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Authors: Mike Gayle

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BOOK: His 'n' Hers
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‘How’s that for full circle? I work in the record shop where he asked you out. And here we are at the end of our three years at university standing in the same place where I first met you.’
‘It’s strange, isn’t it?’
I pause, then ask, ‘Where is Damon?’
‘At the bar,’ she says, pointing.
I look over and wave at him. ‘I know I shouldn’t ask this but . . . how are things between you two?’
‘They’re okay,’ she replies. ‘We have our ups and downs.’
‘Good,’ I reply, then kiss her cheek and walk away.
Wednesday, 22 July 1992
9.46 p.m.
It’s a couple of weeks after the graduation ball and Nick, Damon, our drummer Ed and I are sitting in the Varsity following a band practice. For a while we’ve been talking about going away somewhere to celebrate our new freedom and now we’re taking the vote.
‘Hands up for a weekend in Amsterdam?’
Ed’s is the only hand in the air.
‘Okay, how many for a weekend in Dublin?’
There are no hands in the air.
‘How can you not vote for your own idea?’ I ask Nick.
‘Because it seems a bit rubbish, now I think about it,’ he replies.
‘Okay, and finally, how many votes for the Reading festival?’
Nick, Damon and I raise our hands.
‘So that’s decided, then,’ I say, to the boys sat around the table. ‘Our big post-graduation blow-out is going to be the Reading festival on the August bank-holiday weekend.’
I came up with the idea of going to it because Nirvana were the headline act. We’d seen them the previous September and they’d been fantastic. I’m convinced that seeing them again will be a genuine rock-and-roll moment that will make the weekend really special.
‘We could take our demo tape with us,’ says Nick. ‘And then when Nirvana have played we could hang around by the backstage area and try to give it to Kurt Cobain. He’ll wander around with it in his pocket for a while and then one day he’ll be bored and slip it into his Walkman to have a listen—’
‘And that’ll be it,’ says Ed. ‘He’ll think we’re the best band in the world and proclaim us the future of rock and roll.’
‘We’ll be courted by dozens of record companies,’ adds Damon, ‘and they’ll want to sign us for huge amounts of money.’
‘And our first album will go triple platinum,’ I say.
We all know it’s a fantasy.
We all know that there’s little chance that Captain Magnet will ever release a record.
We all know that we’re never going to become rock stars.
But for that brief moment, sitting around that table, it feels like anything is possible.
Tuesday, 28 July 1992
12.55 p.m.
It’s five minutes until my lunch-break and I’m standing at the till in the fiction department at work, counting every second that passes, when Damon bounds into the shop. ‘Hey, you,’ he says.
‘Hi,’ I say suspiciously. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘I’ve got a surprise for you. But in order for it to work you’ll have to keep the twenty-eighth to the thirtieth of August free.’
‘The August bank-holiday weekend?’ I say excitedly. ‘You haven’t booked that trip to Paris we’re always talking about?’
‘Even better,’ he says. ‘I’ve got us tickets to the Reading festival.’
The disappointment must be written all over my face because Damon immediately starts trying to convince me. ‘It’ll be great.’
‘It’ll be damp and muddy.’
‘You’ll have fun.’
‘Fun? I’ll have to sleep in a tent.’
‘Everyone else is going.’
‘Everyone who?’
‘Well, originally it was going to be just the rest of the band. But then Nick caved in because his girlfriend wanted to go, and Ed, our drummer, felt obliged to take his girlfriend so I thought you could come along too.’
‘What about Jim?’ I ask casually. ‘Who’s he taking?’
‘He’s not taking anyone,’ says Damon. ‘In fact, I haven’t seen him with a girl in ages. Ed says he thinks Jim’s in love with someone who doesn’t feel the same way about him.’
I don’t need to hear any more. I agree to go with him there and then.
Friday, 28 August 1992
8.01 a.m.
I’m watching breakfast TV when the phone rings. I let the answer-machine get it. ‘Hi, Jim, it’s Damon. Mate, I had a dodgy takeaway last night and I’ve been throwing up all night. I’m still coming but Al and I might be a little late.’
9 a.m.
I’m in the kitchen doing the washing-up when the phone rings. Once again I let the answer-machine get it. ‘Hi, Jim. It’s me again. I’m still feeling really dodgy. I think there’s a strong chance I won’t be going. Alison says she doesn’t want to go without me but I’ll get her to drop round the tickets.’
10.45 a.m.
I’m in the living room, trying to find my trainers, when there’s a knock at my front door. I answer it and there on my doorstep is Alison. She’s dressed in old army trousers and there’s a rucksack on her back.
‘That’s not your usual get-up,’ I say, looking her up and down.
‘Apparently I’m going to a festival of some kind,’ she says.
‘Without Damon?’
‘He insisted I go,’ she says, and hands me an envelope. Inside is his ticket and a note torn from an A4 pad.
Dear Jim,
Can you do three things for me?
1) Sell this ticket.
2) Look after Alison for me.
3) Have a good time.
Cheers,
Damon
PS Don’t forget to give Mr Kurt our demo tape.
Saturday, 29 August 1992
3.30 a.m.
Jim and I are sharing a tent. We’ve been in it for all of twenty minutes, having spent most of the early hours sitting around a camp fire that Nick had made. Our evening’s entertainment has been eight two-litres bottles of beer, ten cans of strong cider and (with the exception of Jim) five packs of cigarettes. And we haven’t seen a single band yet. Jim is lying in his sleeping-bag now and I can see that he’s on the verge of dropping off to sleep. I, however, am in the mood to talk so I elbow him gently in the ribs. ‘Are you asleep?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Can’t sleep?’
‘Something like that.’
‘So you’ve woken me up to tell me you can’t sleep?’
‘No, I just wanted to chat to someone and you’re the only one who’s awake.’
‘But I wasn’t awake.’
‘Well, you are now.’
‘So what do you want to chat about?’
‘How about what’s going on?’
‘Where?’
‘Here. Between you and me.’
‘Okay, it’s like this,’ he begins. ‘I like you.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. And I think you like me.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’m guessing. Am I wrong?’
‘No,’ I say playfully. ‘Your guess is right.’
‘You, however, have a boyfriend who is a mate of mine – and that’s pretty much where we are, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. That is pretty much where we are.’
‘So the question is, what are we going to do?’
‘That is the question,’ I echo.
‘Any ideas?’
‘None. You?’
‘None.’
There’s a long pause.
‘Night, then,’ says Jim, moving from his back on to his side.
‘Sleep tight,’ I reply, in a whisper, and then I put my arm around Jim and pull myself closer.
Nothing happens between us. It’s just sort of cosy. And as I drift off to sleep I hope that we’ll stay ‘cosy’ for the rest of the weekend.
Sunday, 30 August 1992
3.30 p.m.
It’s the afternoon of the last day of the festival and Teenage Fanclub are on stage. Two hours earlier we all made a special trip to the supermarket in Reading town centre and bought what could only be described as a ridiculous amount of alcohol, which we ferried back to the festival site in two taxis. While most of the group are drinking at a level that keeps them somewhere around the ‘merry’ mark, Alison seems to be well beyond that point to the extent that I feel I’m not doing a very good job of Damon’s request to look after her.
‘Don’t you think you’re knocking it back a bit?’ I ask Alison, as she attempts to open a two-litre bottle of Woodpecker cider with her teeth.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she slurs. ‘You’re starting to sound like Damon.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘But just watch out for yourself, okay?’
8.21 p.m.
The penultimate band of the festival – Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds – are now on the main stage and Alison is looking decidedly wobbly.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask.
Alison nods unsteadily.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
She nods again and silently mouths the words: ‘I’m fine.’
10.04 p.m.
Kurt Cobain, in a hospital robe, is being pushed onstage in a wheelchair – everyone goes wild. Clearly mocking the rumours that have been going round about various hospitalisations he begins singing, then falls to the ground, flailing.
‘This is worth the ticket price alone,’ I say to Alison, over the roar of the crowd.
She nods but says nothing. I can tell she’s going to be sick some time soon.
10.37 p.m.
Nirvana are playing ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’. They’re just getting to the chorus when I notice that Alison has started throwing up.
It’s like a fountain.
Or maybe a volcano erupting.
Either way it’s violent.
Quite horrible.
And exceptionally projectile.
I look around for my friends, but everyone else has moved nearer the stage. I’m on my own.
I look at Kurt on stage.
Then I look at Alison, who is now on her hands and knees retching.
I look at the demo tape in my hand.
Then I shove it into my back pocket, pick her up and take her to the first-aid tent.
Monday, 31 August 1992
11.07 a.m.
I’m in a phone box talking to Jane, telling her what a mess I’ve made of things.
‘So, what was your big plan?’ asks Jane. ‘Get drunk and try to snog Jim?’
‘I needed a bit of Dutch courage,’ I explain. ‘But I miscalculated and the sheer volume of cider I drank would’ve provided fearlessness for the whole of the Netherlands.’
‘I bet you’ve got a bit of a headache.’
‘The headache’s not the worst of it. I feel terrible because I made Jim miss the band he really wanted to see and his one and only chance of giving the lead singer a tape.’
‘What?’
‘The boys apparently came up with some silly plan to give Kurt Cobain a copy of their demo tape. They were hoping it would lead to fame and fortune.’
‘Well, that was never going to happen.’
‘I know, but they like to daydream, don’t they? I’m so mortified I can’t say a word to him. Not even “sorry”. The nicer he is to me the worse I feel.’
‘The thing between you and him just isn’t going to happen, is it?’ says Jane.
‘You’re right,’ I say sadly. ‘I don’t think it ever will.’
1.33 p.m.
We’re on the train going back to Birmingham and I’m lying with my head against the window and my eyes closed, not talking (and, if I can help it, not moving). I haven’t even made my usual trip to the smokers’ carriage at the rear of the train because I’m feeling too nauseous to smoke. Jim tries to talk to me several times during the journey to assure me that everything’s okay but this just upsets me more.
2.45 p.m.
We’ve just come into New Street station. When we’re all off the train everyone decides to catch the bus home to Selly Oak but Jim insists, given my fragile state, that I might be better off in a taxi. I agree and twenty minutes later we’re in the back of a Datsun Cherry on our way to my house.
We reach Heely Road and the driver pulls up a few doors down. We sort out the money and the bags. Jim gets out, too, and follows me up the pathway to the house. I rummage in my rucksack for my purse, which has got my keys inside. ‘Well, thanks for an interesting weekend,’ he says.
‘I ruined it for you, didn’t I?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I had a great time.’
‘Thanks,’ I say quietly, and then I reach out and put my arms around him as if I’m going to give him a hug – which is what I’d intended to do – but all of a sudden I don’t. Instead I go for his lips and he goes for mine and we sort of kiss for a very long time. And when we stop I panic and immediately feel guilty.
‘I’d better go,’ I say. Avoiding his eyes, I step inside my front door and close it behind me.
Thursday, 3 September 1992
5 p.m.
‘Hi, Alison, it’s me, Jim. Can you give me a ring when you’ve got a moment?’
This is probably the millionth message Jim has left for me since we kissed and I haven’t returned a single one. I’m deliberately avoiding him because I don’t want to talk about the kiss. Although the sole reason I’d got drunk at the festival was to do exactly that, I’m now convinced it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. A one-off. It didn’t mean anything in the real world. And although I’m still not sure how I feel about Damon I just know that I don’t have what it takes to split up from him either. We’ve been together for what feels like for ever. It’s the longest relationship of my life so far. And no matter how unhappy I am with us, I still can’t come to terms with the fact that we might be over.
BOOK: His 'n' Hers
8.07Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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