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So wrapped up in my fantasy future (the one where Alex Valentine and I rented a dead cool flat in London together, and he saved lives at the hospital while I loafed around writing editorials for the NME), for a split second I imagined that he’d invited me to dinner.
“I can come and pick you up when you finish at the café. My mum wants to properly meet the mysterious maths whizz who’s helped me understand trigonometry where all the expensive private tutors failed.”
I recognised the last bit as a deliberate dig, but I didn’t mind because it meant I got to see that jokey smile, the one that made me glad I’d applied an extra coating of deodorant under my armpits at breaktime. The private tutor thing acknowledged I was evenly balanced with chips on both shoulders, yet Alex tolerated my company regardless.
“But I’ll be at work,” I replied, in a slightly dazed fashion. “Atdinnertime.”
He rolled his eyes at me. “No, Matt. I think you’ll find you’ll be at work atlunchtime. Lunch is eaten at lunchtime, tea is a refreshing, traditional British hot beverage, and dinner happens in the evening atdinnertime. Unless you want to be extra posh, like my grandparents, and refer to it as supper. In which case, I don’t know where dinner slots in. I think for them it’s a fancy night out where you dress up in black tie, but I’d have to clarify for you.”
I’d heard this speech before, or rather the condensed dinner versus tea part of it. In our neck of the woods, dinner consisted of a slab of cheddar cheese and margarine between two slices of Sunloaf. Tea was fish fingers and chips. Supper options were a bowl of cornflakes, or more cheese and crackers if you were still hungry before bed.
Dinner at Alex’s.This Saturday. Seeing as both my cerebral cortices were trying to remember how breathing worked, my brain failed to deliver its usual witty putdowns. Made even less likely by his next comment.
“We’ll be eating fairly early, as my parents have tickets for a play, so afterwards we’ll have the place to ourselves.”
Right. Breathing. Air in and air out. And in again. Eventually, I got the hang of it enough to reply.
“Yeah, all right, mate. I don’t think I’d got much on.”
Babysitting duty with Brenner,Gladiators,and a four-pack of Sainsbury’s lager could be postponed. As could my weekly rendezvous with Denise and Kurt. “Tea sounds grand.”
Weary shoppers pausing for a coffee or a bite to eat that Saturday afternoon might have been overheard grumbling, on their way out, that Debenhams café just wasn’t as good as it used to be. The fault lay entirely on my narrow shoulders. Between Denise’s habitual surliness and my increasing jumpiness, I’d have reached that conclusion too. A howling gale outside kept the café quieter than usual, and so the minute hand on the clock crept at an even more glacial speed, as if time itself enjoyed a laugh at my expense. Denise certainly did.
“You’re acting like you’re on a promise.”
Technically, I was on a promise every Saturday—with her—but on this occasion that wasn’t what she meant.
“What?” We were alone, out the back of the café, treating ourselves to an extended fag break. My heart thudded against my rib cage, and I took a long drag, Kurt-style, buying myself some time to affect my usual devil-may-care attitude. “Nah, although I can’t come back to yours later as I’ve got a mate picking me up.”
Not a flicker of emotion crossed her face. Mind you, apart from when she gave a sloppy customer the evil eye, nothing ever did, even when we had sex. Now I came to think about it, especially when we had sex. We smoked some more in silence and I wondered whether I should offer an apology for my upcoming afternoon no-show.
“Which mate?”
Under her lank fringe, those black eyes stared at me, unblinkingly. I stared back and rolled my shoulders.
“Just a mate.”
Alex appeared a few minutes before five, once more dressed in his sports kit. From the muddy state of it, he’d come straight from the match without changing first, and I told myself it was because he couldn’t bear staying away any longer than necessary. Throwing me a casual wave, he took a seat near the entrance, happy to wait while I cleared the last of the tables.
If he felt as excited as me about the evening ahead, he did a remarkable job at hiding it. I spent the few minutes until I finished in an agony of apprehension. Friends, we were friends, that was all. We would only ever be friends, and the sooner that message hammered into my thick skull, the sooner I’d be able to enjoy his company without fear of blurting out something foolish.
I darted into the staff toilets, where I swiftly changed into jeans and a long-sleeved, white cotton tee, then wiped under my armpits with a fistful of damp paper towels before reapplying deodorant. I regarded myself in the cracked mirror, concluded I was presentable, then smouldered at my own reflection for a few moments, admiring my hollowed cheeks and sulky mouth. Johnny Depp eat your heart out. I’d got this.
My cockiness ebbed the nearer we got to Alex’s house and vanished entirely as he pulled the Polo into his drive. Once we left the dual carriageway behind and began winding through his village, the homes smartened somewhat, and the gardens become grander. Even the early evening air smelled more fragrant. Lush green hedges replaced grey tarmac pavements, the orangey glow of fake gas lamps hinted at long, private driveways beyond.
Discomfort burbled in the pit of my stomach, and, not for the first time, I asked myself what the hell I thought I was doing. Not to beat about the perfectly trimmed magnolia bush, but the Matt Leesons of this world didn’t belong in posh suburbia, not unless they were cleaning windows or casing a joint.
While Alex’s house was big, it wasn’t ostentatiously so, although I reckoned you could have fit mine into about a sixth of it or less. Welcoming yellow light dazzled from all the downstairs windows, illuminating rows of tidy flowerbeds and a neat front lawn. With a practised move, Alex reversed the Polo into a gap between a sleek BMW and a white Ford Escort convertible. Switching off the engine, his lips curved into a happy grin.
“Good, my dad’s home from playing golf. That means we can eat soon. I’m starving.”
Inexplicably, my throat tightened. “Good, my dad’s home”.A phrase that had never crossed my lips. Nor my mum’s, nor my brother Simon’s. I almost told him as much, but one look at Alex’s oblivious and contented expression as he reached into the back seat to grab his sports bag told me he’d never understand. Not really. How could he, with his perfect, shiny skin, his row of shiny cars and shiny fucking house?
Part of me wanted to demand he switch the engine back on and return me to where I belonged, back to the safety of shitty, leaden Stourbridge and my shitty, dank council estate. But it was too late now; already, he had one hand on the door handle and one foot crunching on the gravel. Drawing a shaky breath, I ran a palm across my face and forcibly swallowed down all the fucked-up baggage I hid from my shiny new friend. I could have done with a cheeky fag to settle my nerves but there was no chance of that happening.Pull yourself together,Matt Leeson. You’ve got this.
SHINY HAPPY PEOPLE
(REM)
