2011
Manchester – Ed
‘Want anything from the shop, fella? I need to get more bog rolls.’
I look up from my phone to see Graham’s head peeking around the lounge door. Graham’s the only one here not studying music, instead opting for History and Sociology, and sometimes I think he feels a bit out of place. But he shouldn’t. He’s incredibly funny and likeable, if a tad odd at times.
‘Are you wearing my hat?’ I ask, narrowing my eyes at the grey beanie he has on. I already know the answer, as Graham does this all the time. If you leave anything lying around the shared lounge area, Graham will take it and either eat it or wear it. ‘I was looking for that this morning.’
‘Aye, I wondered who this belonged to,’ he answers. ‘It’s pure cosy, innit? I’ll just keep it on. It’s Baltic outside, man.’
Considering I wear that particular grey beanie most days, I think it’s obvious who it belongs to, but he’s too nice to argue with. Like me, the two women who live here, Ruth and Carly, also tend to put up with Graham’s little idiosyncrasies, given that one of these is a strong desire to clean the kitchen every evening. I’ll happily give up my hat to avoid doing dishes. Even the uni cleaners who come in once a week hope he never leaves.
‘I’m good,’ I tell him. ‘But thanks for asking, mate.’
‘No bother,’ he says and disappears back into the hall. Three seconds later, I hear his cheerful Irish brogue asking Ruth if she needs anything. She yells back that he ate all her Pringles, so he’dbetter fucking buy more. He quickly agrees as Ruth is far scarier than the rest of us.
I open a can of Coke and go back to my phone, hoping she doesn’t notice her cereal has also mysteriously reduced in quantity. At least I had the sense to eat it privately.
A few minutes later, Ruth appears, wearing her own hat and a bright orange padded coat which looks warm, if not a tad ridiculous. It looks like the bottom bit of a bouncy castle.
‘’Sup, Eddie,’ she says, pulling her gloves out her pockets. ‘Are you doing any open mics this week? I need someone on guitar.’
Ruth’s studying music and drama. She’s a really lovely girl, if somewhat pushy– but I guess you have to be to survive auditions. Our other flatmate, Carly, I already know from summer camp, so it’s been great having a friendly face around. She spends most of her time with her boyfriend, though. He moved here with her, so he’s obviously understood that long-distance relationships are bloody hard. Mum and Dad met Carly last time they came down and absolutely loved her, but then Mum does have a really soft spot for the Welsh accent.
‘Nah, I need to work,’ I tell Ruth, admiring her gloves. The palms have skeleton bones on them. ‘I have a couple next week, I think.’
‘Well, give me a shout if you change your mind, or get fired or whatever. I could really use you.’
The music scene in Manchester is every bit as vibrant as I’d hoped. It’s also bursting at the seams with fellow singer–songwriters, like Ruth, who spend every waking moment planning their next gig. In Castleton, I was like a lanky enigma. No one else played as well or took music as seriously as I did. But here, I’m just another muso, trying to find his place in a city witha thousand others like me. Being here has been a blow to my ego. Any delusions of grandeur I had have been well and truly quashed. The more I gig, the more I realise that while I might be good, I’m not sure I have what it takes to be great.
I hear my phone buzz.
Hello! Lauren’s away next week! Can you come up? xx
It’s Kate. As happy as I am to hear from her, it feels like she’s been dodging my calls lately. We used to talk at least twice a day and now I’m lucky to get five minutes with her between classes and her job. I try not to get upset with her, but I also do both,andtutor, and would still drop everything to grab a few minutes to say hi. I miss her. She makes me feel like I can accomplish anything, but when I have to deal with this shit alone, I’m hopeless. Sometimes I still feel like that kid in year 10, trying to make friends with the cool girl at the lunch table. I know that I need her more than she needs me and that’s a disconcerting place to be.
January
Kate
Tara Mitchell has been keeping me busy with an endless stream of calls and emails. She even popped into the office this afternoon for an impromptu powwow.
‘So I’ve been thinking about his request to do the fifty-fifty split with the kids,’ she announced, while I scrambled to hide my lunch in my desk drawer. ‘And while I know it’s just an excuse not to pay child maintenance, I actually think it’s a great idea.’
‘You do?’ I asked, choking down my chicken baguette. ‘Well, that’s encouraging. Custody can be one of the trickiest parts of a divorce to negotiate but I’m glad—’
‘Because if he thinks for a second that walking coat hanger is going to want to play step-mummy, he’s in for a rude awakening. I’ve seen her manicures; those claws aren’t built for parenting. She can barely open her Birkin, never mind wiggle a straw into a Capri-Sun.’
‘OK—’
‘The moment they snot, poo or vomit on her, it’ll be game over. And they’re three– it’s unavoidable. So let him think he can play happy families. It’ll be hysterical to watch. Besides, I could do with a couple of nights off– at least until he realises that my nails look like shit because I’m hands-on with the twins.’
I got the distinct feeling that words about nails had beenexchanged between the pair of them, but I didn’t dive any deeper into it. To me, her nails seem completely normal, but then I’ve never been one for acrylics. Maybe short, unpolished nails are grounds for divorce in their world.
‘Right, well, if that’s all, I’ll give his solicitor a call later and we—’
‘You’re not married, are you?’ she asks, her gaze darting towards my left hand, which I instinctively place on my lap in case she inspects my nails too closely and demands another lawyer.
