How To Choose a Sweetheart (8 page)

“Yeah, except this time he’s well out of his depth. Mind you, I’ve seen her and I’m not sure I blame him.”

There’s a barely noticeable pause as Jazz takes in the information. Max notices but carries on pretending he’s not listening. “Is she nice?”

“Gorgeous.”

“I mean does she look like she’ll be good to him?” Typical of her to think that way, Max thinks.

“Who cares?” It’s not something Chris has thought about, being super-hot trumping all else.

“Have you seen her little girl?” This clangs like a bell in the middle of the conversation. The idea of Max taking on a family seems ridiculous to them all, Max included.

“No. I’ve only caught glimpses of the princess herself. My head’s full of them both, though. It’s practically all he talks about these days.” 

The drink’s worked its magic on Angela and she’s back in the game. “Well I think it’s wonderful.”

That seems like a cue for Alan to join in at last. “He must be keen, taking lessons on a Friday.”

Angela steps in, seeming to sense that it’s about time they changed the subject for everyone’s sake. “Did you hear about Jenny?”

“Not for a while,” Jazz says.

“The bloke she moved in with left.”

“No way. She must be devastated.”

“She’d be happier if he hadn’t done a runner with her credit cards, or if he’d paid the rent,” Chris adds.

“She’s in trouble then.”

“Especially with his wife.” Chris’s eyes shine as he passes on the gossip.

“You’re kidding.”

“We tried to warn her, remember, but she didn’t really want to hear.” Angela’s voice is quiet and she looks down as if embarrassed at the thought of failing a mate.

“Sometimes you’ve just got to make your own mistakes.” Alan’s right. Of course he is. But it doesn’t stop Max wanting to argue. He takes out his earphones and prepares to burst in when Chris beats him to it.

“There’s a good side to it all, you know. She’s so skint she’s selling off most of her stuff.” 

“That’s really sad,” Jazz says as she slaps Chris’s shoulder with the back of her hand.

“I know, but she’s got some great furniture.”

From his other side, Angela digs her elbow into his ribs. “Sometimes I wonder about you.”

“Bet you’d like those funky candlesticks though.” Below the belt maybe, but bang on.

“I suppose she needs the cash.”

“I’ll call her soon and we’ll get together,” Jazz says. Everyone nods and the idea’s noted. They’re all ready for a change of subject. Max’s life offers the easy choice. “Tell us about your music lessons.”

“There’s nothing to it really.”

“Enough for you to miss the opening round. You got here a lot earlier than we expected. What was that all about?”

He could tell them, but it seems ridiculous and rather dull. “You don’t want to know.”

“You didn’t get to Twinkle Twinkle then.” Chris is playing the joker, but it’s a nice little distraction.

“I’ll just have to look it up in the book.”

“How sweet,” Chris says and bursts into song.

‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star...’

Alan joins in.

‘...How I wonder what you are...’

And Angela.

‘...Up above the world so high...’

Jazz holds up her hand as if she’s the conductor and they all stop singing at once. “That’s very good.”

“And we haven’t even practiced.” Chris is unrepentant.

Max doesn’t want the spotlight. He quickly gets back to safer ground. “I quite fancy Jenny’s floor cushions.” He knows he’ll look an arse, but it’s better than the alternative.

“Max!” Jazz looks shocked.

Max blunders into a change of subject. “So what’s the plan for tonight?”

“We thought you were up for a quiet evening.”

“Not any more. I feel like a session.”

“What about the hangover?”

He drinks what’s left in his glass. “I’ve just found the cure.”

“You feel better then?”

“On the whole I’d rather be in bed, but this’ll do.”

Chris rubs his hands together at the prospect of another session. “We could stay here and get up to The Pits later on.”

“Sounds good.”

“Now you’re talking.”

Jazz turns to Alan and they have a quiet conversation, then she leans into the group as if she’s about to tell a big secret and looks over to Max.

“Some madman called us in the middle of the night.”

“No way!” If Angela’s mouth opens any further, it might easily be mistaken for a tunnel.

Alan leans in now. “Only a madman called Max.”

“I couldn’t exactly make it out,” Jazz goes on, “but it was something about the beauty of the Moon and the joy of howling, then some banging on the piano.”

Chris burst out laughing, a fine spray of beer misting up the air above the table. “That sounds like the evening in a nutshell.”

Max drops his head sheepishly, feels the warmth in his cheeks and the need to pee. Alan and Chris just laugh.

“Don’t worry,” Jazz says, putting her hand on his to give a little squeeze. “It’s no big deal. Just don’t make a habit of it.”

What a dick he is. Phoning up his ex like a saddo. The least he can do is apologise. “I’m sorry,” he says, really meaning it.

Chris doesn’t bother waiting for the response. “Your round Angela.”

“And you’re a bloody square. Same again?”

Everyone nods and Angela goes to the bar.

Chris stands and calls after her. “I’ll give you a hand.”

As he passes Max he gives him a wink, then puts his arm around Angela’s waist as they walk over to bring home the bacon.

A
lan, Jazz, Chris and Angela are gathered on a pavement outside The Pits. The music is loud with the vibrations of a Violent Femmes bass line dominating all else. The street is busy with people dressed in summer clothes in spite of the chill in the air. 

Max is on the other side of the road. He’s been waving his arms at cabs for five minutes, but none of them have stopped.

At last a car pulls over to the kerb. It’s one of the box-shaped cars that should really be a van, but has seats in it. 

When Max opens the door and tells the driver where they’re going, his friends pile over in a knot of arms and legs. They’ve obviously been in joke-telling mode as Alan has a go at the punch-line as soon as the door closes.

“Indigo!  Indigo!  That’s terrible,” Alan says.

“That’s the only one I can remember.” Chris is being defensive, but Max knows that Alan’s right even if he doesn’t want to agree.  Angela leans forward and stares at the driver. “God, he looks like Mel Gibson.” The girl has no idea about personal space.

“No way,” Jazz says.

It doesn’t stop Angela’s flow. She leans in even closer to the driver so that she’s practically shouting in his ear. “Do you know you look just like Mel Gibson?

“So I’ve been told,” he says, slipping the car into fourth gear and answering as if he’s got his communication system set on to automatic pilot.

“See?”

“You look more like JFK,” Jazz goes on. She must be having a laugh.

“Yep, him too.”

Max throws in a spanner. “Chaplin?”

“Every once in a while.”

“A big mouse?” Chris asks.

“You takin’ the Mickey?  It’s a bit early for that one.”

“I’m always ahead of my time.”

“And always end up with the worm.” Max goads.

“Like attracts like,” Angela slurs.

The talk of worms seems to have reminded Chris of a joke. “What’s worse than biting into an apple and finding a worm?”

Alan and Jazz are onto it like a pack of hounds. “Finding half a worm.”

Even the driver groans.

Jazz’s face straightens and her eyes look into the distance. “Poor Jenny. She ended up with the biggest worm of all.”

“Art historian my arse,” Chris says.

The sight of Jazz looking sad cuts into Max and he leaps in to try and change the tone. “Didn’t you get suspicious when he thought Picasso was a flavour of ice cream?”

“No. I went down to the shops and tried to get some.”

Angela joins in. “Come to think of it, he did get a bit edgy when I started asking him about Constable.”

“If I ever get hold of him,” Alan says, “I’ll Braque his legs.”

Alan’s a pretty funny guy, Max thinks. Sharp and clever and friendly. Perfect for Jazz, he has to admit. The scumbag. Max turns to the driver.

“If you could pull over at the end of the street please.”

“Hey, call me a cab.” Angela, on the other hand, is more your bag of fun.

Jazz helps her out. “You’re a cab.

The two girls laugh and collapse into each other like leaning towers.

“I can see the resemblance,” Chris says. “Must be the moonlight.”

The taxi stops. Jazz looks at Angela.

“You still want to stay at mine?”

“If that’s okay,” Angela says.

Alan perks up again. “There’s plenty of space.”

“Great, thanks.”

Chris looks over to her with a bemused expression. His mouth moves and then sounds come out. “But I...I thought...
”

Angela bends forward and gives Chris a hug and a kiss on the lips. “It’s really late. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“OK,” Chris says, but it has a sulky edge to it that matches the downturn in his mouth.

“I had a great evening,” Angela says, kissing him again and struggling out of the cab.

Alan shakes hands with the two men and gets out.

“See you soon,” Max tells him.

“Take care.” He’s so bloody reasonable about it all.

Jazz seems to have engineered it so that she’s the last to get out. She hugs Chris first. “Cheer up, she really likes you, you know. And so do I.”

Chris smiles and she roughs his hair.

“See you soon.”

Jazz turns to Max. They smile at each other. Max reaches out and Jazz gives him her hand.

With the beer goggles on, the ones that have turned the driver into Clark Kent, Jazz looks radiant.  He sees a halo of light around her head.
“
Goodnight Jazz.”

“See you on Wednesday.”

She gets out of the cab and closes the door. As she steps out Alan puts his arm around her and she rests her head on his shoulder.

The jolly atmosphere inside the cab has gone and the two men sit there stony faced.

Angela is waving and shouting as they pull away.

Chris leans over to the driver. “Heartbreak Hotel, mate.”

“That’s on Amwell Street,” Max tells him.

They go on for a while in silence until Max breaks it. “Chess?”

“Why not?”

“What’s the score?”

“37 – 35 to me.”

“No worries.”

They settle back to silence.

Chris starts to hum. It’s Heartbreak Hotel. Max joins in singing. Chris starts to sing too and they continue, linking arms and carrying on that way until they get back to Max’s.

T
heir bus pulls in at the stop. Chris and Max stand holding the pole, poised like greyhounds in traps. The doors hiss in front of them and as soon as they open Max and Chris jump onto the pavement.

They sprint down the hill towards the shop.

Max feels the tar in his lungs clogging up his airways and slows into a jog. When he gets there, Chris is waiting for him in the doorway and they enter together, brothers in arms. 

They manage to sneak into the office without being clocked.

Chris throws his coat onto a chair and gets straight out onto the shop floor.

Max isn’t ready to work. His heart is pounding and his breathing hasn’t recovered. Life’s bugging him, but he’s not sure why. It’s as if someone’s walking over his grave, only he’s not dead yet. He paces up and down in the office trying to get rid of some of his edginess.

He has Cath and Jazz on his mind, like Yin and Yang. This Yin and Yang seem to be in battle, making his nerves fray at the ends.

There’s no point calling Jazz. She’ll be sleeping it all off. Besides, he remembers all of the night before and knows he didn’t do anything ridiculous that he might need to apologise for.

He pulls out his mobile, finds Cath’s number in his address book and presses the call button.

She answers brightly.

When Max speaks, his voice is gritty and worn. “Cath? It’s Max. How’s everything?”

“Fine,” she says. “I tried calling last night, but you must have been out.”

“With work,” Max tells her, feeling a little guilty for no reason he can fathom.

“So how’s the hangover?”

“Could be worse. Listen,” he says, then hits his forehead. He hates the politicians who start sentences that way, as if the audience have any other choice than to hear what’s said. “I was wondering if you might like to go and see a film this evening.”

There. It’s out. He wants to take her on a date and there’s no room for misunderstanding. She’ll either bite or she won’t.

Cath doesn’t say anything straight away. Where she should be speaking there’s a pause that’s a little too long for Max’s liking. He wonders whether it’s a ‘how do I give him the gentle brush off’ kind of pause or one of the ‘I’d like to, but I know I shouldn’t’ variety.

When she does break the silence, she sounds tentative. “Anything good on?” She might just be playing hard to get.

“There’s a Woody Allen double bill at the Phoenix.” Max holds his breath a little at this. It’s another of those make-or-break moments. A girl who doesn’t like Woody isn’t the girl for him. Then again, with eyes like hers, he might just make an exception.

“I’m in.” She says it without pausing. A tune enters Max’s head like he can hear the mermaids singing.

“How about I pick you up at seven o’clock?”

“As long as I can get a sitter for Alice.”

“Great. If you can’t find anyone, there are a few people that owe me. Listen...” He’s done it again. Makes him want to slap himself. “...I’d better get to work. I’ll speak to you later.”

When he presses END, he kisses his phone. He stands up quickly and claps his hands, spins round, walks to the door and leaves the office.

I
t’s late. The night is clear and the stars blink in the sky. People pour out of the tube station and head down the hill so that Max and Cath are like salmon swimming against a tide. As the crowd dies down, Max and Cath walk freely again and stop at the crossing.