Starter For Ten (15 page)

'How were they at school?'

'Oh, it was alright. Compassion doesn't come very easily to twelve-year-old boys, not at my school anyway, and why should it really? Some of them tried, but you could tell they were putting it on. Also - and this is really shameful - at the time it wasn't so much about the person who'd actually, you know, died, my dad, just dropping dead at the age of forty-one, or how it was for Mum even, I just thought how it was going to be for me. What's that word? Solipsism or solecism or something? Solecism.

'I suppose it got me noticed though, in a terrible way;

this awful, maudlin kudos, the dead-dad-boy, you know, lots of girls who've never talked to you before, coming up and offering you a finger of their Kit-Kat and rubbing your back. And there was a bit of bullying of course, and a couple of kids took the piss, calling me Barnardo-boy, that kind of thing, which isn't even witty, because it's not like I didn't have Mum. But I had one mate, Spencer, who decided to look after me for some reason, and that helped. People were scared of Spencer. Quite right too, because he's a hard bastard, Spencer . . .'

'Do you have a picture of him?'

'Spencer? Oh, Dad. No, not in my wallet. Why, d'you think I should?'

'Not at all.'

'Back at home I do. If you come back to mine. Not tonight necessarily, but, you know, whenever . . .'

'And you think about him?'

'Oh, yeah, of course. All the time. But it's hard because we never really knew each other. Not as two adults anyway.'

'I'm sure he'd have loved you.'

'D'you think so?'

'Of course. Don't you?'

'Not sure. I think he'd have thought I was a bit weird, to be honest.'

'He'd have been proud.'

'Why?'

'Lots of reasons. University. Star of the quiz team, going on telly and everything . . .'

'Maybe. The only thing I do still think, and I don't know why, because it's not rational, and it's not even technically their fault, but I'd love to meet the people who employed him, the people who made all the money from making him work like that, because I think they're cunts. Sorry - bad word. I don't really know their names or where they are now, probably in some big fuck-off villa in the Algarve or something, and I don't know what I'd say to them even if I met them, because they weren't doing anything wrong, they were just running a business, just making a profit, and Dad could always have left if he hated it so much, got on his bike and looked for something else, and he would have probably, you know, gone early at some point anyway, even if he was a florist or a primary school teacher or something, it's not like it was criminal negligence, or a mining accident or a fishing boat or something, he was just a salesman, but it's not right for anyone to hate their job that much, and I think the people who made him work like that, well, I do think they're cunts and I hate them, every day, whoever they are, for taking ...anyway. Anyway, will you excuse me a minute? I've just got to go to the loo.'

QUESTION: The lachrymal duct and gland are primarily responsible for the production and distribution of what?

ANSWER: Tears.

In the end I suppose it was a blessing that we were sat so near the toilets.

I've been in here some time now. Too long probably. I don't want her to think I've got diarrhoea or anything, but I don't want her to see me crying either. As a seduction technique, uncontrollable sobbing is definitely overrated. Now she thinks I'm one of those boys who cries. She's probably next door right now, shaking her head, paying the bill and hurrying back to halls to tell Erin all about it; 'God, you wouldn't believe the evening I've had. He's only one of those boys-who-cry . . .'

There's a knock on the cubicle door, and I assume it's Luigi, checking to see if I've done a runner through the fire exit, but there's a voice ...

'Brian, are you okay?'

'Oh, hiya Alice!'

'Are you alright in there?'

'Oh, I'm fine, I'm fine.'

'D'you want to unlock the door, sweetheart?'

Oh, God, she wants to come in the toilet cubicle with me.

'Unlock the door, darling . . .'

'Actually, I'm fine, I'll be with you in a minute.' Hang on ' sweetheart' ?

'O-kay. Come back to me soon though, won't you?'

'Two minutes,' I shout, and, as she's going out the door, 'go ahead and order dessert if you want to!'

And she goes. I wait a moment, then leave the cubicle and look in the mirror. It's not so bad I suppose - the eyes are a bit red, but my nose isn't running any more, so I adjust my bow-tie, mould the fringe back in place, re-attach the braces, and walk back in, head slightly bowed so Luigi won't see me. When I approach the table, Alice stands up, and amazingly puts her arm round me and hugs me really tightly, her cheek pressed tight against mine. I don't know what to do, so I put my arms around her too, leaning forward slightly to allow for the volume of the puff-ball skirt, one hand on the grey satin, and one on her back, her beautiful back, just where the flesh swells out over the top of the satin, and she whispers in my ear - 'you are such a lovely man' - and I think I'm going to cry again, not because I am such a lovely man, but because I'm such a disgusting, fucking stupid, fucking twat, so I squeeze my eyes tight shut and we stay like that for a little while. When I open my eyes again I see Luigi watching, and then winking slyly at me, and giving me the thumbs-up. I don't really know how to react to this so I give him the thumbs-up back, and immediately feel despicable, because I don't quite understand what I'm giving the thumbs-up to.

Eventually of course, my braces ping off and Alice breaks the embrace, and smiles at me with the corners of her mouth turned down, the kind of rueful smile mums give to tearful kids in TV commercials. I'm starting to get pretty uncomfortable now, so I say, 'Sorry about that. I usually don't start crying until much later in the evening.'

'Shall we go?'

But I don't want to go yet. 'You don't want dessert? Or coffee or anything?'

'No, I'm alright.'

'They've got profiteroles? Death by chocolate ...?'

1S9 'No, really, I'm stuffed,' and from somewhere in the folds of the puff-ball dress she produces the world's smallest handbag, and goes to open it.

'Hey, I'm paying!' I say.

And so I pay the bill, which is actually pretty reasonable in the end, thanks to me having a complete mental breakdown instead of dessert, and we head out.

On the way back to her digs, we change the subject, and talk about books, how we both hate D. H. Lawrence and which Thomas Hardy we prefer; I'm Jude The Obscure, she's Far From The Madding Crowd. It's a mild late November evening, and the streets are damp despite the fact that there's been no rain. She suggests we take the scenic route back, and so we stomp up the hill that overlooks the city, breathing a little heavily, because of the exertion and the conversation, which never falters. The sound of the cars on the city streets gets fainter and the only noise apart from our voices is the wind in the trees and the whoosh of her satin ball-gown. Halfway up the hill she slips her arm through mine, and gives it a little squeeze, and rests her head on my shoulder. The last person to take me by the arm like that was my mum, on the way home after seeing my Jesus in Godspell. She had just watched me being crucified of course, which is bound to have an emotional effect on a mother, but I remember even then that it made me feel a little strange, partly proud, partly deeply embarrassed, like I was her proper-little-soldier or something. Alice taking my arm feels no less self-conscious, as if it's something she picked up from a TV costume drama, but it's nice too, and I feel warmer and a good two inches taller.

At the top of the hill we sit on a bench, and she nestles her hip against mine so that we sit snugly in the corner, and even though I can feel the damp soaking through my slacks, and know they'll be streaked with algae, I don't mind. In fact I wouldn't mind if we stayed here forever, looking at the city beneath us, and the lights of the motorway winding off into the countryside.

Tve just realised, I haven't wished you happy birthday yet.'

'Oh, that's okay . . .'

'Happy birthday though . . .'

'Oh thank you, same to you.'

'Except it's not my birthday.' She says.

'No, of course not. Sorry.'

'And I haven't got you a present, either . . .'

'That's okay. Tonight was a present.'

We stop talking, and I contemplate pointing out some of the constellations, like they do in films. I've learnt them off by heart for just such an occasion, but it's too cloudy, so instead I wonder if it's dark enough for me to kiss her, or if she's drunk enough to let me.

'Brian, what are you doing at Christmas?'

'Um, don't know . . .'

'D'you want to come and stay?'

'Where?'

'With me.'

'In London?'

'No, we've got a little cottage in Suffolk. You can meet Rose and Michael.'

'Who are Rose and Michael?'

'My parents!'

'Right! Well I'd love to, but I don't want to leave Mum alone . . .'

'Of course not, but you could come after Christmas, the day after Boxing Day or something. And my parents pretty much keep themselves to themselves, so it would just be me and you most of the time' - she thinks I need persuading - 'we can just hang out and walk and read and talk and stuff . . .'

'Okay,' I say.

'Fantastic! It's a deal then. I'm cold now. Let's go home.'

It's gone midnight when we get back to her halls of residence, but there are still a few people padding to and fro along the parquet corridors, the swots and the insomniacs and the stoners. They all say 'hello Alice' and then glance at me sceptically, but I don't really mind. I'm too busy thinking about how we say goodbye, the mechanics of it. At her door, she says, 'I'd better go straight to bed, I've got a nine-fifteen lecture.'

'Right. On ...?'

'"Stanislavski and Brecht, the Great Divide, question mark".'

'Right, because they're not actually that different in many ways, though people tend to think that their philosophies are mutually exclu . . .'

'Actually, Brian, I really ought to go to bed.'

'Okay. Well, thanks for agreeing to come out with me.'

'Brian -1 didn't agree to. I wanted to,' and she leans forward very quickly and kisses me just near my ear. It's pretty quick, like a cobra strike, and my reflexes aren't really up to it, so I just have time to make that smacking noise with my mouth too loud in her ear, and then the door's closed and she's gone.

And once again, I'm walking up the gravel driveway, on my way home. So it was okay in the end. I think it was okay. I've been invited to a cottage, and I think she finds me 'interesting' now, even if 'interesting' wasn't really what I was going for. I'm a little uncomfortable about the reasons why, but still ...

'Oi, Jackson!'

I look around.

'Sorry, I mean Brian. Brian, up here . . .' It's Rebecca, leaning out of the first-floor window, ready for bed in a long black T-shirt.

'So, how'd it go, lover-boy?'

'Oh, you know. Alright.'

'So is love in the air?'

'Not "love". "Like".'

'"Like" is in the air. I thought so. I sensed it. Like is in the air. Well done, Brian. And you hang in there, pal.'

On the way home I go to the all-night garage and treat myself to a Picnic and a can of Lilt with the money I saved by bursting into tears. When I get home to Richmond House it's nearly two o'clock. There are three handwritten notes pinned to my door ...

7.30 Brian - your Mum rang.

10.45 Spencer rang. Says he's 'bored out of his skull'. He's at the petrol station all night. Call him.

Brian, can you please not use my Apri without asking?

QUESTION: What precisely does Dorothy Gale have to do to return to Kansas?

ANSWER: Click her heels three times, whilst thinking 'There's No Place Like Home'.

Mum's still out at Woolworths when I let myself in, so I make a mug of tea, flop on the sofa, pick up a pen and methodically mark up my Christmas television viewing in the bumper edition of the Radio Times. I feel completely exhausted, which unfortunately owes more to Josh and Marcus' home-brew than any academic fervour. The last few weeks of term have passed by in a blur of sparsely populated parties in strangers' houses, or drinking games in the kitchen with Josh and Marcus' pals; big, burly sporty boys, and hearty, perma-tanned girls from the lacrosse team, all with their shirt collars turned up, all doing French, all from the home counties, and all with the same flicked-back blonde hair. I've made up a pretty good joke about this kind of girl, i.e. that they're all from Surrey-with-a-fringe-on-top, but unfortunately have no one to tell it to.

Anyway, whatever else they teach them at those private schools, they certainly know how to drink. I feel poisoned and grey and malnourished, and glad to get home, lie on the sofa, watch telly. There's nothing good on this afternoon, just some Western, so my eyes wander up to the school photo of me on top of the telly, taken just before Dad died. Is there anything more grizzly and joyless than an old school photo? They say the camera adds five pounds, but here it seems to have been added exclusively to my acne. I look positively mediaeval, like a plague victim, all gums and boils, and I wonder what Mum gets out of it, having me grimacing out at her while she's trying to watch the telly.

The photo depresses me so much that I have to turn the telly off, and go out to the kitchen to boil the kettle and make more tea. While it boils, I look out at the backyard, a shadowy patch the size of a double-bed that Mum had paved over when Dad died, to save bother. I make the tea, and take my bag upstairs to my bedroom. Mum's turned the radiator off, to save on heating, and it's icy cold, so I get into bed fully clothed and stare at the ceiling. The bed feels smaller for some reason, like a child's bed, in fact the whole room does. God knows why, it's not as if I've got any bigger, but already, after only three months it's started to feel like someone else's room. All that's left here is the kid's stuff - the piles of comics, the fossils on the window-sill, the Brodie's notes, the model aeroplanes hanging from the ceiling covered in a fur of dust, the old school-shirts hanging in the wardrobe. I start to feel a bit sad for some reason, so I think about Alice for a while, and then I fall asleep.