How We Met (35 page)

A man – he says a man, he looks twenty-two at the most: Pete Docherty trilby, some sort of ridiculous
jumpsuit, a pale, baby
face covered in a sheen of narcotic-
induced sweat – is quizzing everyone about their toilet habits.

‘Sir – wee or a number two?’ he asks, with the cere
monious wrist action of a circus master, as soon as someone enters.

‘Now that would be telling,’ is the usual answer – slightly squiffy people humouring the absolutely fucked bloke. Oh, God, thinks Fraser, does it get any worse than this? ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because I’m starting a crusade!’ he announces. ‘Stop the poo taboo! Why does nobody ever admit to doing a number two?’

There follows a mumble of embarrassed amusement from the queue of people in the Gents’. ‘Isn’t going for a dump one of life’s simple pleasures? What do you think, sir, yes, you looking shifty?’ Fraser hears the humiliated mumble of someone who just came in for a wee and is now probably deeply regretting it. ‘If you could give it up, like never do a number two ever again, would you? Or would you miss it? Don’t you think it’s one of the most satisfying things in the world?’

Oh, the rambling, attention-seeking monologue of the man who has lost the plot and all inhibitions. Even as Fraser snorts the line, he’s cringing.

He goes outside to wash his hands, then, like someone going to the toilet during a comedy gig, tries to sidle out without being heckled.

He isn’t successful.

‘And what about you, sir? Number one or number two?’

Fraser surreptitiously checks his nostrils for any telltale signs of white powder. ‘Now that would be telling,’ he says, tapping the side of his nose and going out to find Norm.

Five minutes later and this is all so much better. SO much better. A little pick-me-up. Just what the doctor ordered.

‘You see, Normanton knows best!
’ He and Norm congratulate themselves on their fantastic, genius plan as they gyrate, stupidly, to Hot Chocolate’s ‘You Sexy Thing’.

‘It’s just the Norm. It’s all the Norm!’ Fraser grins, nodding wisely at his friend – it’s a hilarious little joke they used to share way back in the day. And then there’s some dancing and some pouting, a LOT of dancing and pouting, and some pointing come to think of it, and it does feel like back in the day, like the Paradise Factory, Manchester circa 1991, Wigan Pier, Ibiza … before, well … before stuff got heavy. And suddenly Fashion Fern is not so annoying as Fern, Fern, Fern, and actually her mate’s not bad either – a dark-haired girl called Holly, and of course they have a lot of fun with that; what are her other mates called? Ivy?

‘You’ve got lovely eyes,’ says Holly, dancing up close to him. ‘Has anyone ever told you that? They’re a nice shape – very almond-shaped. And you’ve got really long eyelashes. Close your eyes.’ Fraser does as he is told.

‘Wow, look, Fern,’ and she gets Fern over to look at this amazing specimen with camel-like eyelashes. ‘Hasn’t he got the longest eyelashes?’ And Fraser flutters them and does some more pouting. I have eyelashes like a camel, he thinks, and really nice eyes and I’ve still got it. It’s just all about what you project.

He does another line, takes another Smirnoff from the girl with the icicle eyelashes, this time engaging her in conversation. Fascinating conversation.

‘I like your eyelashes,’ he shouts in her ear, dancing up and down. ‘Are they all your own?’

‘No, and you just dripped Smirnoff all down my top … however, these
are
all my own,’ and she thrusts her breasts in his face.

‘I can see that,’ says Fraser, still swaying his hips to the music. ‘Anyway, I’ve just been told I have eyelashes like a camel,’ he says, throwing more Smirnoff down his throat and a little more down her front. ‘Hey, maybe we could have an eyelash-off later – hey? What you think? Shall I come and find you?’

But then she wanders off, leaving Fraser a little bemused and alone, and so he goes to dance with Holly and Fern, his new friends, and tries to take his top off at one point, before Norm stops him in his tracks: ‘No Frase. No. Here is not the place to take ones clothes off.’ Then suddenly, it’s later, and where are Holly and Fern? Where’s Norm, come to think of that? Where the hell has he gone?

Fraser stands in the middle of the dance floor, looking, but the room’s kind of spinning now, just a mass of sweaty bodies, jumping up and down to ‘
jump around, jump around. Jump up, jump up and get down!
’,
great billows of dry ice gusting in from the sides. The smell reminds him of the discos at the holiday camps he used to go to as a kid.

He’ll phone Norm, that’s what he’ll do, so he gets out his mobile phone but it doesn’t seem to be working, some sort of message keeps coming up – it takes him at least two minutes to register that there’s no reception. He’ll have to go outside, but he’s definitely going to be needing more booze to make that sort of expedition, so he finds Miss Icicle Lashes, takes another bottle and staggers towards the exit.

‘Sorry, no drinks outside.’ The bouncer on the door has shoulders like a bison.

‘But I just want to call my friend and then I’m going back inside.’

‘I think you look like you’ve had enough, mate. So just give me the bottle and make your way outside please …’

Fraser thinks about arguing but he can’t seem to speak correctly, his jaw feels rigid, his mouth won’t make the words. So he hands over the bottle to the bouncer and now he’s standing in the middle of Poland Street, a high-pitched ringing in his ears, the sweat on his back icing over, like on a windscreen.

His phone beeps, and he sways as he tries to decipher two texts, both from Norm.

The first:

Where r u?

Then:

Me and Fern gone bk – got my keys. Where u go? You fckd off! Top nite tho. Cuddles and Kisses, Norm xxx

Fraser walks up the street, the November wind whistling around his ears, and blows air through his mouth, very slowly. He can feel the drugs wearing off now, the slow regaining of straightness: still high, but not accompanied by any sort of pleasure, just a gnawing, craving, anxious feeling, like something terrible’s about to happen.

Beer. He needs more beer. So he walks up to Broadwick Street and then onto Wardour, but it’s like a race against time: what will get there first? The beer or the emptiness?

He finds a big, warm, characterless chain pub and instantly feels better, but as he walks into the bar, most people are walking out. It’s Wednesday night, after all, not really the night for taking class As and flirting with girls in fur-trimmed skirts. He goes up to order, watching the mass exodus – was it something he said? – couples going home together after dinner or the theatre to go to bed, then get up, get on the Tube to work and resume their routine.

What
Fraser would give right now to have a routine. What he would give tonight to be going home with someone. As the drugs retreat and the lukewarm beer takes over, a wave of lucidity washes over him – as if the beer is actually sobering him up. He’s thirty, he doesn’t want this any more: losing his friends, being alone in a pub. He thinks of going back home now, but it would only be to hear those two at it through the wall and then tomorrow, the awful, sheepish cup of tea in the kitchen before Fashion Fern makes an exit, never to be seen again.

He doesn’t want this any more, this feeling like life – and not just his, but all of their lives – is one big messy blip. He wants to feel whole and calm and right. And he suddenly thinks of the word ‘sublime’, and that strange conversation about Wordsworth he had with Spanner in the silent Reading Room of the British Library: that feeling like everything is good and right. ‘…
of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood/In which the burden of the mystery/In which the heavy and weary weight/Of all this intelligible world/Is lightened.
’

And he gets that, he really does, because he felt it just last month, driving up to the Lake District, the mountains looming out of the dark either side of him, the trees that made a tunnel, the glassy expanse of Bowness, and Mia sitting next to him. Everything was right and good.

He needs to speak to her. He needs to tell her all about this whole feeling. Yes. This is the most right anything has ever felt since Liv died.

But he looks at his watch: 10.55 p.m. She’s probably in bed with Eduardo, but maybe Eduardo was at work tonight? It was worth the risk.

He steps outside, scrolls down to Woodhouse on his phone and presses
CALL
.

Three rings and she answers: ‘Fraser?’ The calm, measured voice of a sober person. In the background, he can hear the TV. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’

Fraser clears his throat. He’s suddenly not sure how he’s going to go about this; he may just try opening his mouth and hoping for the best.

‘Well,’ he starts, ‘I was just in Soho … and it’s not late, Mia, not late at all …’

‘It’s eleven p.m., Fraser. I’m normally an hour into my REMs by this point.’

‘R.E.M.? Since when did you like R.E.M.?’

There’s a sudden snort of laughter. ‘No, REM as in rapid eye movements, as in the middle stage of sleep, you goon, not the band.’

‘Is Eduardo at work?’ he asks; he says a little prayer.

‘Yes, he’s doing a stocktake, not back till gone midnight.’

‘Ah, so you’re alone!’

There’s a pause.

‘Fraser, are you drunk?’

‘What? God, no. No. What do you take me for?’

‘I’ll take that as a “yes” then.’

Fraser grimaces. How come you never know how drunk you are until you try to speak?

‘Where are you?’ she says.

‘I am currently outside a fine establishment known as the Slug and Lettuce.’

‘Classy, Frase. Did you have some Scampi Fries with your pint? God, I could murder a bag of Scampi Fries … Who are you out with?’

‘Well, Andrew Normanton, but he buggered off home.’

‘What, on his own?’

‘Yes, of course on his own.’

‘I’ll take that as a “no” then. Jesus, just don’t tell Melody. So what have you been up to this evening?’

‘Mmm, mainly sitting in a freezing cold bar, sipping a freezing cold Smirnoff Ice
– free ones, mind, it was another of Norm’s promotional evenings. What about you?’

‘Very nice.’ She sighs. ‘Well, talking of freezing, I just batch-froze some cauliflower cheese – it’s all very cutting edge. Anyone would think I worked for an airline I spend so much time putting food in and out of small plastic containers.’

Fraser laughs.

There’s another, much longer pause.

‘It’s nice to hear from you,’ she says, and even in his state of drunkenness, he thinks he can hear her smile. ‘Even though we haven’t really got to the bottom of why you are calling …’

‘Calling? Why I’m calling? I’m calling to harass you, of course.’

‘Aw, Frase. You’re so sweet.’

He walks along the road, scuffing the remains of the leaves at his feet, looking up at the stars.
Say it. Say how you feel!

‘Listen, I just called to say—’

‘I love you? Aw, Lionel you shouldn’t have …’

And Fraser stops in the street and sort of growls down the phone, frustrated like a child.

‘Stop it,’ he says, ‘stop taking the piss, because actually, yes, I am.’ He stands still and bites his lip, it’s out now. ‘I
am
calling to say that I love you.’

There’s a nervous little exhalation of breath down the phone.

‘And I love you, too, Fraser,’ she says.

Silence at the other end of the phone.

‘Well, that’s good then,’ says Fraser and, even in his drunken state, he’s not sure this was how it was supposed to pan out, the big declaration, so he says, ‘I had a lovely time driving to the Lake District with you. It was nice, you know, just you and me and the open road.’

‘Hey, we were like a Renault Megane advert in motion out there.’

‘I’m being serious!’

Unfortunately, he slurs the word ‘serious’.

Mia sighs. ‘Fraser, you’re very sweet but you’re drunk.’

‘I’m not, well, I am, but I mean it, I loved being with you that night. I love …’ He suddenly pulls himself together, suddenly becomes hyper-aware that he’s drunk and she’s sober.

‘I’m just saying, you’re great company.’

‘Thank you,’ she says.

‘And you’re great looking, too, with gorgeous eyes.’

‘Oh, Jesus, OK, now I know you’re definitely drunk.’

‘You’ve got lovely hair too.’

‘OK, Fraser, I’m going now, I was watching a really good documentary, you interrupted me …’

Fraser stands in the middle of the street and imagines her, curled up, concentrating on the television, in her pyjamas. Hair tied up. She looks so pretty with her hair tied up.

‘OK, beautiful. Sexy …’

‘Fraser, if you’ve got the horn, why don’t you go and call on Karen?’

‘I love you, Mia Woodhouse!’

But she’s already hung up.

Fraser stops in the street now, swaying slightly, the phone in his hand. Well, that went well. That went extremely well. So well, he thinks, that he will just compose a little text message to her. Just so she has it for keeps. He closes one eye as he texts and punches the words in with his thumb.

I meant it
, he texts.
I love you, Mia. I think you are GORGEOUS. I always have!!!

He presses
CONTACT
to send it, and gets as far as finding the W for Woodhouse, but his concentration fades halfway through and he eventually finds himself at the bus stop, thinking he really doesn’t want to go home.

‘Go to Karen’s.’ Now that was an idea. Karen’s nice, warm house suddenly sounds like a lovely idea – just a glass of wine with a nice girl, just to finish the evening off nicely, no funny business. Well, maybe just falling asleep on those boobs.

Before he sobers up and thinks about this too much, he flags down a taxi instead and asks the driver to stop off at a twenty-four-hour off-licence he knows and grabs a bottle of wine.