“For the hundredth time, Mum,” I say with a heavy sigh, “just because I have gay friends, it doesn’t make me gay. I had a date last week, in fact. With a man.”
“How was that?”
“He was a dick.”
“They’re not all bad, y’know.”
“I know.”
“You’ll find someone when you’re ready.”
I love her outlook despite the hard evidence to counter it.
“Nah, Ma. I’m done with all that for a while.”
She looks at me with a mix of “I’ve heard that before” and “You’ll be all right.” I consider mentioning that I’ve had several thoughts about “Guy in Café” but realize I’d sound like a total loon for fantasizing about a stranger whose face I can barely remember. I think of a positive note to end on, not wanting my entire identity to be defined by the fact I can’t get a date I don’t want to club to death and eat. Before mating or after.
“I’m off to Edinburgh next month. To do a show.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Jess. Maybe you’ll meet a wee bonny Scottish lad. Or lass?”
I chuck a tea bag at her head.
“It’s for work, Mum. No romance allowed.”
5
Mr. Pitiful
Tom
Glenlockhart Valley, Edinburgh
August 2, 2015
I sit in one expensive-looking chair and she sits in another. She asks questions and I answer them. I’m offered a glass of water. There are tissues on the table between us. There are long silences. But this, this is where the similarities with a real counseling session end. There is no notepad in her hand because she isn’t a real therapist. She will not ask me about my relationship with my parents. Because, along with my father, she’s one of them.
“You said you feel unwell?”
I downplay it. “Just a bit of a stomach upset.”
She continues, “Have you eaten something strange? You should cut down on the spicy curries. You know they don’t do you any favors. Internally or externally.”
“Thanks, Mum,” I offer drily, more than aware that my own mother just made a fat joke at my expense.
Continuing this line of confidence-boosting questioning, she asks, “Are you getting enough exercise?”
I nibble at my top lip. I’m really only here today because Dad said he was having a clear-out of some stuff. He can bin anything I’ve accumulated over the years, but I know he has a boxful of my grandfather’s stuff that I desperately want. It’s mostly annotated notes on his song sheets, a few backstage passes, and a couple of scrapbooks. But the big item I’ve been waiting for is his diary. Having to put up with my mum’s passive-aggressive health advice is a price worth paying.
I finally retort, “Playing music for two hours straight every day is pretty great exercise. I don’t need a gym membership.”
In response, she drums her fingers on the chair and I wonder if it’s her or me that’s more desperate to get up and leave the room. I visit them less and less these days. I have no guilt over this. They’ve seen less than an entire show of mine, so if we’re playing the game of who makes the most effort, I’d still win hands down.
My parents are Conservative with a moderately large C. Money and status and what other people think of them has always meant everything to them. On the money front they have done exceedingly well. Their house is enormous, their bank balances likewise. They have hired help and consider themselves above anyone who doesn’t. They offer their wealth to me as a replacement for affection and are still baffled at my refusal. Having continually espoused the idea of those less fortunate being “pulled up by their bootstraps,” they offer me handouts to get ahead, blind to the hypocrisy.
If I were being generous, I’d say my father’s personality was shaped by having an artistic father. The definition of a free spirit. It’s natural to want to revolt against your parents, but I didn’t think that revulsion was supposed to be put onto your own kids if they, in turn, turn out like your parents. Maybe this is an unending loop and if I ever have children of my own they’ll turn out to be cash-grabbing culture-phobes. But considering the last meaningful conversation I had with a member of the opposite sex was over twelve lunar cycles ago, me having kids is a pretty massive IF.
“How is Scott?” Mum asks.
“He’s good.”
Our small talk getting smaller by the second.
It’s difficult for me not to read everything she says or does as resentment, but not once—not once—has she ever asked about the band. I read a quote once that said, “Most of human heartbreak is caused by parents loving the child they imagined rather than the child they have.” It stuck.
“I saw his brother has been promoted,” she continues. “And bought a new house. They must be very proud of him.”
At this I stand and start to pace around the room. “Of him.” Proud of the one who has his life together, she means. The one that isn’t a screw-up in a band. That I’ve chosen to follow my grandfather’s lifestyle and not my dad’s is one of many reasons for the hostilities between us. That both he and my mum refuse to talk about him is another. I can read articles and listen to old interviews (there’s even a decent biography about him called Patrick Delaney: Fret Not). But when I want to know what he was like as a person, as a family member, they both clam up. It’s fair to say his last few years with us, as his illness took over, weren’t exactly a great testament to his character. The fact that he became a different person in his final years has made me desperate to know more about his whole life, not just the bits I already know.
“We’ve got a gig tonight. Part of the Edinburgh Festival. They say some of it’s going to be on TV.” I might as well be miming, without hands, in a foreign language, for the reaction it gets.
“Are you staying for tea, Thomas? Your dad should be ho—”
She stands as his car pulls up.
“Speak of the devil.”
I look down at my hand to see I’m subconsciously mimicking her finger drumming as her inane phrase plays on loop. “Speak of the devil.” He isn’t, though. He’s not a bad person. Not a great father, but not abusive either. He just didn’t notice me as much as I wanted him to. As if to prove my point, he isn’t aware of my presence until a good minute after he comes through the door. He and Mum talk about his day, about what he’s bought, about the weather. It’s only when I pipe up that I won’t be staying to eat, that either of them turns their attention to me.
He even looks at Mum a little perplexed, as if to say, This guy, eh?
“I didn’t know you were popping over. You well?”
“Fine.” The monosyllabic nature of my reply is intended to get a rise out of him.
“Good to know you’re not starving,” he says, patting my gut before he turns his back on me to kiss his wife. The affection they have for each other hasn’t lapsed in thirty years. I know I should be grateful to have grown up in a home that had love on show, but in truth it just reminded me of what I missed. What they didn’t want to offer me. I was the third wheel throughout my own childhood.
“Are you staying for tea?”
“No. I just wanted to share my news and grab that box of Grandad’s stuff?”
They look at each other with something akin to shame and my stomach drops about a meter.
“About that,” Mum says as Dad makes his way into the kitchen, unwilling to stay around for the battle. “A man got in touch online. Said he was a collector.”
Anger brews. I shake my head in tiny movements at the betrayal as Dad calls out from the other room, “We thought you’d be happy that it’s gone to someone who’ll really appreciate it.”
“I’d really appreciate it!” I yell. “You should too! He’s your bloody family. How could you do that?”
Dad reenters the room. “It was only a few scraps of
paper and some photos.”
I take a calming breath. “Fine. Just give me the diary and I’ll be off.”
“What diary?”
“The one in the box. Tell me you took it out before you handed it over?”
His silence tells me all I need to know. I ball up my fists.
“I told you I wanted that diary,” I say quietly. “I told you! How could you do that?”
“No need to get melodramatic about it,” Mum retorts. “Anyway, what was this news of yours?”
I know I’m not fifteen years old, but it feels like I am. I grab my coat and march for the door, slamming it behind me. I have no idea when I’ll come back here. But it feels like any time that passes between now and then won’t be nearly long enough.
St. Andrew Square, Edinburgh
Three hours later
I’m still fuming with them when I meet the band for our pre-gig ritual of naans and Neck Oil at the Prince of India. My mood isn’t improved by the invitation I obviously didn’t receive extending the meal to partners.
This decision was likely taken by Scott, who’s been more than a little distracted by the reemergence of Holly. Scott and Holly have been on and off so many times I’ve lost count. Once, when I thought they were off, I made the questionable move—after overhearing a particularly nasty slanging match between them—of suggesting maybe they were better off apart. When they got back together the next day there were corners of the Antarctic Peninsula warmer than the atmosphere between us. Before this most recent “on” they’d been split for the best part of three months. I didn’t say peep in case of what might transpire.
To be clear, this isn’t some bullshit Yoko thing. Holly’s great. She’s funny, warm, understanding. Most importantly, she makes Scott happy—when they don’t make each other mad. It’s just unfortunate timing with arguably the biggest gig of our lives so far less than five hours away. A gig I’m still struggling to get on board with.
As the day in question got closer and closer, more and more details started to emerge of just what we’d signed up to. First, the “Showcase” was very much being billed as a “Talent Show.” Second, said talent show was being sponsored by a brand of footwear and within our contract was a clause that stipulated we had to wear said footwear. The point isn’t that eighty percent of us already do wear those shoes; the point was that we should be able to dress however the hell we want.
The third and biggest problem is one I admit is very much just on my shoulders. The gig is to be televised. Not live. But recorded for a Spotlight on Edinburgh thing. It’s why there’s not just bands in the lineup, but also comedians and poets. The idea being to represent all the Festival has to offer. We’ve each been given a ten-minute window to do what we do. The results are announced at midnight and my nerves are shot to shreds.
All of this is swimming around my head as I take the only seat left, between Gretel and Brandon’s boyfriend, Carl. They’re both good people, but I really wish I was sitting next to Scott so I could try and persuade him we shouldn’t go through with the gig.
As the meal goes on and we get closer and closer to gig time, Christian and Scott get buddy-buddy at the other end of the table. I know it’s Christian’s opinion Scott listened to about the Showcase. That he whispered sweet nothings in his ear. Paranoia creeps in and I start to worry about what new direction Christian might try to take the band in.
Meanwhile, so as not to be the rudest guy at the table, I’ve been keeping Gretel company. She smells of coconut shampoo and that sweet but sickly mix of Diet Coke and vodka. She is not my type. I am in no way attracted to her. But here I am struggling to keep my leg from shaking like a dog having a leak.
“D’you know what I mean?” she says for the umpteenth time tonight, like it’s her mantra to the world.
I could confess I don’t, but instead I smile and nod and wonder if anyone at the table can see through this facade. I’d like to blame her flirtatious manner. Her hand on my arm, my leg, her insistence on eye contact. But it’s not her fault I’m incapable of normal human behavior. There’s a brief pause in our one-sided conversation and I use it as a window to take a toilet break. As I’m about to step into the loo, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around to see Holly, arms open wide, ready for a hug. I swallow hard and embrace her. For some reason, she seems the apprehensive one.
“You OK?” I ask.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” she replies, a quizzical look on her face which gives away the fact that I’m definitely exhibiting signs of peculiarity. “You don’t mind me being here, do you?”
Another familiar downside to acting skittish and losing control is that people project their own insecurities onto you. You see someone start to dry up or get lost to the thousand-yard stare of a panic attack, and the natural human response is to question what you did to cause this.
“Of course not. I’m glad you’re here. I am. It’s just all a bit overwhelming. Curtain up in what, four hours? Why do you ask?” I still feel like I’m in the fact-finding stage of this problem. The more data I can collect, the better I’ll be able to hide.
“Nothing, you just seemed quiet. I thought you might be missing Sarah.”
“I am now,” I say, trying to make a joke of it. Trying to make my made-up girlfriend sound natural, even to me, the one person who knows how absolutely nuts I am.
“We really can’t wait to meet her. Sarah. She sounds brill.”
Every time her name is mentioned I get a punch of guilt and a kick of self-disgust. What kind of pathetic man am I? Holly’s face falls and my heartbeat rises. This may sound insane, but I feel like I’m letting her down. That every lie I tell is letting everyone down. That guilt in turn leads to nausea, and the nausea turns to panic.
“Everyone will meet her soon. I’m sure.”
Her look is one of rejection. Not for her, but more on Scott’s behalf. What kind of best friend doesn’t introduce his girlfriend to him after more than a year? Raise your hand one more time, Mr. Pitiful.
“Oh, OK,” she offers.
“OK,” I counter.
These OKs could last awhile and so I point at the little man on the door.
She gives one more “OK” before I smile and enter the bathroom. She returns to the table wounded that her ideal has not been realized. That the dream of her, me, Sarah, and Scott will make a happy little foursome.
I haven’t had so much as half a poppadum and my insides have already turned to mush. I take my place on the throne as sweat creeps up my back. It’s hard not to think of a vengeful God when you have anxiety that manifests itself in your guts. The few books I’ve read about it describe the feeling as a churning sensation. Which, without getting too graphic, is exactly what’s happening now. There is a liquidizer somewhere in the middle ground between my heart and my feet turning all food and drink to something that could pass through the eye of a needle.
Thoughts of people discovering my secret, coupled with images of us getting booed off stage, collate in my mind’s eye. They swirl and collide and then the pain comes. The cramping. If I deny my lungs breath, my eyeballs shake in my skull. I’m doubled over now, face screwed up, caked in sweat, trousers around my ankles. I am such a catch.
Before I even think about wiping, I know I must get out of here. Skip the meal. Get some air. Get ready for the gig. And when the gig comes, just look at the ground. Ignore everyone’s presence. Do not make eye contact with anyone.
Once I’m playing, it’ll all just fade away.
6
Free Shoes
Jess
Thistle Street, Edinburgh
August 2, 2015
Edinburgh, I love you! You wondrous, undulating, warmhearted, crowded, feral, tourist-ripping-off, deep-frying, Irn-Bru-swilling, dream-killing, hope-thrilling bastard of a city. I! Love! You! Within twelve hours of our arrival I have locate
d the bar in which I will happily die, the greatest chippie in these British Isles and a view that I will forever return to in my mind. I have found home. (Although I did peek into an estate agent’s window and rent is insane, so maybe I won’t be moving here and dying anytime soon.)
Julia’s giddy too, but she’s doing her professional grounded thing to keep me from exploding in a sea of joy. I am very lucky to have a friend like her—someone who stops me spinning off. I make a mental note to spoil her rotten after the show.
“OK. They’ve asked that we soundcheck there for five. It’s”—she checks her watch like she’s organizing a bank heist—“ten past four now.”
“Let’s get a curry!” I squeal.
“We had chips like two hours ago!”
“You know me, I always get ravenous before a show.”
“Nervousness is not a concept you’re familiar with, is it, Jess?”
I adopt my most offensive Scottish accent and wiggle my eyebrows up and down. “I guess you could say…”
Julia groans, knowing what’s coming.
“…I’m just not a nervous Nessie?”
She shakes her head as if to say, Put that material in a bin and then set fire to that bin and then bury the bin in a quarry. It’s a good job I have Julia around, because there’s a high chance I might have opened with that. I point to a curry house, The Prince of India, and she shakes her head with a grin.
“Can I check out the menu at least? Maybe just grab some pakora.” I make my way over to the board outside. Christ, £9.50 for a veggie balti. You can see the “Festival Prices” stickers plastered over their regular, reasonable charges.
As I make my way back to Julia to tell her the bad news, a guy coming out of the curry house barrels into me, and I mean barrels into me. He’s a reasonably heavyset dude and he sends me flying onto the pavement, skinning my knee.
Julia runs over to my defense.
Perfect Timing Page 4