“We will, Danny, we will.”
“No. We won’t. Because I don’t fancy you, Kate. At all. Not one little bit.”
“Oh yeah? So that’s why you always kiss me on the lips every time you see me, is it? That’s why you had a st iffy when you noticed me in the street the other day. That’s why you invited me up to your flat and spent all afternoon staring at my tits.”
“I wasn’t staring. I was in a trance. You were going on and on about all that star sign, bigfoot nonsense and it sent me into a bit of a trance.”
“Look,” she says, standing up and walking towards me, “I understand, trust me. I do. I know it’s going to be difficult… but come on, you couldn’t wait to get naked in front of me, could you? You were gagging for it. And you were staring at me the whole time I was drawing you, you were totally getting off on it, I could tell.”
“No I wasn’t,” I say, backing into the stereo and knocking the volume down to zero. “I wasn’t looking at you at all. I was looking at the girl in the blue shirt. The one with the hard nip pl— I mean, I didn’t even know you were there.”
“Well, I’m here now,” she says, coming over to me and pushing her hand into my crotch. “I’m here now.”
“Kate, stop doing that, stop crying… urghh, that’s a colossal bit of snot you’ve got there, Kate… wow. Should I get you a hanky or something?”
“Shut up, Danny.”
“Look, I didn’t mean it… honestly. You’re a very attractive woman… just not to me.”
“You said I was ugly.”
“Well, no, I mean, yes, I did, but I didn’t mean it.”
“You said you’d rather snog a dog.”
“Well—’
“You said you’d rather have sex with a diseased sheep. You said I was stupid and annoying and—’
“A nut job?”
“Yes. Thanks for reminding me. Thanks for reminding me that you think I’m a complete crank.”
I fetch a handful of bog roll from the bathroom and offer it to her to wipe up the snot. I didn’t mean to be quite so harsh, but what was I supposed to do? She had her hand on my knob. She had her fingers on my fly. It was an emergency.
“I feel so stupid,” she says, dabbing her eyes with the Andrex. “I was so sure.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea.”
“Like hell you didn’t. You’ve been leading me on ever since Alison went away.”
“No I haven’t. I had no idea. Why would I think you fancied me when you’re already going out with someone like Matty?”
“I know,” she says, grabbing another piece of tissue. “I suppose that would seem pretty unlikely.”
“It wouldr
“Yeah. I mean, he’s way better looking than you are.”
“Thanks, thanks very much.”
“And he’s fantastic in the sack.”
“Good… good…”
“But I don’t know. He’s just so … well, he’s just so dopey
sometimes. And you’re like this really bright, funny guy, and you’re really sexy and vulnerable and you’ve just seemed so miserable since Alison walked out on you.”
“What are you talking about? Alison hasn’t walked out on me.”
“Well, it can’t be long, can it?” she says scornfully. “Why else would she go off and find herself a job in Belgium? The two of you are obviously in trouble. You’ve got to face it, Danny, she couldn’t care less whether you get a record deal or not. She just wants out.”
“Look, Kate, I think it might be better if you left now.”
“Fine, I’ll go. But I bet you I’m right. I bet you two won’t still be together by the end of the year.”
“Get out, Kate. I mean it, you’ve said enough now.”
“OK, but you’ve missed your chance, Danny. You’ve totally missed your chance. Don’t come crying to me when she leaves you.”
“I’d rather come crying to a rabid squirrel.”
“Fuck you.”
“Well, that’s very nice, I’m sure. Very Taurus or whatever.”
“I’m a Pisces, you moron.”
Like I care.
“And there’s something you should know,” she says, turning her blotchy face to stare at me from the doorway. “I was being generous. With your drawing. Very bloody generous.”
I shut the door behind her, turn the stereo back up to ten and light myself a well-earned cigarette. I think that went rather well.
Considering.
What am I talking about? I couldn’t have handled that any worse if I’d tried. I feel like a total git. Maybe I should give Vince a call and tell him what’s happened. Maybe I should have a beer to calm me down first. Maybe I should take a quick shower. I’ll feel better after a shower. I’ll feel much better once I’ve washed the sickly stink of Kate’s patchouli oil off my skin.
“Have you had a drink?”
“Yeah, I’ve had two bottles of beer.”
“Have you listened to a record?”
“Yeah, I’ve listened to “Wave Of Mutilation” thirteen times.”
“Have you tried thinking about Kate naked and knocking one off?”
“No/’
“Only joking, mate, only joking.”
“Vince, I’m serious, I’ve tried everything. I’ve showered and shaved and shat and I’ve smoked my way through two whole packets of fags and—’
“You’re still not feeling any better?”
“No. I still feel like a complete cunt.”
“Well, what do you want me to do about it? I told you she was trouble, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“I told you to stay away from her, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“I told you that under no circumstances whatsoever should you walk her home and invite her up to your flat for a nice cup of tea.”
“Yes, Vince. You did.”
“So what more do you want me to do? I offer you the benefit of all my years of hard-earned wisdom regarding women and you toss it in the bin like a week-old kebab wrapper coated in lard.”
“I know, I should have listened to you.”
“Too right you should.”
“I should have done what you said.”
“Too right you should.”
“OK, I admit it, you’re a guru. You’re a godlike genius who knows everything there is to know about women and bass amps and girls. Now, are you coming up the pub with me or what?”
“Not sure.”
“I’ll buy the drinks.”
“Not sure.”
Till get the crisps in.”
“Not sure.”
Till let you tell me all about that time you bumped into Kevin Rowland in your local branch of Waitrose.”
“Hmmnn… yeah, all right then, but I want to finish watching this programme on the history of Stax records first.”
“Can’t you tape it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Come on, Vince, this is important.”
“No. I’m sorry, but a programme should be viewed at the time of its originally intended broadcast. Watching it back on video isn’t the same.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, mate, I am.”
“Well, how long is this programme on for?”
“Another hour.”
“An hour’? But it’s nearly eight already.”
“Look, do you want me to come out with you or don’t you?”
Nine o’clock. What am I supposed to do for entertainment until then? Sixty minutes, a whole hour. I need more beer. I need someone to talk to. I need to spend a whole series of related and interconnected quality moments talking about me.
What if Kate was right? What if Alison really has had enough of me? What if this whole record deal thing really is just her way of breaking it to me gently? What if taking her to the Spaghetti House and eating half her prawn cocktail was the final straw? What if she was wearing a brand-new dress to go back to Bruges because she knew Didier would be picking her up from the station? What if she’s decided to stay in Bruges on Friday nights so she can spend more time seeing him? Perhaps I should listen to “Wave Of Mutilation’ again and see if it makes me feel any better.
Well, that wasn’t much good. It only used up two minutes and three seconds and I’ve still got almost forty-nine minutes left before I can go to the pub and meet Vince. Maybe I should listen to a bit of Joy Division to see if I’m developing any suicidal tendencies. Maybe I should listen to a bit of Radiohead to cheer myself up. Maybe I should give Rufus a bell and see if Alison has mentioned anything suspicious about her Friday night activities to him. No good. I’m too agitated. He’s bound to realise something’s up.
Right then. There’s only one thing for it. I’ve decided to embrace it. I’ve decided to stare it down. I sometimes favour this approach at times of acute anxiety. After all, why waste your limited energy on trying to make yourself feel better when you have a golden opportunity to make yourself feel immeasurably worse?
This might be the ideal moment to give my mum a quick call.
There’s a small porcelain figurine that lives on the sitting-room sideboard in my mum’s house, and for some reason it’s this that I think of as I begin to dial her number. I think it’s meant to be a likeness of Judy Garland in A Star is Born, but I always thought it looked more like our alcoholic next-door neighbour Melvin Hatt. I can picture it now the face is round and pale and puffy like a clown’s, and the hands are so badly chipped that Judy only has three fingers left on her right hand. I don’t know why she keeps it. I don’t know why she keeps any of that stuff: the posters, the diaries, the piles of old newspaper clippings and videos and the boxes of film books and music scores that are still gathering dust at the bottom of her MFI wardrobes.
Perhaps things would have been different if she’d remarried and had some more kids; perhaps things would have been better if she’d gone off to drama school like she’d wanted when she finished her O-levels, instead of shagging my dad on the back seat of his Hillman Imp and getting herself pregnant with me. Perhaps she wishes she hadn’t chased after a fat man with a famous name and a chronically diseased aorta. Perhaps she wishes she’d had a son who looked like he was actually going to make something of his life instead of having to make do with a serial waster like me.
“Hey, Mum, it’s me, Danny.”
“Is that you, Steve?”
“Yes, I just said so, didn’t I?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure, it’s been so long since I’ve heard your voice.”
“Sorry. I’ve been meaning to phone you back. I’ve just been really busy.”
“Well, I’ve been worried about you. I was wondering how you were coping.”
“Coping?”
“Since Anna left you.”
“Mum, her name’s Alison. We’ve been together for five years, she cooked Christmas dinner for you two years running. You know her name is Alison.”
“All right, there’s no need to get yourself all worked up. I was just wondering how you were getting along since she left you, that’s all.”
“She hasn’t left me.”
“Hasn’t she? I thought you said she’d moved abroad.”
“She hasn’t moved abroad, she’s home at weekends. And it’s only for six months. I told you.”
“Oh, I thought you said she’d moved abroad.”
What’s the point? This is worse than talking to Kate. She’s purposely trying to wind me up. I bet she’s not even dressed yet. I bet she’s still in her dressing gown.
“So, Mum,” I say, attempting to change the subject, ‘how’s things going with you?”
The line goes quiet. She knows I’m not really expecting an answer. I’m expecting a sound. My mum communicates best when she’s not using actual words, and she has this weird ability to make her voice sound like a bent, rheumatic shrug. It’s a cross between a grunt and a whine and a sigh, and it means ‘what kind of a question is that?” “How can I be?” it says, “What kind of life do I have stuck out here in the suburbs with my clippings and my curlers and my Great Escape posters and my cats?”
“Neurghggh,” she says after a while.
“That bad?” I say.
“Neurghggh,” she says again.
If I want to keep this conversation on anything approaching an even keel it’s probably best that I steer our conversation
away from my floundering music career. She’s never forgiven me for dropping out of school before I took my A-levels, and she still counts the fact that I didn’t grow up to look like a chisel-jawed matinee idol as an act of wilful disobedience on my part.
“But you were such a beautiful child,” she used to say. “You looked like a young Paul Newman. I don’t know what went wrong. I knew I should have stopped you masturbating so much in your teens. I knew I should have told you it was bad for your skin.”
If only she knew. If only she knew.
Sod it, I can’t resist it. I’m going to tell her about the tour.
“Hey, Mum,” I say. “I thought you’d want to know. I’ve just had some good news, about the band.”
“Oh, really? Are you going to be on Top of the Pops?”
“No.”
“Are you going to be on CD.-UK?”
“No.”
“Are you going to be on the Lottery show with Dale Winton? Lovely man, Dale Winton, don’t you think so? Don’t you think Dale Winton is a lovely man?”
“No, Mum, I’m not going to be on the Lottery show with Dale Winton. Not yet.”
“Oh,” she says disappointedly.
“But it’s still good news, though,” I say, trying to pep her up. “We’re going on tour again in a few weeks. We’re supporting a really big band. I think it might be the break we’ve been looking for.”
“Well… that sounds promising. How much are they going to pay you?”
“Um… nothing.”
“Nothing? How can they pay you nothing? What kind of an organisation makes you perform for no money?”
“No, Mum, you see it doesn’t work like that. I’ve told you before. It’s more about doing the right gigs and getting ourselves some decent exposure and—’
“Well, I don’t understand it. It doesn’t make any sense. A man of your age. Playing in a band. For no money. You want to try getting yourself a job on one of those cruise ships. I’ve heard you can make good money playing on a cruise ship. I thought about doing it myself once. I had a very good voice when I was your age.”
“Yes, I know,” I say, hoping that she’s not going to launch into her ‘married too young, got pregnant too early’ speech. “I know you did, Mum, but how many times do I have to tell you? I’m not going to get a job on a cruise ship.”
“Of course, your cousin Jason is working in the films now, as a director.”
“I know,” I say, resigned to what’s coming next, ‘you told me all about it the last time I called you.”
“Did I?”