Scratch (18 page)

‘How
d’you
mean?’

‘You know, meet someone, go out with them for a few months, split-up, meet someone else, go out with them for a year or so, split-up, and repeat until old and lonely.’

‘You’ve never wanted to make it permanent?’

This was torture. ‘It just never worked out that way,’ I said.

‘That’s such a shame. You don’t know what you’re missing.’
Aaargh
. ‘But you’ve got plenty of time yet, it’ll happen.’

That seemed unlikely. ‘Here’s hoping,’ I said.

‘Have some faith, Jim. She’s out there somewhere.’

‘Time for a change of subject again,’ I said. ‘Your go this time.’

Paula looked at her watch. ‘Sorry but I need to make a move, I’m meeting Chrissie for dinner. What you up to tonight?’

‘No plans at the moment.’ I was achieving expert status in my ability to hide disappointment from Paula.

‘I almost forgot. There was another reason I needed to see you.’

She said
needed
! ‘What was that?’ I wasn’t quite so expert at hiding my excitement, but Paula didn’t seem to notice.

‘I don’t know if this feels as weird for you, but my dad’s invited you over for dinner tomorrow.’

‘Oh, okay,’ I said.

‘I still can’t get a handle on you two being mates.’

‘I don’t know if I’d say we were actual
mates
.’

‘Well he seems to think you are. What should I tell him?’

‘Yes. Tell him yes, I’d love to.’

‘Okay,
seven o’clock
. Do you remember the address?’

‘I think so.’ Even if I didn’t (I did), I had swiped her dad’s letter before leaving Combined Utilities. Actually that wasn’t quite true, I’d made a photo-copy and swiped that. I’d been too scared of the evil computer overlord to take the original. Besides, it smelled of sick.

‘See you tomorrow, then,’ Paula said, standing.

‘Oh, so you’ll be there?’ I attempted coolness.

‘No other plans at the moment,’ she said, with what I chose to believe was faked resignation.

***

‘Am I not invited?’ Terry said.

‘It wouldn’t appear so, no.’

‘Well, that’s
pish
.’

Not wanting to go home after Paula left but having limited options (that limit being: one), I’d appeared at Terry’s flat. Luckily, it turned out Patrick was on a course the following day so Terry was happy to join me in a carry-out.

‘Sorry, mate, I guess you haven’t made as big an impression as you thought,’ I said.

‘Bollocks, he wants to mess with your head in front of Paula.’

‘No he doesn’t.’ Shit, did he?

‘Of course he does. Face it, he’s playing a game and you’re the ball.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘What other earthly reason would he have?’

‘Maybe he likes me.’

Terry looked at me.

‘Okay, but so what?’ I said. ‘I still get to go to Paula’s house and have dinner with her. That’s got to be good.’

‘Jim, it’s not a date. Fathers don’t invite men on dates with their married daughters.’

‘So what is it, then?’

‘He’s bored and you’re his new toy.’

‘
D’you
know what I think?’ I said, finishing off my can of Stella.

‘What?’

‘I reckon he doesn’t like this Ingo guy, and he’s playing matchmaker with me and Paula.’

‘How drunk are you?’

‘More than slightly, less than really. Why?’

‘Because you’re even more delusional than
de’
us
ual
.’

‘
Bravo
. How long have you been waiting to use that one?’

‘A few months.’

‘Well done, but you’re wrong.’

‘Okay, say you’re right, which you’re not. Even if Simon, or Joe or whatever,
is
trying to set you up with Paula, which he isn’t, has Paula given you any reason to think she would be interested?’

‘She’s married, of course she hasn’t. So what? It’s hard to admit your marriage is failing. She’s only being loyal.’

 
‘Has she, in fact, done anything other than get your hopes up then trample all over them by being, to be fair to her, unwittingly patronising?’

‘Well, no,’ I admitted.

‘You’re a face from her past, helping her reconnect with Glasgow, that’s all, Jim.’ There was a look approaching compassion on Terry’s face as he continued. ‘Don’t read into it, mate. It’s not going to happen.’

‘Is all this sensibleness you’re suddenly displaying really my fault?’

Terry had the good grace to look embarrassed. ‘Should we just get drunk and talk about Star Wars?’

‘Yes fucking please!’

Chapter 14

I woke up in my bed the next morning, which was a blessing.

I was, as ever, surprised by the ferociousness of my hangover. No matter how much practice you put in they never seemed to get any easier.

I lay there and groaned for a while, as I did the requisite memory-search of the previous night.

Drinking Stella and calling Terry a twat for saying
Lando
Calrissian
was cooler than Han Solo rang a bell. Drinking more Stella and suggesting
Boba
Fett
was just a storm-trooper with fancy armour rang a much fainter bell.

The last thing I remembered was telling Terry Yoda was a wimp; though I had no idea why I would say such a thing (I
loved
Yoda). After that it was pretty much blankness.

But, crucially, I was in my own bed and apparently uninjured, so all was well. A quick check under the covers confirmed I had managed to take my jeans off. I was still wearing the t-shirt I’d had on the previous day, but that was okay.

One of the things I’d worried about when moving back into my parents’ house was how we would all deal with my habit of getting drunk quite often, given that my mum and dad had an annoying tendency not to drink ever.

 
So far so good
, I thought.

In my previous life, 8.30 would have meant I was late for work. In my new life, this gave me a decadent 45 minutes to luxuriate under the shower.

There was only enough hot water to last ten minutes (my parents were customers of Combined Utilities).

Ten minutes was still good though, and by 9.30 I was all set to go for my bus. It was raining outside, and I searched the room for my cap. I knew I hadn’t taken it off in Terry’s flat, despite his comments, like: ‘I can lose weight, but you can’t gain hair’ and ‘you’re over thirty, Jim. Stop it’.

Office work didn’t allow cap wearing but pub work did and, as someone struggling to accept the fact I could no longer fashion a quiff (or even a minor
quifflett
), I had embraced this as a major boon.

Where was it? I hadn’t been back here long enough to develop a routine, but I was sure that, when I did, that routine would include me leaving my cap on the shelf over by the far wall. It wasn’t there, though.

I decided to venture downstairs. My dad was in the kitchen, wearing a threadbare black dressing gown and looking utterly buggered as he filled the kettle.

‘Morning,’ I said.

‘
Hhmm
,’ he intimated. ‘Tea?’

‘In a hurry, sorry,’ I said. ‘You haven’t seen my cap anywhere, have you?’

He looked at me. ‘The black one?’

This was clearly a loaded question. Unfortunately, I didn’t know what it was loaded with.

‘Eh, yeah, that’s the one.’

‘Try the downstairs toilet.’

Alarm bells ringing when you’re already hung over are positively painful.

I had no recollection of being in the downstairs toilet. In saying that, I had very little recollection of anything.

‘I’d look behind the cistern if I were you,’ Dad said.

‘Sorry?’ This wasn’t looking good.

‘You didn’t have it on when I found you but that’s where you were, so I’d imagine it’s there somewhere.’

Oh good God
, I thought. This had gone way past not looking good, and now looked atrocious. ‘Eh,’ I said.

‘Imagine my pride, Jim,’ Dad said. ‘As a father. Put yourself in my shoes, just this once. Imagine waking at four in the morning with both a full bladder and a wicked thirst. Ironic, eh? So, you go down the stairs, accepting but never understanding the demands of age, in search of a simple glass of water. That’s not too much to ask, is it? It’s my house, after all. My kitchen, my tap, should be the easiest thing in the world. I don’t think it’s a huge expectation, a wee, non-problematic, glass of water. And yet, I get to the bottom of the stairs, and what do I find?’

 
‘Eh,’ I said again.

‘I find my 33 year-old son lying in my hall, trousers at his ankles, his feet in the downstairs toilet and his manhood on display for unfortunates like me to see. I won’t even start on the stains. I can only assume, were the lock on the wee loo’s door stronger, you’d still be in there, leaning. I’m forced to accept I have spawned a creature capable of falling asleep in the middle of a pee. Congratulations.’

Fuck.

‘And then,’ Dad went on, ‘I had the great pleasure of carrying your ugly, comatose arse upstairs and putting you in your bed. That stopped being cute when you were nine, which was also about when it started giving me a hernia.’

So, waking up in my bed was no longer necessarily a bonus, it seemed. Bloody Stella.

‘God, I’m really sorry. I was at Terry’s and he had some beers so …’

‘Not really interested in the details.’ He took a gulp of tea. ‘I just thank God it wasn’t your mother who found you. You’re supposed to be an adult now, Jim. Try at least
pretending
you know what that means.’ He stomped past me into the living room.

My cap was behind the cistern, right enough.

I hurried to the bus stop and tried to figure out how to get past the embarrassment. This was easier than you might think as I had done many, many embarrassing things in front of my parents over the years.

The general drill involved a
bollocking
like that I’d just received followed by a period of simmering silence and dirty looks that could last anywhere from a day to a season, depending on the severity of my fuck-up. Then, one day, for no reason ever clear to me, normal levels of communication would resume and no mention of the incident involved would ever be made again. This may not have been the most emotionally healthy form of conflict resolution, but it worked for us.

 
I figured this one would, under normal circumstances, merit at least a weeklong visit to the quiet land, though my dad’s intimation that he wasn’t going to tell Mum might make that difficult for him, so I had some hope.