Starter for Ten

by David Nicholls

  “I know. Scary, isn't it? Are you sure you're up to the job, Brian?”

  “I think so. So what do you want to do?”

  “Got any booze?”

  “Twelve gallons of it. It's all home brew, though.”

  “Och, I'm not fussy. You're in Richmond House?”

  “Yep.”

  “All right, give me half an hour.”

  She hangs up, and suddenly I'm scared.

  Forty minutes later, she's sitting on my bed drinking home brew and laughing at me. As usual, she's wearing her uniform, which really does look like a uniform: black Doc Martens, thick black tights under a blue-black denim mini-skirt, a V-necked black sweater under the black vinyl military-style belted coat, which I have yet to see her take off. Her short hair is glossy with Black-and-White pomade, and has been pushed up into a little, oily quiff in front of her black, peaked worker's cap. In fact everything she wears seems designed to suggest a long tradition of tough, manual labor, which is strange, really, because as I recall her mum's a ceramic artist and her dad's a consultant pediatrician. In fact Rebecca's only concession to conventional notions of femininity is a thick smear of glossy ruby-red lipstick and a great deal of heavy mascara that makes her look intimidating and glamorous at the same time, like the Hollywood branch of the Baader-Meinhof gang. She even smokes like a film star, Bette Davis or someone, but a film star who rolls her own. In fact, if anything, she looks a little more attractive than usual this evening, and I find myself worrying that she may even have made an effort.

  When she finally stops laughing, I say, “Well, I'm glad you find my sex life funny, Rebecca.”

  “Surely it's only a sex life if there's sex in it?”

  “She could have actually been telling the truth.”

  “Yes, Brian, I'm sure she was telling the truth. I told you she was a cow, didn't I? And don't look all po-faced. You know it's funny, otherwise you wouldn't have told me about it.” She puffs on her rolly, flicks the ash down the side of the futon. “Anyway, serves you right.”

  “What for?”

  “You know what for. The bourgeois wank-fest. Call yourself a Socialist, but in the end you're just like all the other social-climbers at this university, all ready to roll over and have your stomach rubbed by the so-called superior classes.…”

  “That's not true!”

  “'Tis true. Closet Tory! …”

  “Stalinist! …”

  “Class traitor! …”

  “Snob! …”

  “Inverted snob! …”

  “Protoyuppie! …”

  “D'you want to get your Doctor Martens off my duvet?”

  “Scared I'll ruin this exquisite fabric?” But she does move her feet, and then shuffles along to sit next to me, and taps her glass of warm beer against mine in reconciliation. “Why's your bed frame behind your wardrobe?” she asks. “I thought I'd, you know, turn it into a futon.”

  “A futon, eh? Well, let me tell you, Brian, a mattress on the floor does not a futon make.”

  “That was almost a haiku,” I say. “How many syllables in a haiku?” I know this one. “Seventeen, arranged five-seven-five.” She thinks for maybe one second, then says:

  “A mattress on the

  Floor does not a futon make.

  Smells surely follow.”

  … Then she goes to drink, but stops to pluck off a strand of Golden Virginia that's got matted in her lipstick, a gesture that's so extravagantly cool and languid that I find myself staring sideways at her lips in case she does it again. Then she catches my eye, and I babble out, “How was your Christmas, then?”

  “We don't do Christmas, we're Jews, we killed Christ, remember?”

  “So how about, what's it called, Passover?”

  “Hanukkah. We don't do that either. For someone who's representing our glorious establishment on University Challenge, Brian Jackson, you're surprisingly ignorant. How many times do I have to tell you, we're Socialist Non-Orthodox Jewish Anti-Zionist Glaswegians.”

  “Doesn't sound much fun.”

  “Believe me, it's not. Why d'you think I'm here with you?”

  I think I'll try my hand at Jewish humor.

  “Still. Christmas Schmistmas!”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  She scrutinizes me for a moment, then half-smiles …

  “Anti-Semite.”

  And I smile back. I suddenly find myself feeling fantastically fond of Rebecca Epstein, and want to make a tentative gesture of friendship. I have an idea.

  “Which reminds me, I got you this! Happy Hanukkah!”

  It's Alice's unwanted Joni Mitchell album. I lost the receipt. Rebecca looks at me questioningly. “For me?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Are you sure?” she asks, an East European checkpoint guard who suspects my passport might be fake.

  “Absolutely.”

  She takes it between finger and thumb, and peels back a corner of the wrapping. “Joni Mitchell.”

  “Uh-huh. D'you know it?”

  “I'm familiar with her work.”

  “So you've got it?”

  “No. No, I'm ashamed to say I haven't.”

  “Well, let me play it to you.…”

  And I take it from her hand, go to the record player, take off Tears for Fears, and put on Blue, side 2, track 4, “A Case of You,” surely one of the most exquisite love songs ever committed to vinyl. After we've listened to the whole of the first verse and chorus in silence, I ask, “So. What d'you think?”

  “I think it's brought on my period.”

  “Don't you like it?”

  “Well, to be completely honest, it's not really my thing, Brian.”

  “It will grow on you.”

  “Hmmm,” she says doubtfully. “So, big Joni fan are you?”

  “Sort of. To be honest, I'm more of a Kate Bush man.”

  “Hmmm—that figures.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, Brian, you are the Man with the Child in His Eyes,” she says, and sniggers into her beer.

  “So what are you listening to at the moment, then?”

  “Lots of things. Durutti Column, Marvin Gaye, the Cocteau Twins, some early blues, Muddy Waters, the Cramps, Bessie Smith, Joy Division, the New York Dolls, Sly and the Family Stone, some dub. I'll make you a compilation tape, see if I can wean you off all this fanny music. You know, you have to be careful with these singer-songwriters, Brian. They're fine in moderation but if you listen to too much of this stuff, you will actually grow wee vestigial breasts.”

  “Well, if you don't want your present, just say—” I say, getting up to change the record.

  “No! No, I'll keep it. I'm sure I'll grow to love it. Thank you very much, Brian. Very Christian of you.”

  And then I sit back down next to her, and we sit in silence for a moment. Then she takes my hand, squeezes it pretty hard, and says, “Seriously—thank you.”

  Ten minutes later, we're lying on the bed, and somehow the same hand seems to have found its way into her bra.

  They say that the personal is political and it's certainly fair to say that, like her politics, Rebecca Epstein's kissing is radical, forthright and uncompromising. I'm lying on my back and she's pushing my head down into the pillow, and her front teeth are grinding against mine, but I'm determined to give as good as I get, and I'm grinding back, so it's only a matter of time before we take off all our enamel. The combination of the booze and the fumes from the calor-gas heater have made me feel heady, a little panicky even, but it's fun too, like when you're at school and you're play-fighting. The thick emulsion of the lipstick creates an airlock around our mouths, so that when she finally pulls her mouth away I almost expect there to be a popping noise, like in a cartoon when a sink plunger's pulled off someone's face.

  “Is this all right?” she asks. Her lipstick's smeared round her mouth now, like she's been eating raspberries.

  “Fine,” I say, and she's on me again. She tastes
of brewing yeast and Golden Virginia and the scented oiliness of the lipstick. For my part, I can't help worrying about the Vesta curry I had earlier. Should I pretend to need the toilet, and go and brush my teeth? But then she'll know I've brushed my teeth for her sake, and I don't want to appear conventional. Is bad breath in some way unconventional? Probably not, but if I brush my teeth, maybe she'll think I want her to brush her teeth too, which I don't, really. In fact I quite like the tobacco taste, that feeling of smoking by proxy. Best just carry on. But where to go from here? Like a ventriloquist, I try to put my hand up her top at the back, but she's still wearing the belted coat, and when I make it past the belt I find that her sweater's tucked in pretty firmly, so I try to take an alternative route, via her neckline. I have to contort my arm to do so, and bend my hand back at right angles, like the world's most inept pickpocket, but eventually I get there. Her bra is black, lacy and slightly padded, which surprises me, and for a moment I find myself contemplating the politics of this bra. Why is it padded? Isn't this a bit out of character for Rebecca? Why does she of all people feel the need to conform to conventional male-defined notions of femininity? Why should she be obliged to acquire the conventionally “sexy” body image that actually no woman is capable of attaining in real life, except maybe Alice Harbinson.

  Then suddenly she breaks away from the kiss, and I expect she's going to ask me what the hell I think I'm up to, but instead: “Brian?” she whispers.

  “What?”

  “There's something I need to tell you. I wasn't joking earlier. When I said I was on.”

  “That's okay. I'm on too.”

  She looks at me quizzically. “I don't think you are somehow, Bri.”

  “No, really, I am. I might not have seemed on, but I really am—”

  She's scowling at me now. “You're on your period?”

  “What? Oh, I see. No, sorry, I thought you meant you, you know …”

  “What?”

  “‘On-for-it’?”

  “What's ‘on-for-it’?”

  I think for a second. “Slang?” I offer hopefully, but my hand's out of her bra now, never to return. She's sat up on the edge of the bed, straight ening her tights, checking to see if I've torn her sweater, and I've blown it. “Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all.”

  “I don't mind, honestly.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean I'm cool about your period.”

  “Oh, well, I'm glad you're cool about it, Jackson. Just as well, seeing as there's fuck-all I can do about it, is there?”

  “I'm sorry, but I don't know what else to say.”

  “I bet Alice Harbinson doesn't even have a period …”

  “What?”

  “… She probably pays someone to have it for her.…”

  “Hang on, what's this got to do with Alice Harbinson?”

  “Nothing!” She turns, and seems about to snap at me again, but then breaks into a smile, or a half-smile at least; “You'd better wipe the lipstick off your face. You look like a clown.” I wipe my mouth with the corner of my duvet and hear her murmur, “You are a fucking clown.”

  “What have I done now!”

  “You know what.”

  “Hey, it was you who started it!”

  “Started what?”

  “Talking about, you know, Alice.”

  “Oh, for Christ's sake, Jackson …”

  “I only mentioned her because you mentioned her.…”

  “But you're thinking about her, though, aren't you?”

  “No, of course I'm not!” I say. But I am. Rebecca holds my gaze just long enough to be sure of the fact, then looks away.

  “This is stupid,” she says quietly, pressing her eyes with the heel of her hands. “I'm a wee bit pissed. I think I should go.” I might not have been sure before, but now I definitely don't want her to go, so I clamber round in front of her, and try to kiss her again. She turns her head away.

  “Why d'you have to go?”

  “I don't … I don't know—what just happened. Can we forget about it?”

  “Oh. Right. All right. Okay. I'd rather you didn't go, but if that's what you want.…”

  “I think so. I think I want to go,” and she's on her feet, pulling her coat together and heading out the door, leaving me wondering what I've done this time. I mean, above and beyond the usual, crass ineptitude. I follow her downstairs, where she scrambles over the tangle of bicycles blocking the hallway.

  “Now, look—I've snagged my bloody tights.…”

  “At least let me walk you home.”

  “No thanks.”

  “I don't mind.…”

  “I'm all right.…”

  “You shouldn't walk back by yourself.…”

  “I'll be fine.…”

  “Really, I insist …” And she wheels around suddenly, and points her finger at me, and snaps, “And I insist you don't! Is that understood?” We're both thrown by the sharpness of this; it may be that I even take a step backward. We look at each other, wondering what is going on, and eventually she says, “Besides, you should go to bed. You're ‘on,’ remember?” She opens the door. “Let's never talk about this again, okay? And don't tell anyone, all right? Especially not Alice-bloody-Harbinson. Promise?”

  “Of course not. Why would I tell Alice … ?” But she's already halfway down the steps, and without looking back she runs off into the night.

  Round Three

  “Im Sorry,” said Sebastain, after time. “I'm afraid I was't very

  nice this afternoon. Brideshead often has that effect on me.”

  —Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisted

  23

  QUESTION: Striated, cardiac and smooth are three types of which tissue?

  ANSWER: Muscle.

  Some New Year's Resolutions

  Spend more time working on my poetry. If I'm serious about poetry as a literary form, as well as a way of earning extra money, then I'm really going to have to work at it, especially if I'm to discover my own distinctive voice. Remember, T. S. Eliot held down a job in a bank and wrote Four Quartets, so not having enough time is no excuse.

  Stop picking at my face, especially when I'm talking to people. If science has taught us anything, it's that picking at your skin just spreads the infection and causes scars. Just leave it alone, find something else to do with your hands, learn to smoke or something. Remember—no one wants to kiss a bleeding face.

  Be aloof. Play it cool with Alice—she'll respect you more for it.

  Become lightly muscled.

  The above were written at about 10:45 p.m. on New Year's Eve, and I was pretty drunk by then, which means that the handwriting's a bit slurred. Twenty minutes later I was asleep, thereby flouting the conventional, clichéd notion that says we're obliged to have an amazing, fun time on New Year's Eve, by having an unconventional, unbelievably shitty time.

  Festivities began at 8:35, when I found a screwdriver in the kitchen drawer, and unscrewed the doors of Josh's wardrobe so that I could get to his portable television. I then sat and watched the James Bond film on ITV, joining the massed ranks of elderly widows, mental patients and everyone else who stays in on New Year's Eve. But the more I drank, the more I thought about Dad, and Alice, and the two got strangely muddled in my head so that by the time Agent 007 had foiled Scaramanga's evil plan for world domination I was pretty much a physical and emotional wreck, thereby becoming the only person in the history of the world ever to cry watching The Man with the Golden Gun, with the possible exception of Britt Ekland. Then I pulled myself together, and wrote the resolutions.

  And now, two weeks later, the resolutions still stand. True, I haven't really grappled with my poetry yet, but will soon, when I get time. And I've barely touched my face. I've also been very aloof with Alice too, largely because I haven't seen her or heard from her and have no idea where she is. In fact, socially, things have been a bit quiet since term began again. In Brideshead Revisited, Charles's cousin w
arns him that your second term at university is generally spent avoiding all the undesirable people that you met in the first term, and I'm starting to suspect that I am, in actual fact, one of those people.

  But back to the resolutions. The last one needs some elucidation. I've decided that it wouldn't do me any harm to have a muscle or two, and, no, this isn't because I'm buying into some shallow, gender-based notion of what the advertising media choose to define as “masculine” or attractive, and it's not because anyone's started to kick sand in my face, not literally anyway. It's just that I think I've taken the tubercular look to its natural conclusion, really. Also, ever since school, I've been working on the principle that you're either clever, or you're fit, and the two are mutually exclusive, but actually there's no reason you can't have both; Patrick Watts, for instance, is clever and really, really fit, even if he does have personality problems. Maybe Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man is a better example; he's fit and clever, and has integrity too, the kind of guy who runs five miles carrying a load of library books. Or, from the real world, Alice Harbinson. Alice Harbinson is amazingly fresh-faced, healthy and intelligent. Or at least she was the last time I saw her. Two weeks and three days ago. Ages ago.

  Not to worry. I'm going to sublimate all that energy into a fitness campaign. I'm thoroughly committed to a strict daily Canadian Royal Air Force–style regime that involves wedging my feet under the wardrobe, having first ensured that it won't topple over on top of me, and doing sit-ups, numbering eight, and press-ups, four. This is fine, but it doesn't really feel as if I've had a proper, thorough full-body workout, and I think I'm going to need something extra. I think I'm going to need weights. I decide to spend my Christmas money on weight-lifting equipment.

  I eat a healthy, nutritious breakfast from the newsagents, a chocolate-covered muesli bar and a liter of pineapple Just Juice, and scout-march (run for thirty, walk for thirty) toward the City Centre, which suddenly seems like an incredibly long way away, especially when jogging in a donkey jacket and jeans. But I keep going, along residential streets littered with the skeletons of all the Christmas trees that the bin men are refusing to take away, every now and then giving these little pineapple-juice burps. It's not long before I get a stitch, which suggests that perhaps I need to put some work into cardiovascular health, but this can come later. My first priority is to increase body mass and improve muscle definition. I don't want to get all stocky, like a boxer or weight lifter or anything, just to get more of a gymnast's physique, like one of those guys on the parallel bars. If at any point it looks like I'm going to get massively overdeveloped, then I'll pull back.