On hearing that news, everyone flooded to the bar.
James turned to me. “Sorry to hear about your mum.”
“Thanks,” I said, but I wasn’t there to think about that. In fact, I was specifically there not to think about it. I wanted to drink and I wanted to sing the songs of the Spice Girls and I wanted people to talk to me, but not about my mum. For some reason I said, “She looked like a corpse for days before she actually died,” which wasn’t even true and it sent James hurrying away, muttering something about catching me later.
The evening rolled on. I drank more Breezers. I had a turn on the karaoke. I had several turns. I did a duet with Ted. We sang, “You’re the One That I Want.” It was the best time I’d had since my mum’s passing.
By the end of the night I was the only person left, drunkenly slurring out whatever came next on the machine as they closed up around me. I decided I would get a karaoke machine; I was working out which bills I wouldn’t pay to save the money, and if this would be instead of an oven, or before it, or after it, as Vern, the karaoke man, packed his stuff up.
“One more song, Vern,” I said. “I’ll let you choose.”
“‘The Sound of Silence,’” he said, and pulled the plug.
“Don’t you have a home to go to?” Mick asked as he collected the glasses.
“Well, yes and no.” I had a house, but it didn’t feel like a home anymore. Mick didn’t stop to hear the details of that.
Then I had an idea. “Do you need any staff?” It would be nice to work in the King’s Head and be there for karaoke every week.
“We’ve got everyone we need at the moment, thanks,” Mick said. And I hadn’t really expected anything else. “Door’s over there.” And with no other option, I went through it.
Outside, the fresh air hit me and I realized how drunk I was, but I could find my way home in my sleep, so it wasn’t an issue. I took my keys out of my bag and held them between my fingers, just in case. Upper Iffley was a very safe place, but you can never be too careful. Then I stepped out off the pavement to the other side of the road, stood awkwardly on the curb, tripped, and dropped my keys down the drain.
“Noooo!” I lay on my stomach and peered down through the grid. I couldn’t see anything and if I could, I wouldn’t have been able to reach through the slats. Just like that, the best night since my mum had died had become the worst. I didn’t even know back then what you were supposed to do if you dropped your keys down the drain. Previously, my mum would’ve let me in. And it was getting cold.
Headlights appeared and I scrambled to try to get up before the car was on top of me, but it saw me and stopped. The door opened.
“Are you alright?” a voice asked and when I looked up, James was standing in front of me.
“Yes,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“I dropped my keys.”
“Oh, I thought you were being sick,” he said. “You are quite drunk.” I wasn’t that bad. “I’ve got a car phone and a Yellow Pages in the limo,” he said, gesturing at the long black car behind him, with a chauffeur standing beside it. “We can call an emergency locksmith.”
So, I got into the car and used the only car phone I have ever used—it was already quite retro by then: Mobile phones were just starting to become common. Then we drove to my house and waited in the warmth of the car until the locksmith arrived and James settled up with him, which was slightly embarrassing, but he insisted and I didn’t have the money anyway.
I didn’t invite him in—I couldn’t because of the mess—but as he was about to leave, James said, “Would you like to go out sometime?”
I wasn’t expecting that!
“Yeah, OK.” I managed to keep my voice calm. “When did you think?”
“Thursday maybe? Or Friday? If you’re free.”
Frankly, I could’ve done any evening except for the evenings I was on the late shift, but I made a show of thinking it over. “Thursday I could do,” I said in the end. Why wait? Then I changed my mind: “Friday,” I said. I wouldn’t be paid until Friday; I was already thinking about what I would go without to pay for a round of drinks or whatever we were going to do.
“Great! I’ll pick you up at eight.” And once again, it became the best evening since my mum died.
That night I fell asleep thinking about James Dixon and how I’d never noticed before how attractive he was. His face was thin and his nose was quite sharp; I’d always thought of him as rather fox-like, but I realized now how lovely foxes were. His hair, I’d previously thoughtof as mud brown, but now I’d describe it as tawny; the shape of his lips I’d once considered as girly, now I saw they made him look sensitive.
***
On Friday afternoon I emptied out my wardrobe onto my bed and wondered what to wear. I had a mixture of shop-bought clothes and the homemade ones I was wearing more and more often. I wasn’t sure whether Primark or Made by Daisy would go better with his designer gear.
In the end I chose the dress that my mum and I had made together for the one and only holiday we ever went on. It was our masterpiece; it was sleeveless and fitted, made from blue cotton, with satin sewn into the sleeves and skirt. We embroidered the dress with little daisies, for my name, and sewed tassels to the hem, using bookmark tassels left over from a jumble sale. It looked simple, but from design to completion, it had taken us weeks. It made me feel like my mum was with me, although I understand not everyone would want their mother with them on a date.
