His 'n' Hers Page 4

  But nothing ever happens.

  I’ll stay over at her house and sleep in her bed while she wears nothing but a bleached-out Stone Roses T-shirt and a smile.

  But nothing ever happens.

  She kisses me on the lips for no reason and on one occasion even puts her tongue into my ear.

  But nothing ever happens.

  Tonight, however, as we have both had too much to drink, I decide that something is going to happen. So, when we’re sitting on the sofa at her house, half watching Central Weekend Live, half falling asleep, I lean in towards her and kiss her lips.

  It’s better than I ever imagined. But just as I’m about to start enjoying it she pulls away from me. ‘Jim,’ she says, startled. ‘You know I like you, don’t you?’

  Not that old one. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The thing is, I don’t like you like that.’

  Yes, that old one. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like this,’ she says, gesturing towards me with her hands, indicating that the space between us is ‘that’. ‘It’s really sweet,’ she continues, ‘and if things were different I’d love us to be together but I’ve got a lot of things on my mind and now’s not a good time to begin a relationship.’

  ‘No problem,’ I say, shrugging my shoulders as if the idea of getting off with Anne has only just occurred to me. ‘Of course that’s okay. It’s fine. I understand.’

  I don’t understand, of course. I don’t understand at all. Whatever game she’s playing I don’t know the rules.

  Saturday, 4 May 1991

  2.02 a.m.

  I’m listening to ‘Strangeways Here We Come’, on my record-player, and considering writing a song about Anne. Despite my best attempts to make things between us as free of awkwardness as possible, I haven’t seen her at all during the week following our kiss. Suddenly she’s busy every night and I decide that we both probably need some time apart. My train of thought is broken by the sound of the arm of the record-player returning to its resting-place, signalling the end of side two. I look at my watch and decide to go to sleep, but after a few moments of the do-I-need-the-loo? debate, I give in and go. Yawning, I walk out on to the landing straight into Anne.

  ‘Jim,’ she says.

  I don’t say anything because she’s wearing nothing, apart from the brand new Inspiral Carpets T-shirt that Nick bought at their gig the previous week. A gig I’d taken him to.

  We both stand there awkwardly until I say, ‘I was just going to the loo.’

  ‘I was going too, but I’ll wait until you’ve finished.’

  ‘See you in the morning, then,’ I reply forlornly, as I enter the bathroom and close the door behind me.

  10.02 a.m.

  When I come downstairs in the morning, Anne is nowhere to be seen and Nick is sitting on the sofa in the living room, looking as if he has been waiting for me.

  ‘Morning,’ he says, as I sit down.

  ‘Morning,’ I reply. ‘Is she still here?’

  ‘No, she went this morning.’

  There’s a long pause.

  ‘So, are you seeing her, then?’ I ask eventually.

  He shakes his head. ‘If it’s any consolation,’ he adds, ‘I think she does really like you.’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘If she likes me so much what’s she doing coming out of your bedroom in the middle of the night?’

  ‘Believe me,’ he sighs, ‘it was as much a surprise to me as it was to you. I was absolutely mad about her when we lived in halls. I thought she really liked me too. She used to flirt with me constantly but nothing ever happened. Anyway, one night I’m out with her, and I thought, This is getting ridiculous so I tried to kiss her and she gave me this whole line about wanting to be friends. So, I said, “Fine, let’s be friends,” and then she avoids me like the plague and then the next thing I know she’s getting off with a mate from my course.’

  ‘But why would she do that?’

  Nick shrugs. ‘That’s women for you. Who knows what’s going on in their minds?’

  11.55 p.m.

  As I lie in bed later that night with the lyrics to ‘Teaser Pleaser’ half worked out, I try to work out how I’m feeling. The funny thing is I don’t blame Nick at all. And I don’t blame Anne either. I blame me and my rubbish approach to the fairer sex. This, I decide, is going to be a watershed for all my relationships from this point forwards. From now on I’m going to be different. No more falling in love with the unattainable.

  Friday, 4 October 1991

  7.28 p.m.

  It’s the beginning of the first term of our last year at university and Nick, Ed and I are at home waiting for a guy who’s supposed to be coming round to audition for the band. Until the summer Captain Magnet were having a really good year. We played over a dozen gigs and have twice been reviewed by the local paper. Disaster struck, however, when Ruth, our guitarist, left following ‘artistic differences’ (she wanted us to play some songs she’d written and I said no because they weren’t very good). In desperate need of a replacement, we asked around our friends and the only person who’s even vaguely interested is coming round now. We’re just about to go over what we’re looking for in a guitarist when there’s a knock at the door.

  ‘That’ll be the door,’ says Nick, grinning.

  ‘Fine,’ I reply. ‘I’ll get it.’

  I open the door and standing in front of me is a tall guy in a leather jacket.

  ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘I’m Damon. I’m here to audition for Captain Magnet.’

  ‘I’m Jim,’ I tell him. ‘I’m the lead singer. Come in.’

  Damon follows me into the living room, plugs his guitar into Nick’s amp and plays two and a half songs for me, Nick and Ed. He does a cover of a Stone Roses song, a cover of a Dinosaur Jr song, and half of a song he’d written himself called ‘The Girl From Inner Space’, which he unashamedly tells us is about his girlfriend. Given that he’s a better all-round musician than all of us put together, it’s a foregone conclusion that he should join the band.

  ‘You’re brilliant,’ I tell him. ‘You’re in.’

  1992

  Wednesday, 12 February 1992

  1.33 p.m.

  Nick, Damon and I are sitting in the bar at the students’ union with three empty pint glasses and the latest issue of the NME in front of us. Damon has fitted into the band perfectly. Most nights since he’s joined us, band practices in Nick’s and my living room have turned into nights out in the Varsity. These have ended up as mammoth beery conversations about life, politics, girls and music. Damon is now much more than a band mate. He’s a friend.

  ‘Do you want another drink?’ I ask everyone at the table.

  ‘I can’t,’ says Damon. ‘I’ve got an organic-chemistry lecture in ten minutes.’

  I turn to Nick and do a drinking-a-pint motion with my hand. He looks at his watch. ‘I’ve got a three-hour mechanical-engineering lecture in ten minutes. I’ll definitely have another pint.’

  I stand up and walk to the bar. A girl I vaguely recognise is just coming in through the main entrance. I think I know her but I can’t place her. She’s puffing frantically on a cigarette and looking around the room as if she’s searching for someone, but when her name doesn’t spring to mind I lose interest and concentrate on ordering the drinks at the bar. By the time I’m returning to where we’re sitting, the girl is back on my mind again, mainly because she’s kissing Damon.

  1.44 p.m.

  I must have been daydreaming because I don’t notice the Boy Who Dresses Differently until he’s sitting next to Damon. The Boy Who Dresses Differently is the name that Jane and I have referred to him by since he tried it on with me at the freshers’ disco. He’s often a topic of conversation among my circle of friends because he’s one of a select group of people everyone recognises around campus, whether you’re interested in them or not, because they always stand out from the crowd. These university ‘characters’ include the Girl With No Eyebrows, the Boy Who Wears Makeup to Lectu
res, the Girl Who Is Always In Tears and finally, the Boy Who Dresses Differently.

  In recent times I’d noticed that the Boy Who Dresses Differently had taken his eccentric style of dress to its zenith. On any day of the week he can be spotted wearing an Oxfam suit with trainers; kipper ties with home-made T-shirts, and seventies shirts with flared collars in patterns so loud you can almost hear them screaming from across the other side of the campus. Once, during exam week, Jane spotted him wearing a peach cheesecloth shirt that was so monumentally hideous I ended up having at least five different conversations that day with friends along the lines of ‘Did you see the state of the Boy Who Dresses Differently today? What was he thinking?’

  And now he’s sitting opposite me.

  ‘Jim,’ says Damon, addressing the Boy Who Dresses Differently, ‘this is my girlfriend, Alison.’

  ‘Hi,’ he replies. ‘You’re the Girl From Inner Space.’

  I nod and smile uncomfortably as I recall the song Damon wrote about me. There’s an awkward pause. I’m hoping beyond hope that he hasn’t recognised me.

  ‘Do you two know each other?’ asks Damon.

  I shake my head and put out my cigarette as an excuse not to make eye-contact. ‘No. Not at all.’

  Damon doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t seem that bothered either. ‘You just seem like you recognised each other, that’s all.’

  ‘Now you say that, she does look familiar,’ says Jim.

  ‘I’ve never met you before in my life,’ I reply quickly.

  ‘My mistake,’ says Jim. ‘The girl I’m thinking of is someone I met on Freshers’ Night. She really fancied me. But I wasn’t all that interested.’

  Damon laughs. ‘She must’ve been mad.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Jim. ‘I think she was a bit.’

  6.05 p.m.

  ‘I can’t believe you were sitting at the same table as the university freak boy,’ says Jane excitedly, when I reach home and tell her the news.

  ‘It was really strange. Of course I knew Damon had joined a band – they’re called Captain Magnet or some such rubbish – I even knew that one of the band members was called Jim. but I’d never thought for a moment that that Jim was the Boy Who Dresses Differently.’

  ‘And you didn’t say anything to him about him trying to snog you on Freshers’ Night?’

  ‘I couldn’t say anything, could I? I wasn’t sure if he recognised me or not or whether he was just teasing me for the sake of it. So I just bit my lip.’

  ‘Wow,’ says Jane, who never says ‘wow’ about anything. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m going to ignore him. Just because he’s Damon’s friend doesn’t mean I have to be best buddies with him . . . The thing is, though—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have to admit that I am just a little bit curious about him.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. Is that weird?’

  ‘Do you think he’s good-looking?’

  ‘Up close, and in relatively normal clothing. I can see that some girls might find him attractive.’

  Jane laughs. ‘But not you?’

  ‘No, he’s good-looking in a too obvious way. You know how some men have deep-down handsomeness – you could crack them open and you’ll even find their bones fanciable?’ Jane nods. ‘Well, Jim’s the opposite. He’s surface handsome. No depth.’ I think for a moment, trying to get together the perfect sound-bite description. ‘He looks like the kind of boy easy girls go for.’

  Jane laughs. ‘He sounds like he’s just up my street.’

  10.17 p.m.

  I’m in the pub with Nick having an emergency session of the What Can We Do To Sort Out Jim’s Life Committee. Item one on the agenda (of which I’ve just told Nick the details) is that I once tried to get off with our guitarist’s girlfriend.

  ‘Do you think she knew it was you?’ asks Nick.

  ‘It’s hard to say. She seemed a bit off with me but that doesn’t mean much, does it? It’s not like it’s the first time a girl’s taken an instant dislike to me. But she was acting strange for someone who doesn’t remember me.’

  ‘As far as Damon goes, I don’t know what you’re worrying about,’ says Nick. ‘I reckon if you’d told him that you once tried drunkenly to proposition his girlfriend when you were a wet-behind-the-ears first-year he’d probably find it very funny. But let’s say for the sake of argument that his girlfriend does recognise you from that night, the fact is she’s chosen to pretend not to know who you are. So my advice is to keep quiet.’

  ‘That’s good advice but—’

  ‘Don’t say it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know what you’re going to say and don’t say it.’

  ‘How can you possibly know what I’m going to say?’

  ‘Because your eyes have gone all squinty.’

  ‘They’ve done no such thing.’

  ‘Okay, then,’ says Nick. ‘Answer me this question. When you met her this afternoon, did you ask yourself if you fancied her?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘No buts. You know the Rules, don’t you?’

  I sigh and repeat in a monotone: ‘A bloke should never evaluate another bloke’s girlfriend for the purpose of rating her attractiveness if the first bloke considers the second bloke to be a mate.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Nick.

  ‘But—’

  ‘What did I say about buts?’

  ‘But surely there’s a case to argue that as I’ve tried it on with Alison before she was Damon’s girlfriend the Rules don’t apply.’

  Nick laughs. ‘You’re right. That’s a massive legal loophole that I should get closed the moment I start fancying women who have rejected you . . . Okay, so what were the results of your extensive calculations and observations?’

  ‘Alison’s okay, very good-looking but not really my type.’

  ‘Given your chequered Goth-tinged past I’m not exactly sure what your type is.’

  ‘I suppose if I were to have a type Anne would be it. Although I’ve sworn off unattainable women.’

  ‘You mean unattainable women like our guitarist’s girlfriend?’

  ‘Good point,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Well, all I can say is that it’s a good job you don’t fancy her, then.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ I reply, looking at my empty pint glass. ‘I think I do.’

  Saturday, 15 February 1992

  11.23 p.m.

  Every Saturday night, Nick, some of our mates and I go to a student night called Menagerie held in a cavernous nightclub called the Hummingbird. The most notable thing about it is its notoriously sticky carpet, which lines the edge of the dance-floor. In some of the difficult-to-get-at corners of the club, the carpets are still their original brick-red colour; elsewhere they have been gradually turned sludge brown by hundreds of thousands of litres of spilt cider and lager served in wobbly plastic cups.

  I’m just contemplating how disgusting the carpet really is when Nick says sharply, ‘Don’t look over at the bar.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Just don’t,’ says Nick.

  ‘But why not?’ I turn round and look over by the bar. ‘It’s Alison and Damon. They’ve seen me and they’re coming over. I wish I hadn’t looked.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I told you not to look.’

  We rarely saw Damon out and about on a Saturday night because it was apparently ‘girlfriend night’ when he was supposed to spend quality time with Alison, doing things like going out for a meal or to the cinema. Which is why I’m surprised when I see him, Alison and a bunch of her mates (one of whom is carrying a heart-shaped helium balloon bearing the inscription ‘Birthday Girl’) enter the club. Alison’s friends disappear en masse in the direction of the loo as she and Damon walk over to me and Nick. My heart begins to race like I’ve run a marathon. This is the first time I’ve seen Alison since Wednesday, and unfortunately she has become something of an obsession. My fe
ar now is that if I have to talk to her ever again it will be obvious that I fancy her.

  ‘All right, guys?’ says Damon, when he reaches me and Nick.

  ‘Great,’ says Nick, and I chip in a hearty nod.

  ‘All right, Alison?’ greets Nick.

  Alison nods sheepishly and I chip in another hearty nod, and Damon looks at me as if I’m being a bit weirder than normal. ‘Fancy a drink, lads?’ he asks.

  ‘Carling, cheers,’ says Nick.

  ‘Castlemaine, cheers,’ I add. My voice sounds ridiculously throaty and everyone looks at me as if they’ve just heard Harpo Marx speak. ‘I’ve got a cough,’ I add, by way of explanation.

  ‘What do you want, Al?’ asks Damon.

  ‘I’ll have a vodka and tonic,’ she replies. ‘But I’ll come with you to the bar and give you a hand.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ insists Damon. ‘You stay here with the boys and I’ll be back before you know it.’

  Alison is left with me and Nick.

  ‘I’m going to take a slash,’ says Nick, being deliberately crude. ‘I’ll be back in a sec.’

  Now I am left with just Alison.

  We stare around the room for a few moments and watch the people on the dance-floor. The song playing is called ‘There’s No Love Between Us’, and I can’t work out if it’s apt that it should be playing, or ironic, or inconsequential.

  ‘Great song, this,’ I say.

  Alison nods and half smiles, but doesn’t speak.

  ‘So, how are you?’ I ask.

  ‘Okay,’ she says dismissively. She looks over in the direction of the bar as if willing the queue that Damon’s standing in to get shorter.

  She’s so offish with me that I’m convinced she’s finally remembered who I am. I decide to come clean and apologise in a bid to keep the peace. ‘Look—’ I begin, but I’m interrupted by her friends returning from the loo.

  ‘Alison!’ screams one. ‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ and with that they whisk her off to the dance-floor.

  Sunday, 16 February 1992

  1 a.m.

  I’m standing on my own in the balcony above the dance-floor having a cigarette and thinking about Jim. When Jane asked me for suggestions for clubs we should go to for her birthday I could have named dozens, but I’d suggested this in the full knowledge that Jim would be here because Damon had told me he came here every Saturday. And now that he’s here I’m ignoring him because I feel like if I don’t act offhand with him he’ll know just how much I really like him. It will be obvious – not just to Jim but to Damon too.