His 'n' Hers (6 page)

I’m just contemplating how disgusting the carpet really is when Nick says sharply, ‘Don’t look over at the bar.’

‘Why not?’

‘Just don’t,’ says Nick.

‘But why not?’ I turn round and look over by the bar. ‘It’s Alison and Damon. They’ve seen me and they’re coming over. I wish I hadn’t looked.’

‘I know. That’s why I told you not to look.’

We rarely saw Damon out and about on a Saturday night because it was apparently ‘girlfriend night’ when he was supposed to spend quality time with Alison, doing things like going out for a meal or to the cinema. Which is why I’m surprised when I see him, Alison and a bunch of her mates (one of whom is carrying a heart-shaped helium balloon bearing the inscription ‘Birthday Girl’) enter the club. Alison’s friends disappear
en masse
in the direction of the loo as she and Damon walk over to me and Nick. My heart begins to race like I’ve run a marathon. This is the first time I’ve seen Alison since Wednesday, and unfortunately she has become something of an obsession. My fear now is that if I have to talk to her ever again it will be obvious that I fancy her.

‘All right, guys?’ says Damon, when he reaches me and Nick.

‘Great,’ says Nick, and I chip in a hearty nod.

‘All right, Alison?’ greets Nick.

Alison nods sheepishly and I chip in another hearty nod, and Damon looks at me as if I’m being a bit weirder than normal. ‘Fancy a drink, lads?’ he asks.

‘Carling, cheers,’ says Nick.

‘Castlemaine, cheers,’ I add. My voice sounds ridiculously throaty and everyone looks at me as if they’ve just heard Harpo Marx speak. ‘I’ve got a cough,’ I add, by way of explanation.

‘What do you want, Al?’ asks Damon.

‘I’ll have a vodka and tonic,’ she replies. ‘But I’ll come with you to the bar and give you a hand.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ insists Damon. ‘You stay here with the boys and I’ll be back before you know it.’

Alison is left with me and Nick.

‘I’m going to take a slash,’ says Nick, being deliberately crude. ‘I’ll be back in a sec.’

Now I am left with just Alison.

We stare around the room for a few moments and watch the people on the dance-floor. The song playing is called ‘There’s No Love Between Us’, and I can’t work out if it’s apt that it should be playing, or ironic, or inconsequential.

‘Great song, this,’ I say.

Alison nods and half smiles, but doesn’t speak.

‘So, how are you?’ I ask.

‘Okay,’ she says dismissively. She looks over in the direction of the bar as if willing the queue that Damon’s standing in to get shorter.

She’s so offish with me that I’m convinced she’s finally remembered who I am. I decide to come clean and apologise in a bid to keep the peace. ‘Look—’ I begin, but I’m interrupted by her friends returning from the loo.

‘Alison!’ screams one. ‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ and with that they whisk her off to the dance-floor.

I’m wandering aimlessly through campus trying to kill time between my last lecture, Post-war British Economic History, and the next, Applications of Modern Economics. Sitting down on a bench outside the library I stare into space and find myself thinking about Alison. I’m not thinking anything specifically, just about her in a general sense – her likes, dislikes, what she might think about. That kind of thing. It’s becoming something of a habit for me. I think about her when I wake up. I think about her when I go to sleep. And I think about her in all the time between. It has occurred to me that it isn’t the best idea in the world to be thinking about a mate’s girlfriend with such intensity. Then I reason that the heart wants what the heart wants. In the end I decide that the best way to stop thinking about Alison is to distract myself by checking through the reading list my Post-war-British-Economic-History lecturer has just handed out. One of the books on the list is apparently essential to this year’s course and as I know that every single copy in the library is bound to have been borrowed already by the mature students on my course, I have no choice but to head for the campus bookshop and buy a copy. The second I step in I look across the shop and there’s Alison, looking right back at me.

‘Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?’ I say, when I reach her. It was the first thing that had popped into my head.

She laughs. ‘Yes, it’s unseasonably warm for the time of year.’

‘But, then, again, it did rain a little bit yesterday afternoon.’

‘That’s true. And they say it might rain towards the weekend.’

‘Of course, I did hear that it might clear up after the weekend . . . but it might snow and sleet towards the middle of the week.’

It’s like being dropped into the middle of a black-and-white Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy film. One that’s set in Birmingham featuring Tracy as a slightly grumpy economics student and Hepburn as an English student with a great smile.

We carry on like that – batting meteorological platitudes backwards and forwards – for a full five minutes before I really say something stupid.

‘Enough of the weather,’ I say. ‘Do you fancy going for a quick drink or something?’

Alison’s face immediately drops. ‘No, thanks,’ she says quietly.

‘Work to do?’

She shakes her head.

‘Other plans?’

She shakes her head again.

‘So why are you turning me down?’ I ask.

‘You know why,’ she replies.

She’s right, I do know why. And now I know that she knows that I know too.

‘Can’t we even be friends?’ I ask eventually.

‘I don’t think so.’

And with that she excuses herself and leaves the shop. As I watch her walk out I realise with perfect clarity that I’m more than just attracted to her. This is something deeper. More long-lasting. And, for all the talk, I feel like we both know that, sooner or later, no matter what we do or say, it’s inevitable that something’s going to happen between us. It’s just a matter of time.

It’s the night of the graduation ball. In my hand is a rolled-up piece of paper that proves to the world I have a degree in business and economics. I’m standing at the bar in a tweed suit, waiting for Nick to return from the loo, when a voice I recognise immediately says, ‘You look very smart.’

I turn around and standing there, holding a packet of cigarettes in one hand, a glass of white wine in the other and looking more beautiful than ever, is Alison wearing a cream ballgown. She sets down her glass and the cigarettes on the bar, throws her arms around me and kisses my cheek.

‘You almost look normal,’ she says, laughing.

‘Cancer Research shop in Kings Heath,’ I reply, grinning. ‘Five pounds.’ I deliberately look Alison up and down. ‘You look very . . . ballgowny.’

She laughs. ‘Cheeky sod. I didn’t want to do the whole ballgown thing but all the girls in my house said they were doing it and I didn’t want to be the only one dressed normally.’ She picks up the cigarettes, pulls one out with a lighter and lights up. Instinctively she offers me one, but before I can refuse she says, ‘Oh, that’s right. You’re in the these-things-will-kill-you-one-day brigade.’

‘And they will.’

‘I’ve got plenty of time to give up.’

She inhales on her cigarette deeply, holds her breath for several moments, then politely exhales in the direction of the bar to keep the smoke away from me. ‘I feel like a right idiot dressed like this,’ she says.

‘You shouldn’t,’ I reply. ‘I think you look beautiful.’ I hadn’t meant to say that. So I cover my tracks by changing subjects. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.’

‘A few months at least.’

‘How did you get on with your finals?’

‘Fine. How about you?’

‘Okay. I’m just glad it’s all over. My parents came up for the ceremony and this afternoon my dad told me, as we ate lunch in the Varsity, “The world is yours for the taking, son.” I didn’t bother telling him that I didn’t really want to “take” the world just yet.’

‘I know what you mean,’ says Alison. ‘Everyone seems to be getting proper grown-up jobs and I’ve got a job at Kenway’s, the bookshop in town.’

‘Snap. No career in the financial industries for me, I’m working at a record shop in town.’

‘Which one?’

‘Revolution. Do you know it?’

‘Yeah, I do. You’ll never believe it but it’s where Damon first asked me out.’