one-hit wonder (21 page)

But Flint was—Flint was—good God, she had no idea what Flint was. He was interesting, she supposed. There was something going on there, something underneath the bulk and the scars and the “cheers, mate” persona. Something that unnerved Ana. Messed with her cognitive functions. Her ability to form reasonable responses to ordinary questions.

Like the one he was still waiting for her to answer right now. What sort of things did she like doing at the seaside?

She shrugged. She gave up.

“Whatever,” she said finally, her voice emerging as a gruff whisper that sounded like a Jack Russell coughing.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll tell you what I like doing at the seaside. I like going to arcades.”

That figures, thought Ana, picturing him wearing out his thumb pads on a space-invader machine or kicking the shit out of a virtual ninja. Or something.

“Have you got any moral objections to gambling? As a concept?”

She shook her head.

“Got money on you?”

She patted her tapestry knapsack and nodded.

“Cool,” he said, “let’s go.”

Broadstairs was prettier than your average seaside town, prettier than Bideford, thought Ana, where she’d walked on the beach with Tommy and her father in the winter, throwing sticks for the dog, bashing the sand out of their shoes before they got into the car and getting a pie on the way home. Steep cobbled streets ran away from the seafront, where bow-windowed, knock-kneed cottages lined the lanes.

“Did you know,” said Flint, “that Dickens wrote
The Olde
Curiosity Shoppe
here? In Broadstairs?”

“Did he?” said Ana. “Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How did you know that?”

Flint grinned. “I dunno,” he said, “I thought everyone knew that.”

“Oh,” said Ana, “right.”

She glanced at people as they walked, and wondered what they were thinking, wondered what sort of a couple she and Flint made. Pretty eye-catching, she imagined, her being so tall and him being so huge, clutching their crash helmets.

Nobody would guess, she was sure, that she was just waste-of-space old Ana Wills, unattractive and disappointing second daughter of Gay Wills, naive country bumpkin and pretty much born-again virgin. She probably looked like she lived in some funky, stripped-floorboarded flat, like she had loads of cool friends who all got stoned and went to parties together and like she had sex with Flint about twenty times a day while drinking tequila from the bottle and listening to really loud music.

Ana suddenly felt like a character in a film. A little fizz went down her spine.

The feeling soon evaporated as they entered the arcade.

That smell. That smell of teenagers’ trainers, cold metal, and dirty money. And the noise—not just the rings and clunks and clinks of the old days, but the new sounds too; booming American voices, rapid gunfire, explosions, thwacks, grunts, and groans of Japanese warriors. This was home. This was Devon. This was Bideford and everything she hated about it.

Bored teenagers and displaced aggression.

She posted a five-pound note into a change-making machine and listened to the jackpot noise of coins being returned to her. And then she looked around for Flint but couldn’t see him anywhere. She looked at the Tekkan machines, the Sega Rally cars, lined up together at the far end. She looked at the pinball machines, Time Crisis, some big thing that looked like an army tank, but he was nowhere to be seen. Growing a little concerned now, her hands full of sweaty ten-pence pieces, she walked around the circumference of the arcade, and then she stopped in her tracks and just stared for a while at what suddenly struck her as one of the most endearing images she’d ever seen in her life. It was Flint. He was sideways to her, wearing a very earnest expression and patiently depositing two-pence pieces into a penny cascade machine. As she approached, a precariously quavering lip of coins crashed noisily into the metal spout in front of Flint. She saw him bunch up his fists triumphantly before scooping up the money and counting it.

“Twenty-four p,” he grinned at her, “twenty-four p! I’m ten p up!”

He looked like a little boy in his Gap Kids-style outfit. He was so excited. Ana wanted to hug him, wrap her arms around him, and tuck her head into the crook of his enormous shoulders. He grinned at her again before turning back to the slot with a fistful of twopence pieces. Bless him to death.

She tore her eyes from him and headed toward a one-armed bandit in the corner, where the shadows concealed her scarlet blush, and the metal stick in her hand cooled her sweaty palms.

eighteen

They found a pizzeria but it wasn’t due to open for another half an hour.

“Fancy getting a drink somewhere?” asked Flint.

They found a big noisy boozer a couple of streets away, and Ana offered to get the drinks. It was the least she could do, she said, after all the petrol Flint must have used getting here. He watched her at the bar from a small table in a corner, watched her fiddling inside her old tapestry knapsack for a purse, rubbing self-consciously at her elbows as she waited to be served, smiling tightly at the barman and then walking back toward him ever so carefully, a pint in each hand, careful not to spill a drop, careful not to look at Flint.

“I got us some crisps too,” she said, dropping a packet of salt and vinegar onto the table from underneath her arm.

“Ah,” smiled Flint, “ a girl after my own heart—a pint of lager and a packet of crisps. Lovely.”

She picked up her pint and tipped at least a quarter of it down her throat. “Argh,” she exclaimed, “I needed that.”

“Yeah,” laughed Flint, “I can see that. You’re not really like your sister, are you?”

Ana laughed, too. “Aren’t I?”

“No. Your sister was more of a cocktail girl. A high-maintenance woman, really.”

“Yeah,” said Ana, “I can imagine.”

“And your sister was a real loudmouth, too. Like Lol. Can you imagine it? When the two of them got together?” He winced and they both laughed. And then they both stopped laughing and fell into a sad silence. Flint cleared his throat.

“So,” he said. “What sort of things have you been up to with Lol? In London?”

“Oh. We’ve been to a couple of bars. In Ladbroke Grove.”

“What—like, poncey places, you mean?”

“Well—not really. Just sort of—fashionable places, I guess.”

“Yeah. I know the sorts of places you mean. All scabby second-hand furniture and rank canals.”

“Yeah,” smiled Ana, “something like that.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, Ana—those sorts of places don’t seem very—you. I mean, from the look of you—you’re more of a pub girl, aren’t you?”

Ana smiled. “I’ll try to take that as a compliment,” she said.

“You want to come out with me one night when we’re back in London. I’ll take you to some proper London places.

There are some amazing pubs in London. And some of the best beer. You’ve seen a bit of Lol’s London—I want to show you a bit of mine.”

“Yes,” Ana said shyly, “that would be nice. Thank you.” Flint eyed her as she picked up her pint and took another sip. He’d enjoyed this little sojourn at the seaside with Ana. It was nice to get away from the indefatigable Lol for a while.

Lol was great but she was also one of those people who didn’t leave any room in a situation for your own interpretation of things. You always got Lol’s version whether you wanted it or not. But with Ana, he’d been able to absorb the odd English seaside atmosphere, the sunset, the smells and sounds. Like being on his own but with someone.

And there was something about her, he thought, but he found it impossible to put his finger on it. She was quite posh. But not
posh
posh, not public school and fine blond hair and skiing-tan posh. Not the sort of posh that he usually liked. Just a sort of low-key, middle-class, slightly hippified posh. And it wasn’t really about her looks. It wasn’t about what she had, as such, but about what she
didn’t
have. Like experience. Like sophistication. Like a sense of herself. Like the way she’d blushed just then when he’d suggested this drink. He’d almost been able to see her thoughts through her eyes—“If I walk into a pub with you, we’ll have to have a conversation, and that means I’ll have to reveal myself to you, and that makes me very nervous.” She didn’t give anything away and, in a world full of people prepared to bare their souls at the drop of a hat, she was coolly refreshing.

Flint had lived in London for most of his life. Born and bred in Enfield, he now lived on Turnpike Lane. All his life he’d known only London girls, or girls who’d chosen London for what it could offer them. But Ana hadn’t chosen London.

She was there because of circumstance, not because of ambition or greed or thrill-seeking.

“Have you ever thought about living in London, Ana?

Leaving Devon?”

She shook her head. “No. Never.”

“God, you know—call me small-minded, but I really can’t understand that.”

understand that.”

“What?”

“Living in a small town and not being fucking desperate to get away. I mean—what exactly is the attraction?” Ana shrugged. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

“What do you do?”

“What d’you mean?”

“In Devon? Who do you live with? What do you do for a living? Who are your friends? Boyfriend? You know—tell me about your life.”

Ana smiled wryly and took another slurp of beer. “You don’t want to know,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, “I do.”

“Well,” she began, smiling with embarrassment, “I used to have a life. Quite a nice life, actually.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Uh-huh. I had this really nice flat in Exeter. And a job.”

“Doing what?”

“I worked in a music shop. I was the assistant manager.”

“What sort of music shop?”

“You know—guitars, organs, drum kits. That kind of thing.

It wasn’t exactly a
career
or anything, but I liked it. I had a little car. I had friends. I had a boyfriend.”

“Called?”

“Called Hugh.”

“And what was he like?”

“Hugh? Well—he was—
is
—great. He’s a research scientist. Unbelievably intelligent. And funny. And a good cook. Yeah—Hugh was great.”

Flint watched her as she talked about Hugh, watched the way her cheeks flushed crimson and she suddenly found a dozen things to do with her hands.

“So what happened?”

“Oh. You know. We grew apart.”

“How come?”

“Well—everything sort of changed after my dad died.”

“Shit yeah—I forgot that your dad died, too.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Sheesh. How?”

“Heart attack. Nothing very exciting. Not like Gregor. But he was eighty-two years old, so it was—you know?”

“Still though—what a shame.”

“It was,” she said, “it is. He was the nicest man in the world. The nicest man ever. He was like my best friend. I know that sounds weird. But he wasn’t like other men of his generation, you know, the war generation. He was different.

He even used to come out to the pub with me and my friends sometimes and they all loved him. He was one of those old men who wasn’t scared of the new world—he was excited by new technology and new music and new ways of doing things and looking at things. It was like he found the patterns of change exhilarating and life-affirming rather than threatening. I think I did that for him, I think having a child so late in life did that for him. And even though I’d always known he’d go soon, while I was still quite young, it still came as a shock. So, after he went, everything kind of fell apart a bit.” She blushed and cleared her throat and took another large slurp of her lager.

“So?” said Flint.

“So what?”

“So what happened with Hugh?”

“Oh, well, you know—I got compassionate leave from work and it just sort of went on and on and on, and the longer it went on, the less I could cope with the idea of going back to work, dealing with the public. So I resigned.

And then my mother developed agoraphobia and I had to go home. To look after her. So I went home ten months ago.

And me and Hugh tried to make it work for a while. But I think he got fed up in the end.”

“Fed up with what?”

“Well—with me being such a misery-guts, I suppose. With me not being fun anymore and not making any effort. He just gave up, and I haven’t spoken to him for weeks now.”

“That’s a bit rough, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Hugh. Giving up on you when you really needed him?” Ana shrugged and rubbed her elbows again. “I’ve never really thought about it like that. I was always a bit of a burden on him, really, and I suppose it was just—”

“What do you mean—a burden?”

“I mean—he’s really, really intelligent and all his friends were really intelligent, too—they were all scientists and engineers and that sort of thing—all a few years older than me, and I was always a bit—out of my depth, I guess. I wasn’t much good. I couldn’t cook and I didn’t know anything about politics or world affairs or wine or . . . or . . .
conspiracy
theories
and all that stuff they liked talking about. I always thought he deserved someone a bit more sophisticated than me, a bit more mature. I think I dragged him down a bit . . .” Flint exhaled through puffed-out cheeks. “Well, well, well—poor old Hugh, eh?” he said, having already decided that the bloke was obviously a complete cunt.

“Yeah. I guess so. Poor old Hugh.”

“But what do you
do,
Ana?” Flint asked. “I mean—what do you actually do all day?”

Ana shrugged and looked embarrassed. “Look after my mum. Go shopping for her.”

“Yes—but the rest of the time—what do you do? Have you got a job?”

She shook her head. “I’ve been meaning to start sending out applications. But I haven’t got around to it.”

“And what about your old friends, in Exeter—do you still see them?”

“No,” she said in a very small voice, “not really. They tried.

But I think they kind of gave up on me too, eventually. I haven’t really been very good company since my dad died.

You know? But anyway,” she said forcefully, “enough about me. More than enough about me. What about you?” She looked directly at Flint. “What about your life?” Interesting, Flint thought, the way she’d opened up like that, just for a moment and then snapped shut again, like a flytrap. She was quite obviously depressed, although she hadn’t admitted it to herself yet. That’s even if she knew it.