Out of Towners (12 page)

I look across at Happy Valley. There's still a patch of puke on the pavement outside, and two seagulls are fighting over the chunky bits. But there's an
Open
sign in the window and the smell of sweet and sour is in the air.

“It's not a bad idea,” I say.

Dylan and Robbie nod their heads.

“Right then,” George says, pleased. “Chinese it is.”

It's hot inside Happy Valley. Apart from us, only two other people are in the place. A geeky kid with glasses and a Monty Python T-shirt, and a twitchy bloke in a blue jogging suit with a picture of a trainer stitched to the leg. It's the outfit I saw on a washing line last night. The worst one I've ever seen. It looks even more terrible on.

The sweet and sour smell is much stronger in here. I'm absolutely starving. I take a couple of menus and we make for a bench next to the fish tank in the corner. Neon Tetras swim in and out of a sunken galleon while we decide on our meals. I'm having Peking Chicken. Robbie's having Cantonese Roast Pork. George opts for Shrimp and Beansprouts. Dylan rounds things off with a House Special Chop Suey. Four portions of Egg Fried Rice and we're sorted.

I go across to place the orders with the old Chinese chap behind the counter. It comes to twenty-eight quid. I pay up, sit back down by the fish tank and watch the TV bolted to the wall.

Ten minutes later our food turns up in two brown paper carrier bags. We head out and go into the Supermarket. Food's taken care of. It's time to get something to wash it down with.

Robbie disappears off to the back of the shop and comes back with two four-packs of Fosters.

“This should do the trick,” he says.

“Too right.” I'm glad he's gone for lager. I didn't fancy another session on the White Thunderbolt.

We're almost running on the way back to the caravan. We're all gagging for food. Robbie yanks the door open and goes into the kitchen cupboards to get plates and forks.

Sitting at the low table, I start dishing up, tipping Egg Fried Rice out of plastic tubs and plonking the main courses on top. George puts the TV on, flicking over to Britain's Next Big Thing. Dylan passes the cans of beer round and we crack them open.

It doesn't take me long to scoff my dinner down. Five minutes tops. I slide the plate onto the table and slouch back in my seat. I take a long swig of Fosters.

“That was cracking,” I say.

There's a few grunts in agreement. On
Britain's Next Big Thing
a young lad with ironed hair is yowling his way through a power ballad. He's straining for the high notes, twisting his features so it looks like he's trying to shit a pineapple.

Everyone's finished their dinners. I look at George. This meal was his idea, so I'm expecting him to be happy now. He's not though. There's a haunted expression on his face.

“What's the matter?” I ask.

George lines up his cutlery.

“I've got a bad feeling about tonight,” he says.

“Why's that then? Because of that aggro on the beach with Kirkie's lot?”

George nods. He seemed alright earlier on, but perhaps that was because the girls were there. Now he looks rattled.

“Come on mate,” I say. “It's going to be fine. A night to remember. On the beach, that was sod-all. A bit of handbags.”

“I'm not so sure. We keep on bumping into those idiots. A town this size, it's hard not to. If we see them again there's going to be big trouble. We'd be better off staying here.”

“George. We can't go round to the girls' chalet and say ‘Sorry ladies. Tonight's off.' We'd look like tossers. I mean, you didn't say anything when the whole thing was getting organised.”

Dylan's keeping out of it, but Robbie's joining in.

“Look. No way are we staying cooped up in this place. You know what's on down at the Family Entertainment Centre. Bingo and line dancing. Even the psychic's bailed out. I want to go into town, Chris does and Dylan does. Trust me. It's going to be okay.”

George bites his bottom lip. He's outnumbered and he knows it.

“Well, it's your call. But I've got a bad feeling about it. There's going to be some bother. It's like Instant Karma. Punishment for lying to our mums and dads.”

Robbie pokes his finger in his ear and wiggles it about.

“Instant Karma?” there's disbelief in his voice. “You've not gone Buddhist on us have you?”

George shrugs.

We spend the next hour staring at the TV, letting our food go down. It's the decision stage on
Britain's Next Big Thing
. We're with the young lad with the ironed hair again. He's mooching moodily around a sunlit garden in a vest and flip-flops, waiting to learn his fate. I'm not paying much attention, but it doesn't look positive. He's blubbering on the shoulder of the presenter's shiny suit. Seven o'clock is coming around.

I finish my can and push myself upright.

“I'm going to make a start in the bathroom,” I say.

There are no objections.

In the bathroom I sit on the toilet. I've eaten some serious junk over the last twenty-four hours, and judging from the sounds underneath me, my body is letting me know it doesn't approve. I hardly dare look into the bowl when I'm done, but out of curiosity, I take a peek. It's not a pretty sight. Pale and floaty. Not the bowel movement of a healthy man. I flush it away and spray a bit of George's deodorant round to mask the smell.

It's time to get ready. I have a quick rinse in the shower, getting all the dried sea salt out of my hair. I can taste it as it runs down my face. Afterwards I brush my teeth, spray my pits and work my way through my going-out checklist.

When I'm finished, George makes for the shower and I go into the bedroom, wrapped in my towel. I get clean socks and boxers and the jeans I wore on the trip down. I'm running a bit short of clothes I haven't already used this weekend, but I'm pleased to see I packed my turquoise polo shirt.

I stick on my Etnies, transfer my wallet and mobile into my jeans and wrap my watch round my wrist. When I've stuffed my pile of change into my pockets, I just need to get my bangles from the bedside cabinet where I dumped them last night, and I'm ready to roll. A quick glimpse in the mirror in George and Dylan's bedroom confirms what I'd thought. I'm looking good.

Back in the living area I crack open my second can.
Britain's Next Big Thing
is still in full flow. It's been on for two hours now, and shows no signs of ending any time soon. I'd got it all wrong about the lad who was on earlier. He's not been eliminated. He's through to sing in the live part of the show. It's Big Band Night and he's dressed up in a dinner jacket complete with loosened bowtie, murdering a Frank Sinatra song.

Dylan's in the bathroom now. With George off getting changed, it's just me and Robbie watching TV.

Robbie takes a mouthful of beer and looks me in the eye.

“So you going to go for it with Steph tonight?” he asks.

I cough, caught off-guard.

“Dunno mate. Reckon I should?”

Robbie nods.

“Yeah yeah yeah.”

I wipe condensation off the side of my can.

“D'you really think she's into me?”

Robbie pulls an exasperated face.

“She's mad for you,” he says. “You've done all the negotiation. It's time to seal the deal.”

I know he's right. But something is still nagging away in the back of my brain.

“I thought you fancied her,” I say.

Robbie sighs.

“I did. But she wasn't interested. She likes you. Must be something wrong with her.”

I laugh.

“No hard feelings?”

“Don't be a cock,” Robbie says. “It's not your fault she's got no taste.”

I look at him and smile. Robbie can be a bit of an arse, but it's at times like this that I remember why he's my best mate.

George is coming out of the bedroom. It looks like he's finally got the lads' night out clobber situation cracked. He's in a black and white striped T-shirt and dark blue jeans. His hair's still ropey, but he looks sixteen, not sixty. He sits down next to us, making a start on can number two.

It's twenty-five to eight. Dylan seems to be taking a lot longer than usual in the shower tonight, so I go to find out what he's up to.

It's steamy in the bathroom, but I have no difficulty seeing Dylan. He's standing in front of the mirror. And he's got my bottle of moisturiser in his hand.

“Oh. Alright Chris?” he says. There's a guilty look on his face.

“What are you up to?” I ask.

He holds up the moisturiser.

“Er, I wanted to have a go with this. Don't mind do you?”

I smirk. Dylan's discovered the joys of men's grooming.

“Help yourself,” I say. “Nikita likes a well-turned-out man, does she?”

Dylan's got his composure back.

“Yeah. Something like that.”

I laugh and leave him to it.

Five more minutes and Dylan's winding up his male model routine. He strolls into the bedroom looking very happy with himself. He's fully moisturised, he's put a bit of my wax in his hair and he's splashed himself in aftershave.

Robbie wolf-whistles him.

“You'll be shaving your bollocks next, you tart.”

Dylan grins.

“I'm not a tart,” he says. “I'm a metrosexual.”

Because Dylan's had such a session with the beauty products, Robbie's up against it. He doesn't let us down though. He's showered and dressed in fifteen minutes flat. And his standards haven't slipped. He's looking as sharp as always, in black jeans and a grey V-neck T-shirt.

It's five to eight. Dylan's been sitting with me and George for the last few minutes, but he nips back into the bathroom to check himself out one more time. He's upped his style game all-round. There's no football top and baggy trousers tonight. It's straight-cut jeans and a check shirt with a button-down collar. On the TV, the lad on
Britain's Next Big Thing
is in tears again. And this time it definitely isn't good news. He's been voted off.

“Poor sod,” George says. “After all that.”

I laugh.

“Never mind. He's been on an incredible journey.”

George finishes his can and shoves it into the bin bag. He sits back and burps loudly. Not so long ago, he had the look of a condemned man about him. Not any more. Now he's completely chilled-out and ready for the night ahead. The calming effects of Fosters lager.

I look at him and grin.

“You still worried about Kirkie's mob?”

George shakes his head.

“Nah. Sod ‘em. It's going to be a great night.”

I finish my own can.

“Yeah,” I say.

Dylan's finished preening. It's time to do one. Robbie switches the TV off and we all head for the door.

Outside, the day is finally cooling down. The sky is still the cloudless blue it's been all afternoon, but the sun is slowly sinking beyond the fields of caravans and chalets. The aroma of barbecues fills my nostrils. I get a tingle of excitement and anticipation. There's anxiety too, but it's good stuff, not bad. It's only a few minutes until I see Steph again. I don't know what might happen tonight. But I can't wait to find out.

There's a steady trickle of people wandering through Green Zone in the direction of the Family Entertainment Centre. We join the flow, then peel off to the left as we get into Blue Zone. A row of chalets stretches out in front of us.

“What number are we looking for?” Dylan asks.

“Blue 29,” George says.

It seems to be even numbers on the right, odd numbers on the left, starting high and getting lower. We've gone past number 53, so it shouldn't be much further. Up in front I see four little kids kicking a football around and generally making a nuisance of themselves. It's our mates from Green Zone. They're a bit further from home today.

“How you doing, you lot?” I say.

The lad in the
Ben10
T-shirt looks us up and down.

“Still haven't pulled then,” he says.

Dylan's eyes glint.

“Ha. That's where you're wrong. We're meeting some birds in a minute.”

The girl in the pink cowboy boots pulls a face.

“Yeah, right,” she says.

We keep walking. We're nearly there now, going down through the thirties. Gemma's chalet is the next on the left. It looks freshly painted. The plant tubs and the patch of lawn outside are neat and tidy. In the far corner there's a gnome in a Crystal Palace kit.

The girls have seen us coming. The door of the chalet swings open. It's Gemma. She looks nice. Hair pinned back, black vest and jeans.

“Hiya boys,” she says, giggling.

It's not just us who've made a start on the night's drinking, it would seem.

“Alright?” George says. “You lot ready?”

“Yeah, we're about there.”

Nikita's the next one out. She looks good too, in a blue sequinned top, shorts and a pair of gladiator sandals. There's only Steph still to come. And when she does, she looks stunning. Her hair is down tonight, a chin length bob, and she's in a short military-style khaki dress, black leggings and red Converse.

“You look great,” I say. It's out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

Steph takes it in her stride.

“You too. That shirt's really nice against your skin now you've caught the sun.”

I'm chuffed.

“Thanks.”

We're almost ready to go. Gemma locks the chalet and puts the key in her shoulder bag. She sees me looking at the Crystal Palace gnome and raises her eyebrows.

“It's Granddad's,” she says. “Don't ask.”

We get off, following the traffic down to the courtyard. A big queue is forming outside the Family Entertainment Centre. I hope they haven't all arrived hoping to see Colin Wells. Over by Happy Valley, Vic Whitley is leaning against the wall, fag in hand. I'd recognise the red blazer and the grey trousers anywhere. Vic's got a busy night in front of him. He's probably going to have to pull a double shift on the bingo now.