My Legendary Girlfriend (20 page)

The telephone rang, preventing me from taking thoughts of spiders, flies and cobwebs any further. It rang three or four times before I climbed out of bed to answer it, as I was busy working out the odds of who it might be:

‘Hi, it’s me.’

‘Hi,’ I replied, ashamed that in spite of myself I’d still backed the rank outsider. ‘What’ve you been up to?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Kate. ‘How about you?’

I recalled my promise to phone her back and considered feeling guilty, but then it occurred to me that she had phoned me in spite of my non-action. Kate actually
wanted
to talk to me. I instantly felt more relaxed. In the distance I could hear the siren of a police car.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t call back when I said I would. I fell asleep.’

‘I love sleeping,’ said Kat`e. ‘It’s kind of a hobby of mine.’

She gave a little laugh and I joined her, but whereas hers was joyous and summery, mine was nervous and shifty because I’d been busy wondering whether she slept naked or not.

‘What are you doing tonight?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Kate. ‘I’ve got no money. Anyway I don’t fancy going out. I thought I might stay in and watch TV.’

‘Good idea,’ I said, nodding needlessly.

‘What’s on?’

I located the remote control hiding under a pair of grey M&S pants. The red light on the front of the TV flickered momentarily, and there before me was an episode of
Dad’s Army
. I relayed this information to Kate and together we watched in silence; she in Brighton, I in London, unified by the wonder of television. Private Pike was on top of a huge pile of furniture on the back of a lorry next to a telegraph pole. As far as I could work out there was a bomb lodged up there and it was his job to get it down.

‘I love
Dad’s Army
,’ I said quietly, half hoping that she wouldn’t hear me.

‘Yeah,’ said Kate. ‘It really makes me laugh.’

We sat in silence (apart from occasional laughter) watching Private Pike get stuck up the telegraph pole, and Captain Mainwaring’s attempts to extricate him from this situation. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence at all. I felt as close to her as if she had been sitting on the bed next to me, absent-mindedly offering me crisps from a packet of cheese and onion, with her head resting on my shoulder, happy to be doing something as mundane as watching TV.

‘What else is on?’ asked Kate after a while.

Switching channels, I discovered a documentary on BBC2, about hi-tec thieves stealing computer chips from companies in Silicone Valley and was instantly drawn in. Excitedly I told Kate to turn over and join me and in the following quarter of an hour we learned about the Mafia’s involvement in the multi-billion dollar black market in stolen chips. Kate wasn’t half as interested in the programme as I was, and despite wanting to return to
Dad’s Army
almost immediately, she continued watching BBC2 for my sake. I was touched. Eventually (once the micro-chip programme had finished), we switched over to Channel Four because the news was on ITV and neither of us considered news entertainment, which was all we were looking for. While a car advert played, Kate and I tried to think of as many ridiculous names for cars as we could in a minute. Our top three were:

The ad break finished and the voice-over woman said something like, ‘And now for something completely different,’ in a soft Southern Counties accent she probably considered amusing. The credits for a TV show I’d never seen before came on. It was obviously some kind of fashion/music/style/youth-oriented programme because brightly coloured graphics were flashing up on the screen, battering my irises into submission in time to the thumping bass line of the theme tune. What it was called I never found out, because just as I was about to switch over to
Noel’s House Party
, I caught a glimpse of something on the screen that instantly crash-landed all feelings of contentment.

‘Dave Bloomfield!’ I screamed at the TV.

‘Who?’ said Kate.

‘The biggest tosser in the universe.’

Dave Bloomfield, aka ‘the biggest tosser in the universe’, I explained, was on my course at university. He was tall, half Spanish and a quarter Iroquois (so rumour had it), with hazel eyes and floppy, jet-black hair that made him look like some kind of Edwardian fop. He used to sit in the canteen on the top floor in the English Department reading the
Guardian
from cover to cover – always a sign of a tosser in the making – sipping black coffee and smoking filterless Camels. The female population of the department (lecturers included) doted on his every word, so much so that he even pulled
and
dumped Annette Francis, the most gorgeous creature on our course, a woman so aloof that the one occasion I plucked up the courage to talk to her by asking her the time, she point blank refused to tell me. Oh, and to make matters worse he got a first. Kate couldn’t quite understand why seeing an over-achieving former university colleague presenting his own TV show was winding me up so much and so I tried to explain.

‘Some things just come too easily for some people,’ I raged. ‘While the rest of us mere mortals have to make do,
they
get it all on a plate.’

I was surprised at my bitterness, particularly as I’d never harboured any urges to be a TV presenter. My problem with Dave Bloomfield was that he represented everything I hated about the successful: he was good-looking, clever, witty and, worst of all, motivated. Dave Bloomfield was everything I wasn’t. Dave Bloomfield was the anti-me.

I explained this to Kate. ‘It’s just like anti-matter and matter, if Dave and I ever meet again we’ll explode, killing thousands.’

Kate laughed. ‘You put yourself down too much. You know you can do whatever you want if you put your mind to it.’ She paused, as if thinking. ‘What do you want, Will? What do you really want to do with your life?’

I lay down on the bed and pulled the duvet over my legs. I hadn’t thought about what I wanted to do, in any serious manner, for such a long time that the answer didn’t come quite as speedily as I felt it should have.

‘I’d like to make films,’ I said with a lack of conviction. I was ashamed that I’d done so little to push myself in that direction. I once filled out, but never posted, an application to Sheffield University for an MA in Film Production. It was still in the drawer of my desk at home.

‘Really?’ said Kate. ‘That’s brilliant. Why don’t you do it?’

‘Well, it’s not that easy, you see,’ I began. ‘You need money and you need to be in with the right people. It’s full of nepotism, the film business, and with my mum working at the retirement lodge and my dad doing whatever it is he does all day for the council, I can’t imagine that either of them can open the doors of Paramount for me.’

‘What about writing scripts?’ offered Kate. ‘Those don’t cost a thing and you could do them in your spare time. A mate of mine’s brother works on
Coronation Street
and his dad runs a chippy.’

I wasn’t encouraged. ‘I’ve enough problems teaching without trying to do anything in my spare time other than complain,’ I said, getting out of bed and finding a comfortable space to lie on the carpet. ‘Have you ever tried marking thirty poems on snowflakes? Believe me, if you had you’d be praying, just like I am, that global warming’s going to get a lot worse.’

I wondered whether my excuse sounded like an excuse.

‘That sounds like an excuse to me.’

I ignored her comment. ‘So what about you? What do you want to do?’

Taking a deep breath she told me how she had always wanted to be a nurse. That was one of the reasons (apart from her ex) she’d dropped out of university. She’d realised that her course was pointless and wanted to do something that would help people. In five months she’d be starting nursing college at a hospital in Brighton which was why she was currently languishing on Boots’ perfume counter. The more she spoke, the more I found myself admiring her spirited determination to lead a fruitful life and I even told her so. I think she might have blushed but I couldn’t be sure over the phone.

‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’ said Kate eventually.

‘No. Not at all.’

‘Are you sure you won’t be offended?’

I wondered if it was going to be an embarrassing question along the lines of ‘When was the last time you saw a man naked?’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘at the rate of excitement I’ve been indulging in this weekend, being offended would be positively welcome.’

‘What are you scared of?’

I paused, relieved that I no longer had to tell her about the occasion when I’d disturbed Simon and Tammy on their kitchen table, naked but for the melting contents of a tub of Cookie Dough Dynamo Häagen-Dazs.

‘You think I’m scared of life, don’t you? Well, I’m not. I’m not scared of failure either. After all I’m a failed teacher and I haven’t killed myself yet. What I’m scared of is this: that at twenty-six, I’m too old to make my dreams come true. It’s so hard not to feel envious of you. I know I’m going to sound like an OAP, but at least you’ve got the potential to do what you want to do.’

‘Whereas you . . .’

‘Whereas I haven’t. My course is set. Unless something drastic happens this is it for the rest of my life.’

‘What about becoming the next Scorcese?’

She wasn’t getting the message. ‘Orson Welles had written, produced and directed
Citizen Kane
, one of the world’s greatest films, by the time he was twenty-six.’

‘Forget Orson Welles,’ exclaimed Kate. ‘The TV genius that is Tony Warren was only twenty-three when he came up with the idea for
Coronation Street
!’ Kate stopped herself, immediately realising she wasn’t helping matters. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not being very helpful, am I? My mate’s brother who works on
Coronation Street
, he told me that amazing fact. It’s been waiting there for the chance to escape ever since.’

‘I’m not getting into a debate about whether
Coronation Street
is better than
Citizen Kane
! That’s not the point. The point is, I’m twenty-six! All I’ve done is smoke cigarettes, watch TV and moan about my ex-girlfriend. Even if I started now, I’d be lucky to direct a school production of
Joseph and his Technicolor Dream Coat
before I’m thirty. Sometimes you’ve got to face facts.’

Kate wasn’t convinced. ‘You can do anything you want. If you’ve got talent it’ll shine through in the end. You’ve got to believe in yourself.’

Her positivity was depressing. The similarity of her words to those I might have uttered at her age was surprisingly accurate. Little did she know that I was she, six years down the line.

‘Look, Kate,’ I said in my best let-me-give-you-a-few-words-of-advice voice. ‘It’s taken me this long to just get here. How long is it going to take to get anywhere else? Three years ago, maybe I had a chance. Maybe I could’ve done all the things I wanted.’ My voice became higher, louder, more aggressive. ‘It’s too late. Sometimes you’ve got to know when enough is enough!’ Out of frustration I kicked the ice-cream tub containing my Sugar Puffs breakfast and immediately regretted it. Creamy yellow froth and puffed wheat seeped onto my overcoat, which had been lying on the floor next to it. Now I really would have to get it dry-cleaned.

‘It’s never too late,’ said Kate quietly. ‘Not while you still believe.’

I was moved by the kindness of her words and for a few ecstatic seconds, deep in my heart I was convinced she was right. Then my brain kicked in. She was wrong. In spite of everything I’d done to prevent it, my course
was
set and there was nothing I could do about it. I’d spent the whole of my life wondering what I was going to ‘be’: at the age of five I’d wanted to be a lorry driver; at eight I’d desperately wanted to be Noel Edmonds; in my teens I’d flirted with every profession from a psychic to a chef, before deciding in my twenties that I sort of, possibly, wouldn’t mind making films. So what had I done to set myself on the right path? I’d sat on the dole and then done a teacher training course. And because of that one mistake I was going to ‘be’ a teacher even if it killed me.

‘Thanks, it was nice of you to say that,’ I said kindly. I wanted to apologise for getting so wound up but I couldn’t find a way to say it comfortably, so I changed the subject. ‘What’s your favourite film?’

This was a naff question, only surpassed in naffness by, ‘So, what music are you into?’ but I was desperate to know. Kate and I were sharing so many things that I felt were binding us together. It was hard to believe that as someone who adored films I hadn’t asked her already.

‘It’s
Gregory’s Girl
,’ she said despondently. ‘I know it’s not as cool as some of the films that are bound to be your favourites. It’s not
Taxi Driver
,
Reservoir Dogs
or
Apocalypse Now
, but I like it all the same. It’s sweet, it’s . . .’

I tried to contain my excitement. ‘You’re wrong, Kate. So wrong.
Gregory’s Girl
is my favourite film. It’s fantastic. Better than
Taxi Driver
,
Apocalypse Now
or even sodding
Citizen Kane
!’

Time ceased to have any meaning as we tried to recall the best bits of a film full of best bits. Her favourite parts were when Dorothy, the object of Gregory’s desire, was being interviewed for the school paper in the dressing rooms, followed by the bit where the lost penguins keep getting redirected around the school.

‘Let’s dance,’ I said.

She knew what I meant immediately.

Lying on my back, elbows resting on the carpet and wrists in the air, I began to move as if dancing as Gregory and Susan had done in the park scene near the end of the film. My ear kept moving away from the phone, but there was no mistaking the fact that Kate was participating because she was laughing so loudly that I could still hear her.