Starter For Ten (34 page)

It's dark when we leave the cinema, and I'm feeling a little nauseous from all the sweets and kissing, but she takes my arm as we walk back through the town centre, and we talk about Eisenstein with revolutionary zeal. 'He really is the father of modern film narrative technique,' I say and, when I finally run out of that kind of dreary crap, 'Coffee and a flapjack? Or the pub? Or back to mine? Or yours?'

'Better not. I've got lines to learn.'

'I could test you?' I suggest, though something tells me I'm testing her quite enough as it is.

'Actually, I'm better off on my own,' she says, and I realise with dismay that we're heading back towards her halls of residence, and that this is the end of our falling-in-love montage for today.

Then on the ring road, just past the National Express coach station, I see something and have an idea.

'Come with me a second . . .'

'What for?'

'I've had an idea. It's going to be fun, I promise.' I ever so subtly tighten my grip on her arm so that she can't run away, and we head into the grey diesel haze of the coach station, and the Photo-Me Booth.

'What are we doing?'

'I just thought we'd get our pictures done,' I say, searching in my pockets for change.

'Of the two of us?

'Uh-huh.'

'What on earth for?' she says, pulling away slightly. I tighten my grip.

'Just a souvenir,' I say, but that word isn't right. 'Souvenir', noun, from the French verb souvenir, to remember. 'You know - for fun!'

'No way,' she says firmly, and I wonder how I'm going to get her in there, without the aid of a chloroformed handkerchief.

'Oh, go on . . .'

'No!'

'Why not?'

'Because I look terriblel' she says, when of course what she really means is 'Because you look terrible . . .'

'Rubbish, you look fine - come on, it'll be fun,' I say, again tugging her across the station forecourt by her hand; it will be fun, it will be fun, it will be fun ... I pull back the diesel-and-nicotine infused orange nylon curtain and we squeeze into the booth, and there's some light-hearted fidgeting about as we adjust the height of the stool and work out how we're going to sit. Eventually Alice perches on my knee, then has to get off again so that I can remove a bunch of keys and get the change out of my pocket, then nestles once more on my lap, both legs swung over mine this time, and wraps her arms around my neck. She's playing along now, and it seems as if this might even be fun after all, so I lean forward and put the 50p in the slot.

The first camera flash happens just as I'm pushing the great loose flap of hair out of my eyes.

For the second flash I take off my spectacles, suck in my cheeks and pout, pulling a sort of tongue-in-cheek male-model face, because it will be fun.

For the third photo I try relaxed, light-hearted laughter, head tipped back, mouth open.

And for number four, I kiss Alice on the cheek.

It seems that several hours pass as we wait for the photos to come out of the machine. We stand around in the coach station in silence, inhaling diesel fumes and listening to the tannoy. The 5.45 coach for Durham is about to leave.

'Ever been to Durham?' I ask.

'No,' she says. 'You?'

'No,' I say. 'I'd like to, though. Lovely cathedral apparently.' The coach rumbles past us, belching exhaust. I contemplate throwing myself under it. Then finally, with a whirr and a click, the machine spits out the strip of photographs, which are sticky with developing fluid and smell of ammonia.

Some primitive tribes believe that having your photograph taken steals a little bit of your soul, and looking at this strip of photos it's hard not to think that maybe they've got a point. In the first, my hand and my hair are obscuring most of my face, and the only thing you can see clearly is the acne round the corners of my mouth, and the great fat mottled tongue lolling out obscenely, as if I've just been punched. Number two, the 'comedy male-model shot', is possibly the most grotesquely mirthless thing you've ever seen in your life, an effect that's reinforced by one, just one, of Alice's eyes rolling back into her head. Number three, entitled 'laughter!', is horribly bright and over-illuminated, so that you can see up my nose, past matted nostril hair into the black centre of my skull, and down into the pink-ribbed roof of my mouth, past the stubby silver-grey fillings on my molars all the way down to my epiglottis. Finally, in number four, I'm kissing Alice with a chapped, puckered haddock mouth while she winces, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

One for the wallet then.

'Oh dear,' I say.

'Lovely,' says Alice, flatly.

'Which two do you want?'

'Oh, I'm all right, I think. You keep them, as a souvenir.' And there's that word again, souvenir, noun, from the French souvenir, to remember. 'Sorry, Bri, I've got to run.' And '

she does. She runs.

Sat at home that evening, putting the finishing touches to the poem, and looking at the strip of photographs Blu-Tacked to the wall by my desk - me kissing Alice, her wincing it strikes me that our fun-day-out has only been a partial success. I should forget about it of course, but I'm worried that I won't be able to sleep unless I speak to her again, so I pull on my coat and head off to the student bar, in the hope that I'll accidentally bump into her after rehearsals.

She's not there, of course. When I arrive the only other person I know is Rebecca Epstein, surrounded by her little coterie of fuckingangryactuallys. She seems pretty pleased to see me, and gets her comrades to redistribute some of the space on the bench so that I can squeeze in next to her, but the table's covered in empties; she's been alternating lager and whisky all night, and seems pretty drunk.

'Have you seen Eisenstein's Battleship Potemkin^ I say, keeping an eye out for Alice.

'Can't say I have. Why, should I?'

'Absolutely. It's amazing. They're showing it at the Arts Cinema all this week.'

'Okay then, let's go, shall we? I'll bunk off lectures tomorrow afternoon . . .'

'Well, actually I went to see it this afternoon.'

'On your own?'

'No. With Alice actually,' I say, as casually as I can. But Rebecca can spot that kind of thing a mile off, and pounces, 'Well, you two are awfully friendly at the moment, aren't you? 'S there something I should know?'

'We've just been spending a bit of time together, that's all.'

'Is that right?' says Rebecca, sceptically. She starts to roll another cigarette, even though she still has one glued to her lip, and it's like watching someone load a revolver. 'Is ... that. . .'

(licks the Rizla) '...right? Well, Jackson, you certainly know how to show a gal a good time, don't you? A masterpiece of Soviet propaganda in the afternoon, then maybe on to Luigi's for prawn cocktail, half a barbecue chicken and two pints of Lambrusco bianco. It really is the high-life. I only hope, after a magical day out like that, she at least let you have a wee feel of her tits . . .'

The clever thing to do, of course, would be not to rise to the bait.

'Actually, we're sort of going out with each other,' I say.

Rebecca raises her eyebrows and smiles to herself. She lights her new cigarette before speaking again.

'Are you now?' she says, quietly, and picking tobacco off her lip. 'So how come I haven't seen you together round at our halls of residence?'

'We're being discreet. Taking it slow,' I say, unconvincingly.

'Right, right. So was that you who phoned up in the week to talk to her?'

'No!'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes!'

'Because it sounded awfully like you . . .'

'...well . . .'

'...putting on a funny voice . . .'

'...well it wasn't . . .'

'So have you shagged her yet?' she snarls, rollie dangling from her curled lip.

'What?'

'Have you had sexual intercourse? You know - congress, coitus, the beast-with-two-backs. Come on, you must have at least heard about it. After all, you're going on University Challenge - what are you going to do if it comes up as a question? "Jackson, from Southend-on-Sea, reading Eng. Lit, what actually is sexual intercourse?" "Ummmmmmm ...Can I confer with the rest of the team, Bamber? Alice, what's sexual inter ...?"'

3O1 9'

"I know what it ts, Rebecca . . .'

'So, have you done it then, or are you saving yourself for your wedding day? Or maybe she's worried about your sexual history; after all, you can't be too careful these days. Except as I recall you don't actually have a sexual history . . .'

And before I even know what I'm saying, I say, 'Yeah, well, it's not like yours is anything to write home about, Rebecca.'

She takes the cigarette out of her mouth, rests her hand against the edge of the table, and is silent for a moment.

'Good point, Jackson. Good point.' She downs the last inch of her pint, winces. Touche, Jackson!' And then we sit in silence.

'I didn't mean . . .'

'...no, that's all right

'...I wasn't referring to . . .'

'No, I know you weren't.'

I decide to leave.

'So are you coming to the filming?' I say, pulling on my coat.

'What filming?'

'The University Cha . . .'

'When is it?'

'Day after tomorrow?'

'Can't. I've got tutorials, so . . .'

'...there's a list on the second-floor notice-board if . . .'

'...I know . . .'

'...just sign your name if . . .'

'...I'll see . . .'

'...I'd really, really like you to come . . .'

'Why?'

'...I just would. See you there maybe?'

'Aye. Well. Maybe.'

I swing by Alice's halls of residence, just in case, and drop my Valentine's card in; hand hovering by her mailbox, then taking a deep breath and letting go. Then I hang aiound, pretending to read the notice-boards, in case she comes back. But I don't want to run into Rebecca again tonight, so I soon head back home and arrive just as Josh is pinning a note to my door.

'Ah, there you are, lover boy. Message for you. From someone called. . .'Alice maybe?'...from someone called ...Tone. He says you're to call him urgently.'

'Really?' I say. What on earth does Tone want? Maybe he's coming to stay too. I can't have Tone coming to stay, not with Valentine's Day tomorrow, and The Challenge and everything. I check my watch. Half eleven. I go to the payphone in the hall.

'Hiya, Tone!' I say, brightly.

'All right, Bri . . .'

'Didn't wake you up, did I? It's just I had a message to call.'

'Yeah, that's right . . .'

'Are you coming up to stay, Tone? Because if you are, it's not the best time at the mo . . .'

T'm not coming to stay, Bri. Actually I was just wondering when you were going to come down here?'

'Well ...not until Easter, I don't think.'

'No, I mean to see Spencer.'

'Why, what about Spencer?'

'You haven't heard then?'

I press the receiver tighter against my ear, lean against the wall.

'Heard what?'

Tone exhales into the mouthpiece, and says, 'There's been a bit of an accident.'

QUESTION: At whose wedding do 'funeral bak'd meats coldly furnish forth the wedding tables'?

ANSWER: The marriage of Gertrude and Claudius, in Hamlet

I head back to Southend first thing on Valentine's Day, before the post arrives, and get back to the maisonette on Archer Road round about noon. I've been desperate for a pee since the change at Fenchurch Street, but the toilets on the train were spectacularly blocked, so I've waited and now have this throbbing ache in my kidneys. I take the stairs at a run, head into the bathroom, and scream ...

'OH MY GOD!'

There's a man in the bath, shampooing his hair. He starts to scream too ...

'WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ...I'

And then Mum's coming out of her bedroom, doing up her dressing gown, and over her shoulder I see the unmade bed in disarray, the red and white Y-fronts hanging from the headboard, the men's trousers gaping on the floor, the bottle of sparkling wine ...

'BRIAN, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING BACK!' shouts Mum. I turn away, because she's not quite done up her dressing gown properly, and see that the man in the bath is standing up now, wiping at the shampoo in his eyes with one hand, clasping a face flannel to his groin with the other.

'What the hell's going on!' I say.

'I'm trying to have a bloody bath!' blusters Uncle Des.

'Wait downstairs!' snaps Mum.

'I need to use the toilet!' I say, which I do, urgently.

'BRIAN - WAIT DOWNSTAIRS!' She's shouting now, holding her dressing gown closed, pointing at the stairs. I haven't heard her shout like this since I was a kid, and suddenly I feel like a kid, so I go downstairs, unlock the back door, and pee in the corner of the garden.

I'm in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil when I hear Uncle Des and Mum sneaking down the stairs, then whispering furtively in the hallway, like a pair of teenagers. I think I hear Till call you later', then the sound of a kiss, the sound of my mother kissing Uncle Des, then the front door closes, and I hear the fizz of a match being struck, the sound of Mum inhaling, breathing out slowly, and then she's stood behind me in the doorway, wearing a powder blue tracksuit, sucking hard on the fag in one hand, holding a greasy glass of sparkling wine in the other.

The kettle's still not boiling.

Finally Mum says, The thought you were going straight to the hospital?'

The missed lunch-time visiting. I'm going later.'

The wasn't expecting you.'

'No, well, obviously not. So - something wrong with Uncle Des's bath is there?'

'Don't take that tone, Brian . . .'

'What tone?'

'You know what tone,' and she drains the remains of the wine. The kettle finally clicks off. 'You making coffee?'

'Looks like it.'

'Make me one. Then come into the lounge. We need to have a little talk.'

Oh, God. My heart sinks. We're going to have a little talk, a frank discussion, a heart-to-heart, a one-to-one. We're going to talk to each other like adults. I've managed to avoid this kind of thing so far. Dad died before he could do the 'when-a-man-and-a-lady-really-like-each-other' number, and I think Mum must have assumed that either it was never going to be relevant, or that I'd find out about the strange mystery of physical love by myself one way or another, which I did I suppose, after a fashion, up against a wheelie bin at the back of Littlewoods. But there's no getting away from this one. I pluck two mugs off the tree, spoon in the coffee powder and try to work out what to think. I try to imagine that there's some kind of innocent explanation to Uncle Des being in our bath at one in the afternoon on Valentine's Day, but can't. All that comes to mind is the obvious explanation, and the obvious explanation is ... unthinkable. Uncle Des and Mum. Uncle Des from three doors down and my mum in bed together in broad daylight, Uncle Des and Mum having ...