laughed, nudging my shoulder to share the joke. ‘They called him that at Battersea because he’s brown. I’ve tried to change it but he won’t answer to anything else. Very temperamental. It’s a terrier thing – once they’ve latched on to something they won’t let it go, you see.’
The waitress brought over his tea and he leapt up to pay her that instant, for both his tea and, despite my protests, my hot chocolate. He pulled handfuls of loose coins out of his jeans pockets and pressed them on her, insisting she kept the change. It was a sweet gesture, slightly marred only when she returned only a few seconds later to say he hadn’t given her enough.
‘Here, here, have more,’ he said, digging out more coins until the bill was settled and the waitress generously tipped. ‘So where were we? I think you were just about to give me your number?’
There was something contagiously confident about his attitude; it didn’t seem to occur to him that I might not want to give him my number, and so, oddly, it didn’t really occur to me not to let him have it. There was something about the way he looked at me that made my brain stop working properly. I just wanted to stare and stare, as if I could solve the puzzle of his face if I looked at it for long enough. Before I really knew what I was doing he’d punched the digits into his phone, swigged back his tea, promised to call me tomorrow, and left with Gordon.
When he left I realized that not only had I not managed to get either his name or his number, but that this marked a small but significant dating milestone for me. I had never before given my phone number to a stranger, nor actually been asked for it, since men didn’t tend to approach you when you were holding hands with your boyfriend. Here was a man – a young and attractive man – who seemed to be interested in me and, look! I had noticed. I had noticed and agreed to an actual date straight away. Mostly because I was too stunned by his eyes to be able to speak in complete sentences, but still. Instead of feeling like a lonely loser drinking cocoa by herself, in an instant I felt like a proper single girl. One who got asked out on dates, and met interesting men at random. One with options; and maybe not all of them unsuitable ones.
14
I’d read enough women’s magazines not to expect a call from the man from the cafe; men were mysterious creatures, apparently, who rarely rang when they said they would, or meant what they said. I knew that single women, like me, should be prepared for disappointment; it was enough that I had been asked out. But he did call me, exactly when he said he would: the very next day. And he asked me to meet him for a drink that same evening. And, because I wasn’t distracted by his looks on the phone, I managed to agree in words of more than one syllable. My heart leapt with the knowledge that I would be returning to work on Monday ripe with news of two dates in one weekend. At this rate I’d have the column written for the entire year before I knew it. I didn’t exactly know that this man was unsuitable – he looked more than suitable, to be honest – but something about the guitar on his back told me he might be.
The curly haired man, whose name I had discovered to be Malky, suggested we met at a pub just a few minutes’ walk from Auntie Lyd’s house. Amongst the vodka bars and crowded pizza restaurants of Clapham, the Duke of Wellington on a corner of the Old Town Triangle was a small oasis of old-school pubbiness. They didn’t serve cocktails, or tapas, or Thai food, or indeed any food except for crisps in their most basic form (no poncy parmesan-and-rosemary flavour permitted here). It was dark enough that regulars could be distinguished from visitors simply by whether or not they made it through the bar without hitting their heads on the low beams, or the horse brasses which hung from them. There was no music, except for the faint sound of a busker outside. Two men stood at the bar talking in low voices, and the only other people in here were a couple, sat next to each other on a bench and staring out into the room without speaking. I ordered a glass of wine and went to sit down at a table near the door to wait for Malky.
Twenty minutes later I’d finished my wine, been through all the messages on my phone, sent several fake texts in order to look busy, and checked the time on approximately forty-eight separate occasions. So. This was what being stood up felt like. I tried to look as if I was just a casual, cool sort of girl who often popped into pubs by herself for a quiet glass of wine on a Sunday evening. Of course I hadn’t been waiting for anyone, oh no. The faces of the couple opposite me were as impassive as Easter Island statues; it didn’t look like they were silently mocking me, but I still felt mortified. And worse was the knowledge that I would have to go back to Auntie Lyd’s, where she and the actors would no doubt press me for an update on my latest date, since they had all taken an unhealthy interest in the unsuitable-men mission. I decided facing their questions would be better than continuing to sit in the pub by myself.
I’d hardly stepped off the pavement when I heard someone shouting. Sitting on a bench just a few feet along from the pub was a busker, woollen hat pulled low over his forehead, a guitar case open in front of him with a few coins scattered inside.
‘Over here, Girl in window, over here!’
‘Malky?’ I asked, stepping towards the busker uncertainly.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked, grinning as he pulled the guitar strap over his head. His eyes flashed with laughter as he stood up. ‘I’ve been waiting ages.’
‘I was inside the pub, Malky, where we said we’d meet – remember?’
‘Oh, right,’ he said, leaning forward to scoop up the loose coins. ‘I didn’t actually say inside the pub, did I, Girl in the window? Just said I’d see you at the Duke – and here I am!’
He threw his arms wide as if I might happily step inside them and consider everything forgotten, but I was too cross. I tucked my chin further into my scarf and kept my a
rms folded across my chest. It wasn’t really my style to have screaming temper tantrums, but I hoped he could tell he was not forgiven.
‘Come on, Girl in the window,’ Malky said pleadingly; he had the same expression as when he had wheedled the tea out of the grumpy waitress. And, like her, I could feel myself melting under his sea-glass stare.
‘My name’s Rory,’ I said, a final piece of resistance before crumbling completely, and he gave a little start and a nod. I wondered for a moment if he’d forgotten my name until I reminded him of it; but his imploring smile was catching and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling back.
“Course it is, Rory, I know that. Now what are we doing hanging outside like this in the middle of winter, eh? Whose stupid idea was that? Let’s get inside. Come on, drinks are on me.’
He pulled at my gloved hand, and I allowed myself to be led back into the pub where Malky, despite his height, ducked past the horse brasses with practised ease.
‘You’d better not have brought that dog in,’ the landlord warned, stepping out from behind the bar as soon as he saw Malky approaching.
‘No, no, no,’ promised Malky, holding up a hand. ‘He refused to come, Charlie. Still too full of remorse to face you.’
‘Remorse doesn’t pay to get the carpets cleaned, young man,’ said the landlord, retreating back behind the bar again. He frowned. ‘You’re lucky I don’t ban you and all.’
‘Charlie, I swear,’ implored Malky, leaning over the bar to give the landlord the full effect of his grovelling. I wondered if his pretty eyes worked as well on men. ‘I can hardly live with the guilt; it’s eating me up inside. But bygones and all that. Can’t we just have a few drinks and I swear I won’t make a mess in the corner, though I really can’t speak for Rory here.’
Charlie chuckled reluctantly and began pouring a Guinness for Malky and another wine for me.
‘Are you okay here?’ asked Malky, ushering me over to the furthest, darkest table in the room. He grabbed two candles off the windowsill and lit them with matches he’d pulled from his pocket. ‘This seat okay? You sure you don’t want to go and hang out with the fun crew over there?’ He nodded his head towards the Easter Island couple, who still hadn’t moved except to occasionally raise their glasses to their silent lips.
I laughed, a little uncomfortably, as I recalled evenings that Martin and I had spent together in what I had thought was a companionable, contented silence. Perhaps we’d looked like them. There was no chance of that with Malky, who was still arranging our corner of the pub to his satisfaction, like a dog that has to turn round and round in its bed before it can settle. He found a place for his guitar, pulled off his hat, drew the curtain of the window behind us and moved the chairs closer; he didn’t stop talking the whole time.
‘So, Rory, are you much into music?’ he asked, pausing at last to sip his Guinness.
‘Er, a bit,’ I said hesitantly. I felt like I was back at a new school, being asked, without yet knowing which answer would condemn me to perpetual squareness, which was my favourite band. I’d spent so many years trying to get the answer right, I’d never really given much thought as to what I actually liked. All the passion that other people gave to music, I’d always given to art history. Like I said, I wasn’t the most popular teen. I’d let Martin buy all the music in our house and, since I didn’t know how to work our complicated internet radio stereo, he’d always chosen what we listened to.
‘Music is my life,’ Malky declared, placing a hand on his heart. My own heart lightened immediately with the realization that he wasn’t going to ask me anything difficult after all. ‘If you knew, Rory, the floors I’ve slept on, the obstacles I’ve faced, the idiots who’ve told me I’ll never make it. But I’m still here, still making music.’
‘That’s really great, Malky,’ I said, impressed. It was amazing to meet a real musician, a properly creative person; someone so different from Martin. Malky had such presence, it wasn’t hard to imagine him commanding an audience. ‘So are you in a band, then?’
His hands tightened around his pint glass. ‘I was in a band, Rory,’ he said stiffly. ‘We were on the verge of making it pretty big – had a manager, some good gigs, a few record companies sniffing around.’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘The guys sold out.’ He shrugged. ‘They weren’t prepared to make the sacrifices I was. But which of us is still a musician? Only me, Rory, only I stuck it out. I wasn’t about to give up on fifteen years of hard work like that.’
‘Wow,’ I said. Fifteen years without getting your big break? I could hardly imagine that kind of dedication. This must be how it felt to be creative, instead of someone like me, who just admired the creativity of others from the outside. ‘So, how do you make it work without a record deal? Do you play a lot of gigs?’
I imagined myself coming to see him play: standing in the audience as he dedicated a song to me. All the other girls jealous of his attention.
‘The thing is, Rory,’ Malky said, leaning forward urgently and jabbing his finger in the air for emphasis. ‘Any fucker can strum a few notes on a guitar playing gigs for money, but you can only be a musician if you feel it in your soul. Know what I mean? It’s not all about recording contracts and capitalism and money.’
‘No, of course not,’ I said. I hadn’t meant to offend him with my innocent question – as a wage slave I was just intrigued by anyone who managed to live on their creativity alone. I didn’t expect I’d have got very far on mine.
‘People just don’t understand the compromises you have to make for music,’ said Malky, sighing and throwing himself back in his seat. ‘I mean – I bet you work in an office, right?’
‘R-right,’ I stammered. He was looking at me with a dark intensity that made my insides flip-flop with nerves. Nerves and, unless I was mistaken – it had been a while – actual lust. I didn’t entirely trust my ability to speak without falling over my words. ‘I work for Country House magazine, it’s a family-owned magazine in—’
‘Yeah, see, you’re working for the Man,’ Malky interrupted, with a satisfied nod.
I had to stifle an unwelcome snort of nervous laughter. Malky was pretty passionately worked up and I didn’t think it was quite the right time to tell him that I did indeed work for someone called Man. Although not the Man, she was definitely married to one of them – a hedge-funder called Hugh who had been at Eton with the Prime Minister.
‘And if you take the Man’s money, then you’ve got to live by the Man’s rules. Whereas me – I don’t take the Man’s money, so I get to live by my own rules.’
‘Oh, right,’ I said, wondering whether a failing magazine about stately homes and art history actually represented the worst of corporate Britain. But I wasn’t a creative person, so no doubt I didn’t really understand.
Malky pulled open his battered suede jacket to expose an inner pocket. He reached inside and pulled out a handful of postcards, one of which he handed to me with great import. I took it with what I hoped was sufficient gravity, inclining my head to examine it properly.
‘It’s me,’ said Malky, pointing at the picture. It was indeed, though he looked much younger. Those green eyes were unmistakable, though, and the photographer had managed to capture both Malky’s brooding depth and the hint of laughter that saved him from being too intense.
‘Wow, look at you,’ I said, turning the postcard over. In the bottom corner I read Malky: Smoking Letters, the single, released October 2004.
‘I can sign it for you if you like,’ offered Malky.
‘Oh yes please,’Isaid quickly. His apparent confidence seemed less convincing now, more of a veneer over his struggle to make it in music. Strangely it made him seem more attractive to me, rather than less. He’d been prepared to show his vulnerability to me. As someone who was feeling fairly vulnerable herself lately, it made me want to take his hand and tell him everything was going to be fine. And then maybe take that hand and— But since I wasn’t that sort of
girl – or at least, I never had been before, who knew who I would become once the unsuitable-men project was over? – I went to the bar instead, in the classic British tradition of expressing emotions through the medium of alcohol.
By the time I returned from the bar, Malky’s mood had lightened as he waved the signed postcard at me. I put it in my bag for safekeeping.
‘Cheers,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘God, sorry, Rory, I really went off on one there. I just feel so passionate about what I do, you know? It gets me so fired up. Sometimes it just comes across a bit strongly.’
He hit me once again with one of those imploring smiles, and I couldn’t help smiling back. He was just so different from the kinds of men I’d met before. One minute laughing, the next so impassioned and angry. So brilliantly unsuitable, I realized. Hadn’t Ticky specifically suggested I should date an aspiring musician? This must have been what she meant – the creative temperament, the mood swings, the passion. He didn’t have Teddy’s impeccable manners, but then he didn’t have Teddy’s pensioner’s bus pass or his extra poundage. This unsuitable man was a lot more exciting. And attractive.
After three more drinks Malky had become a lot more fun, and so had I. Even the female Easter Island statue had cracked a smile in our direction, seeing us sitting there giggling at each other. Malky was fascinated by the idea of Auntie Lyd’s boarding house – I suppose he recognized fellow creative spirits in the actors who lived there – and demanded endless detail about all of the residents, past and present. He turned out to remember Auntie Lyd from Those Devereux Girls, and managed a brilliantly accurate impression of Ma Devereux in her wheelchair by scooting himself across the carpet on a wooden stool. He even suggested we run outside to re-enact the famous mud-wrestling scene on the Common, but I persuaded him out of it. Our faces were getting closer and closer with every new story we shared, and it felt completely natural when he put his arm around the back of my chair. It wasn’t hard to pick up on the signals this time.