Читать книгу She Just Can't Help Herself - Ollie Quain - Страница 9

TANYA

I can hear the band playing as I leave the station. They’re doing a cover of that Mumford & Sons track which sounds as if it should be played in a village square on May Day by locals drinking scrumpy and wearing neckerchiefs. The lead singer’s voice is raspy. Sexy. He doesn’t quite manage to hit the high notes with full precision, but this inevitably makes him sound even sexier, because maybe he is too cool to care. As I open the door, the band attacks the final chorus and the vocalist clutches his microphone stand. His faded (purposefully crumpled) grey T-shirt is patchy with sweat and clinging to his torso. His hair is also damp and hanging messily in his eyes. He glances down into the audience; a mixture of local twenty- and thirty-somethings on the tail end of a drink-up after work. Most of them would have been in the pub drinking anyway, even if they hadn’t known there was going to be some sort of musical entertainment. They’ve stayed, which is a positive thing. But it’s unlikely the majority of them had the gig diarised on their mobiles … even though a few are being held aloft in video mode. The frontman acknowledges these ‘fans’ with a nod, then wipes his brow. The chunky man bracelet he is wearing flops forward then back to his wrist. I can see in his eyes that the situation isn’t perfect for him. He’d rather be looking out across a sea of fans at the O2 who have bought tickets—months in advance—specifically to see him play his music. I admire him for still having that kind of, well, hope. Because, let’s face it, at this stage, ambition alone is not going to make him—my true love—a star.

Set finished, he jumps down from the makeshift stage onto the floor. I go over to give him a kiss. As he leans down, I think I can smell cigarette smoke.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, babe, I’m well sweaty.’

‘Don’t care.’

I plant a smacker on his mouth. Yes, he’s been smoking. I sense other women in the bar looking in our direction. They were looking at him, but now they are looking at us together; assessing our compatibility. Greg has become very good looking. To me, he always was, but over the last couple of years, I have noticed that a lot of—almost all—women do as well. He finally quit smoking marijuana, lost two stone and toned up to the point where you can see the sinewy outer line of muscle tissue through his clothes—which consequently, took on a more streamlined edge. I was surprised when he told me it was time ‘to hit the gym’. Previously, he’d been more the type of guy who would only look at the cover of Men’s Health if he was ripping it up for roach material.

I kiss him again and come away from his face with a sticky chin.

‘Eww.’

‘So, what did you think of the set?’ he asks, pulling away. ‘Personally, I thought it went pretty well …’ He lowers his voice as the rest of the band start dismantling their equipment ‘… except for the Oasis tribute. The two new guys were on point but Jez fucked up the riff at the beginning of Wonderwall. I mean, seriously! You could give a monkey a banjo for half an hour and I guarantee it would be able to strum that out, no problem. Did you hear me do my solo on the guitar?’

‘Sorry, I’ve been running late all day.’ I had to wait for ages to get my procedure done at the hospital. ‘I’ve only just got here. Was it an, erm … acoustic …’ I cringe. ‘… spot?’

‘Yeah. Then the two newbies came in at the end. Nothing went wrong vocally or instrumentally, not surprising considering that numbnut wasn’t involved.’ He glances over at Jez. ‘Am thinking we need to have words. I don’t see how the band can progress with him as part of the unit. Don’t get me wrong, I love him as if he were a brother, but I already have a brother, and I choose not to see him, so I don’t need another holding me back. You wouldn’t want another sister, would you, babe?’

‘God, no.’

He kisses me again. ‘You know I hate going on about it, but I don’t suppose she’s … erm, managed t—’

‘No, no, she hasn’t. You don’t need her though. You need talent and that’s what you have. That will bring you success.’ I say this as affirmatively as possible. ‘You’ve got it, Greg.’

‘Mmm …’ Greg gazes at the punters, no more or less excitedly guzzling their drinks then they were during the gig. ‘Shall we do the offski?’

‘Are you not cashing up tonight?’

‘Nah. If I hung around till closing, I’d explode the rock-’n’-roll mystique for my “fans” …’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘… that in real life, I manage a gastro pub and the only instrument I usually carry around with me is a portable chip-and-pin machine, not an electric guitar. Have a drink whilst I grab my stuff.’

I order an orange juice and chat to the new barman. He’s ‘cute’, but I’ve never been attracted to boyish good looks. I like men. Greg is manly. And like I said, there was even more man at the beginning. He was solid physically. That was what drew me to him, because on a very basic level, I was looking for someone who was solid mentally.

The night I first saw Greg, it was a Thursday. As we did on this day every week, Suze, Maddie and I would go to The Croft after work for some drinks. Suze saw him first, then Maddie and then me. With almost choreographed perfection their eyes swivelled from him to me, as if to say, ‘He’s SO your type!’, which was a fact, and I suppose quite sweet of them. But I could already sense the patronising exchange that was about to follow. It did.

‘Go and talk to him,’ said Maddie.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I replied (only semi-)sarcastically. ‘I can’t do that. It is considered highly inappropriate for clientele frequenting drinking establishments to speak to the staff working there … except in extreme circumstances, like ordering a beverage.’

‘… and don’t attempt to distract the situation by making shit jokes,’ said Suze, snorting.

‘This could be fate,’ added Maddie. ‘He may have been sent to our pub for you. Everything happens for a reason.’

I rolled my eyes at her. ‘You know who started that expression? The fairies at the bottom of the garden. They came up with it shortly after finishing off that day’s twelve horoscope predictions which would apply to the world’s population of seven billion.’

Another snort from Suze. ‘Whatever, T, get on with it. When was the last time you dated?’

‘I went on a date last week.’

‘I mean, seriously dated.’ She rubbed her chin. ‘Actually, I remember … it was before Jasper had taken his exams for prep school. In fact, you came to his last sports day with the guy you were seeing. Jasper bit his teacher. She had to get a jab. Then Evie threw your bloke’s car keys into the swimming pool.’

‘You’re right, Suze, I forgot you had a calendar in your kitchen which correlates your children’s advance through the education system with my love life.’

Suze laughed.

‘We only want you to be happy,’ added Maddie, who had recently made things official with her boyfriend, Kian.

I rolled my eyes at her. ‘Surely it is a given that everyone should want that for everyone else as standard. But for some reason, as soon as a woman becomes part of a couple, she automatically morphs into this beatific altruistic creature who roams the land wanting happiness for all women. Maddie, suffragettes died on your behalf so that our gender could flourish in their lives without being reliant on men for anything, least of all happiness.’

‘Until you start thinking about kids,’ she replies. ‘If you want to have a baby, you’ll need a man. It’s a simple fact. And you’ll need one that you can rely on.’

I stiffened. Suze sensed my reaction immediately. I know this because a second later she was replying to Maddie so I wouldn’t have to.

‘Bullshit, you don’t need to rely on a man to have a child. You only need one temporarily.’

‘You mean a donor?’ Maddie shook her head. ‘I don’t know whether I could do it. Not from a moral point of view, of course, it’s not for me to cast judgement in that sense. I mean, plan on being a single parent. I’d find it overwhelming. Within a day of meeting Kian, I knew I wanted him to be the father of my children. Two months in, I still do. But I want to wait until I am absolutely sure that the environment I am bringing that child into is right. Would it really be fair if I didn’t?’

‘Fair?’ I blurt out. ‘On who?’

Maddie shrugs. ‘Well, the child.’

‘If you are intending on having one out of love, it doesn’t matter how many people are involved. One or one hundred!’ My voice rises. ‘And who are you to say what environment is right or wrong?’

‘I was only saying that I think it would be tough doing it on your own … and that the better scenario is a two-parent family. It’s a wider support system. You must agree with that?’

I tutted at her for being so … well, so typically Middle England Maddie. But deep down, I agreed with her. Of course, it would be tough doing it on your own. It would take a brave woman to do that. If you were a scared girl, forget it.

Suze clocked my expression and stepped in again.

‘Anyway, I think this is all getting a bit Loose Women. Are we going to get a drink or what? At this rate I’m going to die of thirst …’ She reached into her bag for her purse. ‘Oh, and if I do drop dead, you can have one of my children each. And then, trust me, neither of you will ever want one of your own!’

So, Suze got the first round. Then Maddie got the second. They found out the new barman was called Greg and had been posted here by the brewery from another pub across town. I kept quiet. There were so many variables that simply weren’t in my favour to do something as rash as speaking to him. For a start, it would have been too obvious. And, therefore, embarrassing. And, consequently, awkward for both of us. And then, painful for any of us to come back to a pub which had been our regular hang-out for years. Ultimately, I would be creating a ‘situation’. The girls knew this was how I would be thinking, so after two drinks they stopped badgering me. The following Thursday, we arranged to meet at our usual time … but when I turned up (five minutes late), they weren’t there.

I saw him though. His back was to me as he changed an optic on a bottle of vodka. I knew it was him as I had stared at every part of his anatomy so hard the previous week, I could have given Crimewatch an exact E-fit of the nape of his neck. I was about to spin round and leave when a text pinged through from Suze:

If you walk out you’re officially a TWAT. FYI Maddie is with me, so don’t think about calling her.

I approached the bar, purple heat rash prickling.

ME: Erm … hi.

HIM: (Turning round.) Hey.

It was a generic I-don’t-recognise-you “hey”.

ME: I’m Tanya. I was in last week. You were talking to my friends, Suze and Maddie. We’re here every Thursday, but they haven’t turned up yet s—

HIM: Oh, right, yeah. How’s it going?

ME: Great, in fact. You?

HIM: Yeah … good.

ME: That’s, erm … good. Really … great.

Move over Dorothy Parker.

HIM: That’s all decided then. I’m good and so are you. No, you’re—in fact—great. What do you want?

He smirked. Negatively? Positively?

ME: Oh, God, erm … nothing really. I got here early, so thought I would say hello, since I was in here. Waiting. For Suze and Madd—

HIM: I meant, what do you want to drink?

ME: Right. Of course. Prosecco?

I HATE PROSECCO!

HIM: Coming up. So, tell me, Trisha …

ME: Tanya.

HIM: Sorry … Tanya. What do you do?

ME: I’m a content writer for corporate websites.

HIM: Ah, cool.

ME: It’s not. But I have a crazy boss who is obsessed with Star Wars. It’s really funny, he does impersonations of Yoda.

Yeah, he’s a lunatic. Because not even the vaguest sci-fi fan does that, do they?

HIM: Sounds it. Hey, maybe you could do a new website for my band? Pretty please!

ME: Band?

NOT what I wanted to hear.

HIM: Yeah, I’m a singer. The band is pretty successful, but I like to work behind a bar still. Keeps me grounded. I’m just hoping that I get to enjoy this sort of freedom for as long as possible before things sky rocket and we l—

ME: (Interrupting to tie up the conversation.) Well, that sounds like you’re keeping it, erm … real. The fans must appreciate that.

I physically recoiled at my use of muso speak.

HIM: I’m sure they would if I had any.

ME: What?

HIM: I was winding you up! The band … it’s a hobby. We play covers at weddings … not original material on the Pyramid stage at Glastonbury.

ME: OH! (Warming to him again.) So, erm … what kind of traffic do you get on your current website?

HIM: Traffic? (Rubbing his chin.) Well, metaphorically speaking … you know if you take a left at the roundabout before Lidl, and then go right past the old recreation ground and take that spindly lane which snakes round the back of the church up towards the farm which is basically only used by the occasional agricultural vehicle? That’s pretty much the type of traff—

ME: Yep, I do. Actually, my parents use that lane too … they live just off it.

HIM: Poor them. That’s where Howard Dinsdale lives, isn’t it? In that mock-Tudor monstrosity. His company bought the youth club I went to as a kid and turned it into luxury flats. He’s an arsehole …

ME: Try having him as a father.

HIM: Ha! Nice attempt at getting me back. Now you’re winding me up. (Peering at me.) Oh. Shit. Oh, shit.

I smiled at him. He smiled too. At that moment, my stomach didn’t simply flip. It did a full-on exquisitely executed Olympic-level triple flickflack into a double backwards somersault with a twist. One which had been perfected by a dedicated Russian gymnast who had spent her entire childhood in a Moscow training camp, but who knew if she nailed a flawless routine she could move to the United States once the Games were over and be free to watch Miley Cyrus pop videos. And visit the Dash store. And eat Ben and Jerry’s.

I disappeared to the toilets and shut myself in a cubicle to call Suze. I told her everything Greg had said. Everything I had said. She informed me that she and Maddie were on their way, and ordered me to go back out to the bar and talk to him until their arrival. I left the cubicle. At the same time, another girl vacated the other cubicle and we both went to the sinks to wash our hands. As she rinsed hers, she stared at me. She was an Eva Mendez-esque exotic beauty with sloping features and olive skin. There was not a dab of make-up on her face—not even a very light mineral veil or BB cream. (I know my subtle cosmetic camouflage, they are the only products I use.) But she didn’t smile back, and left the lavatory without drying her hands. When I returned to the bar, she was sitting on a stool, chatting to Greg. He waved at me.

HIM: Hey, Tanya, this is Sadie. (He passes Sadie a pint of beer.) Sadie, meet Tanya … one of the regulars here.

Sadie raised her glass and gave me a look. This look told me that she’d heard every word I’d said in the toilet. It also told me everything about her relationship with Greg. But moreover, my relationship with myself. She knew I wasn’t going to compete with her, as I was the type of girl who avoided competition. The sort who lived within the remit of her capability but didn’t push herself further than that. She was right. My approach to life since my late teens had become: get through it. Full stop. Not, live it! Certainly not ‘to the full’ or ‘to the max’ or with the pressurising pre-cursor, of ‘you only have one, so …’. And that is what I had been doing, getting through it. No highs. No lows. Anything to avoid … feeling.

‘Do you think I should call myself something else, babe?’ Greg asks, as we pull out of The Croft’s car park and head home.

He is driving. I had a silly spate of fainting a while ago, so I don’t feel fully comfortable behind a wheel. Besides, I like watching Greg drive. It says a great deal about how sexy he is that he is still sexy when zipping about in my Ford Ka.

‘Eh? Why on earth would you do that?’

‘My name is so lame.’

‘How can a name be lame?’

‘When you’re called Greg. There can’t be many more inappropriate monikers for the front man of a band. Just say we make it—and I am obviously being stupidly optimistic here, as our most recent demo is probably being used as a coffee mug coaster in all the record companies we sent it to—and not even on the A&R guy’s desk; it’ll be his assistant’s assistant, or the reception—’

‘Stop it, something will happen.’ I interrupt, to tell him what he needs to hear. ‘Think of how far you’ve come in the last couple of years.’

‘Playing covers in pubs as opposed to marquees? Mmm … I can almost feel my fingers closing round that Grammy.’

‘Shoosh. Anyway, you don’t need to change your name. Besides, I like it.’

‘That’s because you like me,’ he says, laughing, ‘but, I’m sure, if prior to us meeting, you had been presented with a list of ten men’s names and asked which one belongs to a rock star, “Greg” would not be your number one choice.’

‘It depends who else was on the list,’ I say, looking at him as he changes gear then indicates.

‘Okay, so on this list …’ He continues. ‘… other than Greg, are the following; Jon (without the “H”), Kurt, Axl, Mick, Bruce, Gene, Eddie, Freddie, Jim … and Bono.’

‘Ha! But you don’t want to be called a name that is already associated with an established star … especially a dead one. Or worse, a smug one. Besides, you have to think that some singers aren’t necessarily born with the coolest name. They make the name cool themselves. I mean, what’s that guy called who fronts the, erm … Killers?’

‘Brandon Flowers.’

‘There you go!’

‘An isolated case … and to be fair, he’s not really that rock’n’roll. He’s a Mormon.’ He reaches across to rub my knee. ‘Hey, I’ve been thinking about your birthday … you know I was meant to be working? Well, I’m going to organise some time off. I need a break. That place is doing my head in. Why don’t we go somewhere? Have a long weekend. Manchester, maybe? See a band …’

‘Awww, that sounds brilliant …’ I lie. Live music! Drugs! Enforced wild abandon! No, thank you. ‘… but I’ve got a really important meeting on Monday morning at work and I’ll, erm … have to prepare. My boss is on my case about it.’ Another (half-)lie. I do have an appointment first thing that day but it’s not in any way related to my job. And no one would ever be on my case about anything because I’m always a consummate professional. ‘You know me, I hate being unprepared.’

‘Life on the edge, babe.’ He laughs.

‘Yep, I’m all about that periphery. Ha! Anyway, Suze and Maddie wanted us to do lunch. With Rollo and Kian, too …’ I add, in attempt to make it sound more appealing for him.

‘But we did lunch with them last year …’

‘That’s because they’re my best friends. Suze, Maddie and I always see one another on our birthdays. Besides, you get on with Rollo and Kian, and at least you and Suze can go off and you know what …’ I poke him.

He brakes and changes gear jerkily as the road twists.

‘No, what?’

‘God, sorry! Didn’t mean to make you jump. I meant, smoke. She’s the only one left out of everyone who still does.’

‘Oh, right. Yeah, I guess she is.’ He stares straight ahead. ‘But I’m not smoking any more …’

‘Which is why it’s so strange you smell of fags, not to mention unfair, when you’ve put in so much hard work.’

‘Very funny.’ He exhales loudly. ‘Okay, o-kay, I had a couple tonight before the gig. I needed the nicotine hit. It gets me hyped up. And, more importantly, stops me caning crisps.’

‘I still fancied you when you ate salty snacks. What happened to the electronic cigarette thing I bought you?’

‘It’s at home. I look like such a dickhead puffing on it.’

‘You’ll look even more of a dickhead when you’re hooked up to immobile medical apparatus so you can breathe.’

‘I know. I hear you. I’m so sorry, babe. I’ll try harder.’ He glances across at me briefly. ‘To quit …’

I laugh. ‘Stop it! You sound so tormented. I’m not angry with you, Greg … just concerned.’

‘… and you’re right to be concerned. I shouldn’t do it but, in the moment something sort of takes over.’ He rubs his forehead. ‘But I’ll make more of an effort, I promise …’

He takes his hand off my knee to change gear and his man bracelet jangles. I gave it to him and had it engraved on the inside: To my T. T = TRUE LOVE. I wrote this in code to a) make sure that other people did not know what it said as I hate relentless public celebrations of togetherness. (There is a whole section on my blog about the horror of ‘Insta-couples’) and b) because it was such a huge statement from me. I knew I would see it every day. In code, it was less likely to be a glaring reminder that the love I’d experienced before had been so false. It was a lie. The worst kind of lie. The type that breeds more lies.

Let it fucking go.

I find myself emitting a short gasp. It is a breath of realisation. Because it is time. Time to admit it to myself. Time to tell him. It is, isn’t it?

‘Babe?’

I jump. We are parked outside the house. Greg waves the car keys (attached to his mini-Fender Stratocaster keyring) at me.

‘Are you going to get out of the car?’

‘Wha— God, sorry.’

‘You all right?’

‘Uh huh.’ I click off my seat belt. ‘Greg …’

‘That is my name, yes … unfortunately. Ha!’

I don’t laugh. ‘I want to talk …’

His face tenses. ‘Right …’

‘About something good! The last time we discussed it, I wasn’t sure, but now, I think it will be fine. Fine! What a ridiculous word to use. I’ve been going round in circles in my head, not wanting to commit to a decision for so many reasons. But then I thought, what am I doing? In practical terms, we now have a house so it will not be that much of an upheaval as we have way more space. God, I’m sure the noise will still be a shock but you can’t hav—’

‘Awww, babe!’ He interrupts me and plants a kiss on my cheek. ‘Thank you. I knew you would see the light eventually. It’s not as if we ever park the car in the garage anyway. Trust me, the guys will be over the moon. And please, do not worry about the noise. When Jez had his studio in his ex’s garage, he egg-boxed the whole thing for sound insulation. Sounds crazy but it works … you need a lot of boxes, so you can’t really do it with the dozen boxes you get at the supermarket. I’ll go to that posh farm shop up the road from your parents’. They’ll have the big trays. Unless …’ He takes a deep breath then gives me one of his Olympic-flickflack-inducing smiles. ‘Unless, we do it properly and get your old man to get some of his builders to soundproof properly. Yeah, I know, I know … you hate accepting anything from him. I do, too, but he did ask if you wanted help renovating when we first moved in and you said, “No,” so, the offer was there. All we need to do is clear out all the rubbish in there. What is in there, anyway?’

I consider whether to reboot the conversation. Are we actually talking about the garage?

‘Babe? Are you listening?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I asked what was in there.’

‘Oh … erm … you know, stuff …’

‘Like what?’

‘Old clothes. Magazines. Letters. Things like that …’

… let it fucking go. ‘But nothing important?’

‘No, nothing important.’

‘Fantastic! So, you can ask Pops and we’ll be good to go. Right you … out.’ He opens the car door and jumps from his seat. ‘I’m going to show you my appreciation in the only—but the best—way I can: N to the O to the O to the K to the I to the E. NOOKIE!’

Seconds later, I am tapping in the alarm code. Minutes later, we are in the sitting room. Greg’s kit is off already. As usual. He can strip fast. My true love is a very sexual being. He wants to have sex every day, multiple times if possible. He starts by pumping me against the leather armchair. The force shunts me and the furniture across the room. It is good. It is sooooo GOOD. No, it’s great. GREAT! GREEEEEEEEEEAT. Aghhhhhhhhhh! We edge past the coffee table, manage to traverse a pot plant my mother gave me, then head towards the CD tower racks from my old flat. Each one is ordered alphabetically. The corner of the chair slams into the nearest tower (A–F). An Arctic Monkeys live album, Biffy Clyro’s debut and White Ladder by David Gray (tsk—that should be under G–L!) and all of Coldplay’s studio work shoot out onto the floor. Oooooh, that’s hard. It’s getting harder. TOO HARD! OW! OW! OWWWWW! NO, I’ve chaaaaanged my mind. MORE! I WANT IT HAAAAAAAAAARDER! I hear a nasty crunch and know that Parachutes will need replacing. A few more shunts to the left and three whole towers tumble. All the albums which land on the floor are ‘some bloke’ acts … every one a quadruple platinum-selling television-advertised sensation that I purchased because it was what ‘some bloke’ I was dating was into. Ooooooooooh … that’s the spot. That’s the SPOT. Mmmmmmmmmm … oh, Greg, YOU ARE SUCH AN ANIMAAAAAAAAAAL! There was a string of these men. Including the slightly more longterm one who got bitten by Suze’s daughter, Evie. I remember her teeth sinking into his arm. I remember the exact pattern of the marks she left as Suze unhooked her jaw. I remember we waited in A&E for three hours. But right now, I can’t remember his name either. Was it Steve? Stephen. No, Stephan. Or was it St—it doesn’t matter, because … oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, OH MY GOD! We move to the hallway, then the utility room—but change our minds because we both value our coccyges—and end up in the master bedroom. I lie underneath Greg, looking at his face: contorted with pleasure—his eyes screwed shut, accessing that place. A private, hidden place. He does this sometimes, not just in relation to sex. He sort of zones out. Some people can do that, can’t they? Remove themselves. I am not one of those people. Not any more. I was when I used to buy all those magazines that are in the garage. When I used to wear those clothes which are in there. When she wrote me that letter which is lying in the first issue on the opening-double-page spread of the heroin-chic shoot. Oh, yeah, I was one of those people then. But now I am very much in the moment. And at this moment, I am about to have … no, I am having, I AM HAVING AN ORGAAAAAAAAAASM! Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes! YES! YES! YES! AND ANOTHER ONE! YAHOOOOOOOOOO! YES! I’M COMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIG!

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmm …

Greg does too. Then collapses on top of me. As I lie underneath him, panting—deliriously satisfied to the point that he could ask to convert the whole freaking house into a production studio and I would say yes … then even re-mortgage to pay for Pharrell Williams to show him how to use all the equipment—I pray that he and I will always have ‘nookie’ like this. Even if that nookie becomes nookie for more than pleasure’s sake. Even if that nookie is a means to an end. Because that end will be a new beginning. I would never want to be that woman who has nookie and physically is going through a wide variety of motions, but mentally, her only thought is …

… I want a baby.